Page 292 of What We Burn

“Your leave is over,” Odin says. “Effective immediately. We have the investigation under control, and I’m confident the authorities won’t be linking the warehouse fire or any of the missing persons cases to anyone here.”

“Thank you,” Eli says, our combined relief rolling around the room.

“Moving on.” Odin’s gaze moves across the six of us and settles on Fury. “Miss Adams, I’ve been hearing good things about your performance.”

Fury doesn’t flinch. She sits on the couch next to Holden and meets Odin’s gaze like she’s been doing it her whole life. “From whom?”

“From everyone in this room.” Odin gestures at the five of us—me standing where I can see both doors, Holden to her left with the folders, Eli and Micah side by side on the couch with their shoulders almost touching, Milo already fidgeting with a pen he found in the cushions.

The back room at Unholy Desires is as it always is on Tuesday mornings. No members, no music, no performance.

Odin’s finally back in town and called a meeting, so we’re here.

He opens a leather folio and slides out a document, setting it on the glossy black coffee table. It’s not a target dossier like I was expecting. It’s a contract. The same kind each of the Hangmen has seen only once before.

“What’s this?” Fury picks it up. Her eyes stop about a third of the way down and go wide. “There’s a salary?”

“There is.”

“Wait. You pay people for this?”

“I compensate professionals for professional work.” Odin leans back. “You didn’t think this was a volunteer operation?”

“I—” She looks at Holden. At Eli. At me. We all look back with varying degrees of amusement. “You’ve all been getting paid this whole time?”

“Since day one,” Milo says. “How did you think I could afford all that surveillance equipment on a hardware store clerk salary?”

“I thought you stole it!”

“Some of it, yes. But the good stuff costs money, kitten. I mean, tarps are tax-deductible, right boss?”

“With receipts,” Odin agrees.

Fury looks back at the contract. She blinks twice, flips the page like she’s checking for a decimal error, and sets it down very carefully.

“That’s—” She swallows. “That’s more than I make in a year at the diner. No, it’s more than I’d make in three years.”

“It should be,” Odin says. “The work is harder. The hours are worse. And the retirement plan is nonexistent, for obvious reasons.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “The contract also includes membership to the club. Full access, no fees. I find it helps to have a place where the people who do this work can decompress safely. Blow off steam without civilian complications.”

He leans back in his seat, watching Fury pore over the contract. “I should add that there are some conditions with the membership—regular STD panels, same as all our members. Nonnegotiable.”

“We test every month,” Micah says. “Club policy, but also common sense for a sex club.”

“It’s a point of pride,” I add. “Lilith likes her club cleaner than a hospital ward.”

Fury lifts her chin. “So you want me on contract?”

Odin doesn’t nod or smile. He regards her with his flat, weighing gaze—less predator, more judge. “You’ve been doing the job. Consider this an upgrade from intern to permanent position. You’ll get a bump in title and compensation. You’re overdue.”

“But you didn’t—” she bites off whatever she was going to say.

Odin shakes his head. “What I want is secondary to the safety of those under me. I don’t make these decisions lightly, Sage. There’s a process to ensure your safety, and theirs.”

She glances at the page again. I see the exact moment she bites down on whatever instinct says to play humble, and instead says quietly, “I accept.”

“Sign then,” Odin says, pulling a fountain pen from the inside pocket of his jacket and handing it to her.

She signs.