Page 184 of Just One Little Bargain

Krell’s eyes flare deeper red. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” She recrosses her legs, unbothered. “I’ve spent six centuries negotiating with princes, archdemons, and men who thought owning a yacht made them interesting. Whatever title you’re about to give me, I promise I’ve survived worse.”

For once, Krell has nothing ready.

“I’ve been waiting three hours. My case has been bumped twice because somebody merged Succubus Licensing with Paranormal Conduct Review, and there is a shifter behind me chewing with his mouth open. I don’t have the patience for wounded male pride tonight.” She lifts her magazine again and gives it a neat snap. “Now sit there quietly.”

I turn away to hide the smile pulling at my mouth.

The number board chirps.

NOW SERVING 4814.

At this rate, we’re going to be here for a while. Maybe that’s fitting. I’ve got what Tavrik claims will be four hours ahead of me, plus Krell’s company for however long Hell decides to stretch that estimate. In reality, it could mean anything from four hours to the better part of a century. I can’t pretend I haven’t earned at least some of it.

My thoughts return to Evie. I hope one day she understands why I did it. More than that, I hope one day she can forgive me.

Chapter 53

Milo

Six hours later, the number board has crawled all the way to 4913. At this rate, I should reach the front sometime next decade.

The waiting room has deteriorated over the hours. Half the overhead lights have dimmed to a bilious red, leaving the corners in shadow, while the air has grown thick with the stale heat of too many supernatural bodies packed together for too long. The vending machine has been screaming EXACT CHANGE ONLY at a confused goblin for the better part of an hour.

Krell, somehow, is asleep through all of it.

He sits slumped in the chair opposite me, arms crossed, head tipped back, projecting impressive superiority despite snoring loudly enough to irritate half the room. The vampire three rows over has been glaring at him with increasing hostility, while a banshee near the far wall has started matching the sound with a low, theatrical hum.

I’d enjoy that more if I weren’t exhausted. My eyes feel gritty whenever I blink; a dull ache has taken root behind my temples, and the infernal air keeps drying my throat no matter how much water I steal from the dispenser beside Tavrik’s booth. Still, whenever the board clicks forward, relief and dread arrive together.

4914.

Another case closer.

The delay has become a reprieve. As long as I’m sitting here, nobody is taking me to the Soul Furnace.

Tavrik hasn’t moved from behind his glass partition except to reach for forms, stamp files, or glare through the hatch at whoever is testing the limits of his patience. His desk has become even more crowded. A stack beside him now leans so far to the left that I’ve spent the last twenty minutes waiting for it to collapse. At some point he replaced his empty cup with one labeled WORLD’S OKAYEST SUPERVISOR, though I still haven’t seen him leave his chair. I’m beginning to suspect the booth isn’t employment so much as a sentence.

My head grows too heavy to hold upright. I let it rest against the wall and close my eyes, listening to the strange rhythm that’s developed around me: Krell’s snoring, the distant clang of processing gates, paper sliding through Tavrik’s hatch, the occasional electronic chirp as the board advances by one miserable digit.

Footsteps approach from the main corridor.

I ignore them. People have been arriving and leaving for hours. Case transfers. Supervisors. Clerks carrying stacks of folders thick enough to qualify as weapons. One unfortunate ghoul has been redirected through this waiting room three separate times because nobody can agree whether his complaint belongs under Resurrection Errors or Employment Disputes.

“Zavian.”

My eyes snap open.

Exhaustion refuses to make sense of what I’m seeing. I recognize the elegant black shoes first, then the immaculate hem of dark robes falling precisely where it should. Her hands are folded loosely at her waist, every claw polished the same deep red she’s worn for as long as I can remember. Only then do I look at her face.

Sleep vanishes so completely it might never have existed. My spine straightens. Six hours ago, I was ripped away from Evie. Since then, I’ve imagined tribunals, punishment, the Furnace, and several centuries of increasingly inventive bureaucratic misery.

I hadn’t prepared myself for my mother.

“What are you doing here?” I spring to my feet. The waiting room tilts to one side, and I grip the edge of the bench until my balance returns.

She ignores me and walks straight toward Tavrik’s booth. A pair of imps squeeze themselves against a pillar. The shifter two rows over looks up from his mutilated ticket, takes one look at her face, and abruptly develops a fascination with his own shoes.