Page 20 of Just One Little Bargain

I manage a nod, even though accepting help from anyone comes dangerously close to admitting defeat.

Daniel leaves after another round of reassurances that settle nowhere useful. His patrol car’s taillights stain the gravel drive red before disappearing around the bend, leaving Lucas’s cruiser alone out front. Through the window glass, his shape blurs into shadow, except where the radio casts a sickly green wash across half his face.

I lock the door, then slide the deadbolt home with enough resistance to make my thumb joint pop. I check both twice before circling through the cottage to test every window latch. Every footstep cracks through the quiet, so I switch to walking on the rugs instead.

The Ouija board hits the bottom of the trash can with a hollow thunk.

“This is your fault,” I tell Marmalade, while heading toward the bedroom.

He purrs, completely unbothered by the accusation.

The room still smells faintly of lavender from the bath I took, back when my biggest concern was whether I’d have time to prep the Clover Room tomorrow morning. I climb into bed and pull the floral quilt to my chin, cold sheets brushing my legs as Marmalade claims his usual spot near my feet.

Sleep should come easily. I’m drained, every scrap of adrenaline spent. But every time I close my eyes, I see him crouched on my floor.

The more I replay it, the less sense it makes.

Maybe Daniel is right. He’s almost always right, which is one of the most irritating things about him. I’m tired. I’ve been running the inn on fumes for weeks, and skipping meals more often than I’d ever admit to anyone who asks. Stress messes with people. It rearranges perception, turns ordinary events into something loaded with meaning they don’t really carry.

That still makes more sense than demons being real.

I flip onto my side and punch the pillow into submission.

This is what happens when you spend too much time alone. Your brain gets bored and starts making things more interesting than they are. A guy breaks into your house, and instead of being appropriately terrified, you’re thinking about how he seemed kind of sweet. How he was tall, his shirt fit unfairly well, and his curls kept falling across his forehead in a way that would’ve been distracting if the situation weren’t so surreal.

I’m lying here in the dark, mentally building a dating profile for the stranger who broke into my house, and honestly, the break-in may not be the most concerning part.

Marmalade purrs against my feet, and I remember hearing that same sound while the stranger scratched his ears.

He once bit a guest so hard I had to file an incident report and refund their entire weekend. But tonight, he acted like that guy was his favorite person in the world.

I try to shut my brain off and let Daniel’s steady reasoning overwrite everything else. Stress. Exhaustion. Perception playing tricks. Case closed.

Except one question keeps coming back, no matter how many sensible explanations I stack on top of it.

What if he was telling the truth?

Chapter 7

Zavian (Milo)

I’ve been crouched behind this oak tree for three minutes, staring at Hell’s FIRST CONTACT WITH MORTALS pamphlet before I realize it’s upside down.

This pretty much sums up the night, actually.

The police cruiser pulls into the driveway forty feet away, lights strobing red and blue across garden beds. I flip the pamphlet right-side up. The cover shows a cartoon demon shaking hands with a smiling human under the heading MAKE EVERY SUMMONING COUNT!

The illustrated bastard looks confident. He’s not crouched behind a tree in the dark, having what I’m fairly certain is a panic attack.

I scan the first page.

Approach calmly. I materialized in her living room while she was in the bath.

Identify yourself clearly. I said, “I’m here for your soul” while she threatened me with a rolling pin.

Allow the mortal time to adjust to your presence before discussing contractual obligations. She called the police.

There’s no section for You’ve Already Screwed This Up Beyond Recognition.