Page 22 of Just One Little Bargain

His eyes find mine through branches and leaves. He slow-blinks at me, which I’ve read is a sign of trust in cats. Then, he stands, stretches with the casual arrogance of a creature who faced down a man three times his size, and strolls away with his tail held high.

I stay wedged in the hedgerow until I’m sure the officer isn’t coming back.

Hell has been my entire existence. Torture, violence, the worst of what demons can do to each other. None of it’s ever scared me as much as that cat when he’s angry.

I also don’t understand why he saved me. But I’m grateful. Weirdly, embarrassingly grateful.

The older officer eventually leaves, while the younger one returns to his cruiser out front. Evie goes back inside, and every light in the cottage turns on.

She’ll be in there terrified, wondering if she imagined everything or if the crazy man is coming back.

And tomorrow I have to convince her to talk to me again.

I run through the probability of success. The numbers are not encouraging.

Chapter 8

Zavian (Milo)

The main street opens up ahead, gabled roofs standing darker than the navy sky while paint peels in deliberate curls from the porch railings. Somewhere three houses down, a swing chain creaks once.

BRINDLEWOOD. POPULATION: 3,200. ESTABLISHED 1847. The name is on a painted wooden sign planted in a patch of marigolds. White letters on green, slightly chipped at the corners.

I walk slowly, taking everything in. A storefront with MERCER’S GENERAL STORE painted above a wooden porch. In the window display sits a ceramic cat with whiskers and stripes, staring blankly at nothing, guarding nothing, serving no function at all.

Humans do this constantly. Surround themselves with objects that serve no function except to be pleasing. Back home, every object has a purpose. Chains hold. Hooks tear. Tables support implements of torment.

The ceramic cat and I regard each other through the glass, my reflection floating between us. For once, I don’t immediately dislike what I see. This is the version of me that makes sense.

The same curls Krell calls a disgrace and every demon in my department sneers at because they know what they’re concealing. Here, the horns are gone entirely, and I have messy, overgrown locks that are nobody’s business but mine. The glasses that I pretend are an accessory choice sit comfortably on my nose, and not a single person would find it suspicious that a guy needs them. My skin has lost that feverish pink undertone that never matched anyone around me and has settled into a warm and unremarkable complexion. The violet tinge in my eyes has muted to a shade a stranger might notice, then shrug off as a trick of the light.

I press my fingertips to the glass without thinking. The person looking back could walk into any shop on this street and be welcomed. He could order coffee and make small talk, and nobody would check for horns or mock him. I pull my hand away. The fingerprints stay on the surface, five faint smudges that prove I was here.

Orange and red decorations line every doorway. Fabric pumpkins with stitched-on smiles. Wreaths made of leaves that rustle in the breeze. A banner stretched between two buildings announces BRINDLEWOOD HARVEST FESTIVAL in hand-painted letters.

I stop beneath it and stare up.

According to my research, humans commemorate fall by decorating with symbols of harvest and death, then gathering to consume seasonal foods and participate in group activities. The combination of mortality imagery and festive pastries seems contradictory, but I’ve learned not to question human traditions too deeply. They also celebrate romantic love by exchanging heart-shaped boxes of chocolate, which makes even less anatomical sense.

My stomach growls loudly enough to echo down the quiet street.

It’s a reminder of this physical form and all the mortal needs I have to deal with. Hunger is something demons can ignore for extended periods, but in this body, it becomes increasingly insistent. And apparently, vocal.

Fifteen years ago, my father brought me to the mortal realm and I asked if we could try the food while we were here. He said no. Told me eating was distracting. We were there to work, not to experience mortality.

I remember watching humans through restaurant windows on that trip. They ate in bright little clusters, laughing, leaning close, sharing plates of things I couldn’t name. I wanted to know what it tasted like. I never found out.

But I’m alone now, and I can’t go back. At least, not until I secure a bargain with Evie.

She offered me her soul tonight. Said, take it, like she genuinely believed she had nothing worth protecting.

Any other demon would have accepted immediately. Manifested the contract, gotten her signature while she was off balance, and been back in Hell before sunrise with a successful acquisition.

My father would have done it in under three minutes. Would have upsold her on additional terms. Added a clause about firstborn children or eternal servitude, just to pad his quarterly numbers.

This is the pattern I can’t break. Someone’s vulnerable, the setup is perfect, and I choke. Every single time. Because taking advantage of fear and desperation makes me feel like shit, and apparently I’m the only demon in existence with that particular design flaw.

I’ve got thirty days to negotiate a bargain and return with her soul, or the system flags my case as failed and someone comes to drag me back by force.