Page 23 of Just One Little Bargain

And then: the Soul Furnace.

Next time I won’t hesitate. I’ll accept the bargain, manifest the contract, and become the demon I was trained to be.

Except I’m already dreading it, and I don’t know how to make that stop.

The street slopes downward and more businesses appear. Most of them are dark, but one brick building glows warm with music drifting through the propped open door. A flickering neon sign reads THE RUSTY NAIL.

Humans go to bars to consume alcohol, socialize, and process difficult emotions. I could use at least two of those things right now.

I head inside before second thoughts can catch up with me.

Booths with patched-up seats line the left wall, each table scarred with rings from wet glasses and names scratched into the varnish. The walls above them are a collage of things added one at a time and never taken down. Yellowed newspaper clippings about local football games. A mounted fish gathering dust on its upper lip. Concert posters layered over old gig flyers, until the bottom edges are only fragments of color peeking through. And at least four neon beer signs in various stages of functionality. The brightest says BUD, the rest of the letters long dead.

Two guys play pool in the back, one leaning on his cue while the other takes forever lining up a shot. A jukebox glows in the corner, crackling out a country song that nobody seems to be listening to.

A woman behind the bar pours something amber for a customer three seats down, laughing at whatever he’s saying. She hasn’t glanced at the bottle once. Her hand found it mid-sentence on the shelf without turning, and I’m already fascinated because the spatial awareness required for that maneuver is something I’d love to see diagrammed. Mismatched silver rings on her fingers clink against the rim as she sets it down. Her voice has a rough scrape that carries over the jukebox, and she’s using it to dismantle this man so thoroughly he groans into his hands while his shoulders shake. She grins, sweeping away his empty glass in one fluid motion.

I’ve never seen anyone so effortlessly in command of a room without raising their voice or threatening anyone’s eternal soul. It’s remarkable. I want to take notes.

Then she catches me watching, her smile turning calculated and curious. “Be right with you.”

I nod, feeling oddly out of place as I claim a seat at the bar’s edge.

She rinses the glass, water sluicing over her fingers before she slots it into a metal rack, then heads toward me. A bar towel hangs from the back pocket of her ripped jeans, swaying with each step. Her shirt is faded, with a skull tangled in thorns, and the words GUNS N’ ROSES printed across the front.

I have so many questions about that name. Are guns and roses related? Is it a warning? A metaphor? Some sort of human weapons-and-floristry collective? It has to be a band. Humans put bands on everything. I’m tempted to ask, but I suspect the question would disqualify me from normal conversation.

I’m still squinting at the cracked lettering when I realize it’s printed directly across her chest. And that I’ve been frowning at it long enough to cross a social boundary.

“My eyes are up here, buddy.”

I jerk back so hard my elbow knocks my barstool into the one next to it with a clatter that turns two heads at the pool table. My gaze shoots to the wall.

“They are up. They are so far up.” I rush through the words so fast I’m not sure she can understand me. “I was reading your shirt.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s very faded. The font is difficult.”

“It really isn’t.”

My face is on fire. Actual hellfire would be less painful than this moment. I briefly consider dissolving into the floorboards and reforming somewhere in a different country.

She stares at me. I stare at the mounted fish on the wall behind her. The fish stares at nothing. The three of us exist in this terrible triangle of silence.

“Relax. I’m messing with you.”

I may never be relaxed again.

Two humans in one night have now reduced me to a stammering disaster. Evie screamed at me to get out of her house. The bartender made me contemplate fleeing over a t-shirt. I’m starting to build a theory that mortal women are significantly more dangerous than anything Hell ever produced, and nobody thought to include that in the field training materials. I should approach all future interactions with extreme caution. And possibly a shield.

“New in town?” She leans against the bar with one hip cocked.

I finally glance her way. “Yes. Just arrived.”

“Figured.” Her mouth quirks. “I know everyone who drinks here. Which means I know everyone.” She extends a hand. “Maddie.”

“Milo.”