Page 4 of Whispers From The Dark

“Better get going to your slut job,” she says. “When I was a bartender, I didn’t have to push my tits together like that to make a buck.”

“My slut job pays the bills,” I say, funneling every ounce of control into my body. If only she knew exactly what my job entailed.

Last Drop is the most successful vampire bar in Chicago, and if my mother knew that not only are vampires real, but they pay me good money to look at my tits while they drink my blood, she’d drop dead on the spot.

Maybe telling her the details isn’t the worst idea.

Before I can truly consider it, she starts to cry. “I’m sorry I don’t make enough money for you, Petra.”

But before she can begin her manipulative sob fest, I lunge across the room and pull her into a hug, despite how much disgust fills me over the action. “I love you, Mom. You do so much for us,” I lie. “You let me live here and be a part of your and Jack’s life. I’m so grateful for everything you do.”

I think a part of me dies every time I do this act for her. But, hey, maybe it counts as rehearsal.

2

ASMODEUS

“Make this worth my time, Dmitri,” I drawl, attempting to shove my hands into my pockets. Annoyingly, the previous owner never cut open the trouser pockets—either he never used them or he was overly anal-retentive about the shape of his clothing. Considering Joe Bauer’s career, I assume it was the latter. Rifling through his memories is a task I only bother with for a few seconds before giving up.

Joe’s consciousness barely fights against it, the tumor that has grown within his brain erasing almost all cognitive thought. While Dmitri places a folder on the park bench, pulling out his phone for the flashlight, he gives me a funny look. He’s probably unsettled by my new body, obtained only a few months ago.

Joseph H. Bauer had been desperate. In his early thirties, with a flourishing finance career at Morningstar—a company name I find riotous considering my brother had nothing to do with its founding—Joe had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. A friend of a previous client introduced him to me, and I’d done my research.

Though he’d been perplexed when I offered a bet rather than a bargain, something I do from time to time when bored, Joe had been ready to play. With the temptation of my removing the brain tumor, I could have suggested far worse and forced him to do more than leave his body to me if he lost.

I still don’t know why everyone thinks all I do is collect souls—they’re quite useless, unless bragging rights are the goal. And that’s my brother’s gig, not mine. Joe had actually laughed when I bet him that I could get his wife to sleep with me. Sure, the woman’s body I’d spent the past decade in had aged, no longer considered the epitome of beauty by current human societal standards, but I’m the devil-blessed Prince of Lust. If there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s seduction.

Only a few souls have ever withstood my temptation. Melissa, a part-time waitress from Naperville, Illinois, wasn’t about to get added to that very short list.

Humans are quite interesting when it comes to risk assessment. They bank on love and longevity, giving far more weight to shit they have no control over. And when they lose, when a lover betrays them or the years pass by far too fast, they wear their crushing defeat as a badge of honor.

Piteous, amoebic creatures.

Dmitri is sweating, and I suspect his specific request centers on love.

But when he gives me the first document, hand shaking while he uselessly holds up his phone’s flashlight, I’m surprised to see his legacy is the primary concern.

“Bjorn Ericsson is a thieving loan shark piece of shit, and I might lose Last Drop to that blond bastard,” he says as I skim the paper in my hand.

“You agreed to the terms of this loan?” I ask, thinking perhaps Dmitri’s brain has less function than the one in the flesh cage I wear. Riddled with disease, unable to string an entire sentence together, I doubt even Joe would consider signing this farcical agreement.

“Listen, I know⁠—”

I wave him off. There is nothing I’m interested in less than excuses. His laughable business decisions only provide me amusement; the more he talks, the less comical it will become.

I’ve known Dmitri for a few years now, since he first came to the Crossroads. He’d agreed to a bet I’d playfully raised, getting a sloppy blowjob underneath a table before the bar closed, which had led to a veritable orgy—my favorite. He’d earned himself a shot of a harsh American whiskey I’d been saving, bottled by myself nearly two hundred years prior.

It’s frigid outside, and Dmitri shivers, but I quite enjoy it. It reminds me of home and what it had been like early in my brother’s reign. I sit on the park bench, staring at Gurgoyle Fountain. The city has decorated the statue with white lights, and the bowl at the top is shrouded in fake greenery and poinsettias. More lights cascade down the statue, in a deep blue color I assume chosen to resemble water. Though the cold weather makes me feel nostalgic, I do prefer when the fountains are full of actual liquid. I find the quiet burble relaxing.

“I just need some cash. I’ll give you my soul or whatever. How does it work? Demon dogs come and drag me to hell or something?”

I roll my eyes, sitting back and spreading my arms wide over the bench. “Cerberus is on vacation,” I say, and his eyes widen as if he thinks I’m serious. “Soul deals are more trouble than they’re worth. Besides, yours is not one I would want anyway. Give me a moment to decide.”

“I’ll split my share of the bar with you,” Dmitri says. “I’ll make you a silent partner. It brings in enough money. Once I pay off this goddamn⁠—”

“No,” I say, and he doesn’t bother continuing. I have no interest in the vampire bar. Gluttony often gives way to greed, and I think my specific sin of lust works best on its own.

My brothers call me a purist, but I don’t care.