Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Mal discovered that Hell had one advantage over Earth: it didn’t get cold at night. Or ever.
Really, Mal should go back to Hell now that he’d spent hours wandering the streets, but he couldn’t get himself to do it. He’d been stuck down there so long that the thought of returning voluntarily…
He shuddered, and not from the cold.
And anyway, if he returned now, he’d be met with questions about why he wasn’t monitoring his target.
As if he could settle in Ethan’s apartment right now and watch the mortal sleep without his thoughts going to dangerous places.
"Hey sugar." A woman's voice cut through the quiet. "Looking for company?"
Mal turned to find a human leaning against a lamppost. Her crop top sparkled in the artificial light, and her smile promised things that would definitely corrupt a soul or two while promising salvation.
Mal could probably learn a thing or two from her. But never mind that. "You shouldn’t be out here by yourself," he told her.
"I won’t be by myself if you join me."
"No, I mean…" Mal cleared his throat. "This street has terrible lighting, and there’s dangerous people around. There's a much safer area near Maple Avenue. Better visibility, more escape routes."
She studied him, head tilted. "Are you... giving me safety advice?"
Fuck. Mal caught himself.
Was he displaying care again?
"I only want you to be safe," he said, "so I can corrupt your soul later."
"Right." She gave him an odd look. "You're not from around here, are you, honey?"
"Hell's ninth circle, actually. Well, technically, the basement of the ninth circle. The filing department." He was rambling, wasn't he? "It's a long story."
"O-kay." She pushed off from the lamppost. "I'm going to find a different corner."
Mal watched her walk away, heels clicking against concrete. He couldn't even properly tempt someone who was literally soliciting him. No wonder Beelzebrock kept him in the Dark Archives.
"My, my." A familiar voice sliced through the night air. "How the mediocre have fallen."
Mal's spine stiffened. He didn't need to turn around to know who stood behind him, but he did anyway.
Raviel adjusted his perfectly-tailored cuffs, looking as immaculate as ever despite the late hour. "Reduced to wandering the streets like a common imp?" His red tail swished with amusement. "Whatever would our supervisor say?"
"What do you want, Raviel?" Mal shoved his hands in his pockets to appear unbothered.
"Can't a demon check on his favorite failure?" Raviel's shoes gleamed under the streetlight, betraying not a speck of dirt. "Though I must say, sleeping on the streets seems low, even for you. Has your human thrown you out already?"
"I’m giving him privacy."
"How nice of you." The way Raviel said 'nice' made the word sound like a thinly veiled insult. Not at all the way Ethan had used it to describe Mal.
No, don’t think about that now.
"What are you doing here?" Mal made himself focus on the demon in front of him. "Shouldn’t you be down in hell, boasting about your conquests to anyone who’ll listen?"
"Now, now. I’m a hardworking demon. These streets are teeming with possibility at night."
Mal thought of the lovely lady he’d talked to just a minute ago and knew exactly what sort of 'possibility' Raviel was talking about: preying on people who were only trying to keep their heads above water.
Mal should have thought of that himself.
Why hadn’t he?
Because he was working on a far more important mission, that was why. One that would get him a lot more prestige than anything Raviel would drag back to hell tonight.
"I’ll have you know that I’ve made great progress today," he said. "Ethan has a date tomorrow night."
"Ah, yes." Raviel’s smile showed too many teeth. "With Kyle Edwards?"
Something about Raviel’s knowing tone made Mal’s stomach twist. "What do you know about Kyle?"
"Oh, just what any competent demon might pick up on." Raviel examined his perfect manicure. "Promising young writer, about to be published by Random House. I do try to keep track of rising talent."
How suspicious. "Since when do you care about literature?"
"I have diverse interests," Raviel claimed. "The publishing world is very receptive to demonic influence. All those fragile egos, desperate for recognition."
The streetlight above them flickered, and Mal got the oddest inkling that Raviel was hiding something while also being excited at the prospect of Mal uncovering his evil plot so he could rub his brilliant scheme in Mal’s face.
"Do you have a lot of contacts in publishing?" Mal asked.
"A good demon has contacts everywhere." Raviel's smile curled at the edges. "And I’m the best."
Mal’s gaze narrowed. "You got Kyle that book deal, didn’t you?"
"Did I?" Raviel straightened his already perfect tie. "How interesting that you think so. You don’t think the boy could have done it by himself?"
"How would I know?"
"Well, maybe ask your human what he thinks." Raviel gave a short laugh. "In any case, I should be going. Souls to corrupt, deals to make. You know how it is." He paused. "Oh wait, you don't."
Before Mal could respond, Raviel vanished in a cloud of smoke that smelled like expensive cologne and freshly inked contracts.