Chapter One #3
Those who have a soul to their name take the money and run. And if they don’t… well. Let’s just say, I sure as shit have never seen a danakē in the flesh before.
Not to mention an entire bag.
How can you even put a price on something like that?
“Come on, come on, whaddya say? One coin per possesh?”
She bounces the bag in her hand, jingling the coins in a tantalizing rhythm. My mouth goes dry.
“I–I have to… did you say possesh?” I wince as the words leave my mouth.
Phil deals only in souls. That’s all Mammon is interested in, and he’s the big boss. But danakai…
Then the weight of her words sinks in. “How many possessions do you plan to use me for?”
“Tonight? Just the one.”
I raise an eyebrow. She adjusts her shoulders, fidgeting under the pressure of my gaze. I stay silent, letting the tension build.
She cracks first. “Look, neither of us trust each other yet. I’m not about to spill my life secrets to you, okay? First things first: my ex needs to pay. Do we have a deal or not?”
The sounds of rushing footsteps and shuffling out in the hallway increase in volume as I consider her. This isn’t a typical summoning negotiation. Possess-An-Ex doesn’t haggle with its acquisitions.
But she’s offering me something far more valuable than a soul. And if she’s saying this could be a regular thing, that I could get more of those danakai if this possession goes well…?
Even a putz like Phil would want to get in on that.
“Deal.” I hold out my claw, and she grasps it without hesitation. I feel the magic of the promise etch itself into my skin, along with the other contracts inked across my body. “Who’s the target of your vengeance?”
“He’s outside. I’ll point him out to you once we get this all cleaned up…” She shoves the coins away into a backpack, before smudging the edge of the circle and tugging on the plastic under my feet. “Move.”
“What even is Twister?” I ask, reading the English word printed on the plastic’s edge as I step out of the ring.
“Never mind that. The party’s over. Now’s our chance. I need you to take control of Trevor so I can get him into his parents’ room.”
“I assume that’s your ex?” She nods curtly, blowing out the candles on the five points of the pentagram and stuffing them into a Ziplock before stashing the bundle in her bag.
“Yeah. His parents are due home any minute.” she explains, tugging on the sheet still caught beneath my hoof and gesturing for me to step all the way off so she can fold it.
“They can’t stand me. They’re the reason he dumped me.
Said he’d lose access to his trust fund if they ever saw me in this house again. ”
I lift my hooves from the plastic one at a time, stepping back onto the tile floor of what I now realize is a dark room.
Three sinks of varying solutions line a stainless steel counter across one side of the room.
Of the various photographs hanging from the clothesline, I notice the majority of them are of naked women.
Posing lazily on expensive-looking furniture, draped artistically in loose fabric.
Almost all of them have light-colored hair.
Blondie finishes folding up the mat. Once she has the painted pentagram tucked away into her backpack, she takes me in fully. I imagine the light sources are doing strange things to my horns.
“You’re… shorter than I imagined.”
“Excuse you!” I scowl at her, noting that I have to look up slightly to do it. “I happen to be quite tall for an imp.”
“An imp? I’m paying for a demon.” She sneers. “I’m not paying full-price for a half-stack possession.”
“Now listen here you little–”
A loud whistle cuts through the air, echoing through the house and into the dark room. A muffled, entitled-sounding voice follows, announcing for everyone to leave.
“That’s our cue,” Blondie breathes, and I jump as she actually grabs hold of my arm and leads me to the doorway.
“Once all these assholes are outta here, that’s when you strike, okay?
Take over Trevor’s body, then meet me in the master bedroom upstairs.
They’re gonna walk right in on us getting hot and heavy, and his dad’s going to lose his shit. ”
“Hold on just a minute, Blondie.” I yank my arm out of her surprisingly strong grasp and brush off my trousers.
“First of all, we take our payment up front. And second, the rules of our contract clearly state to allot at least 30 minutes between commencement of human possession and any prolonged sexual excitement–”
“Blah, blah, blah do you ever shut up?” I barely have time to react as one shimmering brass danakē flies at my head. I catch it, of course. But only just. “There. Now don’t make me regret this.”
I slip the coin into one of the many zipper pockets of my vest. I can feel the weight of it against my ribs.
“It’s not that simple, sugartits. Possessions aren’t supposed to be rushed, okay? It takes time to separate consciousnesses within the frontal lobe and sort out limb function, and if he’s a fighter–”
She snorts. “He’s no fighter. He’s an auteur.
” She puts finger quotes around the word, before gesturing to the clothesline above our heads.
“These photos? He does this for fun. Tricks all these girls into modeling for him and claims he’ll get them connections in Hollywood, only to have them act in his shitty independent films that are supposed to be some meta-commentary on the ‘suppression of Marxist ideals in a capitalist society’ or some bullshit, all as an excuse to show their tits on screen. ”
I stare at her. “He did this to you?”
“He does it to every pretty girl. I was just his latest victim.”
It’s brief—almost nonexistent—but I don’t miss the hurt that flashes behind her dark brown eyes.
“Okay, yeah, fuck this guy.”
“That’s the idea.” She slips into the hallway and I sneak after her, double-checking to make sure there aren’t any stray humans around who might freak out at the sight of a bipedal, indigo-skinned imp literally hoofing it across the carpet.
We appear to be in a basement—a nice one.
Tile floor, like the room we just left, transitions to lush, red carpet on wide steps leading down to a wood-paneled den.
A giant stereo and several bespoke lounge chairs fill the space.
I even make out what looks like a minibar lining the opposite wall.
Blondie, however, bypasses all of it. She books it to the staircase at the end of the hall, doing a quick check over the railing and up to the floor above before waving me forward.
I slip behind an end table with some sort of modern art piece on display near the banister.
The kerfuffle on the main floor has settled down now, and Blondie pushes up her ample breasts in the silence before slipping out the door at the top of the stairs, leaving it ajar behind her.
“Don’t tell me Halloween’s over already,” Blondie slurs, stumbling out and putting on a drunken affect. I hear her uneven footsteps and imagine her cleavage practically eating the top of her cheerleader costume with every bounce forward. “I was hoping I might be able to trick you into a treat.”
The same voice that shouted for everyone to leave earlier grows louder, along with the sound of footsteps coming toward the stairs.
“Harley, what the fuck are you doing here? If my parents–”
“Trev…”
I hold back a gag as I hear her voice go all husky. The footsteps stop, and a muffled rustling of fabric covers up the sound of Blondie muttering something. Then her voice rises a little, as she asks if they’re alone.
I reach into the holster at my hip with my right hand, deftly unzipping two rounds of ammo from a zippered pocket on my other side.
With the practiced motions of Hell’s leading weapons expert, I slide open the trapdoor and deposit the bullets into the chamber.
The revolver clicks as I rotate it back into place and cock the hammer back.
I peek through the gap in the basement door, taking in the sight of the two humans entangled in the hallway beyond. The mark, Trevor, clears his throat as my client nuzzles into the hollow of his neck and shoulder.
“Y-yeah, everyone’s left.”
“I miss you, Trev,” she moans, before tilting her head up to beg for a kiss. He barely hesitates before obliging, and the sloppy sounds of their tongues and lips tangling triggers a shudder. Ugh. Humans are so touchy. “I don’t know what possessed me to ever let you get away…”
Assuming that’s my cue, I ease my shooting arm out from behind the door.
I can just barely see Trevor: a tall, skinny man with long, dark hair sweeping over half his face, a Jim Henson beard, and a long, beaded tunic brushing over his bell bottom jeans.
Rose-colored, wire-rimmed glasses perch on his long nose.
Oh gag. A hippy costume? Really? Any respect I might have had for Blondie (which, let’s be real, wasn’t much to begin with) evaporates as I take in her abysmal taste in men. But that’s neither here nor there.
The danakē shifts in my vest as I adjust my stance. I take a deep breath.
Showtime.