Love and Luxury #3
“I’m not the right person for that,” I said, guilt already threatening to open the floor and swallow me whole. “But we have a lot of non-profits and advocacy organizations that work with homeless—”
“The inhuman population,” she amended, fixing me with a meaningful look.
My eyebrows shot to my hairline. “So, when you say monstrous—”
“It is literal, yes.” Madeline took her glasses off, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Miss Marina, are you going to continue interrupting like this? We will still be reading the contract in another decade if so.”
“Summarize it for me, then.”
“I cannot.” She replaced her glasses and started to read where she’d left off.
“Wait, Madeline, please.” She paused mid-word, mouth still holding its shape as she waited for me to continue.
“I have to willingly sign the contract, right? That was in the first line. What if I only agree to sign based on your summary with the assumption that what you tell me is the absolute truth with no loopholes or tricks?”
“That’s not in the—”
“You could add it. You and I both know these kinds of things come with addenda all the time.” I twisted my hands in my lap, fighting the urge to check my watch.
Time seemed to work differently here anyway.
I could no longer tell how long I’d been sitting in this flat, hard metal seat listening to The Witch drone on.
“Hmmm. Hold, please.” Madeline set the paperwork down and clacked furiously at the computer for several minutes. The printer belched out a single sheet, which floated to the desk between us. No more pretense, it seemed.
The page was turned to me and, in the same spidery font as before, I could clearly see the addendum I’d suggested.
“You’d make a killing in real estate,” I said, letting out a low whistle at the perfect, intricate terms laid out.
“I take it you agree to the addendum.” I finished signing the exhibit before she finished her sentence.
Madeline snapped her long fingers once and the paperwork between us vanished, leaving only a single sheet with two signature lines.
The Witch leaned her chin into her hands and gave a tired sigh.
“Basically, you slammed into me in the crosswalk and told me to get over it. I’ve got a bad shoulder and a worse attitude—or so I’ve been told—so I want you to learn a lesson.
You’ll put one-hundred monsters in their chosen home within San Francisco city limits.
You won’t take commissions, fees, or payment of any kind.
If you are gifted items in gratitude, you won’t sell them or exchange them for currency.
Once these terms are completed, the money you would’ve earned for each client will appear in your accounts with charmed tracking and history to make it seem as if it’s always been there on the correct timeline. ”
“Oh, so you want me to answer for my supposed crime to an invisible magic court, but you don’t want the Feds coming down on me for laundering?”
“Exactly.” Madeline readjusted her glasses.
“I’m glad you’re finally following. But please, hold your questions for the end.
As I was saying, successful completion of your terms results in payment, and you’ll never have to see me again.
But any tricks on your part—pressuring the client when they’re unsure, so you can speed through the process, for example—”
“Madeline, I am a professional.” A bad taste filled my mouth at the thought of pushing someone into a million-dollar purchase they didn’t really want. “An uncertain buyer leads to a very expensive failure—one I usually can’t afford.”
“Good,” Madeline sniffed. “You’ll be less likely to receive check-ins than my other contracts. As I was saying: any tricks on your part will result in a conference on your behavior and potential additions to your centum.”
“What do you define as successfully placing a . . .” God, I couldn’t say it out loud. Monsters? Actual monsters? Was I Frankenstein’s real estate agent now? “. . . client in a home?” I settled for the rest of my question.
“Marvelous.” Madeline smiled, all her sharp, yellowed teeth returning between her cracked lips. “I love when a contract checks on the fine print. You’re going to be fun.”
I arched my brows, waiting.
“When you hand the keys to a willing and enthusiastic client, a notch will be added toward your total.” Madeline made a complicated gesture in the air before producing what looked like a datebook.
The cover was cracked and worn, gold lettering half-faded in a language I didn’t recognize.
I accepted it from The Witch, a soft static buzzing my fingertips.
“Inside, you’ll find contacts, profiles, housing desires, and expected showing dates.
With each happy client, their pages will come to me for filing. ”
“And what am I supposed to do about my current clients? I can’t drop everything to—”
“You can.” Madeline cut me off. “And you will.”
It was my turn to pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “You have no idea how expensive this city is, do you?”
“I’m well-acquainted. Your financials are not my concern.” The Witch slid the signature page to the edge of the desk, tapping it meaningfully with her long nail. “If you’d be so kind, Miss Marina, I have several others waiting for their turn.”
“Wait—” I still had so many questions, so many fresh fears I hadn’t known lurked in the shadowed corners of my mind. How long would this take? How was I expected to bring in income in the meantime? Was I supposed to work for monsters for free for years?
Madeline unleashed a frustrated growl, slamming a pointed elbow on her desk and holding up fingers, ticking off each point as she bit them out.
“One: You must find homes for one hundred monsters. Two: They must willingly and enthusiastically accept the keys from you. Three: You cannot rush the process in any way. No bumping up showings, no double-booking clients, no pushing the wrong fit just to get a contract signed, and no other work outside your allotment.”
“That’s especially cruel,” I muttered, unable to stop the complaint.
“That is entirely the point of a punishment, m’dear.”
Those were the last words I heard from The Witch before my next blink transported me back onto the street corner.
Sound washed over me in a wave, dragging me under in crippling overwhelm.
That’s where Laura found me, several long minutes later—silent, paralyzed, and clutching that strange black book.
Now you’re up to speed, I’d love to tell you that my time amongst the monstrous, the forgotten, and the lost changed me. I wish I found greater meaning in my work and redefined the idea of “home.”
Instead, I’ve gained new grey hairs from the stress.
I never know what creature from the lagoon will crawl up the front steps for our appointment—or worse, drop from the sky.
Even after ninety-nine of these in five years, my palms sweat, my gut twists, the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
Never mind my embarrassing bank account. This payoff better be worth it. Too late, I realized I didn’t negotiate my rate with The Witch, and I still have yet to hear from the terrifying woman who called herself Madeline.
I’m standing in the kitchen of a luxurious penthouse suite in the Presidio.
All dark-wood natural grain finishes, pristine soft lighting from top-of-the-line brands, windows that stretch nine feet to the ceiling so you never miss a minute of your uninterrupted view of the Golden Gate Bridge—weather permitting.
I tap my nails on the granite countertops, letting my gaze drift to the copper farmhouse sink, the special-ordered fridge built into the cabinetry so a stranger would have to guess where the drinks are without their host.
My phone rings with a number I don’t recognize—a first in at least a year.
Prospects and friends alike stopped calling me after I left Fort, Smith, & Ralley, claiming I was starting out on my own.
I blamed my money troubles on the slow build that comes with a new business, but it meant I could no longer blow $400 a head at my usual spots.
It was twisting the knife while spitting in my face to realize that my entire social circle revolved around how much money you made—or didn’t.
“This is Anya,” I answer.
“Oh, I apologize.” The voice is barely more than a scratching whisper, and I have to press the phone tight to my ear to hear them. “I was told this was the number for Yeti Another Home Sold.”
I suppress the frustrated groan pressing against my diaphragm. Instead, I flip off the glittering city outside, flinging my arm with all the rage I wish I could express at the ever-darkening night.
Fucking Edur.
“Are you a friend of Edur Boreal, by chance?” I ask, cramming as much politeness into my voice as I can stomach. A soft chirp trills on the other end of the call.
“Yes! Yes, I am. He and I are very dear friends from a long time ago. He said I’d be welcome in San Francisco when I was ready and gave me your number.” I miss about a third of what the willow voice whispers after that, my mind racing.
This is new. And certainly wasn’t addressed in my original contract with The Witch. I feel my world still, my heart skipping a beat. It’s as if I’ve stumbled upon a crossroads that will decide my future, and no one warned me I’d find it this quickly.
Just in time, the buzzer from downstairs rings. “Miss Desroches is on her way up, ma’am.”
“I have to call you back.” I hang up without waiting for a response from the strange caller, reaching for the intercom button in the kitchen. “Thanks, Greg. Have a good night.”
Of course, my last client of this hellscape would demand meeting at some insane hour. The doorman agreed to stay long enough to see her in but insisted he needed to leave by 11:30 p.m. Not wanting anyone to suffer with me, I agreed.