Chapter 2
Istare daggers into the back of the walking potato sack of a human being ahead of me. I’ve been made her indentured servant, forced into menial labor by a snippy vagabond. Of all the people in the world, why did she have to be the one to find me? It’s not like I needed more proof that my string of bad luck continues unbroken.
The deal I came to town for fell through last night at the last second. We’d shaken and were about to sign, but then my luck went south, and my would-be partner walked. If only I’d gone back to my hotel room, I might have snipped that string. But no, I headed to the bar and overstayed until my Brimstone Bourbon-sodden brain decided it was time to hit up the casino. Gambling? That’s not me.
I’m not that kind of demon.
I’m the type to hedge my bets and wait for the upper hand. Uncalculated risks are for amateurs and imbeciles who don’t know how to bide their time and strike while the iron is hot. My blood tingles just thinking about that sublime moment when a bargain is struck highly in my favor. I swear by Mother Darkness, there is nothing better. But given my string of recent luck, it’s been a while since I’ve felt that glow and ridden that high. Last night’s deal was supposed to change that.
Instead, I spent the night grumbling and throwing around chips like I was trying to make myself a target. I was practically daring those hairy-knuckled thugs to abduct me. I should have been more careful. Of course, thieves would be circling a casino during the busy holiday season, and of course they’d target wealthy demons. But that’s where my respect for their methods ends. There is absolutely no class in using such obvious threats of violence. Dangling me from a helicopter? I snort in disgust. Pathetic. If you can’t con your opponent, outwit or outmaneuver them, then you don’t deserve their money. Those clowns certainly didn’t earn mine. But until I get back to my hotel, there’s no way to know if they got their fleshy paws on it.
If it’s gone, I’m ruined.
Meanwhile, this heartless hermit refuses to help. She sneered at my offer of fair financial compensation in exchange for her assistance and instead tasked me with chopping wood and hauling it on a sleigh with real-life jingle bells on it! I may be the demon, but she’s the monster.
“This is it.” She comes to a stop ahead of me. We’re still in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing around to see except for a ten-foot, debris-packed wall of snow. So, what the hell is she talking about?
“This is what?” I growl. Instead of answering me, she kicks at a wooden post sticking out of the snow and keeps kicking it until the road sign attached to it appears. Satisfied, she steps back and waves for me to have a look. “Last Hour Road,” I read. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It’s the road down the mountain. The only road. And like I said, it’s impassible.” She waves both arms at the snow wall like she’s presenting a gameshow prize. “You sounded doubtful, so I took us on a little detour to give you some proof.” She grins out from the drawstring hoodie that fits like a scrunchy around her face. It’s the single worst fashion choice I’ve ever witnessed. I barely know what this woman looks like because I can’t see past the awful face scrunchy or the leather potato sack of a jacket. My eyes literally sting just looking at her. I turn away and eye her so-called proof that I’m stranded on this mountain.
I glance sideways and catch the merry glint in her eye. If I was pissed before, I’m edged towards furious now. She thinks this is funny. She’s taking pleasure in my misfortune. “How big of a detour?” I ask through gritted teeth. I’m hauling a sleigh weighted down with logs — a massive, back-breaking load of logs — while simultaneously sweating and gathering icicles on my balls. And she’s taken us on a detour? The nerve of this woman!
She shrugs. “Maybe a mile out of our way. But don’t worry, the cabin isn’t far. We’ll be there in half an hour, less if you pick up the pace. Come along, Samite,” she says, and turning around, she retraces our steps, heading back the way we came.
Sweet Mother Below. I cringe at the sound of my name coming from her mouth. I should have let her keep calling me Ryan.
We arrive at a wooden cabin that has all the charm of a kid’s drawing made life-size. Uninspired and unoriginal. I scan the surroundings, keeping an eye out for a satellite dish, phone lines, an old school antenna, any evidence of a connection to the outside world. I see nothing, but it doesn’t mean she’s being truthful about how cut off we are. The better the technology, the less it announces itself. The cell booster in my car is the size of a breath mint.
She shows me where to leave the sled, and we clomp up the porch stairs with me a step behind her. There’s a holly wreath on the door, because of course there is, and I’m guessing a trimmed tree awaits us inside.
She knocks the snow off her boots before opening the door and motioning me inside. “Pásale,” she says with a tight-lipped smile that I don’t mistake for a warm welcome. I dip my head to keep my horns from scraping the doorframe, and as soon as I’m inside, I see that I’m right. A fir tree topped with a miniature angel, a human holiday cliché. There are also ropes of pom-pom garland hanging over the fireplace, a hazard, and red and green striped blankets piled on the couch, an eyesore.
I furtively scan the walls. No phone, no cable jacks, no digital panels nor blinking power lights of any kind.
“Quaint,” I say as she passes me and heads to the kitchen. Ah, now there is a fine-looking room. I follow her, admiration drawing me into the space. My eyes need this, something worthwhile to look at. There is a truly massive wood hearth made of brick and iron. It’s obviously well used and well cared for, no caked soot. The island counter is almost grand in scale and made of oiled and sanded butcher block. The hanging pots and pans are weighty cast iron and welded stainless steel. No flimsy aluminum here. This kitchen may have an old-world feel, but it’s not quaint. It’s—impressive, especially given the cabin it has the misfortune to exist in.
I glance at her, a well-deserved compliment on the tip of my tongue, when she strips her ancient leather duster jacket, revealing a brown hoodie, and I’m stunned into silence. There’s a red-nosed Rudolph on the front. It’s equal parts ridiculous and hideous. I squeeze my fists at my side, fighting the urge to reach out and burn it right off her. I’d be doing her and the world a favor.
Thank the Dark Mother Below, I don’t have to look at it long. She unzips it and the face scrunchy hood comes off with it too.
Uh-oh.My stomach drops. Without the hood to hide them, there are obvious burn marks across her neck and cheek. Glancing down, I notice them on her left hand too. Fuck. I’ve met fire-scarred humans before, and they always hate demons. No wonder she’s stonewalling and refusing to help me get off this mountain. I’m surprised she invited me into her home. Maybe she thinks she can murder me. Fat chance.
I look away, but a flicker of light catches the corner of my eye and draws my attention back to her. She shakes out her black, wavy, shiny hair. It’s surprisingly luxurious for a home-spun, backwoods woman. I imagined her having a rat’s nest under that hood or a hatchet job haircut, but no. Her hair is lovely. Hmph.
She continues to strip one plaid shirt after another, three in total, revealing smooth, rich brown skin and a clingy white t-shirt. I swallow a noise of surprise. She is considerably less potato shaped than I’d originally assumed, but I don’t need to be caught ogling a woman who already has the upper hand. It’s bad business. I turn my back to her.
“I need a shower,” I say over my shoulder. I smell of dry sweat and last night’s booze mixed with outdoor odors. I’m itching to scrub it off.
“That’ll cost extra. How about laundry? A load of towels for a shower?” she asks, and I accept her terms. Shoving a few towels into a washing machine won’t kill me.
“Great. You can have a shower after I’ve had mine. Fair warning, the water heater tank is small. So, you’ll want to be quick.” She tries to walk past me, but it’s easy to block her, one of the benefits of a small space.
“I hate cold showers. Let me go first.” Scalding hot showers are what I like. At home, I have a steam jet shower with a lava-water setting. No exaggeration, it’s the absolute best thing in my life. I won’t be getting anything close to that here since humans prefer a disturbing lukewarm temperature, barely tolerable, but a cold shower? I can’t. I won’t.
She puffs her chest, and I can’t help but glance down, and it’s a good thing I do. Her nipples harden beneath her shirt, peeking through at me. I stifle my grin, along with the urge to bid them hello. When friendly nipples salute, I like to salute back.
“I go first,” she says in that steely, unbending tone of hers. I didn’t care for it out in the woods, but now, when I’m looking right at her tits, the sound of it hits a little differently. I feel a familiar tug in my pants.
“I could join you,” I say, a genuine offer but also a test, and sure enough, those friendly little tips get harder, a reaction that’s all too easy to read under her thin shirt.
“Absolutely not,” she says, but nipples don’t lie. They like me, which means at least part of her likes the idea. I can barely keep the grin off my face as I continue eyeing her tits, round and full. I’d really like to bite one and give the other a bouncy little squeeze. I take my time imagining it. She doesn’t hate that I’m looking at her. And I don’t hate the view or the slight shift in the power balance. In fact, I’m thrilled. It seems my luck might finally be changing.
I step aside. “Be quick, or I’m coming in.” I lean in close and catch the taste of excitement in the air. Demons are supernaturally attuned to arousal and fear, a boon in every situation, but especially one like this. She’s mildly aroused and not at all afraid. I can work with that. She doesn’t have to like demons to be seduced by one. And if it’ll get me off this gods-forsaken mountain, I’ll do whatever I have to. Happily.
I lean against the wall and listen as the water turns on. I note the unhurried sounds of her taking her sweet time while I picture the stream of precious hot water running straight down the drain. I growl at the door before it dawns on me that she’s being slow on purpose. My cock twitches, tugging at my pants once more.
Is she inviting me in? No. She’s daring me.
“If you think I’m bluffing, you’re sorely mistaken,” I yell through the door. “Five minutes and I’m stripping naked and entering your shower!” It’s an excellent play. Either way, whether she hurries or takes her time, I win. I prowl the hallway, waiting to see what she’ll do.
Four minutes later, she steps out of the bathroom wrapped in a fluffy green robe with a towel piled on her head. “It’s your turn,” she says primly. “The towels will be waiting for you on the back porch in the basin. Once you’ve hand washed them, hang them on the clothesline to dry.” She disappears behind the only other door leading off the hallway, her bedroom, I assume.
“You can’t be serious! There’s no washing machine?” I shout after her. She doesn’t answer. What the fuck? I grumble as I strip out of my clothes, taking just a second to fold them neatly before I jump in the shower. I don’t have my obsidian body scrub or my lathering night-bloom bar, and without my phone, there’s no hope of contracting a delivery service to air drop me a care package. Cost be damned, I’d happily pay through the teeth for either of those items right now.
The dribbling water goes from warm to shivery in well under five minutes. So, I’m more cold than clean when I jump out. I’m naked, dripping onto the tiniest bathmat I’ve ever seen. It’s soaked through and squishes under my toes. I have no towel, no razor, no hair products, and no toothbrush. I’m already devolving into an ungroomed mountain man. I snort, and the breath steals too much air from my body; my chest deflates, and my shoulders slump. I want to be home in my own bathroom, surrounded by the beautiful, hand-selected finishes, every texture, color, and scent exactly to my liking.
Instead, I’m here.
Something red catches my eye. Hanging on the back of the door is a robe. I know it wasn’t there earlier. Did she leave it for me? I stare at it, finding it hard to believe, but she’s the only one here, so it has to be from her.
Cautiously, I take the robe and put it on. My clothes stink, but this is clean and so soft, I groan as it slides over my skin. I’m wrapped in an ethereal, floating comfort. My hands slip into the front pockets, and I pull out two handfuls of toiletries, including a plastic toothbrush, a disposable razor, and a tiny tube of night-bloom scented oil for beard, mane, and horns. The same scent I use at home.
I glance at the door, then back at the items in my hand. It’s a bargain. It has to be. An offer made at just the right moment, when I am in need and therefore most susceptible to temptation. Clever. And opportunistic. This human just might have a shine for devilry, I note with a begrudging twinge of admiration. It’s something I’ll have to keep in mind. For now, I have a choice to make. If I accept these small luxuries, I’ll be able to groom myself properly. But I’ll be further indebted to a woman who has already tricked me with the towels. I roll the bottle of night-bloom oil in my hand, considering it. I’ll owe her. And there’s no telling what she’ll ask of me, I think as I recall her perky, friendly nipples.
So be it.
I set out my haul of fun-sized toiletries on the rickety counter and get to work de-mountain-manning myself.