Chapter Thirty
DEVLIN
There is no figuring it out.
Not in the morning, while Violet busies herself in the café inventing new blends for customers that never seem to materialize and we stealthily avoid talking about anything that matters. Not in the afternoon, much the same as the morning. And not, as I’d hoped, in the long, lonely stretch of evening that bleeds into a darkness so complete, I feel as though I’m right back in the bowels of Hell.
By the second day of walking on eggshells, when I feel I’m losing her a bit more with every passing pleasantry, with every minute that ticks by when I can’t touch her, can’t kiss her, can’t bury my face in her hair and promise her things will work out—somehow, some bloody way—I finally decide to take matters into my own hands.
She won’t like it. But I can’t just sit here and watch her light fizzle out over a fuckstain in a cheap suit who isn’t worth the expense of breath it requires to tell him to go fuck himself.
It’s after midnight when Brandt Remington, third of his name, enters the café. And though he’s here at my request, it’s with no small effort that I withhold my full wrath at the sight of him, this imposter, this worm, this worthless wad of gum beneath my shoe. To think that he ever uttered a single word to cause her pain, let alone touched her…
“Thank you for meeting me here, Brandt,” I say congenially, escorting him to a table at the front. “I’m so sorry for the short notice and the hour, but I’m on a deadline and can’t spare a moment away. Also, discretion is of the utmost importance, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“Absolutely.” He smiles across the dim space as if seeing me in a whole new light. “I’m always happy to make time for an investor.”
“Care for a drink?” I pour myself a bourbon, and at his nod, one for him as well.
He takes the offered glass. Smirks at me over the rim. “Did I call it, or did I call it?”
“Call what?”
“The moment I laid eyes on you, Devlin, I knew you weren’t really interested in Violet.” He laughs. “Cute girl, pretty good lay, but not a lot going on upstairs, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, I get your drift, Brandt.” I’m about four seconds from drifting my boot up your arse and kicking my way out through your teeth…
“So tell me.” He smacks his lips, sets down the drink. “What, exactly, can my associates and I do for you and your millions?”
Another laugh.
Another urge to rip out his throat.
But that particular reward will have to wait.
After seeing Violet so upset the other night—because of the dim bulb wet-napkin bastard gloating in front of me—I knew there was no way I’d let it go. I also knew there was something not quite aboveboard about the grant application process. Violet suspected as much from the moment she entered that conference room, and their all-too-quick rejection letter was further proof.
So that night, relegated back to the café couch, I contacted Olivy, who—after making me promise she could indeed sell my severed appendages should any harm come to her sister—put her dark-web sleuthing skills to work, coming through for me in a big way.
After printing out the evidence for the judge and jury—me serving in both esteemed capacities—I called his personal cell number, also uncovered by Olivy, and requested the meeting. Millions of dollars to invest, I said. Looking for a trustworthy partner who understands how to cut through the red tape. How to get creative with the legalities. All for the greater good of lining our pockets.
Brandt didn’t even question it. Not the odd hour, not my sudden interest after mocking him at every previous interaction. Ah, well. Greed has a tendency to dull the edges of even the sharpest tacks, and as we’ve already established—quite thoroughly—Brandt is certainly not one of those.
Now, I place my dossier on the table and scoot my chair around so I’m seated right next to him, so close my knees touch his thigh, so close I can smell the bourbon on his breath. Awkward as a first-time threesome, that—not knowing exactly where to look, what to touch, which tab goes into which slot.
Fuck, I love making lesser men squirm.
And squirm he does. “Wh-what’s going on here?”
I drink my drink. Drink his drink. Lean in close. Smile. “One chance, Brandt.”
“Chance for… for what?”
“I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer it. If you lie to me, you’ll suffer consequences the likes of which someone of your limited mental capacity can’t even begin to imagine. Hence, one chance. Any questions?”
“I… I… I’m not—”
“Why was Violet’s grant application denied?”
“That’s what this is about?” Confusion clears from his eyes, his brow furrowing. I swear the bastard almost cracks a smile, as if he’d ever get off the hook so easily with me. “She’s not up to snuff, Pierce. It’s that simple. That’s why she lost the grant.”
Oh, but I love when they test my patience.
“Wrong.” I let my true form emerge, horns twisting out of my skull, the red glow of my eyes reflecting in his dark pupils, fear paralyzing him in place. “She lost it because her jealous arsehole needle-dick ex decided, in his infinite wisdom—which wouldn’t even fill a fucking thimble if I tipped his head sideways and poured it out his ear—that she didn’t qualify. And why did you make this decision, the jury might ask? Because…” I flip open the dossier. Run my finger down the first page, then the next. “Ah, yes. Here it is. You’ve already awarded the grants a month ago—long before the program was even announced—to five out-of-state firms posing as local businesses on paper. Firms your institution has been financing with shell loans for years. Firms headed up by men—and I use the term very loosely—you attended college with. Pledged a fraternity with, as a matter of fact. A fraternity which also includes… drumroll, please… Nathan Pike, reprobate realtor to bottom-feeders the world over.”
Brandt’s face turns the color of sour milk, his lip quivering, the scent of his fear nearly overpowering the scent of the booze, but I’m just getting warmed up.
“There’s also the matter of your so-called financial institution’s practice of denying business loans for legitimate businesses all over town without even reviewing their applications, adding illegal fees and rate hikes on the few businesses who get a foot in the door, closing lines of credit without cause, and generally being an abusive dickhead to your staff.”
“That’s not… this isn’t what it... Where did you get all that?”
“It’s an interesting scheme, I’ll say that much. Drive up the cost of doing business for the locals until they’re forced to abandon ship. Then your man Nathan swoops in, convincing the leaseholders to sell the storefronts at a loss—on paper, anyway, since the buyers are none other than the rest of your college pals, who are more than happy to offer up a payoff on the back end. Works out wonderfully for all involved, doesn’t it? They get prime real estate for a song. You and Nathan get kickbacks. Everyone wins! Except, of course, your friends and neighbors, but hey, what’s a few lost livelihoods and broken dreams in the grand scheme, right?”
Brandt mutters something unintelligible.
“Didn’t quite catch that, Brandt. Care to give it another go?”
“Who… who are you?” He blinks rapidly, licks his meaty lips. “Wh-why? Why are you doing this?”
“I think you know who I am. As to the why… Well, I’m nothing if not fair and balanced, despite the rumors, and I appreciate when justice is served. I also believe in the people of this town and their right to make a living doing what they love. Finally, because you’re a flaming cunt, and it’s fun to watch you cower. By the by, did you know Violet calls you the mollusk?”
“I… I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” Finally finding what he believes to be his backbone, Brandt stands up and tries to grab the dossier, as if I haven’t made multiple copies and digital backups.
I lift a hand and hit him with a blast of Hell magic, knocking his arse right back onto the chair.
“Oh, I beg to differ, Mr. Remington, third of your name. You do have to sit here and listen. And watch, too. I’m more of a visual learner myself, so I get it.” I press a fingertip to his forehead, unleashing a vision of his near-term future in Hell. A future he cemented long before I came into the picture—long before he even met Violet.
But for what he did to her, I’m adding a few bonus items not on the regular menu. Some special tortures crafted just for him. I’m no empathic tea witch, mind you, but I do what I can to ensure my clients receive exactly what they most deserve.
“You’ve lied, cheated, and conned your way through your entire life.” I hit him with a mind-movie of unimaginable terrors even the most gruesome horror flicks can’t top. “You’ve used and discarded people. Hurt those who’ve helped you. Carved up this town like a slice of cherry pie and redistributed it to your grubby-fingered cronies, collecting hefty kickbacks along the way.”
“I… I only did the same as anyone would!” he cries. “Took advantage of the opportunities that came my way. It’s just… just good business!”
I remove my finger. Let him come back to the moment. “Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night? That hurting people is good business?”
“I’ll… I’ll pay you. Please. Name the amount and it’s yours!”
“You’ll pay me with the money you’ve bilked from your so-called friends and neighbors?” I laugh. “Hard pass.”
“What can I do to change it, then? I’ll do anything… anything! Name your price!”
This is, admittedly, my favorite part. The useless groveling. The whimpering. The bargaining, ah, such sweet music.
Poor, deluded Brandt Remington, third of his name, last in line the day they handed out the brains. He doesn’t realize there’s no changing the destiny of a man whose deeds have marked him for Hell.
That doesn’t stop me from naming my price anyway.
“Your blood and signature on the dotted line, if you please.” I grab his hand, make a quick slice across his finger with a knife, then produce the contract—same as the one my guests sign in L.A., only this twat doesn’t get the luxury of ignoring the fine print. I don’t even show him the fine print.
The blubbering mollusk does as I ask.
Signed, sealed, delivered.
He would’ve ended up in Hell anyway. But he signed the contract, so as far as my father’s accounting goes, this one counts as mine.
My one millionth soul. A monumental achievement in its own right, cue the applause, cue the confetti.
“Excellent doing business with you, Mr. Remington.” I tuck the contract into the dossier and escort him out the door. “Now go ahead and slither on back to your office. I believe there are a few clerical errors you need to correct on those grant letters—starting with Violet Pepperdine’s.”