We became fast friends after she showed up at Beelzebub’s with a rental application in her hand for the apartment space above the café. Ghosts swam in her eyes when she spoke of her past. She lost her parents to a tragic house fire. She doesn’t speak of the years in between losing them and finding me. Since then, she’s been working as a self-employed hacker to fund her dream of becoming a professional gamer.
To achieve that dream, she needs to be rid of her criminal life. There is no such thing as dipping a toe into the underworld; it consumes the soul until nothing is left. The less involved she is with this turf war, the better.
“Talk to me, Pops.” Emi elbows my ribs, waiting for my eyes to open. “How bad is it?”
Petrichor and electricity fill my lungs as I breathe in the storm and breathe out the maelstrom within. Trying to figure out how to describe the shitshow my life is quickly becoming, I settle on: “We don’t have much time left.”
“You say that like you’re a dying animal.”
“Well, that’s what we are, Emi. A living beast on its last leg and very little breath remaining to give.”
Her gaze grows somber. “I heard you when you said you don’t want me involved. But if I can help in any way, promise you’ll ask?”
I don’t want to, but if only to make her feel less like I’m benching her, I nod. “Hai,I promise.”
It’s at that exact moment my phone buzzes.
I glance down at the screen illuminating my pocket. Freeing my cell, I note the unknown number. “What are the chances it’s a telemarketer?”
Emi grimaces, eyeing the device like it’ll grow fangs and spit venom. “Significantly lower than the chances it’s a coroner with a personal vendetta against felons to whom you willingly gave your number as part of your final wishes.”
My heart bashes against its cage, an unnerving reaction. I shouldn’t be nervous. Or am I excited?
Before I can debate which is worse, I accept the call. “Hello?”
“Bonjour,” Brontë’s smooth and silken baritone rumbles in my ear, louder than the thunder rolling outside. It’s what I’ve always imagined Lucifer’s voice to be—equal parts sinful and damning. His is the voice of temptation. “I’d like to discuss your proposition. Are you available to meet tonight?”
I lurch up, fixing my tousled fringe. “I’m free all night.”
Emi cringes, mouthing,Gross.
I flip her off, and she flips me off in return.
Brontë, mercifully, ignores the unintentional insinuation. “I’m on the road. I can be at Beelzebub’s in fifteen.”
“Parfait!See you s—”
He hangs up.
I slump, grumbling, “Au revoir,you fuckingprick.”
The unseasonably cold air on this early autumn night nips at my exposed skin with boreal breath and rime-ridden teeth as I step outside and squint through the wall of pouring rain into the parking lot.
Thwipflaps my butterfly knife as I flip it free from my pocket. A precaution, just in case shit goes south with the coroner who’s not only been stalking me for ten years but also wants to turn me into bookshelf décor.
Maybe I really do have a death wish.
Ten minutes of freezing my ass off later, Brontë’s cobalt Corvette glides into a spot. The purring engine shuts off, and out steps the coroner who has no business being the paragon of tall, dark, and handsome.
A pity he’s not a doctor. McSavory would’ve been the perfect nickname.
Hiding my knife behind my back, I wave with enthusiasm. His frown twitches as he draws the hood of his work jacket over his head and treks toward me. His fists are clenched in his pockets. I swear I see the outline of a gun gripped in one.
The hairs on my nape stand on end. Fear strokes my most primal senses awake. Maybe Emi’s concerns were valid. What if Brontë came here to kill me, just as he’d been planning all along?
Dread erodes my stomach. My arm drops with my smile. Instinct pushes me back a step as my thoughts siphon to a single bleating plea:kill.
I flick the wings of my knife open.