by J. C. Staudt
I throw him a look. “You wish. I’m not your chauffeur. After this, you’re taking the bus. Now get in.”
He scoffs, but opens the door and slides into the passenger seat. “I guess saving your life and removing your last mark wasn’t worth anything.”
I fire up the engine and take off for my apartment. “It was worth your freedom.”
“Freedom sucks when you can’t do fun things.”
“Think of this as a chance to start over. See life from a new perspective.”
“I was enjoying the perspective I had before.”
“While you were turning tricks at the DMV?”
“While I was earning my keep. Take away a guy’s bread and butter, and what’s he got left? Being human? What an unceasing throat-punch of an existence.”
“Why don’t you use a few minutes of this throat-punch to explain to me how you became a soulbroker?”
“I’m a fiend. I was practically railroaded into it. What more is there to tell?”
“You’re only half a fiend. You weren’t born renting out souls for the underworld. You made a choice at some point in your life—or a series of choices—that led you to it.”
He swats away the notion. “Oh, you don’t want to hear my long drawn-out sob story.”
“You’re right. Make it the CliffsNotes version.”
“If I’m going to complain about my life, I’m going to do it in longform.”
I shrug. “You’re a human now. Might as well start acting like one.”
“I see what you did there. Okay, the brief version. I’m not that human. I mean, technically I’m half and half, but I’ll get to that in a minute. I underwent constant bullying as a child and a young adult because of the color of my skin. And the horns. Mostly the horns. I learned to talk my way out of a lot of those situations. I used to switch sides when it was convenient. But sometimes there was no talking my way out. On one such occasion I was about to be brutalized by a gang of inner-city mouth-breathers when a mysterious benefactor stepped in on my behalf. When he’d dismissed the gangbangers, he made me an offer I was in no position to refuse. In exchange for becoming a servant of the underworld, tasked with capturing the souls of those who’d persecuted me all my life, I would be given the chance to turn away from my human half and embrace the ways of my fiendish brethren. My powers are the result. You might call it the perks of turning to the dark side.”
“Who was this guy? Your master?”
“My master hasn’t been summoned to the mortal realm in a thousand years. The one who saved me that day was only her messenger.”
“Her messenger.”
“She’s not a guy. Not exactly. See, she prefers to be addressed as sir, or my lord. Anyone who calls her lady or madam or miss, she’s been known to cut off their ears and throw them into the Pit of Enthusiastic Kazoo Players.”
“That’s a thing?”
“It’s the underworld, bro. If it sounds too horrific to be true… it isn’t.”
“So she runs your life, essentially. This being you report to.”
“She doesn’t run it. She just takes a cut of every transaction. I’m the soulbroker. She’s the commissioner.”
“Wait a minute. A cut? Like what kind of a cut? You marked me twice. How much of a piece did she get?”
“Think of it like a buyers club. Every time you come around, you get a hole-punch in your membership card. When you reach a certain number of punches, you get something for free. Which in this case is eternal damnation.”
I laugh, assuming he’s joking. I look at him. He isn’t joking. “You’re not lying to me?”
“Hey, look. It isn’t that bad. You only took two marks. You’re nowhere near a lifetime membership. All you have to do is not get into any more situations where you need a helping hand and I’m your only way out.”
“Sounds easy in principle. They call me the One Who Suffers. The way my life’s been going the past year, I’ll be lucky if I don’t get myself into half a dozen situations by Memorial Day.”
“You’ll have to find a new agent,” Calyxto says, nonchalant. “I’m out of the game for a while.”
“I’m not renting my soul to anyone now that I know how the sausage is made.”
“How about your apartment? I can’t teleport, which means I can’t enter the infernal realm. I’m effectively locked out of my house. Mind if I crash at your place for a while? Say, seven months?”
“Not on your life.”
“Okay, just a few weeks then. Until I arrange other accommodations.”
I consider bringing him to the Guardians’ HQ, but I doubt Ryovan would be fond of the idea. Besides, I’ve got a better one. Calyxto might not be the best influence on a friend in need, but I’ve got a friend who could use some company. I hang a left at the next intersection.
“This isn’t the way to your apartment,” Calyxto observes.
“You know a lot about roads for someone who never uses them.”
“Another symptom of my life’s work. I’ve got a head filled with useless knowledge, mostly about where stuff is. Stuff my clients need to find. So where are we going?”
I smile and drive. He keeps asking, but he doesn’t get an answer until a while later, when Quim opens his apartment door. He steps aside to let us in without a word.
“You didn’t answer your phone, QuimTak,” I say, heading to the kitchen for a drink.
“I was so surprised you took time out of your busy schedule to call me, I guess I forgot to answer.”
I stop short and turn back. “Mind explaining what you mean by that?”
Quim shrugs. “I just thought you and the Guardians had so much important stuff to do you didn’t have time for me anymore. Ersatz tells me you and those sketch artists are joined at the hip.”
“The Guardians aren’t sketch artists.”
“Oh, sure. There’s nothing sketchy about the people who found you after you assumed a secret identity, who happen to know everything about you, and who have been squatting on your father’s property for years without your permission.”
I can always see through Quim’s volatile exterior. It’s easy for him to hide any signs of ill health or lack of sleep behind his shapechanged appearance, but his bad posture and drawn expression give him away. He’s feeling neglected and thinks I’ve shoved him aside for my shiny new friends. He’s right, but I didn’t come here to get into a fight with him.
When I open the fridge, liquor bottles line the shelves. Since I’m driving, I was hoping for a soda instead of my usual beer. Confused, I shut the door and grab a glass of water. “Throwing a party?”
“Nope,” Quim says.
I fill my glass and take a seat at Quim’s eat-in kitchen table, where he and Calyxto join me. The place is a mess, and it smells like the garbage hasn’t been taken out in a few days. I lean in. “How are you doing? How’s life?”
“Fine.”
“You’re not fine, QuimTak. Talk to me.”
He shrugs. “About what?”
“Let’s start with work.”
“Same as always.”
“Love life?”
“Non-existent.”
“Extracurriculars?”
“Cade, you don’t have to interrogate me to know how I live.”
“Yeah, you stay inside all day. You never leave except on rare occasions. You mope around in the dark with the shades drawn like you’ve got a vampire’s aversion to sunlight, and you never shapeshift except when you’ve got company. Which only happens when I drop by or when Ersatz comes over to play cards.”
Calyxto is shaking his head. “Man, if I could look like whoever I wanted whenever I wanted, the world would be my oyster.”
“I’m right there with you,” I agree.
Quim cuts the half-fiend a dry look before turning to me. “Why aren’t you disguised as Arden?”
“I went before the Fae Council this morning to negotiate Calyxto’s release from fairy prison. Ryovan suggested I go as myself.”
“He got me a raw deal,” says Calyxto, “but I guess it’s better than nothing.”
Quim nods, remembering his visit to the Council with Ersatz the night they arranged Calyxto’s temporary release. “They’re a tough bunch. You’re lucky you got out of there at all.”
Calyxto scoffs. “Lucky? I’m homeless and human. You call it luck. I call it suck.”
I ignore him. “So what’s going on, Quim? Why so glum, chum?”
Quim scratches his forehead. “I’m in a lot of trouble.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. What kind of trouble?”
“The financial kind.”
I know what this means. “Gambling.”
“I’m in deep.”
“How deep?”
“Deeper than you think.”
“By how much?”
“I took out a loan.”
“Okay, well stop working yourself into a frenzy over it. I’ll pay it, whatever it is.”
Quim throws up his hands in irritation. “See, this is why I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you getting all high-and-mighty about it.”
“Is that what you think? I’m your friend, Quim. This is what friends do.”
“Pity each other? No thanks. Besides, it’s more than you’ll be able to pay easily. He only accepts cash.”
“Who’s he?”
“A hobgoblin who calls himself Trezzo. His real name’s Narl Mogru.”
“Some kind of loan shark?”
“Yeah. Not the good kind, either.”
“Is there a good kind?”
“For you, I meant. Trezzo’s got ties to the Warrendale Crew.”
I close my eyes and sigh. “Did you know this going in?”
“Not until I’d lost my second double-or-nothing bet.”
“What’s the damage?” Calyxto asks.
“I don’t want to say. Cade won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“Two forty.”
“Two hundred and forty dollars?”
“Thousand.”
I pause. “You’re in the hole a quarter of a million dollars to the goblin gang who wants me dead?”
Quim clears his throat. “Plus interest.”
“Plus interest. Of course.”
“Hold the phone,” Calyxto jumps in. “The Warrendale Crew wants you dead?”
“I should clarify; they want Arden Savage dead. They’re the ones I overheard plotting to steal the Book of the Grave. While I was busy finding and rescuing Lorne, they raided Mottrov Manor and got trounced. If they hadn’t interfered, I could’ve gotten the book and stopped Mottrov’s whole transplanting-dead-vampires-into-human-bodies scheme before it started. They must think I overheard something I didn’t, because one of their guys tried to assassinate me with a spellbomb in a coffee cup.”
“Then along comes your best friend to thicken the plot like a bowl of beef stew with too much cornstarch.”
“That was oddly specific, but sure. How did you manage to amass such a staggering level of debt in such a short time, Quim?”
“Bad beats, man. Bad beats.” Quim stares off into space, shaking his head. “I had all the over-unders laid out. The Tigers were coming off a strong spring training with some solid moves in the off-season, and I felt good about the season opener against a Cleveland outfield who’d struggled in last year’s postseason—”
“I don’t need the play-by-play. What I’m asking is how you arrived at a mental state where you thought this was a good idea.”
“Yeah,” says Calyxto. “As a general rule, I’d advise against betting in favor of any Detroit sports franchise.”
“I don’t want to point fingers,” says Quim, “especially since I won’t have them to point for much longer. Trezzo says he’s going to start by yanking out my fingernails.”
“Joke’s on him. You’re a shapeshifter.”
“After that, he’s going to clip each finger with bolt cutters, knuckle by knuckle—”
“Okay, I get it. So go ahead and point fingers while you can.”
“Fine.” He pauses. “It was your fault.”
I glance at Calyxto. “Whose? Mine, or his?”
“Both. Yours for introducing me to Felita. His for giving me the Nerve Ring. That thing messed me up.”
Calyxto disagrees. “My ring saved you a lot of pain.”
“The pain was so bad I passed out when I took it off. And it wasn’t just physical pain, either. I’ve been in a funk for months. I can’t shake it. I’ve been drinking too much, gambling more than usual, and I’ve gotten fat. You can’t tell, obviously, but I have a spare tire the size of Milwaukee.”
“And you think these are lingering side effects of the ring?” I ask.
Quim points at Calyxto. “He said it would make things better, but I feel worse. Way worse.”
“Did you know the ring does this to people?”
The half-fiend averts his eyes.
“Come to think of it, Helayne looked pretty depressed when you ghost-of-Christmas-pasted me to see her in her breakroom at work. She was working through the side effects, wasn’t she?”
“They’re more like after-effects,” Calyxto mumbles.
“Is everything you do a trick?”
“You kind of knew that, didn’t you? You don’t have to act all appalled about it.”
“I’m not appalled. I’m doubtful you can keep it in your pants for the next seven months. The trickery, I mean.”
“If I had this guy’s powers—” he motions toward Quim, “—it’d never be in my pants. Everywhere I went, I’d have Chris Hemsworth’s face, Vin Diesel’s body, and Jay-Z’s—”
“Being a changeling comes with certain responsibilities,” Quim interrupts. “Like not messing with people’s heads.”
I give Calyxto a knowing smile. “I know what you mean. I’ve been saying the same thing since we were in high school.”
Quim wrinkles his mouth. “It’s a good thing neither of you are changelings, or the women in this city would be in trouble. Creepers.”
“All I’m saying is, I’d be more confident in myself if I didn’t have to go around looking like a billygoat with a sunburn,” says Calyxto. “You’re sad about your ex? Get out there and meet some people. It’s past time you got some new blood in your life.”
“I don’t meet people. People meet me.”
“He doesn’t mean to sound arrogant,” I tell the half-fiend. “He’s just shy.”
“People can’t meet you if you never leave the house. Come on, we’re going out tonight. The three of us.”
I shake my head. “Can’t tonight. I’m busy.”
“You? Busy? I don’t believe it. With what?”
“My brother’s throwing a party at his apartment.”
“One of the parties you hate, with all his stuffy rich friends?” Quim asks.
“I’ve been trying to be more intentional about spending time with them since the abductions. Lorne and Carmine have both been rationalizing, and I feel like I should be there to help them through it.”
“I like parties,” says Calyxto. “It’s on. You’re coming, Quim. No excuses.”
I know I’ll regret what I’m about to say before the words leave my mouth. “Calyxto’s got a point. You need to get out of this place and mingle. The three of us are going to that party tonight, and we’re going to have a good time.”
Excitement lights Calyxto’s face. “I’ve never been to a human party before. Not one I was invited to, anyway.”
“Lorne didn’t invite you to this one.”
He frowns. “You’re right. How will I get inside?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Not going,” Quim announces.
“Then I guess we’re opening all your windows and doors and inviting random strangers inside to put their grubby mitts all over your stuff.”
Quim deflates. “Why are you so mean?”
“Because you need me to be. Get dressed and change into someone attrac
tive.”
Calyxto’s cheshire grin is verging on a giddy smile. “This is going to be fun.”
“As long as you play by the rules. This’ll be your first test in abiding by the Fae Council’s decree. No tricks. No bullshit. No buying, selling, renting, lending, or otherwise transacting in souls. And for god’s sake… whatever either of you does tonight, don’t call me Cade.”
Chapter 4
I like to keep things simple. Inviting two othersiders to a party where my normal brother and sister and all their normal friends are going to be drinking and dancing and potentially engaging in other illicit activities is decidedly not simple. So when I stop at home to change my clothes and don my repaired spellvault belt, I make a snap decision to bring along a little insurance.
Maybe it isn’t a snap decision. As I drop trou in the bathroom and squeeze the syringe until a bead of blood splashes into the sink, I reject the idea that I’m developing a slow but certain dependability on the stuff. It hasn’t gone so far as to become a full-blown addiction. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.
Black spiderwebs mottle my thighs. Some are dark and fresh, others old and faded. Demon isn’t the only kind of blood that leaves behind these telltale signs. The more potent mixtures send darker webs wriggling further from their injection sites, but even the weaker ones streak my skin with blemishes.
I’ve started injecting higher and higher on my thigh to hide the signs from Ersatz, the only living soul who’s seen me anywhere close to naked recently. I don’t change clothes with the door open anymore, and I wear long shorts around the apartment. Not that I’ve had much reason to use blood magic lately. Things have been pretty quiet since Mottrov’s death. I’m always aware I might need to be ready at a moment’s notice, though, so occasions like tonight necessitate preparedness.
The closet laboratory in my office isn’t the only place I store syringes anymore. I’ve stolen dozens of them from the hospital lately. They’re stashed on the top shelf of my walk-in closet and at the back of the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink. They’re in my gun safe and they’re under my bed. Like the guns I’ve hidden around the apartment, the syringes are there when I need them, yet no one—even Ersatz—is aware I put them to regular use.