If I ever figured out how to reliably shift back to human, I’d be set. Having to strip before shifting annoyed me, but I hated the discomfort of wearing extra layers of clothes. How many sari, bells, belts, and shoes did a girl need? I took the lingerie happily, though.
That shit was expensive, and my magic provided me with a bit of everything from seductive lace to comfortable cotton. I tossed most of the thongs, kept the boy shorts, and decided on a case-by-case basis for the rest. My shift went better than usual; I could work with black, and the bra did nice things to my breasts. For a rare, appreciated change, I got a pair of traditional Ruska Roma slippers, comfortable on the feet, durable, and meant for long travel.
I disliked omens, but I believed in them enough not to ignore the blessing or the warning. That was the problem with omens; they could go either way. The shoes meant change, and that was that. I believed change was coming my way. Bubba’s call had made a mess of the few plans I’d had.
I’d done one kidnapping gig before, hired by a teen’s parents to teach the girl why it wasn’t wise to venture into the worst part of Detroit alone. One scare later, their daughter had learned a very valuable lesson about protecting herself. Her parents had paid me a thousand. I might’ve done it on the house if they hadn’t been so eager to give me their cash for solving their problem.
So many things could go wrong during a kidnapping. Grabbing my target would be the easy part. Keeping him would be the problem. If I believed Bubba, I’d need a body of fresh water. Did it have to be a lake? I hoped not. Unless I carted him to northern Canada, lakes attracted people. If my target had aquatic talents, he’d cause me a lot of problems. The first thing I needed to do was figure out why Malcolm needed to be near water. How long could he be away from it? Would I need to stop along the way to expose him to his element?
Could he be a nymph? Despite legend and lore, there were male nymphs. They could charm the skirt off a girl faster than an incubus. I wouldn’t mind being stuck with a male nymph for six months. I’d enjoy some of the best sex of my life without any risk of pregnancy.
Unlike incubi, nymphs weren’t compatible with humans. They only looked human. Unless a fertile female nymph was around, the males fired blanks, and according to the male nymph I’d been lucky enough to net, there hadn’t been a fertile female in over a thousand years.
He thought it would be a few more centuries before their breeding season began.
If Malcolm Findlay Stewart was a nymph, I’d need a net. When caught in a net, nymphs fulfilled any reasonable request. I doubted Malcolm was a nymph with his lack of ex-lovers; nymphs would sleep with anything, and they weren’t picky about species or gender. However, it would explain Bubba’s stud comment, although no self-respecting nymph called himself a stud.
According to the nymph I’d netted, they were gentlemen until the pants came off.
If I delved into the non-human pool, what sort of species would call themselves studs?
Incubi topped the list, followed by minotaurs, and I really, really hoped the Stewarts weren’t a Greek minotaur clan. I’d spend the next six months keeping him out of my pants, although it’d simplify matters for me. A minotaur would pursue a female for months if he thought he might get a son out of the deal. Minotaurs were more aggressive than nymphs, though; they viewed reproduction as their sacred duty, and they’d impregnate any girl stupid enough to sleep with them.
Fortunately for women around the world, minotaurs were rare. Unlike what the myths implied, they played fair. They only bred with consenting females, although they didn’t necessarily tell the girl she was consenting to more than just wild sex. I knew better.
Damn it, everything circled back to the Lord of Hell. Thanks to him, I knew minotaurs were real, although I never wanted to see the insides of one again. I’d caught a glimpse of the devil in his full glory that day.
I shied away from my memories of that image, but two things had stuck with me: he’d been as beautiful as he’d been terrible.
If I hunted a minotaur, somewhere remote would work, somewhere most wouldn’t go for fear of death. I wouldn’t lose a minotaur; they loved mazes almost as much as they desired a son. For the lost, there was no better guide. A windowless cellar at a farmhouse would work, especially if I could rig a pond for him. But why would a minotaur want water?
The requirement for water threw me off my game—and potentially eliminated minotaur as Malcolm’s species.
“Who are you, Malcolm Findlay Stewart?” I muttered, turning my full attention to my computer.
The internet knew all, and if Malcolm was anywhere near as popular as his cousin thought, I’d find information on him. I sat at the desk, cracked my knuckles, and touched my fingers to the keyboard.
My phone rang.
“Really?” Muttering curses, I fetched the device. “Kanika, Whatever for Hire.”
“You need Caller ID, cupcake.”
“And I need a bonus three-month retainer to cover any injuries sustained as a result of the shit job you’ve saddled me with. We don’t always get what we want, Satin.”
“It’s yours under one condition.”
Alarm sirens blared in my head, and idiot cat I was, I couldn’t help but ask, “What condition?”
“I have papers I want you to sign without reading.”
“No.” What sort of idiot signed a binding agreement with the devil without reading it first? Scratch that. What sort of idiot signed a binding agreement with the devil? “No.”
“You said no twice. Once was sufficient.”
“I wanted to make certain you heard me.”
“Why not? It’s a good deal for you.”
I scowled and shook my head. I was willing to bet the devil was spying on me in some fashion. Displaying my middle finger in case he was watching, I took several breaths to calm my nerves. “Only an idiot signs papers without reading them, Lucy. Also, did you really have to use Santana as your surname? It’s ridiculous. Have you even been to South America?”
“A time or two. And yes, I did. Would you prefer Mephistopheles?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I would, Mr. Mephistopheles.”
“Never was there ever—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence. I’m not signing anything without reading it first.”
“Are you sure about that, cupcake? In addition to the bonus three-month retainer, I’m willing to pay you half a million dollars in the form of a bank card you have permission to use, which will disintegrate after you’ve spent the money you’re entitled to. I’ll also allow you to ask me any questions you like, which I’ll answer with complete honesty. I’m willing to have an angel verify the truth prior to you signing.”
With half a million reasons to become an idiot, I thought about it. If I picked my questions carefully, I wouldn’t have to read the document. I’d still be an idiot, but I’d be a rich idiot. With that much money, I could roam because I wanted to rather than because I had to.
I could find a permanent home for myself.
“Half a million dollars after taxes and no limit on the number of questions I can ask. If I don’t like the answers, I’m not signing—and the truth. The complete truth. I’ll be asking an angel to confirm the truth of every last one of your words, starting from the instant I answered the phone.”
“Done. Ask your questions.”
I’d start with the obvious. “Will I be signing over my soul in any fashion?”
“No. Your soul is safe. Signing won’t influence your fate.”
Huh. The devil hadn’t tried to buy my soul? Interesting. “Will I come to any harm as a result of signing?”
“It’s possible. You are signing a deal with the devil, cupcake. You want to ask if signing will earn you enemies. The answer is yes. Not signing will, too. You don’t want me as an enemy.”
That didn’t sound good at all. “Will refusing to sign make you my enemy, Mr. Mephistopheles?”
“It would pain me, but it’s possible. I’m betting on you. How many others can say they have the devil rooting for them?”
“You say that like it’s a good thing. Honestly, I couldn’t care less.”
“You’re cruel.”
“Go cry yourself to sleep. I’m sure your lovely wife will tuck you into bed and give you a teddy bear so you feel better. Why do you want me to sign this document?”
“I want to protect you and your interests.”
The world crashed to a halt. Astonishment erased my thoughts and left me with a stunned nothingness, and my breath left me in a whoosh. The Lord of Hell wanted to protect me? Not even my aunt, my own flesh and blood, was willing to do that. She had fed and clothed me out of familial obligation, not for me. Never for me. We’d gotten to the point of mutual tolerance by the time she’d decided to sell me to an asshole, perverted business man, which had resulted in me jumping ship and swimming for shore. She had pitied me.
I didn’t handle pity or slavery well.
Maybe one day, I’d suggest to Satin he take lessons from Isaac Asfour, the world’s nastiest, sleaziest pervert. I still had nightmares of becoming the asshole’s young bride. No distance would be far enough away from the likes of him and the other suitors my aunt had wanted to sell me to.
I hid my discomfort by blurting, “Are you crazy?”
The Lord of Hell laughed, a startlingly pleasant sound. “Sometimes. Is it so difficult for you to believe someone might want to protect you?”
“In a word, yes. Why would you of all people want to protect me?”
“That’s a better question. I made a deal with someone. The price was to protect you. This is my way of meeting the requirements of that bargain.”
“Why the fuck would anyone bargain with you over me? That’s stupid.”
The devil cracked up laughing, snorting several times before clearing his throat. “I’m not at liberty to say even if I knew why, which I don’t. I don’t care why people want to sell their souls to me. I’m the devil, after all.”
Crap on a cracker. What had I gotten into all those years ago when I’d witnessed someone summon Satan by spelling his name wrong? “And you having me sign this paper is the best way for you to protect me?”
“Shockingly, yes. I don’t normally give my prey such a good deal, but some souls are worth it. In a way, that one might’ve gotten the better end of the deal. It happens from time to time.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Everyone loses, especially you.”
Double crap on a cracker, I didn’t like the sound of that at all. “Will signing financially fuck me over later?”
“No. It’s entirely beneficial for you, even on a metaphysical level, which absolutely disgusts me. Your agreement benefits me in the deal for that other soul.”
“Why’s that soul so important to you?”
“That’s another good question. Excellent. You’re learning.”
I was? I frowned but remained silent.
“It’s simple. I’m Mephistopheles until the end of days. Did you know several have worn the mantle of God? The current one hasn’t been around long. Don’t tell him this, but I actually like him. As far as those who have held his portfolio go, he’s a realist. Anyway, that soul will grant me something I currently lack. A freedom, if you will.”
The devil lacked a freedom? Curiosity dug its cruel claws into me. “What freedom?”
He sighed, and I didn’t like the way the sound made me feel. Why should I care about the devil’s discomfort? “Until now, until the possibility of you signing, I’ve been unable to have a child. You signing will change that. That’s what that soul gains me. I’m the only divine incapable of having a child. For that to change, you must willingly sign.”
Something in my chest tightened. “You really can’t have children?”
“Correct. I can’t have children, not until you sign.”
“And your child. What price will Earth pay for you having a child?” Would it change his hell or the heavens? I didn’t care much if it did. Devils and angels could take care of themselves better than mere mortals.
“What an interesting question, but a wise one. It would make me happy. That would piss off the man upstairs. That’s between just us, by the way. It doesn’t leave his heavens or my hell. As for Earth? A child of mine is but a drop of water in the ocean. Nothing would change for Earth. That’s the beauty of mortals. They make their own fate, and their choices are what shapes the Earth’s future. Could my child change the world? Yes. Will my child change the world? Not even I know. The future is a fluid thing, and it’s tiring contemplating all the possibilities. It’s rare for there to be a fixed future. Mortals change things. That’s their nature.”
If Mephistopheles kept surprising me, I’d suffer a heart attack before I had a chance to sign the papers. “I could almost feel sorry for you.”
“Don’t. I’m an asshole, and we both know it, cupcake. Don’t waste your energy feeling sorry for me. I am the devil. Worry about yourself. Do we have a deal?”
“Is there another question I should be asking?”
“There are two main questions and a few minor ones you should be asking, but only the first one actually matters.”
“What questions should I ask you?”
Choking sounds came from the other end of the line, and the devil whimpered his laughter. “You’re truly a jewel among mortals. You should ask me how long the contract is valid for. That’s important. The rest are details.”
“The devil’s in the details,” I reminded him.
“So I am. These details won’t harm you. I have to keep the lawyers happy.”
“Heaven forbid we distress the lawyers.”
“Exactly. No one can whine—or flood your office with extraneous paperwork—quite like a lawyer. Well, are you going to ask me?”
“Fine. When does the contract expire?”
“It doesn’t.”
I frowned. “Will I ever find out what I’m signing?”
“Oh yes. You’re going to find out, all right. I really want to see your face when you learn what I’ve done. It’ll be beautiful.”
That worried me a lot. “That doesn’t sound good for me.”
“Your expression will be priceless. I look forward to it. Do we have a deal?”
It turned out five hundred thousand dollars made me an idiot. “Heaven help me, I’ll sign, but only after an angel has verified you’ve spoken the truth and nothing but the truth. If you told me a single lie, no deal.”
“You won’t regret your decision for long,” the devil promised. “Expect company at dawn, cupcake.”
Long after the Lord of Hell hung up on me, I stared at the wall with my phone still held to my ear. What had I gotten myself into?
Everyone made mistakes, but mine were worse than most. I couldn’t tell what I’d missed—if I’d missed anything at all. Maybe I’d land on my feet instead of belly flopping and breaking most of my ribs again. Who was I kidding?
I’d just fucked myself over by making a deal with the devil, and I’d fucked up so spectacularly I didn’t even know what I’d agreed to. No wonder greed counted as a deadly sin. Five hundred thousand had made me cast my common sense to the four winds.
At least I still had my soul. That counted for something, didn’t it?
If I wanted to be awake for my dawn date with the devil, I’d need to pull an all-nighter, especially since I doubted I’d be able to sleep even if I tried. Despite knowing I courted trouble, there was too much to do if I wanted to pull off my job for Bubba Eugene. Worrying about signing the Lord of Hell’s paperwork wouldn’t help me kidnap Malcolm, although the extra money would make things easier.
Signing would ensure I’d have the funds needed to pull off the kidnapping. In the worst case, I could pin the job on Satin. That thought made me giggle.
Never had ‘the devil made me do it’ been truer. I’d savor the moment I whipped that line out in court. If I got caught, that’s where I’d end up. When I made my declaration, it would be in the presence of an angel—an angel I could request thanks to having been born human despite my species shift during adolescence. In a perfect world, I’d escape into obscurity after unloading Bubba Eugene’s infuriated cousin on his doorstep. While they fought, I’d take advantage of the excitement and run for the hills.
Every complicated job started with a plan. Plans tended to explode in my face, so I’d layer backup plans until they blended together and formed a convoluted entity. No matter what happened, I needed a way out for me and my target. Keeping my client’s victim alive was my top priority.
Protection gigs sucked, especially when it involved protecting someone against their will. No matter what happened, I was screwed, and my success hinged on learning everything I could about my victim.
“Who are you, Malcolm? Why does your family want you gone?” I made myself comfortable in front of my laptop and tapped in my password. The instant I logged in, I changed my password to a variant of ‘Satin sucks socks’ for shits and giggles.
I’d invoke the devil’s misspelled name every time I used my computer, and I’d do it with a smile. Once satisfied with my blasphemy, I went to work.
I started with a name search and was dismayed to learn Malcolm Findlay Stewart was a very common Scottish name. On second thought, I could work with a Scot. I didn’t know a single woman who objected to the occasional objectification of a smoking, bare-chested Scot in a kilt.
Considering the little Bubba Eugene had told me, I tossed in fireman as a keyword to see if I could narrow the two million results to something a bit more manageable. I grinned. If Scots in kilts could make a woman’s blood boil, what would a hunky fireman Scot do? Curiosity reared its ugly head and bit me in the ass, and unable to resist the lure, I checked the image results.
A half-naked man covered in soot holding an entire litter of disheveled, soaked kittens took the top spot.
“Holy abs,” I whispered, licking my lips and swallowing so I wouldn’t drool. It took far longer than I liked to realize the rest of his clothes were on the ground serving as a blanket for a bunch of sopping wet puppies. Clicking the image took me to an article about a fire at an animal shelter, declaring Malcolm Findlay Stewart a local hero for entering the collapsing building to rescue as many of the trapped animals as he could.
A second picture showed more of his face, which was bloodied from a cut near his hairline. Beneath the blood and soot, I thought he was blond or a pale ginger.
Meow.
If my job involved kidnapping him, I’d be a very happy kitty. I’d even hunt him as a feline, since I couldn’t purr when human. Lionesses couldn’t purr, either, but I’d do my best. On looks alone, he was worth purring over. Add in his dedication to rescuing kittens and puppies and I might not ever let him go if I got my hands on him.
I’d met too many pretty men who couldn’t tie their shoelaces without help. This specific Malcolm Findlay Stewart jumped into burning buildings, and he didn’t draw a line at only rescuing sentients. He risked his life for unwanted pets.
Could a more perfect man exist?
Since he was so easy on the eyes, I made a note to check if he’d modeled for any sexy fireman calendars. I bet they made him Mr. July on virtue of him being too hot to handle. I needed every last calendar featuring him so I could properly indulge in my fledgling crush.
It took a lot of effort, but I dragged my attention back to work. The addition of fireman to my search had narrowed my pool down to several hundred men scattered across the United States. Creating a spreadsheet, I began the tedious task of listing them by name, state, and city. Once finished, I filtered by the states I believed might have men nicknamed Bubba. I refused to believe Bubba was my client’s real name. Still, I checked his name, too, just in case a Bubba Eugene showed up on the same page as a Malcolm or Malcolm Findlay.
No such luck.
However, I did discover three Bubba Eugenes. Two lived in Virginia and one lived in Tennessee. I thought it safe to assume the cousins lived in the same state, thus limiting my pool of eligible Scots to six, and the rescuer of baby animals numbered among them.
I thanked God several times for the hope I might get my filthy paws on a Scottish firefighter worthy of a second look, and not just because he—them, all six of them—looked like escapees from the high heavens. Their abs alone made my mouth water. I suspected their presence was responsible for elevating the state’s temperature by a few degrees. The men could easily explain a few things about the state’s weather, too. I bet Mother Nature summoned storms most nights to cool her jets.
Since they all shared the same name, I went with the sexy fireman calendar theme and assigned them a month. The hottest one, Sir Kitten and Puppy Rescuer Supreme, retained his title as Mr. July. August went to a ginger with a beard. I liked beards; they reminded me of whiskers, and I liked August because of its instability. While he wasn’t quite as devastatingly handsome as Mr. July, August still smoldered.
Who was I kidding? If one of them was Bubba Eugene’s cousin, I’d have my work cut out for me. Not only would I need to keep him alive, I’d have to make sure not a single inch of his perfection was marred while in my care.
The title of January went to an ice god with the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen. May went to the oddball elf-thin Scot with a smile so bright it needed to be classified as a dangerous weapon. October went to a rugged man who, according to an article I’d found, enjoyed rock climbing in the high peaks.
I figured his big hands could crush stone to powder with ease. However handsome, of the six, he was the one I didn’t want to get into a fight with. Even in my feline forms, I suspected he could smash me to pulp.
The last of the men—and my most realistic option—lived within twenty miles of Tennessee’s Bubba Eugene Stewart. Something about the Scot’s dark eyes worried me, cold despite his otherwise pleasant expression. I named him February because of my dislike for that month, when it felt like spring would never come. With my luck, I’d be stuck with February, and no matter how handsome he was, eyes like his worried me.
They were the eyes of someone who’d enjoy skinning me for my pelt.
Mr. February enjoyed showing off his body—all of it—on social media. Maybe his eyes creeped me out, but I could lose hours admiring the rest of him. At twenty-four, he was younger than I liked, which did a good job of cooling my jets and convincing me maybe I should work rather than lick my chops and think of the many ways I could enjoy him for dessert. His public profiles reported he worked at a car dealership, which fit some of Bubba Eugene’s vague descriptions. Twenty minutes into my browsing, I discovered links to his online dating profiles.
I clicked.
Big mistake.
If the pictures of him showing off his prowess with his equally pretty boyfriends were any indication, he had a very active and public sex life—so public he used his exploits to attract new men to his bed. To add to the chaos, he was openly engaged to two of his lovers.
Damn. I needed half his luck. I scratched the man off my list of candidates, filing away his profile information in case I needed to drag my client over coals for lying to me. If Mr. February was Bubba Eugene’s cousin, Bubba was going to end up with a really rude wakeup call in the form of my foot up his ass.
I hated when my clients lied to me.
It took less than ten minutes to eliminate Mr. October from my list; he was married with children. Mr. May was engaged. Mr. August went through women almost as fast as I collected saris, leaving me with Mr. January and Mr. July as my viable options. Both were volunteer firefighters and led private enough lives. I couldn’t find them on social media; they only showed up as mentions in rare articles detailing their acts of heroism in the face of fire—literal fire.
Deleting Findlay from my searches helped; I scored a hit on Mr. January.
He deserved a very successful career as a fashion model. Was he my target? Did models make enough to be involved with investments? I had no idea.
Models were way out of my league, and not because of my looks. I had the exotic market nailed down, and men liked that well enough, but when it came to public events, I became a liability. When courting wealthy companies, the rich and famous wanted pretty but generic American girls hanging off their arms.
If Mr. January was my target, I wouldn’t have to guess his measurements. His modeling agency included everything from his species to his metabolism rating. With a rating of ninety-five percent human, it was no wonder they showed off his private information. I’d never met such a pure human before. I’d heard of them, but they were going extinct. Within a hundred years, humanity would only exist because so many different species liked sleeping together, resulting in what the CDC classified as a human but wasn’t, not really.
Even then, hybrid children weren’t human, not really. To make matters worse for humanity, people like me existed, non-humans who’d been born human to human parents but changed during puberty into something else, further diluting the gene pool. When the magic failed again, people like me would die out or go into hibernation until the magic returned and rewrote what it meant to be human.
Cultural divides would ultimately reset humanity back to its state before magic had bloomed and taken over Earth. If I endured beyond magic’s recession, my exotic appearance would sink my ship in European-pale America.
I struggled enough as it was; I didn’t need my odd skin color and foreign appearance becoming the primary focuses of discrimination and prejudice. It was hard enough convincing people I was a sphinx. If prejudice turned skin deep, I’d be in trouble.
Shaking my head, I forced my attention back to my work. No matter how many different ways I scoured the internet for Mr. January and Mr. July, I couldn’t eliminate either one of them as a possibility. I couldn’t figure out why anyone would want them to disappear. Neither had a single scandal sullying their name. At first blush, they were truly beautiful and perfect in all ways.
Leaning back in my chair, I scowled at my laptop. If either one suggested I should hop into bed with him, I’d do it without hesitation, and not just because it had been way too long since I’d dived between the sheets with someone. Despite my father’s nature and my wandering feet, I liked the illusion of security and permanency. Maybe one day I’d find a lycanthrope to share the rest of my life with, which would solve my relationship woes. A lycanthrope wouldn’t leave me—he couldn’t. The virus wouldn’t let him, not until death did we part. I supposed I’d be influenced by his virus, too, despite my immunity to lycanthropy.
Magic worked in mysterious ways.
My single status boiled down to my ignorance. I had no idea how long sphinxes lived, and I didn’t want to commit to a lycanthrope when it was entirely possible I’d drop dead from old age within a year. No one knew anything of substance about sphinxes, not even the CDC. Unlike lycanthropes, who had lived in secrecy between the magic surges, sphinxes existed only in mythology, and thousands of years separated me from my predecessors.
At least I’d been spared becoming a research subject of the CDC. I’d been born human, thus entitled to the same protections other humans enjoyed despite my change in species categorization.
I sighed, wrinkled my nose, and closed my browser so I wouldn’t have to look at either Scottish dream come true. According to my laptop’s clock, I had an hour to blow before the devil came calling, further entangling himself in my affairs.
What did the devil want with me, anyway?
I sucked in a breath. What use did an almost pure vanilla human have for fresh water beyond drinking it? A body of fresh water had been critical to Bubba Eugene. Mysterious Mr. July could be anything, just like me. I only looked human. My DNA had been rewritten during adolescence, so much so I’d be surprised if a scan found any actual human in me at all.
Could Malcolm be someone like me?
I’d never actually met anyone else born a human and later twisted into a non-human, although I’d heard rumors about them. Most of my papers declared my species was human despite my protests. While the idea of kidnapping someone still didn’t sit well with me, the silver linings I found made the job a lot easier to stomach.
I wanted to know more. I wanted to know why. I wanted to discover the truth about Bubba Eugene’s cousin.
Hopefully, curiosity wouldn’t get this cat killed.
The first light of dawn peeked through the curtains. Ten seconds later, someone knocked on my door. Since Lord Satin of Hell—
“Satan!” the devil snarled.
—would just pop in if alone, I assumed he had angelic company ensuring his good behavior. While I had no problem courting death at the devil’s hands, angels scared me. Their lack of a head freaked me out every time. Bracing for the inevitable, I unlocked and opened the door.
Two angels waited in the hall, and the devil himself lurked behind them, an ebony beauty in a designer suit. He might’ve even succeeded at playing human if he hadn’t sheathed himself in fire and given himself a spade tail, leathery wings, and a pair of ram horns. The tousled hair was a nice touch.
Despite his efforts, the devil had nothing on Scottish firemen. “Well color me amazed and sign me up for a cruise to Scotland,” I muttered, shaking my head and retreating into my hotel room. “Come on in. Don’t mind the mess, please.”
Sane sentients didn’t invite the Lord of Hell into their home, however temporary a home my hotel room was, but I supposed pulling an all-nighter stalking Scottish studs disqualified me by default and classified me as a little crazy.
“A little?” Satin blurted.
“Shut it, Lucy.” Heading to my chair, I flopped onto it and closed my laptop’s lid so they’d have to invest effort if they wanted to meddle in my affairs.
The angels hesitated but strode into my room. It unnerved me that creatures without eyes could watch me, but I could feel their attention on me, scrutinizing and judging. With the exception of their wings, they were identical. One had blue bands on his feathers while the other’s were scarlet.
“You call Mephistopheles ‘Lucy?’” the scarlet-banded angel spluttered.
It creeped me out that I could tell which one of them was talking. Damn it. How could an entity speak without a head? To add to the confusion, the angel sounded male despite lacking obvious genitals.
If I focused on the angel’s shocked splutter, I could ground myself—and find a sick sort of amusement in the situation. I’d astonished an angel. “I like calling him Satin, too. Drives him wild. I really don’t know why I’m not dead yet. Last guy to call him Satin got wrapped in a fortune’s worth of fabric and lit on fire. I must be lucky.”
“Or he wants your soul and doesn’t have it yet.”
“Wait. I’m not headed straight to hell yet? Now I’m really impressed. I’m Kanika. Make yourselves comfortable.”
“Michael,” the blue-banded angel replied.
“Gabriel.”
My mouth dropped open. Angels couldn’t lie. They could twist words and omit the truth, but no falsehood ever left their non-existent lips. Two archangels stood in my hotel room while the Lord of Hell, the devil himself, examined my pile of sari on the floor. A single angel could smite an entire city.
Michael alone could herald in the end of days.
If I ran for the balcony and shifted, could I outrun the apocalypse?
“No,” Michael replied, stepping to my bed, twisting around so he could keep tabs on Satan. “Don’t fear, Kanika. It’s a lot of work ushering in an apocalypse. I’d like to be home in time for breakfast.”
“Of course.” Right. Archangels needed breakfast, too. “It’d be rude of me to keep you from your breakfast. Let’s get down to business. How does this work?”
Gabriel stretched out his right hand, and a black briefcase materialized in a flash of golden light. Gripping the handle, he set it on the bed. “You’ll ask Mephistopheles your questions. He’ll answer them. We’ll confirm the truth. Should you be satisfied, you’ll sign the papers. You won’t be able to read the script, which will be covered as a precaution. The documents are written in Angelic and Demonic. An English translation will be made available upon Satan’s approval.” The archangel paused. “Few mortals dare to accuse the Lord of Lies of actually lying.”
“They’re stupid, then. So, Satin. Stop playing with my sari and start talking. Was every word you said on the phone with me true, in spirit and in content? In short, are you trying to trick me?”
The angels’ laughter chimed, and I held my breath until the sound faded.
“You’re wise,” Michael complimented.
Huh. An archangel, one of the direct servants of God, thought I was wise? There certainly was nothing wise about even considering signing a deal with the devil.
“Don’t think too hard about it,” the devil advised. “You’ll just give yourself a headache. Every word I spoke to you was the truth in all ways.”
“He speaks the truth,” the angels declared, and their proclamation shook the hotel.
All right. Since when did the Lord of Hell play fair? “You’re really not trying to trick me?”
“I’m not trying to trick you. You blind signing these documents is nothing more than a passing amusement, a game of wits and will, one that won’t directly harm you. We’ve spoken of made enemies, of course, a factor beyond my complete control.”
“And that’s the truth?”
Michael laughed and stretched his wings, smacking the Lord of Hell with one. “He speaks the truth.”
Satan grunted and shoved the archangel’s wing out of his face. “Feathered menace.”
While uncertain of the consequences of keeping my word, I nodded. “I’ll sign.”
Neither angel attempted to change my mind, which startled me. Gabriel used my bed as a table, opening his briefcase while the Lord of Hell crossed his arms over his chest and watched. The inside glowed with a soothing, golden light.
Curiosity dug its sharp claws deep into me. Muttering a curse that made both angels twitch, I fought the desire to ask one of the many questions rattling around in my head. As the silence lengthened, I fidgeted before finally blurting, “I thought archangels lived to thwart the devil.”
Everyone laughed, and Michael whacked Satan with his wing again. “However much fun it is to annoy our brother, no. That’s not how it works. We’re like any other family. So, while we can’t quite seem to keep the same father over the years, we are the originals. He has his role. We have ours. This? This is a game we’ve never played before, a future without a past reflecting it. In our way, we’re rather like cats. Curious. Inquisitive. This is new to us. New is rare. I look forward to watching this new future unfold, so much so I won’t even peek. That would ruin the fun.”
“This is just a game to you.”
“A rare one, one we can participate in without worrying for the fate of your soul. There’s nothing for us to protest. Even the devil can do good in the world, and I rather enjoy when he gets ulcers over it.”
I waved bye-bye to another misconception about angels. “You have a bit of a mean streak, Michael.”
“I prefer to think of it as a rivalry with my wayward kin with a dash of brotherly love mixed in.”
“I’m still older than you,” the Lord of Hell muttered.
“And I thank Our Heavenly Father for that each and every day.”
While Gabriel prepared the papers, Satan glared at Michael, who didn’t seem to care he’d incurred his brother’s wrath. I smelled sulfur and hoped the stench wouldn’t linger. Any other time, the silence would’ve bothered me, but the trio fascinated me too much for me to disturb the quiet. They seemed so at ease with each other, as though my hotel room had become a safe territory for old friends meeting in secret rather than a neutral meeting place for ancient enemies destined to battle over the final destination of souls.
Was that what it meant to be family? I wondered if I’d ever find out for myself.
Mephistopheles, the Lord of Hell, the devil of the Christian Bible, and the Prime Evil, flashed a grin at me and winked. “You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. It’s human nature to unravel the secrets of the universe, after all. Sign, cupcake. You gave your word.”
Without a real reason to say no, I nodded. “Give me a pen and show me where to sign.”
Two archangels and the devil produced a pen, and I laughed at the absurdity of them pulling writing implements out of thin air. Choices, choices. Which pen would I choose?
I picked the devil’s. His wasn’t made of pure light, which I assumed dramatically lowered my chances of the damned thing smiting me before I finished scribbling my signature on the pages. Gabriel stacked the sheets on the briefcase, and curtaining bands of blue, gold, and black covered the text I wasn’t allowed to read.
Kanika felt like a lonely name, but I signed it faithfully all the same.
Something about my thoughts amused the three immortals, and I scowled at their laughter. What assholes.
They laughed harder.