“Have a seat, Mr Jackson.” I flashed my pearly whites.
His eyes narrowed and fixed on my teeth before he stepped forward and pulled out the uncomfortable chair on the other side of my desk.
I tented my fingers in front of my lips. “What brings you here today?” I asked.
Frank Jackson took his measure of me, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
It might have been my designer suit. My styled hair and trimmed nails. It might have been the way I spoke. As his eyes travelled over my facade, I sensed his hostility, and I knew that it had nothing to do with the situation and everything to do with my being gay.
I ignored this and quirked a brow.
He stared for a second, before opening his mouth to speak.
“You weren’t what I was expecting,” Frank grunted.
My smile remained fixed to my face. “And who were you expecting, Mr Jackson?”
He rubbed a hand over the top of his bald crown, before bringing it down to his face. “My friend, George, says he knows a guy, that knows a guy that came here and got what he wanted.” Frank's eyes fixed on a spot behind my head and did not move. “George said that the guy, Ricky, wanted his kid back from his whacked-out mum. He said that you made it happen. No court case. No money. Just...” He lifted his hands before dropping them helplessly. “Is this the place?”
I mulled over his words, trying to draw up a hint of recognition from the stereotypically British names. I came up blank. Siete de infernos. I was having a bad day.
“This is the place where you can make a deal,” I explained slowly. “You can ask for anything. I will tell you if it is within my power. If it is, we can sign a contract.”
“But I don’t have to pay money.” Frank squinted.
My lips pursed into a tight smile as I nodded slowly. “No money is exchanged unless your request is for money.”
“What’s the catch?” Frank crossed his arms over his chest, jamming his palms under his armpits.
“No catch.” I held out my hands, palms up. “As the contract states, we get you after you die.”
His nostrils flared as he mulled over my words. “Can I see the contract?”
I passed him the first page of the contract on my desk, holding it out for Frank to take. He snatched it as if he expected my hand to bite him.
“It says here, 'Possession post-mortem',” Frank jabbed his finger against the page. “Does that mean you're gonna do experiments on my corpse?”
I exhaled a laugh through my nostrils. “We will own your body, mind and soul after you die,” I assured him.
“What happens if I drown or somethin' and someone does CPR and I come back? Do I have to be a slave?” Frank's cockney accent got rougher as he stared down at the paper.
“No,” I said. “You have to be stone-cold dead.”
He dropped the contract and rested it on his knees. “I don’t even know if you can help me.”
“Tell me what you want.” I urged genteelly. “I’ll see if I can help.”
Frank took a few seconds to compose himself. I would have offered him a coffee or a bottle of water, but Apricot had gone for the day, and I did not want to leave the man in my office alone.
“I’ve got a garage,” Frank explained, staring down at his grease-stained hands. “Industrial estate outside of Peckham. We’re the only guys around Rye Park that offer an MOT and all the other odds and sods.”
I nodded, encouraging him to continue.
“I've got cancer.” He grunted. “Terminal. In my pancreas. It’s a wonder I'm still alive, to be honest.”
I stayed silent, content to listen.
“I wasn’t worried, but one of my guys—the guy that I trusted to take over once I was gone, George, he was in an accident. His wife takes care of him now.” Frank’s hands rested on top of his lap, and he rubbed his knuckles. “I’ve got a business partner. His name is Kieran McBride. He's a slippery son of a bitch, but he’s good at what he does. He’s going to sell the business. He’s just waiting for me to die. I know it.”
“What does he do?” I asked delicately.
“Makes money.” Frank huffed a joyless laugh. “I’ve got the garage. He does the scrap. We do all right. But I’m going to be dead soon. McBride's got designs on my half of the business. I just want my family taken care of after I'm gone.” Frank pushed his palm over his eyes, and I wondered if he was holding back tears. The bald man took a few moments to contain himself.
“Can you make sure that my family can keep a hold of the business when I'm gone?” His voice was weak.
I smiled, it was a gentle and reassuring expression. “If you sign my contract, I can cure your cancer.”
Then came the hard part—convincing the poor man that I wasn’t lying.
Apart from the lack of coffee and the sudden absence of my newest assistant, I had a productive day.
I had several appointments and had managed to persuade all but one to part with their souls, in exchange for their heart’s desire.
The human part of me felt guilty for what I did every day—brokering deals and collecting souls—but I had made piece with my job years ago.
I was made up of several human souls, with all of the emotions and memories that came with them. I used to find it difficult to face illness, poverty and the like but I had long since learned how to subdue my human half in those moments—focusing on the Hound part instead.
Hounds did not broker souls by nature. That job had fallen to me when my old boss, Dahlia Clark, had disappeared years ago. She had eventually returned, but I remained behind her old desk. Making deals and signing contracts.
After work, I went across the street to get a Grande iced latte, with lashings of whipped cream—as a reward for a stressful day. My Fitbit beeped, alerting me to my lack of steps that day. One downside of being stuck in an office.
I made a mental note to stop off at the gym.
I did not need to diet or exercise. Hell Hounds were immortal and unchanging, but I liked to run.
I could not imagine living anywhere but the City, but it lacked the vastness of Hell. The only way I could truly run free was on a treadmill. It was good enough—because I would never entertain the idea of going back to Hell.
It was early Friday evening, and everyone else had gone home for the weekend. Sipping my iced coffee through a green straw, I stepped out of the elevator onto my office floor. My loafers padded against the soft carpet, each of the glass walls shone with the spring sunset hovering at the windows.
My office was in shadow, but I was sure that the lights had been on when I had left.
My nose wiggled, as I tried to place the unknown scent hanging on the air—burnt matches and dying roses.
Two glowing ice-blue eyes hovered in the darkness.
I marched into my office and clicked the light on. Resting my hip against the doorway, I sipped my coffee before swirling the ice around the plastic cup.
I was used to Incubi. My ex-boyfriend had been one—albeit a watered-down, once-human version.
The man in my office had Adonis personified. Glowing golden hair, cherubic face, muscles for days, and lips made for sucking cock. A Pureblooded Demon.
I quickly realised what the source of the burning smell was. “You’ve burnt my silk Isfahan rug,” I said simply, as I took in the scorched transportation Sigils on the Persian rug.