Chapter 2

Five hours of hard labor later, I am watching the lunchtime rush from the corner of Beverly Hills Avenue as I count down the seconds until the hour hits one p.m.

Four, three, two...

My burner phone rings. I tap my Bluetooth earbuds at once.

“You got the goods?”

Cheesy, I know, the mobster movie lingo I make my clients say. But in this shitty life and business, I get my fun where I can.

There’s no fun to be had here. Something isn’t right.

The voice was much higher than I expected.

In our dark-web negotiation, he said he’s twenty-four. If he is, then he missed puberty. Which means he isn’t.

I draw the line at dealing to minors.

Not that such considerations matter in the Afterworld. Innocence and consent are concepts of the past. The human laws that protect them are regularly circumvented and disregarded. When I needed them to protect my very freedom, they were nowhere to be found.

I was taken by demons from a human facility that probably sold me to them. And here I am, discarded in a world of immortal dictators where no human morality applies anyway.

So it beats me why I care about a Regular minor willingly buying drugs. I’ve been selling my very life unwillingly, to a literal demon, since I was a child. Why should I look out for this moron, the way nobody looked out for me when I was his age?

Hell, I was never his age. I had to grow up overnight since I was auctioned off at four. Or five. After over sixteen years of being Demon-Owned, I don’t feel twenty, or twenty-one, but a jaded fifty.

Still, no selling drugs to kids remains one of the rules I never break.

And it isn’t any drug. It’s my exclusive product, the one-of-a-kind Angelescence.

It’s so powerful, its effects so overwhelming, seasoned drug users can barely handle it. Many end up injured, maimed—or dead.

Yet, even knowing its dangers, even after suffering its side-effects, they line up for more. Beg for it. And if I asked, would kill for it.

But that’s what addicts do. And I’m not in the business of rehabilitation.

“You got the goods?”

His voice is even higher this time. Sheesh. He sounds about nine.

My heat rises in frustration. I’m risking Kondar’s wrath for this transaction, and now have to cancel it. If he finds me missing from my second shift, I’ll end up with more scars for nothing.

At least he doesn’t touch my face. Not because my looks matter to him. Kondar bought me for service, not sex—and even demons don’t dare renege on the terms of the Indenture. The infernal magic that binds me binds him, too. It’s the only reason I’m not finishing my work then joining the poor girls who entertain Demonica’s scum-of-the-earth clientele.

Still, no male, Regular or Supernatural, wants Scarface serving them drinks or even bussing their tables. Kondar would have loved to maim me, if he could commission me an Unmarred Glamor for working hours. But he says I wouldn’t fetch its price if he sells me. I have his cheapness to thank for having an intact face.

But my back can use a break.

Sighing heavily, I end the call and start walking.

I find my client standing where I instructed. He is a kid. No more than twelve.

They sure keep starting earlier and earlier.

If I thought he’s an errand boy, I may have reconsidered. But from our interaction, I know he’s buying for himself. I don’t want to think how he got 10K in cash, yet, he didn’t give me addict vibes.

So. He’s heard the rumor.

It’s been spreading like wildfire for months now. That beside the unique, prolonged high, Angelescence may give its user powers.

It’s a rumor to me, too. But I know where it came from. Some of my clients must have shot sparks from their eyes and fingers like Sarah did when she took it. Also from one of my very first two clients, I know others hallucinate having powers.

These effects are so intense, feel so real, they fuel the rabid demand for my product. That illusion of rising above their mortality, even fleetingly, is the real draw, the irresistible addiction.

I exhale again as I pick up speed. I may still get back before Kondar discovers my absence.

Once on a bus again, I pant curses under my breath, all the way to Demonica.

Not only am I going to be flogged for nothing, but losing this transaction puts a dent in my scheduled earnings. And making up for botched deals is getting damn harder by the day.

Gone are the days when I accepted all offers and the money was pouring in. I made my first six figures in three weeks, when I was charging far less, too. But my operation gained notoriety too fast, and with it, scrutiny, then pursuit.

Everyone wants their hands on Angelescence, and its manufacturer.

To say exposure would be catastrophic is the understatement of the Afterworld.

To guard against that, my screening process keeps getting more convoluted, as do my actual sales. This slows me down daily, and delays reaching my target amount. That increases the probability that we could wind up dead.

Whether I play it too safe or not, I might end up killing us both anyway.

* * *

The slashes down my back throb with the ferocity of a hundred solar flares.

Kondar didn’t discover my absence, but he still flogged me. Over a spilled drink. Hard enough to put me out of commission for a few days.

He said he’d have some Regulars stand in for me, even when they’re even worse than I am at my job. But he enjoys flogging me so much, he’s okay with letting me recuperate afterward. Only so I can withstand his next abuse session.

?Not that I lie in bed writhing in agony like he hopes. I always score some kind of magical treatment, then use the time off peddling more Angelescence.

This time, I spiked a client’s drink with a love potion for it. But that enchanted salve hasn’t worked yet. If it doesn’t, I’ll find a way to inflict equal pain on the bastard who bartered it to me. Better yet, I’ll find said client an antidote. We’d see how that elf likes being eaten—literally—by his dragon-shifter crush.

My chin trembles, and air clogs in my lungs. The burning map across my back sinks through my chest and creeps up behind my eyeballs. The broken stairs I’m climbing blur through a hot, trembling veil of moisture.

Dammit. I’m not crying over a lashing. I’ve had far worse.

And I never cry.

Early on, I realized that Kondar feeds on screams and pleas. He especially craves tears. They’re a delicacy to him. Since then, I’ve never given any to that monster.

Yet my tears now aren’t ones of pain and degradation, but of dread.

As he flogged me, Kondar informed me he’s acquiring two new slaves. His money’s worth, not like me. He considers he got ripped off when no one else bid for me, and he got stuck paying the two hundred bucks of his opening bid.

Now he can afford to splurge after he scored that wet job for a higher demon. His new acquisitions come at a steep price since, according to him, they’re real house- and bookkeepers. They’ll replace me at Demonica.

Then I’ll become disposable.

Once I am, I’ll meet a grisly fate like all decommissioned Owned. He’ll barter me as a hunting prey to some Fae lord, or sell me as a ritual organ donor to some coven. If he can’t find a profitable enough way to dispose of me, he’ll recoup his “investment” in an even worse way. I’ve heard of Owned selling tickets to their own gory execution by hydra or hellhounds.

Then Sarah will be alone, and she…

She nothing. I won’t let any of this happen. I won’t.

Stopping at our flimsy door with its peeling-again blue paint, what Sarah calls lapis, I drag my hand angrily across my eyes.

Can’t let Sarah see my tears. She has enough worries. And I’m already her biggest one. Can’t have her think I’m vulnerable, too. My impervious act is essential to any peace of mind she manages to have.

Pinning my devil-may-care expression in place, I enter our one-bedroom apartment.

Sure, it’s dilapidated, but we’ve made the best of it. Sarah has. She has an almost magical way with colors and arrangement, and of turning junk into amazing DIY projects. I don’t have an artistic, or even organized bone in my body. I barely curb my chaotic nature to keep our shared space tidy. My only contributions are following her rules, and getting her the items she can’t make.

We have an unspoken agreement that I don’t tell her how I get them, and that she doesn’t ask.

Not that my acquisitions are essential. They only complement Sarah’s efforts as she creates a cozy refuge out of this criminally overpriced dump.

She’s made it into the one place I’ve ever called home.

And right now, it smells heavenly.

Er—no. Not using angel-related adjectives to describe anything good. It smells scrumptious. But then everything Sarah cooks always does. Me? I specialize in bland and burned. That’s why we also agreed I stay away from the stove, and keep to the sink.

“Hey, Sar, I’m back!”

Silence greets my forced cheerfulness, striking me with a bolt of foreboding.

Sarah is not here. I’m certain of it. But the stove is on. She’d never leave without turning it off, unless someone forced her to…

Before a heart attack takes hold, the door bursts open and Sarah hurtles in, chin-length blonde hair semi-dry and flapping wildly around her heart-shaped face, azure eyes wide with relief. A relief I share, so overwhelmingly, my knees weaken.

Every time we walk out that door, we both fear it will be the last time we see each other. Every time we both make it home, it feels like a stay of execution.

It’s no way to live.

It’s the only one we got. Unless I succeed in my plan.

No. No unless involved. I will succeed.

I’m already halfway to doing that.

“Where have you…?”

“At Mrs. Walters’.” She cuts my anxiety short, breathlessly grabbing my hand and towing me to our cramped kitchenette. “She came banging on the door and wouldn’t even let me turn off the stove before dragging me to her apartment!”

I bite back a gasp of pain as I stumble in her wake. Sarah still turns after she lowers the flame to a simmer, eyes flooding with concern as she reads my condition.

I wave it away. “Just another flogging. Got a salve for it, and it’s working great.”

“Wen.” She makes my name that soft admonition that makes me shrivel inside.

She reserves it for calling me out when I try to bullshit her. Every time she sees through me, I say she has some kind of ESP. She insists she just knows me too well.

I shrug, freezing halfway as I feel one of my welts tearing open.

My face scrunches in a rictus of pain for a moment, before I attempt to quip. “Okay, so it isn’t working yet, but it will. Nothing to see here. Move along, folks.”

Her eyes redden and fill before she nods, and turns away to set the table.

We’ve been through this regularly since we met, and it kills her that she can do nothing for me. As if all these years, before I managed to find treatments, when she stayed up all night cleaning my wounds and holding me until I slept weren’t the only thing that made me survive the abuse. As if she’s not the only reason I’m still alive at all.

And I will remain alive until I get her out of here, even if it kills me.

Suppressing the pain, I start to help her, again admiring how she lacquered the table to simulate mahogany. It makes the turquoises and teals of the mismatched dining set I stole pop.

“So, what was so important Edna almost made you burn dinner and the whole building? She wanted you to see her latest knitted scarf?”

Sarah shakes her head. “She wanted me to see something on TV.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “The Accords Anniversary?”

For the past fifteen years, since humanity recovered enough from the devastation of the Apocalypse, each fifteenth of December witnessed major fanfare around the globe. According to the sponsors of the celebrations on every side, that day marked the dawn of an era of unprecedented peace and prosperity.

Yeah, right.

Edna Walters, our elderly neighbor who lets us watch her streaming services in return for housework, always dragged us to watch the festivities with her. That is, until a couple of years ago when I put my foot down.

I sure don’t want to celebrate the day when Hell and Heaven solidified their infestation of our world.

“I thought she gave up on that.”

Sarah looks up after placing the trivet. “She did. That wasn’t what she wanted me to see.”

“Don’t tell me she came to her senses and decided to watch something else tonight!”

Her lips twist sarcastically. “As if. She was watching the celebrations all right—until they were interrupted for breaking news.”

“Breaking news of what?” I scoff. “Another Apocalypse?”

“No. Not yet, at least.”

My heart kicks in my chest. I know Sarah better than I know myself, can always tell when she’s messing around. She isn’t now.

“Uh, can I take my question back? I don’t want to know.”

She sighs. “Yeah. You’ll hear all about it everywhere in the morning anyway. So let’s eat now, huh?”

I squeeze my eyes. I should heed that suggestion, eat her drool-inducing food and not inflict more grief on myself. I have enough to worry about with what I need to do afterward.

Opening my eyes, I find her watching me. I know she knows what I’ll say next.

I exhale. “Since I’m not kidding either of us, tell me.”

She fiddles with the cutlery around the plates before she exhales, too. “Zinimar, the King of the Eastern Demon Kingdom, and a major sponsor of the celebrations this year, was found in his Himalayan palace—dead. With him supposedly immortal, foul play is suspected. If it turns out to be the angels’ doing… Well, one anchor suggested this could lead to the Accords being broken. And if this happens, the Apocalypse might resume.”