Chapter 4

“You got the goods?”

The rough rasp flows from the phone pressed to my ear, right into my brain.

It’s somehow clearer than when I had earbuds. Yeah, someone stole my latest pair. I have about ten possible culprits. Each would slash my throat if I confronted them.

But even through the burner phone’s inferior speaker, that voice reverberated ominously behind my sternum. That dude doesn’t sound like the college frat boy he’s supposed to be. From our online negotiations, I expected someone smarmy, low-life, and jittery.

That voice? None of those.

From only four words, I can tell it’s like nothing I’ve ever heard. There are fathomless depths to it, and a trace of… an accent? And though he said the trite words I instructed him to, the way he delivered them had none of the usual entreaty. It had authority, entitlement. And that frequency of menace that made people blurt out the truth in interrogations.

What is it today with these atypical clients?

I fidget on feet going numb with cold inside my worn boots, debating what to do about this development, before I decide to dismiss it.

So I pegged him wrong. Or he’s all I thought him to be, but doesn’t sound like it. If I keep blowing off clients because they don’t sound right, I may have to stop dealing altogether.

Just get this over with.

“You got the dough?” I counter as a gust of wind presses me harder against the side of the building, and almost jump.

The voice that emanates from my warper never fails to startle me, deep and forbidding. Nothing like my own voice. That Sarah once called soft and lilting.

I know she meant it as a compliment, but it was another piece of awful news, in a life littered with miscellaneous shit.

A soft, lilting voice is great for a YouTube influencer promoting beauty products, but in my world? Added to young, female, weak and Owned, it’s like holding up a sign saying VICTIM or even MEAL every time I open my mouth. Many a bog demon has eyed me as the delicacy I am to them, not to mention the vampires.

I didn’t end up on some monster’s menu only because I know how to navigate this Afterworld, how to play devious and dirty. Sarah is so far protected by her limited movements, with Zeral’s shop a block away, and by everyone’s need for the demoness’s arcane artifacts procuring services.

But with eBay and Etsy and other websites taking over that market, Zeral herself would soon be in danger, along with all her possessions. Another reason I have to reach my goal sum as soon as possible.

Anyway, I have to make everyone think they’re dealing with a vicious thug. I’m also always disguised as a man, even though my clients never see me. The added protection in these areas is always needed.

“I got the dough, and way more. I want everything you got.”

That voice again strikes something primal within my chest. And the way he said I want everything you got. My gut twists with an overwhelming need to hear it again, and again—and a burning urge to run.

Stop it. So the guy has a voice made for commanding orgasms in remote BDSM sessions. In a life filled with weak or revolting males, it’s nice to have something so potent to fantasize about. Later.

But…he’s walking around, in thispart of town, with multiples of twenty grand?

Yeah. I’ve raised the price with each transaction, from a hundred bucks, to ten grand, until my buyers started to thin. Not many Regulars have much money, even those who steal and barter whatever they can to meet my price. And I make sure I don’t deal to criminals and cartels, even if they can pay any price I set. The risk far outweighs the gain. So I only sell to individual addicts, and I stopped at ten grand. Steady transactions at a lower price are better than sporadic, more lucrative ones.

This time, with decommission hanging over my head, I asked for double the price. I would have settled for the usual one if that guy couldn’t pay. I couldn’t afford another failed sale.

He agreed without a second’s hesitation. It made me regret I didn’t push for more. I bet he would have paid anything since he has that much money on him now.

But why is that moron asking for more anyway? Everyone knows I sell 1ml per transaction. Period.

Don’t get me wrong. I would love to sell more to anyone who can afford it. If I could, I’d sell every batch wholesale. I would have made those two mil in a month, and two more for our expenses in another.

But selling more would be fatal.

The first time I tried to sell my product, I had a 10ml vial on me. I was almost swarmed by every demon in the vicinity, before I realized they were after the Angelescense. Before they realized the scent, or whatever attracted them in it, was originating from my pocket, I smashed the vial and bolted away.

When I dared look back, I found them where the product was dissipating, writhing over each other in a frenzy.

So I experimented to determine the volume they can’t detect. But not even 1ml worked. After many near-disasters, I decided to give up. But Sarah suggested I should try to find a container that masks its emanations, and got many for me to try from Zeral’s shop. The plan was to get more of what worked. None did.

Then during a thieving errand for Kondar, I was almost caught. To lose my pursuers, I dove into a Supernatural flea market, only to trip over an imp, and fell face-first into his pal’s smelly crotch. As I recoiled in disgust, I saw it. Hanging from a chain over his potbelly.

A breathtaking, four-inch crystal bottle, encased in engraved and filigree brass.

It mesmerized me, called to me. And I somehow knew. This was what I needed.

Needing my hands, or even info on it, but knowing how much imps despise humans, I cajoled my way into their good graces. I even paid a tribute of fseekh, the fermented-rotten mullet they go crazy for, and that stinks worse than they did.

Turns out the bottle was enchanted by a Saherah, a witch from a North-African coven, to house a Jann, a Jinn-like desert sprite. But though the imp has used up his three wishes, he insisted it was a keepsake, of that witch who sold it to him. If I wanted it, I had to give him something of equal value, to her delicious memory, and to the wishes I’d have granted.

I ended up bartering my heist for it, along with stealing two more artifacts he’d pawned off. That day Kondar flogged me until I lost consciousness. He really wanted that rare, ex-spouse pestilence curse. I didn’t care. I was certain the bottle was worth the extra scars.

Once home, I released the Jann and made my first wish, a spell to mask my product’s demon-magnet property. He only laughed, informing me his wish-granting was limited to minor and transient magic. A fact the witch neglected to tell the imp before selling him the bottle. But not even a full-fledged Jinn could help me. All magic deals with known elements and eternal laws, and he couldn’t even guess what Angelescence is, or what laws governs it.

But that setback didn’t worry me much, since I felt the bottle itself would work. If it could contain a magical entity, it could Angelescence, which is sort of a magical by-product itself.

Testing my theory needed an empty bottle, so I had to leave the Jann out, with Sarah. But I knew he could do nothing of his own will, so couldn’t harm her. Not to mention that she insisted she trusted him, was already calling him Ajeeb while he called her Sar. I left them giggling their heads off as he helped her stencil and paint our nightstand.

And the bottle worked with the 10ml I first tried. I had a feeling it would work with far more.

Giddy with relief, I rushed home to make my second wish, for a spell to replicate the bottle. Surely that was limited enough magic?

But Ajeeb shot me down again. Only a witch from the same coven could make me even one more. And it would come at a cost I’d agree to, but they’d make sure I’d fail to pay. Why did I think he was enslaved unto eternity to whoever possessed the bottle? He couldn’t pay the price for that coven’s services, ages ago.

When I insisted I’d find a way to pay, he said they’d never deal with me, anyway. I got his prison bottle from the imp who killed the witch who made it, in lieu of paying her steep price. And when he discovered it was for what he considered a useless item, he ate her corpse.

Both grossed out and resigned, I looked at Sarah. As usual, she understood what I was thinking, and only nodded. So I used my third wish to set him free.

But if I expected thanks, I didn’t get it. After his initial shock and disbelief, I got a lot of yelling, calling me every synonym of stupid.

He said he wanted to serve us—serve Sarah. And she could have made three more wishes, before I used my last one setting him free. He could have advised us to wish for things that could benefit us, and he could fulfill. And I wasted the once-in-our-lifetime opportunity.

Before I could say he could still help us if he wished, looking pained and scared, he disappeared.

Sarah was distraught, convinced we made another terrible mistake when we didn’t consult him about the terms of his release. I only made it worse, saying we might have consigned him to a fate worse than eternal slavery, but at least he left his bottle behind.

As usual, Sarah rationalized my unfeeling sentiments, even made me seem noble that I released him, when I did because I didn’t think it through. If I’d thought it to our advantage to use my last wish, and hers, I probably wouldn’t have.

But though I bit my tongue on the confession, I couldn’t hide my excitement. That bottle was a game-changer, and would allow me to transport Angelescence undetected in demon-infested areas. Then once I made a sale, I’d transfer it toa regular vial, leave it for my client and split.

That bottle did become the centerpiece of my drug operation, what made it possible to establish it at all. But using it turned out to be nothing like my initial, simple-stupid plan. I was almost caught before I developed my convoluted delivery process. And I hit a couple of fatal snags, before I established another ironclad rule. The 1ml per transaction one. No exceptions.

“No extras,” I finally snap, the distorter turning it into an impressive growl. “Leave the dough where I instructed. Then I’ll tell you where to pick up the goods.”

For this scenario to work, after many near-lethal close calls, I obtained a spell from a solitary witch who lives in our apartment building. I pay her in monthly thieving errands, since it must be renewed every full moon. It can transport a small object across short distances, as long as I have left a “trace” of myself in both sending and receiving destinations. After many experiments of setting up my transactions, never in the same place twice, I found a drop of blood works best.

Once they put the money in the envelope I leave them, I transport it inside my backpack. Then I send the “goods” to another spot. I made an extensive map of deserted or devoid-of-demons locations across the city, so my clients can pick it before a demon finds it first. I advise taking half of it on location, so they don’t get swarmed themselves walking around with it. From the stories I hear, everyone takes it all the moment they get their hands on it.

Without these elaborate precautions, I would have been caught long ago. My clients always wait around, hoping they’ll see me, or whoever I send to pick up the money, so they can ambush us. Either for more product, or for far worse.

“Show me the goods first,” the man rumbles.

I grit my teeth as I press the heel of my palm to the left of my sternum, the focus of disturbance his voice evokes. “I told you how this transaction will be concluded. Leave the dough and walk away.”

“I’m not paying for goods I haven’t seen. And I’ll need to make sure it’s for real.”

I let out a frustrated exhalation. So that bastard is a HAC—a Hard-Ass Customer. I daily get those at Demonica, usually Regulars who try a hundred nags to get more than their money’s worth.

Though the worst make me spit in their drinks, I don’t blame these morons. Kondar basically offers them shit, in quality and quantity, for their money. Money that’s very hard to come by in the Demon Zones, especially for humans.

But that moron I don’t excuse. We’re in a part of town with three demons to every human at this time. If he kicks up any disturbance, it would attract those chaos addicts like trash does flies.

Also, even in my enchanted bottle, any Angelescence in one place for too long might be a beacon to these locusts. And he’s prolonging the transaction, and with it, increasing the chances of being swarmed.

I exhale loudly as I peel off the side of the building. “Your loss, pal. The deal is off.”

“Eyes on target.”

For a few heartbeats as I stride away, those three barked words echo in my skull like a war drum.

I don’t understand why the man said them.

Or I don’t want to understand.

The moment I’m forced to, everything inside me erupts. The discharge of panic is a brutal force compelling me to run.

Run for my life.

It’s only after I do that I realize. If what I feel in my bones is true, by running I forfeited any possibility of claiming innocence. Running amounts to an admission of guilt.

Everyone has been trying to find the maker and peddler of Angelescence. My anonymity has been my one protection. All outcomes of exposure are beyond disastrous.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

I should have walked away the second I heard that voice.

That voice. The very sound of savage compulsions and violent ends.

He kept me talking until he had “eyes on target.” On me. And I ran. And it’s too late to do anything about it.

No! It can’t be too late. I promised Sarah I’d be fine.

This is the last thing I think before a gigantic angel lands before me with such force, the sidewalk explodes.

Throwing up my arms in a desperate reflex, I barely protect my face as rocky shrapnel pelts me. I dimly register the shards stabbing through my heavy clothes as the shockwave of his landing tears me off my feet. Hurls me backwards like a rootless tree in a hurricane. Slams me down like the hand of an angry god.

I lie there, paralyzed, from the spine-splintering impact, the mind-shattering terror.

My eyes bug out of their sockets as massive wings spread above me, blocking out the whole world. Twice as large as any angel’s, in every shade of grey in existence. Illuminated in the darkness only by the horror stamped all over them. A tapestry of sinister, flaming runes.

My vision fades then bursts back, again and again, to the sight of lava-filled eyes crackling with mercury-laced obsidian lightning.

Then that voice that makes me quake down to my cells says, “Walter White—by the powers vested in me by the Celestial Court, I place you under arrest.”