Page 5 of Curses & Cold Brew
I bit my lip, shoulders deflating. “I promise. No demon fucking.”
3
RAMONA
For all its small-town charm, Maple Hollow did have one excellent bar where patrons could partake in artisanal ciders, autumnal beers,anddeals with their friendly local demons. Customers of The Bloody Mary were safe on Wednesday nights, though. I took the night off from luring wayward souls to catch up with my closest—albeit only—friend, Naphula. My fellow demon and I liked to meet for a weekly debrief on everything from the goings-on in hell to the unsightly new logos for the Halloween Festival.
The Bloody Mary was all dark wood and sumptuously upholstered leather, giving the illusion of a Victorian gentleman’s club—though the bartender didn’t appreciate it when I pointed out the anachronisms. I rapped my knuckles on the polished bar, prompting Stephanie to refill my whiskey glass. Our resident zombie, Stephanie, was the owner and head bartender. Her ghoulish grey color was a dead giveaway, but she kept herself put together enough to convince the tourists that she was justreallygood at costume makeup.
I saluted her with my newly refreshed glass. “Thanks, babe.”
“You’re the only one strong enough to guzzle this jet fuel.” Her ragged voice croaked with humor as she tucked the bottle away.
She was right. Even Naphula preferred more refined liquor. But on a night like this, I needed a little slice of home. Imported whiskey from hell was a fun party trick for any human daring enough to try it, but even the largest bodybuilder couldn’t handle more than a sip before feeling the rage of hellfire climbing up their throat. Aside from a hearty laugh, a bet was just as good as a deal during a slow quarter.
“I just picked up a body in the apple orchard,” Naphula said to Stephanie. “Rudy should have some fresh brains for you down at the morgue, if you’re interested.”
Stephanie weighed her head from side to side in contemplation, and a couple at the other end of the bar tittered as if we were putting on a live show for them. Some people really couldn’t believe what was right in front of them. Why would two paid actors be stationed at a little bar on the quiet end of town? What kind of budget did they think Maple Hollow had?
Stephanie threw a bar rag over her shoulder and wandered over to freshen up their drinks, leaving Naphula and me to chat without any prying ears.
“A body in the apple orchard. Classic.” I clicked my tongue and looked sideways at Naphula. “So business is good, then?”
“Slow. I’d been waiting too long for that one to kick the bucket,” she replied with a chuckle. “That’s the problem with doing so many deals with the paranormal. Some of those motherfuckers don’t drop for centuries.”
Naphula and I had been friends since the turn of the eighteenth century and had entered into many soul-snatching competitions over the years. No one could close a deal like Naphula. Her soul count was in the tens of thousands. Almost as impressive as my own.
Naphula knocked back the rest of her martini and slid the glass across the bar right as Stephanie placed a fresh one in front of her.
“Thanks, Steph,” she said, winking at the bartender’s slick moves.
The opposite side of my coin in every way, Naphula’s chrome-silver hair was cut in a sharp bob, and she didn’t need the illusion of smoky eyeshadow to show off her obsidian eyes. She was like my photo negative, and we had the same impeccable taste in all that human luxury had to offer. It really was no wonder that we’d become fast friends when a dim-witted human had summoned both of us at a crossroads in Rome. Back then, she’d painted her lips with blood instead of Dior, but still . . . she was always the height of fashion.
Now, we’d both settled into life in the sleepy little New England town of Maple Hollow, where the deals were good and the riffraff came to us. With tourists pouring in every Halloween, we always had an ample number of souls ready to be bargained for. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. No need to compete with those corporate douchebag city demons anymore. The local demons had long since realized that they benefited from Naphula and me taking up the reins. They’d reaped the rewards of being accomplices to our deals.
“What’s going on with you?” Naphula pinned me with a knowing stare. “You’re more sour than usual.”
Only she would’ve picked up on that. Most people called me stoic—unreadable, even—but Naphula knew me better than anyone. My walls were shorter around her.
I licked my back molar in contemplation. “How much do you know about Saul Henderson?”
“That fried dough cart guy?” Naphula asked incredulously. “He was such a jerk. Always treated me like an asshole forasking for cinnamon sugarandchocolate sauce.” She rolled her midnight eyes. “He was one of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Damn, you remember my clients better than I do.”
She shrugged. “No one makesthatmuch money from a food cart at the Halloween Festival. There had to be something demonic going on. And since he’s not one of mine . . .” She studied me, her expression tightening. “What happened?”
“Well, when I went to collect, his soul was missing. Already snatched by someone. And my sigil wasbroken.”
Her brow furrowed, and I could see her mind flipping through a Rolodex of unanswered questions. “How is that even possible?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered. “I suspect the witches. There were . . . signs of magic in his house.”
She took a long sip of her martini. “You think the witches are trying to start a turf war with hell again? Those bitches are so messy.”
“I don’t know,” I hedged. “But I intend to find out one way or another.”
“Hmm.” She popped the martini olive into her mouth, then downed the rest of her drink and wiped her lips. “Sorry, love. I’m about to close on a client. I’ve got to go.”
