Twisted Luck Page 6

  “No. The terms of your contract are still…fluid.”

  I pulled back a chair and sat, too. My arms crossed over my chest. “Then it’s not legally binding. I want to see it.”

  “Of course it’s legal. Any court in Hell would tell you to shut up and put out, but I’ll humor you.” He snapped his fingers.

  A section of my back glowed hot under my shirt. Craning my neck, I tried to see, but my shirt covered it all. Only the strip on my right arm with our signatures glowed where I could see it, brightly mocking me.

  The sensation creeped me out, knowing what was written there, signed in my blood. “Make it stop. I want a paper copy.”

  He snapped his fingers again, and the heat subsided. Reaching into an inside pocket of his suit, he produced crisp folded sheets of white paper. I snatched them from his fingers and eagerly read, only to find it written in a foreign language.

  I flicked the contract written in gibberish with my thumb and forefinger. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s in my native language.”

  “Decipher it into English.”

  He sighed in mock dismay. “All you need to see are the signatures. On the back.”

  I flipped to the back. At the top were two signatures like the ones he’d illuminated on my arm. Mine. His. But a paragraph of demonic gibberish caught my interest, one that ended with blank places to sign. “What’s this?”

  “That terminates the above contract.” He narrowed his eyes. “Before you get any ideas, I’ll never sign that.”

  “Why two spaces?” I squinted, trying to read it.

  “Because though you signed your soul to me, I also gave you something in return. In this case, luck. This paragraph states you’ll relinquish what I’ve given you if the deal is nullified.”

  Despite his warning not to get ideas, I mulled this information around. “Have you ever reverted a contract?”

  “Never. Most clients are delighted with their end of the bargain. Well, until the contract ends, that is.” He chuckled. “I’m always satisfied with my purchase.”

  I flinched. “It’s not a purchase. It’s my soul. Treat it with respect.”

  “Only the highest of respect.” He nodded with serious intent, as if he were a judge in front of the jury and assuring them of fairness. “Souls are the most prized possessions in Hell. The most sought-after currency. They’re often banked on like you would with your human stock exchange. That’s why Samuel and I can live the good life and not break a sweat collecting just any old soul. We pick, choose, and find the best investment. It’s a refined, important business.”

  “Isn’t a soul a soul?”

  He shook his head at my stupidity. “Why would a drug dealer’s soul be worth as much as a good Christian girl’s? Or a prostitute’s worth that of a family man’s?”

  “I can’t see my soul being worth much.” I inspected my fingernail instead of witnessing the validation in his eyes. “I barely believe in God, and Jesus is definitely questionable. You must have hit hard times.”

  “Actually, your soul is very valuable.”

  I jerked my head up to meet his gaze. “Why?”

  “I might as well tell you, since I own it.” Shifting a little in his chair, he slung his arm over the back in casual elegance. “Every soul begins with the same value at birth, but life choices either tarnish a soul”—he waved the hand over the chair—“or polishes it.”

  I snorted. “That’s not a mystery.”

  A stern look was shot my way, and I settled back into my chair to listen.

  “Life events done unto others can scar the soul and change the proceedings of life events. For example, if Mr. Doe’s son dies, Mr. Doe is offered many life choices in the aftermath. If he adopts a herd of Asian kids, his soul polishes. If he blows through a movie theater with an assault rifle… Needless to say, he’s not worth much.”

  “No wonder Samuel is hot for my mom’s soul.” Dawning made my skin crawl, and I rubbed my arms to ward off the chill of premonition. The woman had been to Hell and back without even taking a drink.

  Leo nodded. “Muriel’s soul is priceless.”

  “Of course it is.” My confidence in my mother’s willpower made me bold. “She kept me on the right track. If I didn’t have her, I’d be living under a bridge in a box house, smoking crack, and turning tricks.” I shook my head. “I’m here, but just barely. I can’t see my soul being worth much more than the average guy’s.”

  “Your soul is precious because of the circumstances.” Leo leaned in, his expression earnest and serious. “A child’s soul is beyond priceless. You went to Hell and back as a child, as you’ve informed me. When the scarring happens to one so small, there’s even more of a worth placed on proper choices through life.”

  I blinked. My numb mind couldn’t begin to process this tidbit. “That’s bull.”

  “That’s the truth.” Leo’s seriousness diminished, morphing into that devious smile that bridged on sexy. “And to think, you’re all mine now. I would have thought you’d put up a fight.”

  I smacked my hand on the table, the numbness leaving so I could be pissed again. “I was drunk.”

  He nodded and shrugged. “It’s rare that a transaction on this level would take place sober. The only way you would have said yes would have been if Muriel was in grave danger, and that would have detracted the value.”

  I wanted to whine that it wasn’t fair, that I hadn’t offered it. Not really. It was the wedding picture and David’s betrayal…and all of the other bad luck.

  But wait…looking back, that much bad luck seemed almost as ridiculous as my streak of present good luck. I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes. “I bet you had something to do with the shit storm going on in my life, too.”

  “Samuel did, yes. Your mom proved difficult, so he changed to plan B and your life went sour. Unfortunately, that didn’t work out, either.” Leo pointed a finger in my direction. “You were the ‘domestic issue’ I had to resolve. When you summoned me with the candles”—he waved a hand at them, still arranged in the living room—“I found you in the bar, and you know the rest of the story.”

  Who would have known the stupid candles would be my undoing? My stomach churned. If it was that easy for me, then my mother, the hopeless romantic, would happily say “I do” on her wedding day. The magic wouldn’t allow her to do otherwise.

  “My God.”

  Leo winced. “Stop swearing at me.”

  “How can you do that to people? Good, honest people?” The words popped out before I could stop them, sadness overwhelming me. “My mom is so sweet and gentle. She won’t kill spiders in the house, and she hates them. I have to go over and remove them and set them free. She would give her last penny to a homeless man. I’m not good or honest. I realize this. But my mom is.”

  Tears welled up, threatening to fall for the first time in this ordeal. I hated that I chose to break down in front of Hell’s spawn, but then he already knew I was pathetic. Weak.

  I let one tear fall before I dashed it away. “How can you do this to good people?”

  “I hate it,” he confessed. His eyes widened like he’d swallowed a hive of bees, his pale skin going beyond white in a scary way. “This conversation is over.”

  No no no! Don’t go demon on me now… I reached a hand across the table, beckoning for his. “Leo—”

  “Don’t. Push. Me.” The air crackled in an unearthly, scary way, that surge of power reaching out to me, hovering just a breath away from my personal space.

  “Point taken. I’m sorry.” I withdrew my hand, heart pounding. I swallowed nervously and picked up the library card for a distraction. The kitchen clock ticked loudly as my thumb traced some handwritten words I hadn’t noticed before.

  Stop by and see me sometime. Annie.

  Annie… My mind whirled back to college and the vegan hippie friend I’d made there. She lived in New Haven and had become a librarian. I’m sure she was a great one.

  I traced
the elegant cursive script again, the ink smeared at the end in an artsy way. This card had to hold more good luck than the notification that my account was straightened out.

  Oh, boy. Annie had resources I could use and not just books. I tamped that thought down so Leo couldn’t hear. That postcard held a glimmer of a plan, and God help me, I was mentally swallowing the evidence.

  I set the card down and leaned my elbows on it. “You going to tell me what I have to do to ‘earn your good favor?’”

  “All in good time.” He snagged a piece of my mail from the pile tucked under me like a nest of eggs, and my heart leapt into my throat.

  The letter from the apartment complex opened in his hands, and he scanned it. “Good to know you have somewhere to live, though I fully intend to upgrade your residence. I’m not staying here.” Finished, he shot the paper back toward me with a flick of his fingers.

  “Then don’t.” I scooped it back into the pile, on top of my postcard. “And if I’m going to be your Sugar Mama, I want to see a budget. If you think you’re going to continue living like a king, you can think twice.”

  “That’s not how it works.” He frowned. “You don’t get to call the shots on this.”

  Watch me.

  I rose from my chair. “We about done here?”

  “Yes.” He shot to his feet, too. “Why?”

  “Because I have errands to run. I need a job.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal, his gold cufflinks sparkling under the light. “You don’t need a job.”

  “If you insist on dressing like that every day, I have a feeling I’m going to need several jobs.”

  Samuel seemed to dress even nicer. And the meal last night—foi grasse, sea bass, lobster, fine wine, and champagne toasts, finished off with expensive Scotch. My head began to swim under the weight of the dollar signs.

  Leo chuckled and shot me a smug, satisfied grin. “It will all work out. You’ll see. I didn’t erupt out of Hell yesterday.”

  Curiosity got the best of me. “So when did you erupt?”

  “Nosy.”

  I shrugged. “If we’re going to be intimate…”

  He cocked his head, and for a moment, seemed absorbed by the past. “Long, long ago.”

  “Were you human once? Too?”

  “Yeah.” He gestured to the door. “My father beckons. Time to get to work.”

  I narrowed my eyes as I studied him. “Your phone didn’t ring. You don’t have a Bluetooth. How?”

  “Mental texting. I don’t need a phone.” He started down the hall and stopped at the door. “I’ll be back to visit what’s mine,” his said as gaze blazed a heated path from my lips, to my breasts, down to the juncture of my thighs, “later.”

  I bit my lip to keep the churn of desire from letting something stupid slip.

  He blew me a kiss that made me want to fan girl and catch it with my hand. From the glance he shot me, he knew this, but I stood my ground and refused to move. I’d cheapen myself on my terms. Not his.

  Admiration filled his gaze. “You’re tough, Liv.”

  “I’m only yours on paper.”

  “Sweet liar.” He turned, his hand on the doorknob. “And just to show I can be a good guy, I’m going to use the door.”

  “Don’t let it hit you in the ass on the way out.”

  He laughed, and the door shut behind him.

  I took a deep breath to banish the lust, to clear my head and…got a lungful of his cologne. Gah.

  I had to get back to the original plan—saving my mother. I picked up the library post card, slapping it on my hand. He wanted to play? I was going to fight dirty.

  Game on, demon.

  Chapter Five

  If you had plugged “Hippie” into the search engine of Urban Dictionary a few years ago, a picture of Annie Whitefield would have popped up. In college, Annie was the epitome of free love, organic pot, recycling, and no shaving. The pot made her a stellar artist, which is how I grew to know her through our shared art courses.

  But Annie, being practical, had decided to follow her love of books as a career path. Hence my visit to the local library to up the game.

  I walked to the front door, casting a glance over my shoulder to ensure Leo hadn’t tagged along. Satisfied, I went in, comforted by the immediate blast of book smell—new, old, magazines.

  I needed to talk to Annie about her mom’s grandmother—Babushka. I could think of no label that I dared give her that wasn’t full of respect. Babu was scary but full of knowledge about other worldly things. I hoped my predicament was somewhat up her alley.

  I rounded one of the tables and peered over a desk unit with computer workstations. Annie stood in the corner, looking the refined hippie in a thrift shop find dress, her long brown hair pulled back in a loose bun. She spoke with a patron, pointing to a piece of paper then referring to the shelf in question.

  Annie glanced my way and did a double take. Though she often had a dreamy air about her, she was actually sharp as a tack and very aware of her surroundings. That was probably her grandmother’s doings. Or the illegal crops once grown in her backyard. Both would make one wary.

  After bidding the patron goodbye, Annie wove her way over to me, a bright smile on her face. “Olivia. It’s so good to see you.”

  We hugged, and a whiff of her sandalwood and feminine spice comforted me. I pulled away and inspected her from head to toe. “You look great, Annie. Library life is agreeing with you.”

  She glanced around her domain with an air of satisfaction. “You know how I feel about books.”

  “And the art?”

  “I’m doing a little still. I’ve done a few sculptures and some pottery, but with the economy…”

  “Yeah. But you still create for you, right?” She’d had a little barn out back of her parents’ farm she used to create and fire pottery. She also did some welding and ironwork, too. If she could bend or mold it, she worked with it. But clay had been her favorite medium.

  “I do, yes.” Her smile grew wistful. “Still waiting for my Ghost moment.”

  She’d had a boyfriend commit suicide her senior year in high school, which is how we bonded so well freshman year in college. She’d been to Hell and back, too.

  “So…” She brushed a lock of hair from her face. “I’m thinking that because you’re here during a workday, you’re not here for a social visit.”

  “No.” That was Annie. Always economical with words, time, and money. “I need to talk to your grandmother.”

  She blinked. Her eyes widened, and she blinked again. “You don’t.”

  We’d joked once over wine about Babu and the contexts of such need of her assistance. It had been an epic time, involving tales of non-sparkly vampires and monsters that ravaged young women.

  She obviously remembered the code we’d come up with, because she paled a little. “Tell me you don’t need her.”

  “I do,” I admitted with shame. “Is she still around?”

  “Yes.” Annie shook her head slightly and glanced around, her shoulders rolling uneasily. “Talking to Babu…you realize the price.”

  “I’ll pay it.” I touched her sleeve with my arm, leaned in, and whispered, “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t a necessity. My life is on the line.” I felt funny saying “soul” but guessed it was interchangeable with life. One did not live long without it. “But if you can’t, I understand.”

  Her eyes widened again. Nodding, she withdrew her phone from her pocket and furiously started texting.

  “Your babushka texts?” The woman had to be in her eighties.

  “Oh yes. She’s all about texting and social media.” Annie’s phone dinged, and she glanced at the message. “She said no.”

  I pursed my lips and tried to peek at her phone screen. “What did you ask her?”

  “If you could have tea with her.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I don’t want tea.”

  “You do. Trust me.” She texted something else, her thumbs flying. “
She said she’s busy.”

  Damn, I was going to have to get truthful.

  “Tell her…” I glanced around the empty space and whispered, “I need to know how to get my soul back.”

  Annie flinched, her fingers frozen on the keypad. It took her what seemed an eon to look up from her phone and into my eyes. She must have not liked what she saw, because she muttered something in Russian and texted furiously again.

  A heartbeat later, the phone dinged again. My heart leapt in my chest.

  “She said she’d think about it.” Annie didn’t look phased by the response, so maybe Babu liked to play hard to get.

  “Okay.” I had time, right? A fluid contract meant I could wait ten years… Screw it. “Tell me this is good news.”

  “Well, it’s Babu.” Annie shrugged. “Who knows? She tolerated you, though. I can’t say she liked any of my friends. Ever.”

  The phone dinged again. And again. My skin crawled with each tone, the tension too much to bear.

  Annie glanced down. “In the mean time, if she does say yes, she needs a personal possession—not yours—and a cherry pie.”

  “A cherry pie.”

  “Yes, homemade by you. It goes well with tea.” Ding. “She’ll have me email a spell to utter before you take the possession out of your personal space. So it can’t be tracked,” she explained as if Babu didn’t write that last bit.

  I hadn’t thought about that. If he had mental texting, did he also have mental GPS? I glanced around the library, searching for Leo. Could he just show up here, too? “I don’t want you harmed.”

  Annie shrugged, unconcerned. “Babu will see to my protection.”

  My brain circled around the first task—getting something of Leo’s. “What kind of a possession does she need?”

  “Hair would work. A toothbrush. Something owned is better.”

  I had no clue how to accomplish this. He popped in and out like a cheap genie and left no trace. I couldn’t even find our used condoms the next day, not that I’d offer that up. “I’ll do my best.”