Borrowed Souls (Soul Charmer #1)(26)
“She an artist? Hard to picture how borrowing a soul could help anyone be creative. It’s not like injecting yourself with a muse, right?” She willed her voice to stay steady.
“First, Casey is a guy. Second, he’s not an artist, though I bet he’d say he were if he could get a peek at your panties in return.”
Callie’s pace slowed, and she started to sputter. Before she could protest her virtues or whatever she thought would save the discussion, Derek continued. “Finally, no, souls don’t make you creative or a genius or whatever, but don’t tell them that. Assholes try it all the time, get addicted to the freedom, and the Charmer charges ’em double.”
“Oh.” She liked being in on the secret. Dopes being robbed for their own greed and stupidity didn’t exactly earn her pity. “What kind of freedom?”
“When the fear of eternal consequences disappears, it opens a lot of doors. We’re a fucking guilty lot.”
Wasn’t that the truth? “But what if you don’t buy into the whole heaven thing?”
He cocked a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me brow and shook his head. “Do you really think anyone in Gem City is denying the church’s truth?”
“Doesn’t matter what we say aloud. I’m talking true belief.”
“We have souls. It’s a fact. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t. I don’t know what happens after death, but I do know that I’ve never met a person who rented a soul who said they didn’t like getting to be someone else.”
“Does it really make you into a different person?” Renting one of these things better not change her. Callie didn’t always love who she was, but she trusted herself more than anyone else. To thine own self be true and such.
“Nah. You’re still you.”
“So what’s the point then? Placebo effect?”
“It really doesn’t mark your soul. From what I’ve learned working for the Charmer, the shit that makes it hard to fall asleep at night, those niggling thoughts, they don’t dig in the same way as they would if you were sinning on your own soul.”
He didn’t elaborate further, and maybe he couldn’t. She wasn’t about to bulldoze the foundations of friendship they’d constructed by prying.
After a moment, Callie accepted the subject was closed. “Well, where do we find Casey?”
“His girlfriend serves bar at the cafe on the corner. If Casey isn’t there, Phoebe will know where he is.”
“You think she’ll give him up to you?”
“Phoebe is not a fan of soul magic. You have that in common with her.”
Callie shrugged.
“Why are you so bent on getting a soul from the Charmer when you hate the magic so much?” His gaze burned into her. Callie studiously focused on the cracks and poor patch-jobs in the sidewalk’s aging concrete.
She opened her mouth to answer, but what was she supposed to say? There was the temptation to tell him the truth, to expose the guilt laid deep inside her gut, and to explain why she owed it to her brother to do this. But while Derek was off to a start as her safety net in this world of soul rental and magic, that didn’t mean she needed to fork over all her secrets after less than forty-eight hours of nonstop trust exercises. She was trust-falled out.
“Family first,” was all she said.
His brows furrowed, and he offered her the disappointed grunt. He didn’t push, though. Smart man.
Callie eyed the glass case filled with pie when they entered Café on the Square, but Derek offered a dude-bro two finger wave to the bartender. He received a nod in kind from the petite woman with chubby cheeks. The café balanced 1950s diner aesthetics with a gluttonous dose of jalapenos, chiles, and fried eggs. As they bellied up to the bar, the faint lines at the corners of Phoebe’s eyes became more visible, but her baby face still had to make most do a double take when seeing her sling tequila. Probably also earned her hella tips. More power to the woman.
“Casey around?” Derek’s tone was casual, but the tension holding his shoulders locked back still evoked a threat. Or at least the potential for one.
“He’s smoking. Should be back in a minute.” Phoebe removed a table tent offering last call on Hatch chile specials, wiped the counter in front of Callie with a damp rag, and then placed a small, square cocktail napkin down. This was much better than last night’s bar debacle. “What can I get you?”
Callie shook her head to decline. A clean countertop was nice, but she wasn’t ready to chat with these people. Phoebe looked nice enough, but the more they knew her, the more she was truly involved. Smacking a flask to people’s chests and walking away was probably safest.
“Why don’t you make us both the house margarita?” Derek suggested. He then looked at Callie and, mostly to himself, said, “You take salt? Nah, you don’t.”
“Two margaritas, no salt?” Phoebe’s gaze pinged from Callie to Derek and back again like they were pillars in a pinball machine and someone was racking up points. Callie couldn’t help the girl figure them out. This dynamic was too fucked.
Callie shrugged. She didn’t like salt, but what about her screamed anti-sodium? Their bartender moved around behind the counter and flexed her drink-making skills with tidy efficiency. When Derek’s lips unexpectedly grazed her ear, Callie jumped a little. The reaction was enough to elicit a little, pleased grunt from the man.