The Hearts We Sold(47)

But Cora was determined—and she kept listening. And when rumors of a place to find demons in her own hometown arose, she followed them to a transitory farmers market. MEPHISTO MARKET read the hand-printed sign.

It was a bright spring day, and the booths were full to bursting with strawberries and lettuce, and at first Cora was skeptical. This couldn’t be real. All the other places she found demons were darkened rooms with heavy, sweet smoke. She could not imagine finding a real demon in this sunlit, open space.

She bought strawberries and ate them sitting on the hood of her Toyota, watched as the passersby came and went. There were many hopefuls—people who scrawled their prices on the limbs they were willing to offer up. With a sigh, Cora tossed a strawberry stem over her shoulder.

And then a man behind her cleared his throat.

Cora whirled around so quickly she nearly fell off her car. She reached for her purse, but then she froze.

The man was in his late twenties or early thirties—pale with dark hair and scorchingly blue eyes. Chiseled cheekbones, clean-shaven, and he wore a suit. An umbrella was tucked beneath his left arm. And a strawberry stem stuck to his lapel.

With a flicker of disapproval, he took the stem between thumb and forefinger and dropped it to the ground.

“Please be careful where you throw things,” he said, then began to walk away.

She knew what he was; she’d recognized him the moment she’d turned. She slid off her car’s hood and hastened after him. “Wait!” she said, catching his arm.

He paused. Looked down at the place where her fingers were roughly digging into his sleeve. She released him.

“You’re wrinkling my suit,” he said with a resigned sigh. “You know what I am, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “And you’re here looking to buy.”

His voice was distant, uninterested. “Am I?”

“Of course you are,” said Cora, looking around at the market—with its dirty pavement and the smell of freshly churned earth. “Or else you wouldn’t deign to be in a place like this.”

A small smile flashed across the demon’s mouth. “True.” He turned to face her fully, gazing at her as if she had caught his interest. She gazed back, unafraid. “Tell me,” he said silkily, “what did you come here for? What price would you ask for a limb?”

There was no hesitation in her answer.

“I want you to kill someone for me,” she said simply.

He blinked. It was the only sign he was surprised; the rest of his face remained impassive. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He looked at her—studied her as if she were an anomaly. “Girls like you don’t ask for death,” he said. “You ask for a larger bust or perfect skin or a talent of some kind.”

She gave him a grim little smile. “My boobs are fine, my skin is great, and I’m all right with the talents I have. I want someone dead.”

“Then why don’t you do it?” he asked. His eyes flicked down to her bag. “Demons have no monopoly on violence. Or are you going to lie and say there isn’t a gun currently in your purse?”

There was, of course. Cora was eighteen—and on her eighteenth birthday, she had gotten her concealed carry license.

It made her feel safer to carry the weight of the metal against her hip. And besides—her clearest memories of her father were of a hunting range, of a kind man with a worn voice, teaching her how to shoot clay pigeons.

“I don’t feel like spending the next few lifetimes in prison,” she answered. “I have sisters and a mom I need to take care of.”

The demon tilted his head. His eyes were so intent that it made a prickle of discomfort run over her skin. “He hurt one of them,” he said. “This man you want dead.”

Her stomach turned over.

“I never said it was a man,” she answered, her voice still hard.

“Statistically, it’s always a man,” said the demon, with a little scoff. “What did he do?”

Her back teeth ached as she ground her jaw. “Something he’ll never be punished for—at least not in any court of law. Which is why I need to take care of it.”

“By asking me to do it,” replied the demon.

“I’m not asking, I’m bargaining,” said Cora. “There’s a difference.”

“That there is.” The demon let out a small breath. “No demon will kill for an arm or a leg,” he said. “You should know that by now. Demons won’t kill. It’s bad press.”

She met the demon’s bright blue eyes. “You said demons ‘won’t’ kill. Not that they can’t. Is that true?”

His perfect mouth turned up at the corners. “You’re asking the wrong questions.”

This was the longest conversation she’d had with one of the damned creatures, and it gave her hope. “If a demon wouldn’t kill for an arm or a leg,” she said slowly, “what would they do it for?”

It turned out, that was the question he wanted to hear.





TWENTY-FOUR


D ee wasn’t sure how she got through the next few days, if she were being honest with herself.

Gremma wasn’t speaking to her. It seemed that after the Daemon had teleported Dee from the bathroom, the room had remained locked and empty so long that Gremma was sure Dee had died and ended up using a fire ax to break in—only to find the restroom empty. She’d assumed what any normal person would have: that Dee had snuck out through the narrow, high window. Choosing to risk injury rather than speak to her roommate again that night.