Page 13 of Spit

But that’s all it was. Pretend.

He owned me. I might have an apartment and my own business, but I had a monster on my back, and his name was Gluttony.

I listened to the quiet of my apartment for a moment, knowing that silence usually meant that Rogue was up to no good. Likely scratching up my recliner or knocking Meow-bits onto the floor so she could snarf them down.

“Rogue?” I called out to my feline sidekick, waiting for her patchwork face to peek around the corner because she scarpered away—nothing.

Frowning, I padded through the apartment, calling her name and trying to draw her close by clicking my tongue.

Finally, I made it to the kitchen. Her food sat on the side, still in the box, a picture of a happy cat staring at me.

As I got closer, I noticed her collar on the side. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. It was a breakaway collar, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that Rogue had managed to get free, but a note sat on the countertop.

“You’ll get your cat back when you stop ignoring my calls.”

As my fist curled around the paper, I clenched my teeth hard enough to crack them.

I drove to the ninth ward in my beat-up Toyota corolla with a gun in the glove compartment and a voicemail to Kailee to explain why I was going to be late for work.

I took the 39 over the river, putting me straight into the heart of the ninth ward—a route I knew only because of Cajun Joe’s seafood restaurant on North Claiborne Avenue. The only place in NOLA that cooked crawfish, as well as Adelaide, had, though I’d never say it out loud.

I drove onto St Claude and into the neighborhood. The city evolved in front of my eyes from bustling to almost suburban. The houses were brightly colored, and most sat high on bricks. I finally reached a strip mall with a 7/11 and a Dairy Queen.

Pennies sat on the corner of the intersection, its neon light glowing green even though the sun hadn’t begun to set.

I parked across the road in one of the store parking lots. I made sure to lock my car and place the security clamp on the steering wheel—it was a visual detergent and wouldn’t stop a determined thief. My corolla was a piece of shit, but it was mine, and I didn’t want to get stuck on a bus going across the city at three in the morning.

From the outside, Pennies looked like any old bar with red-painted brick flaking in several places. There was no sign of life, save for a flicking open sign with “We sell Coors!” written in sharpie on lined paper.

The business card in my pocket was written in the same font as the neon sign, so I knew it was the right place. I adjusted my stance to feel the weight of my gun and the knife at my ankle. My shadow was my best weapon regarding demons, but it never hurt to have a backup.

My shadow placed its hands on its hips and rolled its hand as if to say,‘get on with it.’

“You’re too impatient,” I told the hungry chit. “I’ll go in when I’m good and ready.”

Better grab the gator by the tail—as Adelaide used to say. I took a deep breath and pushed the door, feeling my stomach drop out from under me as if falling down the rabbit hole.

I would bet that a regular human could walk into the bar and see nothing out of the ordinary, but I was a witch with demon magic. I had been granted entry and moved across realities in the blink of an eye.

The world changed to a different patina, bathing the bar in magic as realities shifted. I had been right, Pennies sat in one of the folds between dimensions that demons loved to hide in.

The bar was a hive of activity, though it hadn’t looked it from the street. The jukebox spat out a catchy song from the 80s, and coppery smoke clung to the air, tinting it red. Two beautiful men were spinning each other in the center of the bar; the tables moved aside to accommodate them as they danced salsa without a care.

The bar was lined with drinks from all over the world, from Korean Soju to Icelandic Brennivín, with bottles in odd shapes with liquid so dark it swallowed the light.

Though from the outside, Pennies had appeared to be a single-story building but inside was a tardis, the roof extended up without end, and a balcony overlooked the bar. Everything was polished wood; the varnish shone, though I’d wager it had never been tended to. Demonic magic was all about looks and not so much about substance.

I knew I could unleash my hunger and gulp down every facet of magic that clung to the walls if I wanted to. The dark and sickly part of me wanted to do nothing but that, but I couldn’t.

Bad things happened when I gave in to hunger.

I took out the card Mr. Bub gave me and placed it on the bar as I approached.

The bartender took a moment to finish pouring a drink for a ram-headed demon. He blinked once before mumbling that he had to make a call before scurrying away.

I turned around, resting my elbows on the bar, and continued examining the décor.

No one paid me any mind, though I didn’t question why. Demons liked magic and interesting, shiny things. I was neither.

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