Page 81 of Sick Bargain

“What if someone attacks us?”

“They won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been Vile for many years, Remiel. Moros gives us room to work.”

He takes the black mask. “Yeah, but there are a lot of outsiders in that club. They don’t all know about Vile House.”

“When has a Moros resident ever let an outsider dictate what they do? If anyone steps in, the locals will shield us. Put it on and keep your mouth shut.” Before he can, I do something impulsive. I grab the back of his neck, press my forehead to the stitches in his, and breathe him in. “I only just got you back, Remiel. Don’t tempt my control again so soon. Obey.”

“I will,” he promises.

Even more impulsively, I press my lips to his and inhale the soft gasp that leaves him. I savour him. Slowly. Too quickly. Then I pull away and don my mask.

Guns aren’t my favourite weapon, but one is holstered inside my jacket. In my hands, I have twin blades, longer than throwing knives, but short enough to be intimate. I give Remiel a matching one and push him ahead of me through the front door of Neon Demon. He’s at my chest, but the bouncer looks past him at me, granting us access with a deviant grin and a nod of respect, fisting his hand over his heart. The music turns up.

The club is crowded, the dance floor full, and the tables occupied. Across the sea of writhing bodies, I spot Ghost and Menace in their masks. They flank the outskirts of the dance floor, whereas I part it like the sea with Remiel at my chest. Locals notice us and manoeuvre into a position that keeps them safe while the out-of-towners look on with piqued interest but not a fucking clue.

Gregory Malone isn’t the dancing type. He’s the lookie-loo type. Which means he’ll either be at the bar, watching from eye level, or up above, gazing over the mezzanine. I keep one hand on Remiel as we walk, letting my eyes scan the balcony for Malone’s face.

“There,” Remiel says, breaking my fucking rule not to speak. He points at the bar where Malone is standing with his back to us, ordering a drink with no idea he’s finally the one being haunted.

“Silence,” I whisper in Remiel’s ear.

I tilt my head toward the bar, and Ghost and Menace head that way. The music thumps in my chest, and the strobe lights pulse with its beat, the combination both illuminating us and hiding our trajectory.

The bartender, a woman with a scar slashed through her face and a head of wild red hair, notices us. She pours herself a shot, gives a warped smile, and steps back to let us work.

“Hey!” Malone slaps the bar. “Are you going to hand me that?” He points at the drink she made him, sitting on the other side of the counter out of reach.

“Oh, hun,” she shouts at him. “You won’t get the chance to drink it.”

“What?”

We surround him like four dark illusions, shadowing him. Ghost and I face his back while Menace faces the crowd to protect our backs. Remiel is shaking in front of me, but I think his jitters are from adrenaline instead of fear.

The bartender picks up Malone’s glass, raises it in toast, and then takes a long drink. When her eyes look beyond him, he finally gets the hint that something is wrong. For how often he stalks, he sure isn’t familiar with being on the opposite side of the deal.

He spins, coming face to face with a teal and a purple Vile mask and Remiel’s black one. Fear lights up his eyes, and his face pales. Remiel shakes harder. Malone is a survivor. He’s an escape artist. He’s a fucking cockroach. But there’s no escaping this. He glances around, eyes darting to find an exit route that won’t end in his capture, but when his shoulders droop and he looks at us again, he realizes he’s trapped.

“Figured it’d catch up with me eventually,” he says, barely heard over the music.

He succumbs too easily. But that’s what makes it fun. Subtly, I holster my knives and draw throwing daggers from within my jacket. He’s going to run as soon as he gets the chance, and it’s been a while—since the Krampus—since I had moving target practice.

We step back as a unit, giving him space to walk. He falls into the middle of our group, Menace at the front and Ghost and me flanking his back and sides. Remiel stays at my chest, not needing to be told what to do. I see Ghost’s fingers move, dipping into his pockets to pull free throwing daggers.

Menace walks us through the crowd, a straight line to the exit. Locals dip their heads and keep dancing, their eyes on the outsiders, ready to step in if needed. The ones unfamiliar with Moros and Vile House watch with fascination, but so far, no hero complexes.

I dip my head when we get to the middle of the dance floor, mask brushing the side of Remiel’s head. “He’s going to run. Stay right where you are, hero.”

Ghost and I drop back, giving Malone a bit of breathing room. That’s when he takes his shot. He cuts to the right, trying to disappear into the crowd. Locals shove dancers aside, granting us an unobstructed view of Malone’s fleeing body. Ghost looks at me, his eyes flashing through his mask, and together, we both throw a dagger.

Mine lands in Malone’s left shoulder blade. Ghost’s embeds in his right. Malone drops to the floor, but he scrambles, trying to get back to his feet. Menace throws the third knife, a bigger, longer one that buries itself in Malone’s ass cheek. He goes back down.

Without any more fanfare, we haul him to his feet, touch our fists to our hearts to thank our locals, and haul him out the front door.

“His house?” Menace asks, tying his wrists in a knot only a bondage expert would know.

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