Page 4 of Heal Me

“That’s nice. Which dream?”

“Accountant.” Sounds more like a nightmare, but to each his own. “There’s only two certainties in life—death and taxes.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that one,” I say, becoming more and more nervous the farther we walk from civilization.

Reaching the next cross street, Brad leads me to the left. There’s a car parked ahead, but it’s not running. It’s dark and I can’t tell, but maybe the Uber driver is in there and just turned off the engine to wait for us. I’m sure that’s it.

Brad slows his pace, and it takes me a moment to register what he’s doing. And by that time, it’s too late. The cold steel of a blade is now at my throat, and I’m completely paralyzed with fear. “There’s only one certainty for you now, Charlotte. Care to guess which one?”

The sole vehicle beeps and the trunk pops open. He begins dragging me toward it. No! I want to scream, but my voice doesn’t seem to work. Panic sets in as we’re now standing in front of it. He removes the blade from my neck, and my mind is screaming for me to run, but just like my voice, my feet don’t seem to work either. Something hard crashes down on my head, and all goes dark.

Chapter 2

Gabe

“Counselor Jennings, redirect?” the Arbitrator asks, even though Zazel looks like he might kill me if I even think of asking this witness anything further, as we’ve been at this arbitration for nearly nine hours.

“No, Arbitrator,” I stand and announce. Sure, I have more questions I could ask, but I also know how to read the room. And more importantly, I know how to read the Arbitrator. Zazel is annoyed with opposing counsel for keeping us this late, and he’s counting down the minutes until he can leave and partake in his “incubus interests.” Besides, I’ve already won this case. Not being overconfident, just stating a fact. I’ve pounded opposing counsel’s head into the ground. Around the eight-hour mark, I almost felt bad for the ass kicking I was bestowing on him. Almost.

“Arbitrator, if I could have five minutes to confer with my client,” Vincent begs. He can take all the time in the world; I’m still winning this case.

“This is the last delay. Five minutes,” Zazel warns and then disappears.

Hugh Anderson, the demonic scribe, places his quill in a pot of blood ink and gives me an exasperated look. He’s a ghastly-looking creature in demonic form, with blood-red eyes and yellow razor blades for teeth. I shake my head, letting him know this isn’t my fault. I planned on being out of here hours ago.

Leaning over, I whisper to my client, “We’re almost done. Hang tight just a little bit longer. You’re doing great.”

Hecate sighs, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ear and giving me a nod. The she-demon takes her dogs with her everywhere, and it did not go over well when I explained dogs weren’t allowed in Zazel’s summoning chamber. And so there are three demonic dogs running wild in my office, and my secretary has probably locked herself in a closet because of it.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I grab it.

Damion: I need your help. Can you meet me at my house?

Me: I’m stuck in an arbitration that’s gone long. What’s up?

Damion: It can wait. Meet me at my house tomorrow morning.

Me: Will do.

Whatever it is Damion needs help with, he obviously doesn’t want to discuss it via text message. Smart man. Zazel is Damion’s father, and the demon makes my Watcher dad’s spying ways look like amateur hour.

Speak of the devil. Zazel returns in a jollier mood; my guess is he used the five-minute break to wet his cock. There’s no likelihood of that in my near future, as Orla and I broke up months ago. It was for the best, as we are better as friends than lovers anyway.

“Arbitrator, I have one additional witness,” Vincent stands and announces in that obnoxious high-pitched voice of his. He’s a short fuck, and just like a banty rooster, he’s loud and struts around to overcompensate.

“Arbitrator, I object. My client wasn’t notified of this witness.” I rise, keeping my tone even despite my desire to rip Vincent’s head off and toss it into the Book of Reckoning Hugh’s furiously writing in. It’s the demonic book of record keeping, where all trial evidence and exhibits are stored. I’m a brave man, but I wouldn’t touch that book with a ten-foot pole. Rumor has it a few demons other than the scribe have tried in the past, and they all wound up a permanent part of the record.

“Counselor Jennings, sustained. Let’s move along to closing arguments,” Zazel commands.

Vincent is up first. He whines and moans on his client’s behalf, and then takes a seat, looking rather smug for someone who did nothing but further annoy the Arbitrator with his drivel.

“Counselor Jennings,” the Arbitrator says.

“Thank you, Arbitrator,” I say, standing, buttoning my suit jacket. “This is a clear-cut case. The demon Choronzon has the burden of proof, a burden that has clearly not been met.” I glance out of the corner of my eye to Choronzon, who looks impassive, unlike his chihuahua-looking lawyer, who can’t hide his emotions if his eternal life depended on it. Like lawyer, like client, I’ve always disliked Choronzon. He’s a disgusting bastard of a demon—reminding me of a slug with his gray skin, robust girth, and slimy sheen. A proclivity for blood lust and bad investments, the latter is what this case is really about—his money-pit boutique hotel. “There’s no proof, one, that my client was even at Choronzon’s hotel during the timeframe the alleged damages occurred,” I continue laying out my case calmly and coolly. “Two, there’s no proof even if she were, that her dogs caused the damage. Arbitrator, my client asks you dismiss the claims against her.” Keeping it short and sweet, I sit back down.

Zazel rules for my client, no surprise there, and Hecate grabs my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze. Zazel and Hugh disappear, and then Choronzon calls to Hecate, “This isn’t over, bitch!”

“Vincent, I hope you’ve explained to your client losing in the Arbitrator’s summoning chamber is the definition of ‘over.’” Taking my client’s hand, I pull her away before she and the demon get into a shouting match, or worse.

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