Page 153 of Just One Little Bargain

He laughs, and the sound fills the stairwell, chasing back some of the oppressive darkness.

The basement extends under most of the house’s footprint, divided by support beams that I have recurring nightmares about failing. Cracks wander across the sloping concrete toward a drain in the center, while the fieldstone walls shed mortar from seams that have endured more than a century of Vermont winters.

Milo’s light sweeps across the space, taking inventory. “This place is enormous.”

“Most old houses have sprawling basements. Something about root cellars and coal storage. I avoid it mostly.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s creepy, cold, and full of spiders.”

“Are you afraid of them?”

“I’m not afraid of anything. I just prefer my living spaces bug-free.”

His light catches on a particularly impressive cobweb stretched between two beams. “Looks like that one’s been there a while.”

“That one has a name. I call her Charlotte.”

“You named it?”

“If I’m going to live with her, it seemed polite.”

The breaker panel is mounted beside the furnace. I lift the rusted latch, pull open the gray metal door, and sweep my flashlight over the rows of breakers.

Each one is labeled in my neat handwriting. Kitchen. Dining Room. Guest Rooms 1–4. Water Heater. HVAC. Exterior Lights.

None of them have slipped into the middle position. I run the beam down the panel twice anyway, searching for a breaker I might have missed.

“That’s not good,” I mutter.

“What’s wrong?”

“The breakers are fine. The problem isn’t here.” I close the panel harder than necessary and turn toward the stairs. “I need to call the power company, and my phone is upstairs, where I stupidly left it.”

We cross the basement and climb back up the stairs. I reach for the doorknob.

It doesn’t turn.

I pull harder, but the door stays sealed in its frame.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I throw my weight against the wood, and it doesn’t budge.

“Let me try.”

Milo steps in, closes one hand around the knob, and braces his shoulder against the door. He pulls hard enough for the frame to creak. Still nothing.

I step back and stare at the solid oak separating me from my phone and any hope of taking charge.

“Can you do something demon-y and get it open?” I ask without looking at him.

His jaw tightens. “See those black fittings?”

I look at the doorframe. Wrought iron curls over the hinges.

“It disrupts demonic energy,” he says quietly. “I can’t push my power through it without burning myself, and the iron would kill whatever effect reached the lock.” He studies the door for another moment, as though a solution might present itself if he looks hard enough. “I’m sorry, Evie. I wish I could fix this for you.”

Of course, the one time I need his supernatural intervention, there’s a perfectly logical reason he can’t.