Page 5 of Just One Little Bargain

Another mark against me in a list that’s too long.

I don’t resemble other demons. My skin is pale pink instead of the deep crimson most are born with. Krell told me once that I look like a sunburned human. I informed him that that was the nicest thing he’d ever said to me. He reported me to HR for insubordination.

At least this hairstyle covers the other problem. My brown curls fall across my forehead in what I’m pretending is a deliberately casual style but is, in reality, a carefully maintained disguise for my horns. They’re small. Embarrassingly so. I started growing my hair out specifically to hide them. Better than the alternative, which is everyone seeing them and having opinions.

Other demons oil their horns until they gleam. Spend hours at the Horn Care station in the washroom, buffing and polishing. There’s a department store in Hell’s commercial district dedicated to their maintenance products. Oils, polishes, strengthening serums, growth treatments. I went in once. The salesdemon took one look at me and asked if I was shopping for someone else. So I left.

Most demons here wear leather that creaks when they move, or robes that billow dramatically, or literally nothing, because workplace nudity is fine in Hell’s corporate culture. I don’t understand it. Nobody wants to see that. We work in adjacent cubicles. There should be boundaries.

I’m wearing what Cosmo calls business casual. Light blue button-down, because the color conveys trustworthiness and approachability. Dark slacks, because they create a balanced and professional silhouette. And glasses, because accessories complete the look. That’s what I tell everyone, anyway. Demons don’t have poor eyesight. It’s not a thing that happens. So nobody needs to know that everything past twenty feet goes a bit blurry without the lenses.

I look like a mortal accountant who accidentally walked into the wrong building and is too polite to leave. Which is exactly the problem, but also the only thing about my appearance I don’t hate.

“Still playing secretary, Zavian?”

The voice cuts into my concentration, deliberately pitched for the surrounding desks to hear. I don’t raise my head, because I already know who it is.

Krell.

His horns are massive, sweeping back from his skull in perfect symmetry. He’s very proud of them. Brings them up in every conversation. I’ve heard his horn-care routine explained seven times. Seven. We get it, Krell. Your horns are big.

Everything about him is massive. He’s built to pull carts or knock down castle walls.

“Just finishing up some administrative tasks,” I mutter, keeping my eyes fixed on the contract in front of me even though the words have started blurring together into meaningless shapes.

Krell doesn’t take the hint. He leans against the edge of my desk, making it shift under his weight. His deep crimson skin looks almost black at the edge of my vision. He’s basically naked, wearing leather straps that are more decorative than functional, because they aren’t covering anything. His dick is just out. Not fully, but every shift gives me an update I didn’t ask for. By now, I know more about Krell’s lower half than any employee should know about a colleague.

“Administrative tasks,” he repeats, dragging out the words. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Conversations at a few nearby desks die as the other demons tune into whatever’s about to happen. One of them grins, fangs flashing in the firelight.

Krell’s standing too close. He always does that. I read an article once about personal space and power dynamics. People who invade it are usually compensating for insecurity about their actual authority, which would make more sense if Krell hadn’t secured four legendary soul contracts last quarter. Apparently, professional success doesn’t prevent you from spending your mornings bothering me instead of doing literally anything productive.

I slam the stamp onto the next page, the metallic thud echoing across the desks.

“Must be embarrassing,” he continues. “Being Varkhael’s son and still stuck here filing paperwork. What’s it been now? Fifteen years?”

Someone laughs from across the room, and heat floods my face. Every sharp response I should throw back at him tangles before it reaches my mouth. My mind blanks like it always does when I’m cornered.

“Krell, go away.” Sythra sounds exhausted. She’s three desks down, not even looking in our direction. Her deep maroon skin catches the torchlight, dark navy horns curving above a face that hasn’t expressed genuine interest in anything happening in this department in at least a decade. Her chin is propped on one fist, robes shifting with each mechanical swing of her other arm as she stamps rejections at a steady pace without reading them. “You do this every week. It’s boring. Zavian’s bored. We’re all bored. Find a new hobby and let him do his job.”

“Just trying to be friendly.” Krell straightens, pushing off my desk. “Nice hair, by the way. Really covers things well.”

He walks away and the laughter fades into the general noise. The department’s moved on. Demons don’t hold attention for long, unless you’re actively on fire or screaming. Krell embarrassing me at my desk barely registers on the daily entertainment scale.

This is what I’ve been doing since my late teens. Filing paperwork and stamping forms. Sitting at this desk, while everyone else is out in the mortal realm doing the job we’re supposedly trained for.

I used to take assignments, too. I’d stand in living rooms, offices, and dark alleys across from humans who’d reached the end of their options. I was supposed to spot when their resistance crumbled, then move in with the perfect words to claim their souls.

I was terrible at it.

Not because the mortals were hard to manipulate. Most of them weren’t. But because they were fascinating.

They’d tell me everything. Their whole lives, the dreams they chased, the mistakes they made, the people they loved. What they would change if they had another chance. And I’d just stand there, thinking about how interesting it was that a human could want something badly enough to trade eternity for it.

I’d ask questions. Too many of them, and all wrong. Failed my first three assignments because I spent more time asking about their childhood than securing a single bargain.

I still think about those people sometimes. The guy in Nevada, and whether he ever fixed things with his wife. The woman in Portland, and whether she found some other way to save her business. All of them, maybe, wondering why the demon walked away without taking their souls.