The Price of Brimstone

by Allie Gail

Sleep is a long time coming.

  Eventually I am overcome by fatigue, but the night is anything but restful. Weird dreams haunt my sleep, disturbing nightmares laced with strangely erotic undertones. Few of the details remain in my conscious mind long enough to be recounted, but their impact is enough to leave behind a vague sense of unease.

  Russ is already up by the time I straggle downstairs. Although 'up' may be a bit of a stretch. He's sprawled out on the couch, still dressed in the same clothes he was wearing when we put him to bed last night, the remote in his good hand as he lazily browses the Netflix queue. The only part of him that's not completely immobile is his clicker finger.

  “'Sup,” he mumbles without taking his eyes off the TV.

  “Morning, sunshine.”

  “Try afternoon.”

  “Not for another ten minutes,” I point out. It's almost noon, but not quite. “How's the hand?”

  “S'okay.”

  “No pain?”

  “Nah. Not really.” Waiting until I'm in the kitchen, he hollers at me, “Hey, bring me a Pop Tart while you're in there, will you? Blueberry. Frosted. Actually, you know what, just bring me the whole box.”

  I poke my head back into the living room to suggest, “If you can wait half an hour, I was about to cook some chicken.”

  He instantly perks up. I knew he would – he's so predictable. “Fried?”

  “Is that what you want?” It's a rhetorical question. Fried chicken is one of Russell's favorite foods, and I figure after the day he had yesterday the least I can do is make sure he gets a hot, home-cooked meal.

  “Hell, yeah!” His face lights up with a grin of appreciation. “Fry that sucker up.”

  “Mashed potatoes or potato salad?”

  “You gonna make gravy?”

  “I can if you want.”

  “Oh, I want. Mashed potatoes, damn straight. Now that's what I'm talkin' about!”

  I pull the chicken out and start cutting it up, preparing it to fry. No more than two minutes pass before I hear the question I expected, but hoped to avoid. I knew it was coming and yet I still can't refrain from cringing.

  “Hey! What time were you planning on leaving?”

  Welp, time to bite the bullet and get this over with. “Leaving for where?” I call back innocently.

  There is a brief pause before he replies, “Don't give me that shit. What time are you leaving for Tulsa?”

  “Oh, that. I don't know. I was thinking about half past never?”

  A longer silence ensues. I'm starting to think maybe he didn't hear me, or at the very least misunderstood, but then I turn around to grab the paprika only to find him standing right behind me. Scowling. Arms folded as best he can manage with his gimp hand.

  Nope, no misinterpretation there.

  “I must have heard you wrong. What time was that again?”

  Shooting him an irritated glare, I reach past him into the spice cabinet. “I'm staying. Deal with it.”

  “The hell you are! I have enough problems without having to worry about your safety on top of everything else. This shit isn't open for discussion. It never was. Now you are going back to Gabby's this afternoon if I have to put you in my car and drive you there myself! Are we clear on that?”

  “Yeah...you know, I just don't see that happening.”

  “Oh, it's happening!”

  “Sorry. The magic 8-ball says 'outlook not so good.'”

  “If you think for one minute I won't hog-tie you and stuff your skinny little ass in the trunk of my car, you better think a little harder!”

  Looking him square in the eye, I smack his injured hand with a pair of tongs.

  “OW! Goddammit, Jude!” He cradles the cast to his chest and winces.

  “Let's get something straight here, Stalin.” I point the tongs at him threateningly. “You aren't in any position to be telling me what to do. Look at you, Russell – you're a mess! This house is a mess. Your room – oh my God, don't even get me started. It's like you're not even trying anymore! You're fucking falling apart and now you expect me to go off and leave you here to deal with all this by yourself? Are you kidding me?”

  I take a deep breath and steady myself before continuing. “You're in the middle of some deep shit here, Russ. Whether you know it or not, you need me. And I need to be here too, if nothing else than for my own peace of mind. Do you think I could live with myself if I just turned a blind eye and walked away? If something happened to you? Is that what you want for me – to have to live with that kind of guilt?”

  He blinks at me, his mouth hanging open. When he finally starts to speak, I'm convinced he's going to put up an argument, but to my surprise all he does is complain in a petulant voice, “You hit me.”

  “Walk it off, Daisy.”

  “But you hit me!”

  “I know.” I clack the tongs together just beneath his nose. “Don't make me do it again.”

  And suddenly we're both laughing, and I know he's finally gotten it through his thick skull that no matter what he says, he isn't getting rid of me that easily.

  “Evil bitch.”

  “Pigheaded moron.”

  He leans against the counter, watching as I dump a five-pound bag of potatoes into the sink so I can rinse them off. “You're right about one thing,” he admits. “I'm waist deep in shit and the tide's coming in.”

  “See, that's why you need me. Someone has to throw you a life preserver, right?”

  “I don't think a life preserver's going to cut it.”

  “Well, you better formulate a new and improved plan. If you ask me, your current course of action doesn't seem to be working so hot.”

  He opens the fridge and pulls out a pitcher of tea, sloshing some on the floor in the process. I shoot him a dirty look before grabbing a paper towel and wiping up his mess. There's something sticky all over the linoleum, and it isn't just the tea. I've already resigned myself to the fact that my afternoon will be devoted to putting this disgusting house in order. It looks like a bunch of frat boys have been shacking up here. I'm pretty sure the last time this kitchen got mopped was when I did it, and that was at least a year ago!

  “This isn't working out the way I thought it would,” Russ confesses, oblivious to my irritation. “Not even close. Feels like I've just been banging my head against a brick wall. I'm getting nowhere and I have no idea where to go from here.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?” I toss the wet paper towel into the trash and plant my hands on my hips.

  “Hey, I'm open to anything at this point.”

  “Well, Max seemed to think your anger was kind of like...I don't know, encouraging him. Does that make sense? Like he's getting a sick thrill out of pissing you off. And the madder you get, the more he enjoys it. So I was thinking.”

  “Uh-oh,” he teases. “That could be dangerous.”

  “No, I'm serious! Hear me out. What if you just forget about him?”

  He looks at me as if I just suggested we throw the demon a surprise party complete with strippers and an open bar. “I'm sorry. Did you just say forget about him?”

  “Kind of. What I mean is, just leave him down there to stew. Ignore him. Demons get off on causing calamity, right? So don't give him anything to feed on. Nothing. Not a single word. Keep him in solitary confinement, so to speak. Eventually he'll crack. At least, that's my theory.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight. What you're saying is, I should sit on my ass and do nothing?”

  Okay. When he puts it like that, it does sound a little stupid. “Well...for now.”

  “Jude, the fucker has my girlfriend! Not to mention one of my best friends. I can't just sit back and do nothing!”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “Anything's better than nothing!”

  Shrugging, I return to peeling and slicing the potatoes. I'm hoping by the end of next week, I'll have convinced Locryn to provide at least a hint as to their location. It's a long shot, I know that, but what else have we got
going for us?

  “I'm curious about something. How'd you get him here in the first place?”

  “It wasn't that hard,” Russ tells me breezily. “Me and Max, we just went back to the bar where we first found him and waited. Didn't take him long to show up. After that, all I had to do was dangle a carrot in front of him.”

  “In the form of...?”

  “I knew he wouldn't be able to resist the possibility of negotiating a trade. A couple of souls in exchange for their safe release. All I had to do was use the right bait and lure him here. Dumbass swallowed it hook, line and sinker.”

  The paring knife clatters into the sink as it slips from my fingers. “You did WHAT?” I shriek. “Are you out of your everloving mind – why would you do something like that?”

  “Relax!” He seems surprised by my outburst. “Jesus...we didn't go through with it. You think I'm a complete idiot? It was just a ploy to get him here. And it worked.”

  “Oh yeah, like a charm! I can't believe you would even bring up something like that, much less let him think-” I swivel around to reach for the chicken and end up colliding against the tall, solid wall of Max Fallon. “Holy shit! You scared me. How'd you get in here?”

  He dangles his keychain in the air and grins sheepishly. “Key.”

  “You have a key to our house?”

  “Yeah. Is that okay?” He glances uncertainly at my brother. “We just thought it would be a good idea. You know, in case of an emergency or something.”

  “Yes, of course it's okay.” I better remember not to walk around the house in my underwear. Not that I ever do that, but I could just see myself sneaking downstairs half-naked in search of a clean towel, right about the time Max comes strolling in.

  Actually, the idea kind of gives me a warm tingle. I wonder – is that what it'll take to get him to see me as anything other than his best friend's little sister? For me to strip down to my skivvies and prance around the house until Victoria's Secret isn't a secret anymore?

  Forget it. I'd never have the nerve. I'd be too afraid of making an ass of myself.

  “How's the boo-boo?” Max directs the question to Russ, though his eyes are twinkling at me.

  Struggling not to giggle, I start dipping the chicken pieces in milk and then coating them with flour. “I thought we'd decided it was an owie.”

  “Oh, that's right. No run-of-the-mill boo-boos for Superman here, right?”

  Russ gives us both a strange look. “Uh...yeah. It's fine. No big deal.”

  “Sure seemed like a big deal last night when you were throwing a little bitch fit at the clinic,” Max comments.

  “You? Shutty.”

  “Something tells me Price is gonna get a real kick out of seeing your hand in a cast.”

  “Yeah? He says anything, I'll break the other one on his face.”

  “Oh, that's brilliant!” I look over at my boneheaded brother in amazement. “That's like saying, if that kid keeps picking on me I'll just shove my own head in the toilet and give myself a swirly. That'll teach him. There's your logic, Einstein.”

  Max bursts out laughing, which of course makes me smile.

  “Something just occurred to me, though,” I mention, carefully dropping a piece of chicken into the sizzling pan. “Isn't anyone else wondering where they are? If someone decides to file a missing persons report, we could end up with the police banging down our door with a search warrant. Especially if there are witnesses who saw you arguing with them. Significant other is always the prime suspect, you know.”

  “No one's filing any missing persons reports,” Russ informs me. “Because no one else knows they're missing.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “For one thing, Mrs. Banks has been in touch with Sky. Considering she's been getting regular text messages from her, she doesn't have a clue anything's wrong. As far as she knows, her daughter's perfectly fine.”

  “Wait – what?” For crying out loud, why can't two plus two ever add up to a simple four in this house? Why is the answer always something completely erroneous? “How is that even possible? I thought you said nobody had heard from her!”

  “They haven't. Not really.”

  “Okay, now you're making no sense at all. You do realize that, right?”

  “The person who's texting isn't Skylar. Someone is using her phone, but it isn't her.”

  “Well, can't you track it?”

  “I've tried. I called her carrier to have them turn on the GPS tracking, but it isn't working. Her location history ends in Hays, which is where we were when she disappeared. It's like she just walked through a portal to nowhere.”

  I consider this for a moment. “What about her job? No one there has stopped to wonder why she hasn't been in?”

  “You think I didn't check with them? That's one of the first things I did. They received a letter of resignation from her email address. Same with Owen. Price covered all his bases. I get the feeling he wants to drag this out for as long as possible.”

  “And I'm starting to think Price is yanking your chain. Did it ever occur to you that maybe he has nothing to do with any of this? That the two of them literally just took off together, that they don't want to be found, and he's just using it as an opportunity to mess with your head?” I turn to demand from Max, “What's your take on this?”

  Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he shakes his head. “I already told you what happened that night. No, I don't buy for one second that they just randomly decided to run off together. And yes, I fully believe Price is responsible. If he doesn't have them, then at the very least he knows who does.”

  “But why?” I turn down the heat on the potatoes that are threatening to boil over. “That's what I don't get. What's the point? He hasn't even made any demands, has he? I guess I just don't understand what he thinks he's accomplishing here.”

  “You want to know why? That's an easy one. I can show you why.” I give Russ a questioning look as Max strides out of the kitchen, only to return less than a minute later with an open book in his hands. He jabs his finger at a paragraph. “See this?”

  I peer at the unfamiliar language faded across the dry, yellowed page. “Sorry. I can't read Swahili or whatever the heck that is.”

  “Then let me translate it for you. 'Demons, as well as demi-demons, are masters of manipulation. Their charm is otherworldly, masking their expertise as skilled liars and deceivers. Having no manifestation of moral compass, they thrive on chaos and the suffering and spiritual destruction of their human prey. Self-gratification is the demon's singular impetus. They exist only to derive pleasure from deviance and to seek fulfillment of their own aberrant desires.'”

  “Ooh...kinky,” I drawl jokingly. Although it isn't a joking matter, and I know this.

  “That's what you have to understand here, Jude,” Russ explains. “It's like I've been trying to tell you. Demons don't need a logical reason for the shit they do. They do it because it keeps them entertained. Picture a cat with a mouse. Only they don't want to eat their prey – all they want to do is play with it and watch it suffer.”

  “Keep reading,” I urge Max, scanning the indecipherable words with interest. “What else does it say?”

  Finding where he last left off, he continues. “'In spite of their duplicity, it is well to remember that if a bargain is struck, these creatures are bound by their word, and thus there can be no repudiation. In such a way, many a fool has offered up his soul in exchange for wealth and power and earthly pleasures. Resist the demonic siren's call of say what you want and it shall be done forthwith, for the penance is dear.'”

  I snap my head up to glare at Russ. “And you offered to trade your soul to this thing? Seriously?”

  “I told you, I never intended to go through with it. Bait, remember?”

  “Using yourself as bait – are you trying to make me go prematurely gray? Promise me you'll never do something like that again!”

  “I won't.” He grins at me mischievously. “B
esides, it's not likely he'd fall for it a second time.”

  “You're impossible. You know that? I can't even talk to you.” I turn to focus instead on Max. “And you – can't you at least try to reason with him when he acts like a moron? You're supposed to be the levelheaded one. I can't believe you encourage him.”

  “Ever tried stopping him when he's dead set on something?” Max smiles at me, warming me from the inside out. “I'm assuming you've met your brother at some point or another. From what I gather, he's a lot like his sister.”

  Oh, whatever. “You're staying for lunch, right?” I blurt.

  His smile stretches wider. “Oh man, I'm really glad you asked. 'Cause damn, that smells good.”

  It's a tribute to Gabby's cooking tutorials that the boys practically lick their plates and go back for seconds. I have to wonder how long it's been since they ate anything that didn't come from a can or a drive-thru. Max at least has parents that he probably eats with on occasion, but I doubt Russ ever gets vegetables unless they're accidentally added to his bacon double cheeseburger. I figured I'd have to twist his arm to get him to try the green beans, but he surprises me by devouring two helpings.

  I'm also relieved that instead of going down to the basement, they opt to remain in the kitchen, poring over some of Dad's old books while conversing in low voices. Maybe Russ is actually taking my suggestion. Torturing the guy is clearly not working, so hopefully they can come up with some other way to get us out of this.

  Or maybe I can.

  For the most part, I spend the afternoon cleaning the house and putting it back in some semblance of order. I'm hoping if I stay busy enough, it'll keep my mind off the coming night. It's a lost cause, of course. I can think of nothing else. The logistics of getting down there shouldn't be an issue – Max will have to leave for the night shift soon, which leaves Russ as my only obstacle. Not that I expect any problems there. He has to get up in the morning and go to work himself, so I can't imagine he'll be up very late tonight.

  Which means there won't be anything to prevent me from complying with Locryn's request. That's a good thing, if it means he'll follow through with his promise. Although technically, he didn't actually promise anything. But then again, neither did I. I'm not about to strike any deals with a demon, half-human or not. So I guess I'll just have to do my best to appease him and hope for the best.