Chapter 80: Devil's Bargain part 2

“We’re making this interesting, Lamia,” Damon drawled, leaning against a server rack and flashing a grin that was all teeth. He looked at Lynn, his eyes darkening with a very specific kind of intent. “I’m putting my money on the red. If it makes the Detective see God, Lynn, you owe me that… private audience we discussed. The one involving the silk ties.”

Serge, the artist of the group, shook his head, his gaze lingering on the white cake. “The white is more elegant. Pure oblivion. If the Detective chooses that one, Lynn, I get to spend the night sketching you. No clothes. No interruptions. Just the moonlight and my charcoal.”

Lynn laughed—a rich, dangerous sound that made the hair on my neck stand up. She looked at Bastian, who was standing like a stone monument, and then at Ardin, who was barely more than a shadow in the corner. “And you two?”

Bastian’s voice was a low rumble. “The dark one. If he picks it, you stay in my arms until the sun comes up. No phones. No war. Just me.”

Ardin didn't speak, but he leaned in and whispered something into Lynn’s ear that made her cheeks flush a very human shade of pink. She bit her lip and nodded. “Fine. The bets are placed. Eat, Jackson. Our night’s entertainment depends on your palate.”

I looked at Maddie. She was sitting next to me, her hand resting on the table near the black diamond I’d given her. She looked at the cakes, then at the circle of monsters waiting for me to take a bite.

“Just eat the cake, Jack,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with a mix of amusement and genuine terror. “Before they start betting on which part of you they get to keep.”

I picked up the fork. It felt heavy, like I was lifting a piece of the Maggie Mine. I took a bite of the red one.

It didn't taste like chocolate. It tasted like my first car—the smell of hot vinyl and cheap gasoline. It tasted like the first time I’d ever kissed a girl behind the bleachers. It was a rush of nostalgia so sharp it felt like a physical blow to the solar plexus. For a second, I wasn't in a warehouse; I was seventeen, and the world was full of possibilities that didn't involve body counts.

“Damon wins the first round,” Lynn murmured, her hand sliding over Damon’s shoulder.

I swallowed, the taste turning to ash in the back of my throat. “That’s… that’s a hell of a trick,” I managed to say.

“That’s the 'Memory’s Bite',” Lamia said, her smile widening. “Now, try the white one. The 'Lethe’s Grace'.”

I took a bite. Cold. Absolute, bone-chilling cold. It tasted like nothing. Like the space between the stars. It washed away the memory of the first cake, leaving my mind a flat, grey plain. I looked at Maddie, and for a split second, I couldn't remember her name. The panic flared in my gut, hot and oily.

“Serge’s turn,” Serge whispered, his eyes fixed on Lynn.

I shoved the plate away, my chair scraping harshly against the concrete floor. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Enough. No more magic tricks.”

Dustan, who had been standing silent as a tombstone behind Lamia, flickered his silver eyes toward me. “The Detective has a strong soul,” he rumbled. “Most would have lost themselves in the second slice for hours. They would have forgotten to breathe.”

“The point is made,” Lynn said, stepping toward the third cake—a dark, almost black sponge with gold leaf that looked like veins of ore. “The third is the one we’ll use. The 'Blood and Roses'. It tastes of victory and the price that must be paid for it. We’ll serve it at the reception.”

She looked at the screen where Tony was highlighting a cluster of red dots on the map—the Stones' main compound, five miles out. The erotic playfulness vanished, replaced by the cold iron of the Queen.

“The demon is a guided weapon now,” Lynn stated. “We’ve given it the scent. It’s moving through the tunnels as we speak. While the world looks up at the Scourge, Calico will be cleansed from below.”

I looked at the 'Blood and Roses' cake. It sat there, beautiful and terrible, a perfect metaphor for the life I’d just signed up for. I looked at Bastian, who seemed satisfied despite the shift in tone. He’d won the long game.

“Fine,” I said, standing up and checking the magazine in my Sig. “Let’s kill the Stones. Then we can talk about the frosting.”