Suddenly, she was no longer hungry. “And the soul burns forever? Does it hurt?”
“I assume so. That’s why I’ve been keen to avoid it.”
She stared down at the lump of meat on her plate, fighting a growing sense of nausea. “I can’t do that to people. I can’t send them to hell.”
“My darling, you don’t have a choice. It’s you or them. You won’t win in a fight against Emerazel. You’ll come to understand that over time. Anyway, the debtors agreed to the bargain. It was their choice.”
She rubbed a knot in her forehead. “How do I know where to find them?”
“Emerazel will tell you.” He leaned closer. “You know the symbol we travel through?”
“It’s familiar, yes, since it burned me to a crisp a half hour ago.”
Kester ran his fingers over the rim of his wine glass. “A sigil of fire can also be used to contain demons. Even gods. We can summon Emerazel within it.”
“I light the symbol, and Emerazel appears with instructions?”
“Precisely.”
Whatever Emerazel was like, it couldn’t be much worse than working for Rufus. “And I suppose I need to find a new flat?”
“This apartment is your new home.”
Her jaw dropped. “There’s no possible way I could afford to live here.”
He shook his head. “This apartment is paid for. You don’t have to worry about rent. And of course Emerazel pays an annual stipend of ten ingots of gold.”
She stared at him. “Gold what?”
“Gold ingots are 400 ounces each, and the price of gold is about $1,500 an ounce.” He looked at the ceiling, muttering calculations. “That’s six million dollars a year, or about four million pounds. Give or take.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
She gaped at him. This must be a dream. There was no way she could be making that much money. “Six million dollars a year,” she repeated. The amount was so far out of her frame of reference that it almost had no meaning. “What would I do with six million dollars a year?”
His cheek dimpled as he flashed a smile. “Oh, I’m sure you could find a worthy anti-gentrification cause to fund.”
“Uh-huh.” Definitely better than working for Rufus. She took a long sip of her red wine. She had no idea what kind it was, since Rufus’s club never got any more specific than red or white. “So why was this place empty? Who used to live here?”
“Another hellhound. But he’s moved on to other things.”
“And he has a scar. Just like ours?”
“Exactly.”
“How did you get yours?”
He reached down, twisting a silver cufflink. For the first time she saw a hint of vulnerability, when he didn’t meet her eyes. She liked this side of him better. He swallowed, still examining his cufflinks. “Everyone has their stories.”
Wow. That was amazingly…vague. “Right, but what is your—”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Reaching under the table, he lifted up a silver bucket that held champagne and crystal flutes. He looked at her again. “It is your eighteenth birthday.”
Chapter 11
She sniffed the champagne, waiting until Kester took a sip of his before she put the glass to her lips, just in case it was poisoned. It tasted fruity and crisp, like fall apples.
“This is delicious,” she said.
“It’s a 1928 Krug. One of my favorite vintages. I keep a few bottles around for special occasions.”
“Champagne from the ’20s. This glass probably cost more than my annual wages,” she mused.
“Things have changed for you.” He stood, a champagne flute in one hand and the bottle in the other. “Shall we see the rest of the apartment?”
“There’s more?”
“There’s the second floor.” He stepped out the door.
She rose, gripping her champagne as she followed him into a large foyer with a marble staircase. He pointed to a set of double doors. “The elevator, which should satisfy your paranoid tendencies in case you need to make a fast escape.” He flicked a wall switch. Above, a chandelier sparkled with a hundred tiny lights. “The bedrooms are on the upper level.”
As she climbed the stairs with him, her shoulders tensed. Maybe magic was real, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a pervert.
She glanced at him. If he attacked her in some way, she could smash the champagne flute and stab him with the stem. “Before you try anything funny, you should know that I’m pretty good at brawling.”
He shot her a sharp look. “Charming. First, you will not beat me in a fight. Not ever. And second, I promise you there’s no need for me to force myself on unenthusiastic women when there are many willing participants to choose from.”
“Is that so?” It was the only retort she could come up with.