There was a shop on first floor of the building, a typical mom-and-pop corner store where you could buy a pack of smokes, some overpriced toilet paper, or a dozen kinds of energy drink. And according to all the Illinois Lottery signage, you could grab yourself a chance at a better life.
Jacob and I had both agreed to deal with the etheric vermin in Evelyn’s hotel lobby newsstand some other time—no sense in flexing Jacob’s extermination power right under National’s nose. But that didn’t mean he had to totally abstain.
Jacob eyed the store dubiously. “There’s plenty of food at home.”
“We’re not here for groceries. Let’s bag ourselves some habit demons.”
I caught the brief flare of Jacob’s nostrils, like a bull getting a flash of a matador’s cloak, though he tried to cover his excitement with skepticism. “We don’t even know there’s anything here to bag.”
I cut my gaze to the seedy storefront, then looked back at Jacob meaningfully.
“But I suppose it can’t hurt to check,” he allowed.
We stepped into the shop and a bell announced our arrival with a wan jingle. A teenage girl with blue-tipped hair sat behind the counter, thumb flying across her phone screen. Her expression suggested the universe had personally wronged her by making her work this shift.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over crowded shelves of dusty, overpriced necessities with questionable expiration dates. The air felt thick, almost sticky with potential. The lottery machine by the register practically hummed with desperate hope. And if that wasn’t infested, what about the cigarette rack behind the counter? Surely that was a beacon for addiction.
And yet, no customers were here trying to feed their fix. Other than the cashier, the store was empty.
The girl finally glanced up, treating us to a look of bored suspicion.
“You guys want something, or...?”
“Just browsing,” Jacob said affably.
Her eyes narrowed. The shop was on a main drag. No doubt plenty of random guys in suits stopped off on their way home from work for dish soap or a TV dinner. But they probably just grabbed what they needed without standing there taking in the ambience.
We stuck out like a sore thumb. So I did my best to give her something else to worry about. I flashed my ID and said, “Gaming Commission. We’re here to verify your equipment.”
That wasn’t even a thing. But it sounded official, didn’t it?
Maybe not. I thought for sure I was busted…but then the girl heaved out a huge sigh and her shoulders sagged. “I thought you were with the Health Department.”
“Nope,” I said. “No Health here.”
“’Cause we’retryingto get an appointment with the exterminator. My dad called like eight of ’em. They’re just all booked up.”
“Exterminators,” I said with a sympathetic nod. “They’re, uh…yeah.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
The clerk hit a few buttons and her machine chugged out a printout, which she tore off and offered to me. I glanced at it. A column of meaningless numbers stared back. She said, “Good thing it’s not the first of the month, you’d be fighting off the regulars—you gonna do a software update or just the usual?”
Great. Verifying the equipmentwasa thing. And I didn’t have the first clue what it might entail.
Luckily, Jacob’s a better liar than I am. “Neither,” he said, as he pulled out his phone and held it up like he was using it to scan the lottery machine. “We have software of our own to test.”
The clerk tilted her head. Sure,nowshe was intrigued. “It’s proprietary,” I said. She blinked. I cleared my throat. “Give us a little space.”
“Oh. Whatever.” With a shrug and a crack of her gum, she wandered out from behind the counter with her eyes glued to her phone, and began to halfheartedly straighten a shelf of canned goods.
Jacob dropped his voice. “See anything?”
I pulled out my phone for cover and held it up as well, looking around it. I didn’t see a damn thing, other than an insidious way to bilk someone desperate out of their wholegovernment check on a luxury they couldn’t afford, all for the false hope that someday, they’d hit the big score.
Habit demons are tough to spot, though, and I need a running start to perceive them. I ran through my checklist of centering techniques—the subtle ones I use when I’m out in public, anyhow, where I imagine the white light and time my breathing, and encompass everything in a white balloon.
Nothing.
