All of it—every moment of that torment—was Maslow’s doing.
But he hadn’t broken Zephyr formybenefit.
He did it to serve himself.
Swallowing the burn in my throat, I stepped around the wraith and gestured toward the chairs. “Have a seat, Maz.”
He lowered himself reluctantly, like he worried the room’s filth would rub off on him. His attention roamed again, skimming over the old filing cabinets, the walls cluttered with old newspaper clippings, and surfaces stacked with legal pads.
“Tell me,” he said. “Where is the little scamp? If you’re finished with him, I’d just as soon get him back to work. People come to see him, you know. Some people comewhenthey see him.” He chuckled to himself. “That damn incubus magic. It’s been the downfall of many a man.”
I ground my teeth. My decision to send Zephyr away felt like the smartest move I’d made all week.
I moved behind my desk and sat down, resting my palm atop the manila folder I’d set out. The contract was incomplete, lacking details, but the paperwork didn’t need to be finished for the meeting to begin.
“Zephyr isn’t here,” I said. “He doesn’t need to be. This doesn’t concern him.”
The wraith huffed a laugh. “And here I thought you called for pickup service. Very well. Clock’s ticking, though.” Maslow leaned forward in his chair, his suit pulling at every seam. “So why are you here talking to me when you could be putting that boy on his back?”
I glanced past him at the hellhound stationed by the office door. Still as stone, eyes front, arms folded. I wasn’t sure if he was more interested in keeping people out or keeping me in.
I drummed my fingers on the manila folder in front of me, the sound dull against the desk’s scarred wood.
“Back when you first mentioned Fairmont,” I said slowly.
The name hadn’t finished leaving my mouth before Maslow perked up like a toad that had spotted a fly.
I kept going.
“You asked for my help, but you never mentioned why. You want to buy a property? Buy it. It’s real estate. It doesn’t need to involve a higher power. Or a lower one.”
Beads of sweat accumulated along Maslow’s hairline and pooled in the wrinkles of his forehead. His tongue darted out to wet his lips before he spoke.
“There is… another bidder.”
“Oh?” I asked, though I’d already guessed that was where this was going.
“To be perfectly frank,” he said, smoothing down the front of his tie, “their offer is better than mine.”
“Any idea who we’re up against?”
“We?” He looked at me with one brow lifted like he couldn’t believe I’d walked into that.
I didn’t correct myself; I meant exactly what I’d said.
He took the silence as permission and chuckled low in his throat. “No. They’ve opted to remain anonymous.”
Anonymity was a complication, but not an insurmountable one. My mind wandered to Livingston’s plea from a few weeks back. A whistleblower, he’d said. A leak in the pipeline, threatening to burst. Easy money, if I was willing to get my hands dirty.
These people were all the same.
“Wouldn’t be your son, by chance?” I asked dryly, the words barely meant for him.
Maslow’s bloated face wrenched in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.” I waved him off. “So, competing bidder. You want them gone.” I tapped the folder, then met his eyes. “By any means necessary.”
Maslow sat back and the chair groaned beneath him. “That’s the sum of it, yes.”
