I was on them before they hit the ground.
The stocky one tried to bring his gun up. I stomped on his wrist, felt the bones splinter under my heel, and kicked the gun across the floor. It skittered under a display case, useless.
He screamed. High-pitched. Terrified.
I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Not all the way—just enough that his toes scraped the floor, just enough that he understood what was happening.
“You know who I am?” I asked, my voice soft.
He clawed at my hand, gasping, his face twisted with fear.
I squeezed harder.
“I asked you a question.”
“N-no—” he choked out, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t—I don’t know?—”
I smiled.
And then I let him see it. The thing I kept locked away in the jewelry shop, the thing I only let out in rooms like the Sazerac, in moments like this when the world reminded me what I really was.
The Demon.
I slammed his head into the display case. Once. Twice. The glass shattered, and his blood sprayed across the diamonds and platinum bands. He went limp in my hand, unconscious or dead—I didn’t care which.
I dropped him.
The tall one was crawling toward the door, his broken wrist cradled against his chest, his breath coming in wet, rattling gasps. His crushed windpipe was killing him slowly. He wouldn’t make it to the hospital.
I walked over to him. Slowly. Let him hear my footsteps. Let him feel the inevitability.
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and glassy with pain and terror.
“Please,” he whispered, the word barely audible. “Please. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” I asked, crouching down beside him.
“Didn’t know—didn’t know it was?—”
“Say it.”
He sobbed. “Didn’t know it wasyourshop.”
I grabbed his face, my fingers digging into his jaw, and forced him to look at me.
“Amai Landry,” I said, my voice cold and precise. “The Demon of NOLA. You came intomyshop. You brokemyglass. You pointed a gun atme.”
His whole body was shaking now. Convulsing.
“Everyone in this city knows,” I continued, my grip tightening. “You don’t fuck with The Demon. You don’t touch what’s mine. You don’t evenlookat what’s mine unless I give you permission.”
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
I leaned in close, so close I could smell the fear coming off him in waves.
“You should be.”
I stood, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and dragged him across the floor. He screamed—tried to fight, tried to pull away—but his broken wrist made him useless. I dragged him to the front door, unlocked it with one hand, and threw him out onto the sidewalk.
