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“Don’t worry,” the bartender says, “this is a … What do you call it? Safe zone? Home base? Olly olly oxen free? You get the idea. As long as you’re in here, they stay out there. But if you leave … Well, you saw what happened to Caleb. Your zombies are obviously there, Henry. Ellie’s shooter is there. Edgar’s dog is there—that’s what he was afraid of, apparently, a massive rabid dog. And then there’s whatever the hell Raymond dreamed up. You humans, you have such a knack for creating monsters, as if you don’t have enough of them to deal with in the real world.”

He sets his glass down. “They’re all out there, waiting for you. Now, in case you think you can just stay here forever, I believe I’ve already demonstrated how easily I can kick you out. But I will grant you that reprieve. Time to rest. Have a drink. Confess your sins. Make out. Whatever you need.”

“I want to cut a deal,” Henry rumbles.

The bartender squeezes his eyes shut, looking pained. “Please don’t.”

“Your kind make deals, don’t they?”

The bartender’s eyes fly open in mock affront. “My kind? What do you think I am? A demon?” He leans over. “You humans made those up, too.”

“Here’s the deal,” Henry says. “You need a reaper. I’ll do it if you let Ellie go.”

“Reapers, demons, you are so intent on giving everything a name. And I appreciate the offer, but no. You’d both make even worse employees than this one.” He hooks a thumb at Maggie.

“You told us the offer still stood,” Henry says. “One of us could become a reaper if we turned on the other.”

The bartender shrugs. “I just wanted to see if you’d kill each other. Push comes to shove, and all that.”

“I’ll take that drink,” I say, walking toward the bar.

He grins. “Now you’re talking. What would you like?”

“A whole bottle.” I open the gate to step behind the bar and pause. “May I?”

He bows. “Be my guest. If there’s anything you want and it’s not here, I’m sure I can conjure it up. You’ve earned the best. Scotch maybe? Or vintage wine?”

“Something numbing,” I say as I scan the shelf. “Tequila. That should do it.”

I walk next to him to get the bottle, and then, as fast as I can, I smash it and slash the broken end across his throat. I expect he’ll teleport away, and I don’t care. It’s the action that counts. The loudest “fuck you” I can scream.

Fuck your game.

Fuck all of this.

But most of all? Fuck you.

The bartender doesn’t teleport away, though. He seems to try—he shimmers just before I strike. But then the glass edge hits and stops him.

Even then I don’t expect anything will happen. It’ll be like slashing through air. Or slashing a mannequin. He’s not real—not in this form at least. He’s costumed himself as human but can’t be expected to behave in any human way.

The glass cuts in, though, and I feel it go in, I feel the skin separate, see it split, see the blood seep up and then spurt.

Still, I know it’s an illusion. It has to be. He’s feigning a death scene, clutching his throat, as if he’s trying to hold the split halves together, his eyes widening in shock. Fake shock. He slumps back onto the counter and then slides toward the floor, and fury rages through me.

He’s mocking us. Feigning his death so he can jump up and grin, because he didn’t die, can’t die, but we can and will.

I want to kick him, like I kicked Raymond. Kick him in the head. I’d shocked myself with that, but it had felt so good, so satisfying. I’d thought of Noemi, alone in her grief and fear, and that bastard killing her, and I’d kicked him as hard as I could.

Now I want to kick this bastard for everything he has done and everything he intends to do, but more than that, I want to kick him for the sheer glee he takes in our misery.

Yet I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ve slashed his throat, and after that, kicking seems anticlimactic. I made my point. I just need to wait for him to leap up, smirking, and then, maybe I’ll do it again. Again and again until I wipe that fucking smirk from his face.

But he’s not leaping up. He’s on the floor, gasping, eyes rolled back. Overdoing it. Overacting. Whatever.

“Five minutes,” Maggie whispers, as if to herself, her gaze forward.

I cross my arms and glance at Henry, who just stares in confusion.