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He reaches for his glass of water and takes a deep swallow before answering. “I-I like to invest.”

“How much money?”

“A little over twelve thousand.”

Twelve thousand dollars. He’s emptied his mother’s coffers and here he is living like a king. But behind this façade, the man only has twelve thousand dollars at hand. And I bet that money will get liquidated soon as well. These types of men have butterfingers; money slips right through them.

I give him a disappointed look. “That’s not the right answer. Now,” I say, the siren urging me to be cruel, “where is the money?”

His sweaty upper lip twitches before he answers. “Gone.”

I reach over and turn off the camera and the recorder. My client got the confession she wanted. Too bad for Mickey, I’m not done with him.

“No,” I say, “it’s not.” Those few people who know me well enough would recognize my tone’s changed.

Again his brows draw together as his confusion peeks through.

I touch his lapel. “This suit is nice—really nice. And your watch—Rolexes aren’t cheap, are they?”

The glamour makes him shake his head.

“No,” I agree. “See, for men like you, money doesn’t just vanish. It goes towards… what did you call it?” I look around for the word before snapping my fingers. “Investments. I moves around a bit, but that’s all.” I lean in close. “We’re going to move it around a little more.”

His eyes widen. Now I see Micky—not the puppet controlled by my magic, but the Micky he was before I walked into this room. Someone shrewd, someone weak. He’s fully aware of what’s happening.

“Wh—who are you?” Oh, the fear in his eyes. The siren can’t resist that. I reach over and pet his cheek. “I-I’m going to—”

“You’re going to sit back and listen, Micky,” I say, “and that’s all you’re going to do because right now, you—are—powerless.”

Chapter 2

May, eight years ago

The air waversin my kitchen, like I’m staring at a mirage, then suddenly, he’s here, filling the room like he owns it.

The Bargainer.

Holy shit, it worked.

All I can see of him is a good six feet of man and a whole lot of white blond hair tied together in a leather thong. The Bargainer’s back is to me.

A whistle breaks the silence. “That is one dead man,” he says, staring at my handiwork. His heavy boots clink as he approaches the body.

He wears black on black, his shirt stretched tight over his wide shoulders. My eyes drop to his left arm, which is covered in tattoos.

Callie, what did you get yourself into?

The toe of the Bargainer’s boot nudges the corpse. “Hmm, I stand corrected. Mostly dead.”

That snaps me out of it.

“What?” He can’t be alive. The fear that thrums through my veins is a living, breathing thing.

“It will cost you probably more than you’re willing to offer, but I can still revive him.”

Revive him? What is this dude smoking?

“I don’t want himalive,” I say.