Page 9 of Finders Reapers

“It isn’t,” I argued. “You can’t sign awaysomeone else’ssoul. Contracts don’t work that way.”

“The file says that you’re an Influencer. What would you know about Cyclian Contract law?” Charon shrugged.

“Cyclian?”

“People from Italy are Italian. People born in Hell are Cyclian.” Charon rolled his eyes.

“Demons, you mean,” I pointed out before craning my neck and looking down at the file again. “What else does my file say about me?”

Charon didn’t answer my question. “The contract stands.”

“I don’t have a soul?” Both my brows raised.

“You have a soul.” He told me. “Youarea soul.”

I continued to look blankly at him.

“I don’t know.” His hands flailed. “The Devil is MIA. Okay? He isn’t in Hell or any other world. He is incognito. He’s done the ole duck and dive.” Charon’s accent became courser. Still English, but rougher, with a cockney twang. “The chickens are coming in to roost. The last round of contracts he signed up are up for collection, and I don’t have any idea where to put you all.”

“Heaven?” I suggested hopefully.

He gave me a look. “Nice try.”

“What happens if I don’t go to Hell?” I really didn’t want to go to Hell.

“I can throw you into the ether.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You’d be torn apart, and your energy will join the universe. I wouldn’t get my quarterly bonus.”

My nose wrinkled. “Pass.”

“Appreciate that.” Charon clicked his tongue.

“I don’t care about your bonus,” I snapped. “I just don’t want to cease to exist!”

Charon exhaled sharply through his nose before resting his chin on his knuckles. He stared at me for a moment too long before unknotting his fingers and reaching for the phone again.

“Where can I put you, where you’ll cause the least trouble?” He tapped his fingers on the desk, shooting me a look I didn’t understand. It was so cold. Reptilian. That it was almost as if I had been talking to a different man the entire time. Someone wearing a mask.

Charon put down the heavy handset. “Wait here.” He commanded as he stood up before adding a mutter that I was sure I wasn’t meant to hear.“I’m too old for this shit.’

I hadn’t been sitting alone for long when I heard a sound from behind me. It took me a moment to realize that someone had opened the door just a crack and was making tsking sounds, like they were trying to coax a cat out of hiding.

Brow arched, I turned at the waist. I caught a glimpse of the lurid yellow hoody with floppy pokemon ears on either side before the person behind the door hurried away on a laugh.

Fletcher.

I crept forward, peeking through the crack in the doorway. Dozens of people sat on ergonomic chairs, typing away. A few milled about drinking coffee and wearing blazers.

Curiosity had me following the brightly colored man, swathed in pink and yellow like some kind of scene kid from the naughties.

No one paid me any mind as I stepped through the door and followed on Fletcher's heels—finally stopping when his trail disappeared outside of a break room. Which was filled with a group of women holding coffee mugs and standing around the chrome behemoth of an expression machine, and chatting idly.

I turned away to retrace my steps to Charon’s office when I caught a snippet of conversation that piqued my interest—and I wasn’t one to lie and say that I didn’t love gossip.

Studies showed that it literally helped people bond, and I was all for social cohesion.

“Did you see theDeath of the Week?” A woman with a severe ponytail that was so tight it had performed a non-surgical facelift, took a sip of her coffee and raised her brows over the rim.

“You mean the drowning in the rooftop pool of the Paris rooftop Soleil deck?” A woman no older than I was, with violet hair in space buns on either side of her head, tilted her chin.