The pizza was gone. The grease on Victor's fingers was cooling, congealing into a waxy film that felt suspiciously like regret.
Post-pizza clarity hit him harder than the calories. It wasn't just the fullness in his stomach; it was the empty feeling in his wallet. Twelve million Hell Gold. That number didn't just sit in his mind; it pulsed behind his eyes like a headache with a drum beat. He had tipped the Dullahan with enough money to buy a small country, or at least a very mean island. And for what? A ride home and a pizza.
"Twelve million," Victor whispered. The words tasted like copper. "I could have paved the driveway in diamonds. I could have hired a dragon to cut the grass."
Iron-Jaw stood by the porch railing, his metal body gleaming with fresh oil. He looked happy, or as happy
