My Ex-Husband Is the Devil's Debt Collector

The first indication that my Tuesday was going to be spectacularly terrible came when a dead man walked into my office. Not metaphorically dead. Actually dead. I knew because I'd attended his funeral six months ago. I'd even watched his widow throw dirt onto his coffin. "Mr. Whitmore?" The man standing in my doorway smiled. His teeth were black. "Evelyn Hart," he said pleasantly. "You've inherited something." I looked at the clock. 9:17 a.m. Far too early for this bullshit. "Mr. Whitmore, you're dead." "Yes." "Since April." "Correct." I'd been a probate attorney for eleven years. My clients occasionally behaved as though death were a minor administrative inconvenience, but this was new. "Would you like to sit down?" "How kind." He sat. Something smelled like sulfur and burnt sugar. I discreetly pressed the emergency button beneath my desk. Mr. Whitmore watched me. "That won't help, dear." "Wonderful." He placed a thick black envelope on my desk. My name was written across it in gold lettering, beneath a symbol resembling a snake swallowing a crown. "I wasn't aware I was a beneficiary," I said. "Oh, you're not." "Then what am I?" His smile widened. "The collateral." Before I could respond, his jaw fell off. It landed on my desk with a wet little thump. We stared at it. I slowly pushed my coffee farther away. "Well," I said. "That's unfortunate." Mr. Whitmore gurgled. Then he exploded. Not in a dramatic fireball. He simply disintegrated into black ash, covering my desk, my diploma, and the cream-colored blouse I'd bought last weekend. I sat perfectly still. Then I picked up my phone. "Hi, Dennis." "Morning, Ms. Hart." "Did you happen to see an elderly gentleman enter my office?" "Gray suit? Walked a little funny?" "That's the one." "Everything okay?" I examined the severed jawbone beside my keyboard. "Define okay." *** By eleven thirty, three things had happened. Dennis had fainted. The police had decided the jawbone was probably an elaborate prank. And the black envelope had begun bleeding. Not a lot. Just enough to ruin my desk calendar. I was staring at it when my assistant, Nora, appeared. "There's a man here to see you." "Unless he's a priest or an exorcist, tell him I'm unavailable." "He says he's your husband." My stomach dropped. "No." Nora blinked. "No, he's not your husband?" "No, he doesn't get to be here." "Okay, but he's very—" "Nora." "—attractive." I closed my eyes. Of course he was. Some men aged gracefully. Some aged like expensive wine. Lucian Vale apparently aged like a personal insult from God. "Tell him to leave." "I did." "And?" "He bought the building." I opened my eyes. "He what?" "Apparently, fifteen minutes ago." "That's impossible." "Patricia confirmed it." Patricia. My seventy-year-old landlord who brought cookies every Christmas. Traitor. "He's in the conference room," Nora added. For the first time in three years, I seriously considered murder. *** Lucian Vale stood beside the conference room window, looking out over Chicago as though he'd personally commissioned the skyline. Charcoal suit. Black shirt. No tie. His dark hair was longer. His shoulders broader. His face remained a masterpiece of unfair genetics. I hated him immediately. "Absolutely not." He turned. For one brief second, something flickered across his expression. Relief. Then it vanished. "Hello, Evelyn." That voice. Low, smooth, with the faintest accent I'd never been able to place. "Get out." "It's good to see you too." "You bought my building?" "Yes." "Why?" "Your landlord was being difficult." "Patricia is a grandmother who knits scarves for homeless cats." "She was very reasonable." "Lucian." He looked at me with that infuriating patience he used whenever he thought I was about to do something reckless. I'd once loved that expression. I'd also once considered buying a timeshare. People made mistakes. "Why are you here?" His gaze dropped to the ash on my blouse. His expression changed. "Who came to see you?" "None of your business." "Was he alive?" I stared. "Excuse me?" "The visitor. Was he alive when he arrived?" My mouth opened. Closed. Lucian exhaled. "That's what I was afraid of." He caught my wrist. I yanked it away. "Don't touch me." He froze, staring at something beneath my skin. A thin black line curled around my wrist. It hadn't been there this morning. Lucian muttered something in an unfamiliar language. The lights flickered. "That's new," I said. "Evelyn, did you open the envelope?" "No." His shoulders relaxed. "It started bleeding, so I put it in my drawer." His shoulders tightened again. "Bleeding?" "Yes, Lucian. That thing people do when injured? Except this was stationery." "Don't let anyone touch it." "Why?" "Because someone is trying to claim you." I laughed. "Claim me? As what? A dependent?" His jaw tightened. "As property." The room went quiet. "You're serious." "Unfortunately." I stepped closer. "Then explain. And don't you dare tell me there's no time." He glanced at the clock. "Evelyn—" "No. You don't get to disappear, return with terrible news, and refuse to explain yourself. We tried that for five years. Remember how it ended?" His expression went still. "Yes." "Good." For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he said quietly, "I remember everything." That hurt more than it should have. I looked away. "The envelope is a debt instrument," he continued. "Someone transferred a supernatural obligation into your name." "Supernatural." "Yes." "As in ghosts?" "Among other things." "Demons?" He hesitated. "Oh, for f**k's sake." "Evelyn—" "Are you telling me demons are real?" "Yes." "And you know this because?" Silence. I looked at him. Really looked. At his impossible stillness. At the shadows leaning toward him. At the red glimmer passing through his eyes. "Lucian. Are you a demon?" He considered that. "Technically, no." "Technically?" "It's complicated." "Of course it is." A knock interrupted us. Nora opened the door. "Sorry, Ms. Hart, but there's another gentleman here." Lucian turned sharply. "What gentleman?" "Very tall. White hair. Expensive coat. Honestly, I thought he was a model." Lucian went pale. I'd never seen him go pale. Not when his car was totaled. Not when I'd thrown my wedding ring at his head. Not even when I'd served him divorce papers. "Did he give you a name?" Lucian asked. "Prince Asmodeus." Lucian swore. The windows cracked. The lights went out. And a pleasant male voice called from the hallway: "Lucian, darling. I hear your wife is available again." *** I'd imagined seeing my ex-husband again. An awkward restaurant encounter. A charity gala. Perhaps discovering he'd gained fifty pounds and developed an unfortunate hairline. I hadn't imagined an actual prince of Hell flirting with me. Yet here we were. Asmodeus was beautiful. Not handsome. Beautiful. White-blond hair framed a face worthy of a Renaissance painting. His violet eyes glittered above a smile that suggested he'd never been told no and genuinely enjoyed hearing it. He examined me. "Oh, she's lovely." Lucian stepped between us. "Leave." "You always were possessive." "She isn't yours." "According to the contract, she is." "I haven't seen the contract." "Then perhaps you should have paid closer attention to your former wife's affairs." I raised a finger. "Excuse me." Neither man looked at me. Wonderful. I'd apparently been demoted to furniture. "The debt was transferred legally," Asmodeus continued. "The witness delivered notice. The mark appeared." "Whitmore was dead," Lucian snapped. "Death doesn't invalidate a witness in our jurisdiction." "Excuse me," I repeated. Nothing. I picked up the water pitcher and threw its contents over both men. Lucian stared at his soaked shirt. Asmodeus blinked. Nora made a choking sound. "Now," I said, setting down the pitcher, "which one of you would like to explain why I'm being traded like a used Honda?" Asmodeus began laughing. Genuinely laughing. "Oh, Lucian. I like her." "Don't," Lucian said. The prince turned to me. "My dear Evelyn, you've inherited a debt of thirteen million infernal crowns." "What's the exchange rate?" "Unfavorable." "Of course." "Your creditor has elected to collect through personal service." "Meaning?" "Seven hundred years." I waited. He smiled. "Seven hundred years of what?" Lucian answered. "Servitude." My stomach dropped. "Unless someone settles the debt," Asmodeus added. "Fine. Send me an invoice." "We don't accept dollars, sweetheart." "What do you accept?" His violet eyes brightened. "Souls." I went still. "Whose soul?" "Yours would be sufficient." Lucian growled. "Absolutely not." "Then pay the debt," Asmodeus said. "You know I can't." "Such a shame." The prince looked back at me. "Fortunately, there's another option." I should have recognized that smile. Instead, I asked, "What option?" Asmodeus gestured toward Lucian. "Marry him." Silence. Then I laughed. And laughed. Neither man joined me. My laughter died. "No." "The choice is yours." "I already married him once." "So I've heard." "It was a disaster." "How unfortunate." "I divorced him." "Yes, I believe that was mentioned." I looked at Lucian. He wasn't smiling. "Tell me this is a joke." He said nothing. "Lucian." "I'm sorry." There it was again. The apology I'd heard a thousand times during our marriage. The apology that never came with an explanation. Something inside me went cold. "No." Asmodeus lifted an eyebrow. "Then we'll proceed with collection." He reached into his coat. Lucian stepped forward. "Wait." The prince paused. Lucian looked at me. For the first time since I'd met him, I saw something that looked like fear. "Evelyn, I need you to trust me." I stared at the man who'd broken my heart. Then at the prince who wanted to repossess my soul. Finally, I looked at Nora, still clutching her phone. "Nora?" "Yes, Ms. Hart?" "Cancel my afternoon appointments." "All of them?" "All of them." I faced the two supernatural lunatics. "Because if I'm getting married today, somebody is going to explain why my first marriage ended." Lucian went motionless. Asmodeus's smile disappeared. And for the first time all morning, I had the distinct impression I'd said something neither of them expected.