“Madeline, I am aprofessional.” A bad taste filled my mouth at the thought of pushing someone into a million-dollar purchase they didn’t really want. “An uncertain buyer leads to a very expensive failure—one I usually can’t afford.”
“Good,” Madeline sniffed. “You’ll be less likely to receive check-ins than my other contracts. As I was saying: any tricks on your part will result in a conference on your behavior and potential additions to your centum.”
“What do you define as successfully placing a . . .” God, I couldn’t say it out loud. Monsters? Actualmonsters?Was I Frankenstein’s real estate agent now? “. . . client in a home?” I settled for the rest of my question.
“Marvelous.” Madeline smiled, all her sharp, yellowed teeth returning between her cracked lips. “I love when a contract checks on the fine print. You’re going to be fun.”
I arched my brows, waiting.
“When you hand the keys to a willing and enthusiastic client, a notch will be added toward your total.” Madeline made a complicated gesture in the air before producing what looked like a datebook. The cover was cracked and worn, gold lettering half-faded in a language I didn’t recognize. I accepted it from The Witch, a soft static buzzing my fingertips. “Inside, you’ll find contacts, profiles, housing desires, and expected showing dates. With each happy client, their pages will come to me for filing.”
“And what am I supposed to do about my current clients? I can’t drop everything to?—”
“You can.” Madeline cut me off. “And you will.”
It was my turn to pinch the bridge of my nose in frustration. “You have no idea how expensive this city is, do you?”
“I’m well-acquainted. Your financials are not my concern.” The Witch slid the signature page to the edge of the desk, tapping it meaningfully with her long nail. “If you’d be so kind, Miss Marina, I have several others waiting for their turn.”
“Wait—” I still had so many questions, so many fresh fears I hadn’t known lurked in the shadowed corners of my mind. How long would this take? How was I expected to bring in income in the meantime? Was I supposed to work for monsters for free foryears?
Madeline unleashed a frustrated growl, slamming a pointed elbow on her desk and holding up fingers, ticking off each point as she bit them out. “One: You must find homes for one hundred monsters. Two: They must willingly and enthusiastically accept the keys from you. Three: You cannot rush the process in any way. No bumping up showings, no double-booking clients, no pushing the wrong fit just to get a contract signed, and no other work outside your allotment.”
“That’s especially cruel,” I muttered, unable to stop the complaint.
“That is entirely the point of a punishment, m’dear.”
Those were the last words I heard from The Witch before my next blink transported me back onto the street corner. Sound washed over me in a wave, dragging me under in crippling overwhelm. That’s where Laura found me, several long minutes later—silent, paralyzed, and clutching that strange black book.
Now you’re up to speed, I’d love to tell you that my time amongst the monstrous, the forgotten, and the lost changed me. I wishI found greater meaning in my work and redefined the idea of “home.”
Instead, I’ve gained new grey hairs from the stress. I never know what creature from the lagoon will crawl up the front steps for our appointment—or worse, drop from the sky. Even after ninety-nine of these in five years, my palms sweat, my gut twists, the hairs on the back of my neck stand straight up.
Never mind my embarrassing bank account. This payoff better be worth it. Too late, I realized I didn’t negotiate my rate with The Witch, and I still have yet to hear from the terrifying woman who called herself Madeline.
I’m standing in the kitchen of a luxurious penthouse suite in the Presidio. All dark-wood natural grain finishes, pristine soft lighting from top-of-the-line brands, windows that stretch nine feet to the ceiling so you never miss a minute of your uninterrupted view of the Golden Gate Bridge—weather permitting. I tap my nails on the granite countertops, letting my gaze drift to the copper farmhouse sink, the special-ordered fridge built into the cabinetry so a stranger would have to guess where the drinks are without their host.
My phone rings with a number I don’t recognize—a first in at least a year. Prospects and friends alike stopped calling me after I left Fort, Smith, & Ralley, claiming I was starting out on my own. I blamed my money troubles on the slow build that comes with a new business, but it meant I could no longer blow $400 a head at my usual spots. It was twisting the knife while spitting in my face to realize that my entire social circle revolved around how much money you made—or didn’t.
“This is Anya,” I answer.
“Oh, I apologize.” The voice is barely more than a scratching whisper, and I have to press the phone tight to my ear to hear them. “I was told this was the number for Yeti Another Home Sold.”
I suppress the frustrated groan pressing against my diaphragm. Instead, I flip off the glittering city outside, flinging my arm with all the rage I wish I could express at the ever-darkening night.
FuckingEdur.
“Are you a friend of Edur Boreal, by chance?” I ask, cramming as much politeness into my voice as I can stomach. A soft chirp trills on the other end of the call.
“Yes! Yes, I am. He and I are very dear friends from a long time ago. He said I’d be welcome in San Francisco when I was ready and gave me your number.” I miss about a third of what the willow voice whispers after that, my mind racing.
This is new. And certainly wasn’t addressed in my original contract with The Witch. I feel my world still, my heart skipping a beat. It’s as if I’ve stumbled upon a crossroads that will decide my future, and no one warned me I’d find it this quickly.
Just in time, the buzzer from downstairs rings. “Miss Desroches is on her way up, ma’am.”
“I have to call you back.” I hang up without waiting for a response from the strange caller, reaching for the intercom button in the kitchen. “Thanks, Greg. Have a good night.”
Of course, my last client of this hellscape would demand meeting at some insane hour. The doorman agreed to stay long enough to see her in but insisted he needed to leave by 11:30 p.m. Not wanting anyone to suffer with me, I agreed.