Free Blood Lite II: Overbite by Kelley Armstrong Page A

policy, so when the building burns down next month—”
    Ray Ray’s cheeks puffed in alcoholic indignation. “Gunboat Gary. I’ll get that bastard.”
    “Never mind small-time grifters. What happens in Vegas, Mr. McEelvy.”
    “I’m more concerned about what happens in Beaulahville. This is my town, Mr. Wilhite, and I don’t appreciate a stranger waltzing in here and pissing on my turf.”
    The Devil held his patient smile while an elderly woman hobbled by, her Styrofoam plate balanced on her walker. “This is win-win, growth for growth’s sake. A straightforward business proposition. The policy will pay you two million for content damage. It’s going to be a shame when those rare William Tecumseh Sherman letters go up in smoke.”
    “Wasn’t he the Union general who said ‘War is hell’? I don’t got no letters.”
    “You will. He’s a personal friend who happens to owe me a few favors.”
    “I don’t roll that way, Mr. Wilhite.” Ray Ray wiped at his mouth. “I believe in stealing fair and square, on my own terms.”
    “What’s the difference? You’re going to burn it down anyway.”
    “Because it was my idea. I don’t share the glory and I don’t share the wealth.”
    Pride. The Devil was going to lose this man’s soul because of simple human pride.
    Ah, what’s the use? What good is another arsonist in hell, anyway? I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Heh. Fish to fry. That’s funny.
    “Fine, Mr. McEelvy. Good luck with that little endeavor. I’m sorry the Beaulahville Volunteer Fire Department is going to be on the scene within three minutes and your ‘total loss’ is going to turn into a marshmallow roast. Be proud, my friend. Be proud.”
    Ray Ray’s hands were trembling a little, and it was obviously time for some liver fortification. The Devil left him to his spiked tea and creamed corn and turned his attention to the real reason he’d come.
    By now, Betty had swapped out the pot of infested pudding and proffered a foil-covered pie. The Devil grinned. “Just like Mom used to make?”
    “She’s in the bosom of the Lord, God rest her soul,” Betty said.
    Actually, the Devil knew otherwise, because Betty’s mother was currently wearing nothing but gasoline while wading through a pit of bubbling tar. But the rules of engagement required the Devil keep such information to himself. All he could do was dig in his usual bag of tricks. “I suppose you’re going to lie about your maggot pudding, and that’s why you’ve hidden it away. Because you’re so proud.”
    “Oh, no,” she said. “The reverend’s coming, and he’s a vegetarian, so he can’t have maggots.”
    Maynard Gray was indeed making his way along the buffet, picking over the greens to see if any of them bore the sheen of fatback. He turned up his nose at the fried chicken, skipped over the sliced pork shoulder, and barely even glanced at the bratwurst and sauerkraut. His plate contained only a pile of plain mashed potatoes, a roll, and three pieces of celery.
    The Devil reached under the table and pulled out a dish of his own making. Jesus wasn’t the only miracle worker to have graced the pages of the New Testament. And the Devil was that book’s sole survivor. He’d learned a thing or two along the way.
    “Here you go, Reverend,” the Devil said.
    The preacher lifted the lid and peered down at the plate. “Deviled eggs?” he said, in a sonorous voice befitting his calling.
    “Made them myself,” the Devil said.
    “They look mighty delicious, but I don’t eat meat.”
    “These aren’t flesh,” the Devil said.
    “Well, eggs count as meat,” the preacher said.
    “Technically, it’s not born yet, so it’s an embryo and not flesh,” the Devil said.
    “Are you trying to make a pro-choice argument?”
    “I’m all about choice,” the Devil said.
    The preacher gave a tolerant, patient smile. “Are you a member of the congregation?”
    The Devil waved to the sign that stood by the road. “I was just