Free Bride of Death (Marla Mason) by T.A. Pratt Page A

responsible for them, Pelham, I didn’t ask them to worship me –”
    “And yet, they do,” he said gently.
    “Fine. If they don’t crawl out in few days, maybe send somebody with subterranean magic experience down to look for them?” Then I winced. “Shit. It’s like somewhere in the back of my head I still think I’m running a city, with all kinds of specialists at my disposal –”
    “We can hire someone appropriate, Mrs. Mason. Rondeau’s funds are not literally inexhaustible, but they might as well be, and he assures me it is difficult to lose money operating a casino – at least when you’re a psychic. In any case, you’re running something much more important than a city, now. Co-regent of the underworld...”
    “I’m glad you’re so proud, Pelly, but it’s just a part-time seasonal gig, really. I’m basically like an apple-picker. Talk to you soon.”
    •
    I put a couple of protective wards on the door – a few more scratches in the doorframe would hardly be noticeable – and went out to get some dinner, leaving Nicolette behind. My options were a Waffle House or an International House of Pancakes or gas station hot dogs or a local diner, and picked the latter. I wondered if diners were going to be bad luck for me, but I got through a chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes without having to bust any heads.
    There wasn’t a lot of nightlife to be had around that particular freeway exit, but I stopped by the gas station/convenience store to rifle through their cheap jewelry rack, finding most of what I needed. I checked my phone and discovered there was a tattoo parlor just a few miles away, in what passed for the outskirts of what passed for this town. I drove there, went inside, made some demands that confused the owner, then dispelled his confusion with a large wad of cash, part of the riding-around money Rondeau had given me. I got the owner to give me a demonstration – luckily someone had an appointment for the right procedure around that time anyway – then bought some tools and went on my merry way.
    When I returned to the motel, Nicolette ignored me, staring at the television. I didn’t mind.
    Eventually the drone of the TV turned to white noise in my ears, and I tried reading a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that Rondeau had slipped into my saddlebags. Of course, once she saw me trying to read, Nicolette interrupted me.
    “Is that any good?”
    I shrugged. “I could live without the Zen bits. The motorcycle maintenance parts are okay.”
    Someone knocked at the door. I frowned, tossed the cover over Nicolette’s cage, and drew my dagger. The motel door didn’t have a peephole, which was fine. I’ve never trusted those, anyway. I knew a guy who got stabbed in the eye right through a peephole once, with a metal shish kebab skewer. I twitched aside the curtain, and saw a young man in black motorcycle leathers, holding a cooler marked with a caduceus symbol.
    I opened the door. “Can I help you?”
    “Marla Mason?”
    “I am.”
    “I’ve got a delivery for you.”
    I looked at him blankly, then laughed. “That was quick.”
    “I usually deliver organs to hospitals. I drive fast. But you’re not far from Phoenix anyway.”
    Ah. That explained how Pelham had organized things this neatly without bending time. He hadn’t sourced my bugs from Las Vegas, but from a city closer to my position. I took the cooler. “Do I, like, tip you, or –”
    “I’m not the pizza guy ,” he said, affronted, and put his helmet on before striding away.
    “Okay then.” I shut the door, put the cooler on the table, and opened it up.
    “Do you mind ,” Nicolette said.
    I took the cover off her cage and tossed it aside.
    She looked at the cooler. “What’s in there? Human heart? Fried up with a little butter, those are delicious –”
    “Silkworms.” I reached in and removing a little baggie full of dead bugs. “And a tiger moth.” Vividly striped, in another