By Geoffrey Thorne
Copyright © 2010 Geoffrey Thorne
“So the only real question,” said the thing in the sharkskin suit from across the table, “is will you take the job or will you not?”
Sherman, not wanting to seem too eager, let the air settle between them while pretending to consider.
He did need the money– he somehow always needed money– and he certainly could use the opportunity to pick up some new toys, but there was something about these creatures and their offer that just didn’t sit well.
Maybe it was because he knew they were demons rather than the leg breakers they aped.
Sherman had a thing about demons. It involved never spending more than a couple of minutes in their company if he could avoid it. Generally, he found it unhealthy to commit himself to even that much time.
Still, he thought, ruefully replaying the last few weeks in his mind, it was sort of his own fault that he was even in a position to hear their offer. He was just too greedy and just too damned good at his job.
For somebody who guarded his privacy like a pitbull standing over a pound of raw burglar, Sherman sure managed to get people talking.
He’d hardly completed his work for the ladies of The Heavy Bliss coven– a little job involving a few ounces of silver nitrate making its way into the water supply of the werewolf pack that had set up on the city’s outskirts– before a stringer for the Shatter Grrls had tracked him down.