Favors made up Brady Hayes’ life. Calling them in. Owing them. Personally, he preferred the former since it made his job easier when someone could provide whatever he needed. That same job was miserable when an owed favor had to do with Shar, one of the lords of the Underworld. That kind of deal was pure hell, pardon the pun. But it wasn’t a good idea to just blow off Shar. Not if you wanted to remain intact. The last guy who blew Shar off was shipped home in a million tiny boxes tied in neat little bows using the guy's guts. Nope, not a pleasant prospect at all.
This was why Brady was down here in the intense heat and darkness in response to Shar’s command. He tried not to make eye contact with the woman seated behind the reception desk. She had to be as tall as him and he was a hefty six foot four. He bet she could take down a tank on a good day, her skin was pale as chalk instead of the tan he'd picked up while working in the Middle East, her black hair showed no gleam of health and her lips and nails were the same ebony as her hair. He was amazed she wasn't sweating buckets in the black leather dress that fit her like a condom. She kept looking at him as if he was dinner. He didn't think she was thinking of a few sexy little nibbles either. More like she wanted him in every damn course including dessert! He kept his eyes trained on the coffee table in front of him and ignored the severed fingers that wiggled inside the cursed wood.
"There you are, Brady." The tall portly man in a charcoal wool suit straight from Armani’s latest collection appeared at the inner office door looking more like a successful financier than your typical everyday dark lord. Brady knew better than to underestimate him. The guy had balls of sulfuric acid. Literally. "Come in, come in. Hold my calls, Morticia," he instructed.