By: E. Michael Mettille
Publication Date: April 1, 2025
Publisher: TMR Books
Cover Design: Mayhem Cover Creations
Genre: Fantasy
Bale made a bad deal a couple of thousand years ago at a dark time in his life. Everything had been perfect, and then it was almost all ripped away. Out of desperation, he made a deal with the devil. At least, that’s what he thought. He didn’t sell his soul to the lord of the underworld. He sold his daughter’s soul to Orwell Durr, a cat who is as close to the concept of God Bale has found so far. He’s been a hunter ever since. Taking a measly few years off his daughter’s sentence for every mark he brings in.
Everything changes when Orwell locates a soul he’s been wanting for millennia. That soul represents the biggest case—and the biggest risk—Bale has ever taken. If he succeeds his daughter’s soul is free. Maybe they could find some kind of normalcy in a couple of lives which have been anything but that. If he fails… Well, he’d probably rather not think about that. She’d be lost to him forever. There would be no reason for him to exist.
The mark for this big case resides in Perver City, hell if you’re keeping score, but it ain’t what you think. Orwell sells the City of Gold as total spiritual bliss. Buy it or don’t, that’s the pitch. Perver City isn’t quite the opposite of that. There is no fire, burning, or suffering. That place is total physical bliss. Any pleasure you can imagine with no consequences. It sounds great, but for Bale it represents a whole pack of distractions that might be too enticing to avoid. Hopefully, he’s stronger than whatever that place throws at him. His daughter’s soul depends on it.
Orwell Durr was an insufferable cunt. Bale preferred to avoid that particular word, but in all the years he knew the vile thing, a better descriptor hadn’t presented itself. On the surface, Orwell was the picture of perfection. His eyes were bright and keen like a fox’s. He wore a crisp, white suit that seemed impervious to wrinkles or any form of blemish. It was the same suit he’d been wearing since Bale met him. Of course, it couldn’t have been the same exact suit. He must have had hundreds of thousands of them, and they all looked the same. His hair and perfectly trimmed goatee were as white and bright as his clothing. Neither made him look elderly. His skin was youthful and taut, like a twenty-something who’d witnessed a thing so utterly terrifying it shocked the color from his hair.
Beneath that flawless façade dwelled the vilest, most conniving scum to ever tarnish the face of reality. His heart, if he had one, must have been the blackest, deadest thing to ever rot inside a carcass. He was absent even the minutest speck of patience and housed equal amounts of compassion and empathy. He was a void who cared only for perfection at any cost.
Orwell’s office echoed his personality. The glossy, mahogany desk he reclined behind was flanked by bookshelves of the same deep, rich finish. Everything was tidy and perfectly in line. There were no ragged edges or oddities which seemed out of place. Everything was precise despite appearing like nineteen-thirty sat on its face and dribbled its goodness all over its chin. Orwell was like that though. He had particular eras he was fond of, and he lived like they never ended. Every meeting was like a scene from some black and white noir film, and he was the big boss behind whatever scheme was happening.
Bale unhappily played the muscle in Orwell’s fantasies. He carried Billy’s heavy ass over his shoulder all the way up to Orwell’s desk and dropped it in front of it in a fat, sweaty pile of unconsciousness.
“Sloppy as usual, Mr. Lance,” Orwell droned like an annoyed schoolteacher.
Bale always planned to be polite, to play the game, but he could never stick the landing. As soon as Orwell opened his mouth, Bale became a defiant child battling against the rules. “Sorry, Or,” he shrugged, “Fucker ran. Can’t figure why. Just look at him. This cat couldn’t outrun a stick of butter. He’d probably eat one though.”
Orwell’s jaw tightened as he replied, “Would you say I treat you with respect, Mr. Lance?”
“Respect?” Bale chuckled, “That might be a stretch. Polite, I’d say, annoyingly polite.”
The tension in Orwell’s jaw remained as he asked, “Then why do you refuse me the same?” He cleared his throat dramatically before continuing, “Mr. Durr, Orwell, either of those would be fine. When you call me Or, it sounds as if you’d like to reduce me to a common conjunction. Do I appear common to you, Mr. Lance?”
“Of course not, boss,” Bale grinned, “There is nothing common about you.” He nodded toward the pile lying on the floor next to him before asking, “This fat shit’s fifty, right?”
Orwell casually examined his fingernails as he replied, “Twenty-five.”
“It was fifty when I took the job,” Bale grunted in disgust.
“Clean marks are fifty. You always bring them to me stressed. How we do things is equally important as the things we choose to do,” Orwell’s tone dripped with boredom.
It was the same as always with this cocksucker. The price offered was never the price paid. As much as he liked to pimp the idea that everyone was dying to get into heaven, or at least their perception of it, nobody gave a shit about Orwell or the City of Gold anymore. If they did, that tightwad wouldn’t need to chase these losers down.
Bale sighed deep as he finally replied, “A soul’s a soul, and this one was a pain in the ass.”
Orwell shrugged and offered a smug smile as he replied, “Oh well, you did succeed where others failed, and he was a slippery one. Probably heavy too, by the looks of him. I’ll give you thirty-five.”
“Come on, Or,” Bale groaned, “You’ve given me thirty-five for coma patients.” He scratched his head, scowled at Billy still lying unconscious on the floor, and pointed several times at Orwell before adding, “Fine. I want to see her then.”
The dramatic and slow laugh Orwell offered before responding was as obnoxious as it was infuriating. He loved this shit. When he finally finished his patronizing chuckle, all he offered was more bullshit, “Do I look like a negotiator? Your next visit is in two weeks. You should be satisfied I allow you to see her at all.”
“Come on, five minutes. I’ve brought you eight solid marks since my last visit. Just let me pop in and let her know I’m still around.” Bale pled his case sweetening his voice up as much as he was able around the foul taste he always got in the back of his throat when he had to deal with this pretentious twat.
Orwell’s smile turned devious as he leaned forward into his desk, rubbed his hands together briskly, and said, “Fine, let’s negotiate then. You can have ten minutes, but then you only get ten for the mark.”
Bale clenched his fists like he might jump across Orwell’s desk and knock the condescending grin off his pompous face. Instead of making that grave mistake, he nearly shouted, “Ten years? That’s some bottom-feeder bullshit, and you know it!”
“Your mouth, Mr. Lance! Do not forget who owns whom here. If you want to see her, it is ten. If you would prefer thirty-five, you walk out of here,” the smile fled from Orwell’s face as his voice effortlessly rose to a volume almost loud enough to make ears bleed.
Bale cringed. Covering his ears failed to keep them from feeling like they might explode at any minute. He knew how to push Orwell across the line. Luckily, he had learned long ago when to stop pushing. The defiance dancing all about his expression fled as he sighed and said, “Please, Mr. Durr. Can we make it twenty-five and ten minutes?”
“That is better,” Orwell replied as the smug, satisfied smile slipped back onto face. Then he nonchalantly added, “Now, I have given you two clear options. All you need do is choose.”
Bale bit his tongue and choked down all the venom pounding on the back of his teeth that wanted desperately to spew out all over Orwell’s desk. None of the words he would assault the boss with would make a damn bit of difference, so he stuffed them deep into his gut to fester until the day he finally decided to take the old man on. He drew in a deep breath, let his body deflate with a big sigh, and said, “Negotiation, my ass. Fine. I’ll take ten and ten.”
Orwell signaled he was finished with the conversation by shifting his attention to something on his desk. The something didn’t matter. It was all an act, just another thing he did to make sure everyone knew how small and insignificant they were. He casually waved his hand and said, “Very good, Mr. Lance. Go ahead then. You know the way.”
It wasn’t easy to yank his stare away from that vile thing. There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he wanted to do. But it was done. Nothing he could say or do would make a difference. It would feel good in the moment, but Orwell could erase him with a thought. That wouldn’t do. He had more work to get done.
He let the rage radiate off him as he walked toward a decoratively carved, wooden door, finished in the same rich mahogany as everything else in the perfect room. The handle was gold and resembled a solar cross with intricate patterns carved into it. The pattern was allegedly a phrase written in the language of angels. Michael had told him once that it said, “Eternity lies beyond this door.” Bale never believed it actually said anything. Michael was full of shit most of the time.
The door didn’t lead to any room. When he opened it, it looked like dark water with slight circular ripples slowly radiating out from its center until they terminated at the edges of the doorway. Bright, light-blue beams that were almost white shimmered from those ripples like static racing around those circles. He stepped through.
It felt just like departing. There was that brief moment of terror when his body felt like it was being ripped apart in a split second of excruciating pain followed by an instant of sheer bliss, like floating in a cloud, and then he was put back together in the most beautiful place in any reality he’d ever visited. It was paradise. Too bad it was just a beautiful prison for the only thing he cared about, the only reason he woke up every morning.
Everything around him was just a little bit more. The leaves on the trees were greener. The grass spreading out in every direction was greener and lusher than any lawn, no matter how well kept, in any of the billions of potentialities. Lilacs were the most vibrant purple, elegantly outlined in the purest white. It seemed a prettier flower could never exist until one beheld the irises almost glowing in their own purple hues. The dahlias almost outshined them both. Every flower of every type boasted the deepest yet somehow brightest colors that ever were. It was almost too much. The sky above was the same. The blue of that sky almost seemed fake in its perfection. The water of the small pond she sat next to on a large but perfectly smooth boulder pulling petals from a bright, white daisy and tossing them into the drink reflected the perfection of that pristine sky.
Bale just stood there watching for a moment. The time was short, but something about her innocence always left him yearning for simpler times. Angel Cakes is what he’d called her for the last who knows how many years. He had named her Eirini when she was born, but he hadn’t called her that in ages. It had been so long she probably wouldn’t even remember. Her perfect, dark-brown hair curled in ringlets that rested gently against her porcelain skin. She looked like a doll.
“He loves me,” she finally shouted as she yanked the last petal from her flower and tossed it triumphantly into the air.
The truest joy he’d ever felt was marred by sadness knowing he could never give her the life she deserved, but it still managed to bring a dopey smile to his hard face. It fled far too quickly as he glanced at the two stooges keeping watch. They looked like identical twins except for their long and flowing hair. Michael’s was blonde, and Gabriel’s was fire-red. They both wore impeccable white suits just like Orwell, and they both looked equally pretentious.
Bale offered the two angels a brief scowl before turning his attention back to his reason to exist and shouting, “Angel Cakes!”
He loved the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. The visits were too short and too infrequent, but she never let on how let down she must have been. She jumped down from the rock she’d been sitting on, dropped her petal-less flower, and ran to him with her arms wide and her perfect curls bouncing all about her head.
She jumped into his arms and stared up at him with wide eyes like two bright blue moons as she nearly shouted, “Daddy! The flower said you love me, and you came. You finally came!”
He planted a smooch on her cheek and said, “Of course, I did. Giant dragons couldn’t keep me away from the most beautiful, little angel in five galaxies.”
“Giant, fire-breathing dragons?” she asked with a skeptical squint.
“Oh yeah,” he nodded his head dramatically as he continued, “giant, fire-breathing dragons with three heads and a hundred arms!”
Bale spun her around until they were both dizzy. Then he tossed her high up into the air, hugged her tight, and spun her around again. They were both laughing like idiots when they fell to the soft grass.
Angel Cakes curled up against his chest and said, “I miss you, daddy. When can I come home with you.”
His eyes filled up as he laid there on the perfect, soft grass gazing up into a flawless blue sky. This was the worst part of every visit, the heartbreak. No tear would fall from his eye. She had to believe the lie he was about to tell her. He wasn’t sure who hated it worse as he replied, “Soon. Daddy’s trying, Angel. I’ve got a lot to do, lots of bad people to catch.”
“How many?” her tone gained an almost scolding quality as she asked the same question she asked him every time he came to visit.
“Too many to count on your fingers,” he replied quietly.
“And my toes?” she was such a trooper. This was the game. It was like she knew he would break her heart again, but she played along knowing how bad it hurt him too.
“And my fingers and toes,” his breathing grew steady as he lost ground against the tears desperately waiting to rain down his cheeks.
She cuddled in closer to his chest as he shot a deadly glare at those two bastard angels chuckling at their sorrow. “These bums playing nice?” he asked.
She sat up, gave him the most serious look he’d ever seen, and said, “No. They don’t play, or talk, or anything. They just stand there.”
He pulled his scowl away from the guards as a smile washed over his face. “Do they still scare you?” he asked while gently mussing her hair.
“No,” she scoffed as if it were the most ridiculous question she’d ever been asked, “They’re just dumb and don’t ever want to play anything.”
He laughed as he sat up and asked, “Did you tell them what I told you last time?”
“Yes,” she rolled her eyes and giggled. Her bright face could melt the hardest heart. Then she slapped her knee, laughed some more and added, “They didn’t think it was funny at all.”
He pulled her close again and kissed the top of her head before asking, “What did you tell them?”
A devious grin slipped between her slightly pudgy cheeks as she shrugged and said, “I told them they are big, dopey asshats.”
They both fell back to the ground as they laughed together. Someday, this would be every day. Sadly, it wasn’t this day. He let the idea slip away as he let the laughter take him away, chuckling like a fool in the grass with his favorite person in the world.
Once he gained enough control of himself to speak, he looked over at Michael and said, “Hear that, asshat? You bums are as big and dopey as she says.”
“Time’s up, Bale,” Michael scowled.
Bale continued chuckling as he replied, “Calm down, Mikey. I just got here, and Or gave me ten.”
Gabriel’s smile looked like cold death when he said, “Imagine how easy she’d break.”
Michael’s smile was equally cold and dead when he added, “Like a porcelain doll.”
Bale gave Angel Cakes a quick squeeze and a wide smile as he told her, “Give me a second, sweetie. I need to have a chat with the asshats.”
By the time Bale got to his feet, any remnants of joy had fled from his expression. His jaw grew tighter, and his scowl deepened as he stalked toward the two angels like death with a wicked hangover.
He put his face close to Gabriel’s ear as he quietly growled, “Once my debt is paid, I’m coming for you. One out of place hair on her head, and I’m going to make it hurt.”
Gabriel’s smile faltered the slightest bit as he replied, “All you are is words.”
Bale hadn’t noticed Angel Cakes follow him over until she peeked out from behind his legs and added, “Asshat.”
The kid was right. He never got a chance to tell her. A swirling circle of blue light spun up out of nothing right next to him. It was the same light blue, almost white light that pulsed in the doorway he used to get to the place. But this time it sucked him right in. He barely heard Angel call him. “Daddy!” she shouted, but he was already being torn apart.
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E. Michael Mettille is the author of the Lake of Dragons series, Fleeing from Light, and Hell and the Hunger (as Mike Reynolds). He has also written numerous short stories and poems. Mike has spent the last thirty years in direct marketing, print, and communication. He is fascinated by history, belief systems, the human condition and how all of those things work together to define who we are as a people. The world is a wonder and, based on the history of us, it is a wonder we have a world left to wonder about. Mike lives in Franklin, WI with his wife, Shelia, and their four dogs, Ziggy Stardust, Lady Stardust, Major Tom, and Bowie, The Spiders from Mars.
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