Adrian fished around the shoe box full of chess pieces and one by one took out all the pawns, lining them up. “Black magic is real. It exists and it’s more prevalent than you think—and I’m not talking about singers biting off the heads of bats onstage, or a bunch of sixteen-year-olds getting stoned and playing games with an Ouija board, or so-called paranormal investigators jacking off their adrenal glands in some creepy old house. I’m talking about the real shit that will bite you on the ass hard. I’m talking about the way demons get to owning souls…. I’m talking about spells and curses that not only work in this world, but the hereafter.”

There was a heavy, dark pause of vast significance.

Which Jim broke by flashing his hands and belting out, “Booga-wooga!”

At least Eddie laughed. Adrian flipped Jim the bird and headed to the fridge for another beer. “Don’t be an asshole,” the guy snapped as he cracked a freshie.

“Oh, right, because two in this group would be overkill.” Jim eased back on the bed so that he was leaning against the wall. “Look, I just felt the need to break the tension. Keep going.”

“This is not a joke.” When Jim nodded, Adrian took a deep one from the Bud can, parked it in his seat again, and seemed to be filing through the catalog of his mind. “There’s a lot you’re going to learn over time. So let’s just call this lesson one. Demons collect shit from the people they’re targeting. The more they get the better, and they keep it with them unless someone takes it back. Within this practice, there’s like…think of it as a rating system. Gifts are worth more than shit they steal, and one of the strongest is a gift of true metal. Platinum will do it. Gold. Silver to a lesser extent. It’s like a binding agent. And the more they get from a person, the stronger those bonds are.”

Jim frowned. “To what end, though? I mean, what does it get Devina other than an account with PODS?”