“This is a pretty crummy abode!” Beezle commented. I turned to shush him when he stooped to scoop up a discarded, mouldering, crumbly, half-eaten … something into his mouth. “Get it? Crummy … crumby?”

The thing in his mouth disintegrated all over the worn, uneven floors.

Both the Hounds fell into howling laughter.

“It’s very lucky no one else can hear you,” I hissed. “We’re supposed to be incognito right now!”

The door Jemma had slumped through not five minutes before slammed open. Holding my breath, we all melted back into the shadows.

The red-haired man stuck his head out. “Anyone there?” he demanded, his expression dubious. After what felt like an eternity of holding my breath, he turned back into the apartment.

“There’s no one there, Jem. I think you’re hearing things,” he called out, the door shutting and the lock snicking into place behind him.

I glared at the Hellhounds, who looked ready to roll about in fits of mirth once more.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warned, my blood throbbing.

My instincts told me that her soul would be weakest tonight. That the grape juice she had bought would make her extra susceptible to … suggestion.

“We do this tonight,” I whispered to the Hounds, who immediately sat up straighter, ears pricked, eyes bright. Ready for anything. “I need you both inside, reporting back to me. I’ll make the rest happen.”

“Yes, Boss!” they yipped in unison, and before my eyes, their canine bodies morphed, shrank. Fur became a scaly exoskeleton. More legs sprouted.

Two small, black cockroaches scuttled away, slipping under the door to Apartment Thirteen. I settled myself in the shadows, closing my eyes. I had a lot of plotting to do in a very short space of time if I wanted this to work.

I needed this to work.

Jemma Bliss didn’t know it yet, but her soul belonged to me.

5. Messages from FriendPay

Chapter 5

Messages from FriendPay

Jemma

“Bugger it!”

I squinted down at the living room floor. Was it … moving? It looked like it was breathing.

“All wine and no donut make Jemma go something something,” I mumbled, a giggle bubbling up my throat. It stopped halfway, becoming a big, miserable lump.

Because Dad wasn’t around anymore to reply with, “Go crazy?”

When I was little, my dad introduced me to The Simpsons. It had become a special daddy-daughter event, sitting together on a Friday night, watching reruns on cable TV. My favourites had always been the Treehouse of Horrors episodes. Anything to do with frights, thrills and monsters, I just ate it up as a kid.