“FriendPay! That’s got nothing to do with you! I ordered those donuts from FriendPay!” She grinned fiercely, pushing herself to her feet.

I wanted to laugh. Beezle and Bub did not even bother to keep their mirth at bay.

“May I?” I asked, gesturing to the card she held.

She sneered up at me. “Good manners don’t suit the Devil!”

I raised an eyebrow. “Son of the Devil.” I plucked the card from her fingers. “Ah, I see where the issue lies.” I struggled to keep a straight face. “You see, you misread the logo. My profound apologies if it has caused some confusion for you.”

I turned the card so the logo faced her, tapping at the words. “I think you may have added a letter that was never there.”

Jemma Bliss scowled up at me, then turned her gaze to the card. She leaned closer. Squinted. Tilted her head to the side. Took off her glasses, lifting her shirt to polish the lenses (I did not lean back just enough to catch a glimpse of the infamous red undergarment … alright, perhaps I did …)

She replaced her glasses, pondered the card a moment longer, and sucked in a scandalised breath.

“FiendPay? Not FriendPay?” Her words were disbelieving. “No way, you changed it to mess with me!”

I shook my head. “Did you not receive some messages on your telephone device last night?”

She opened her mouth angrily, then shut it again.

“Yes … but they were from FRIENDPay.”

I smiled indulgently at her. “I suggest you take another look at those messages when you return to your home.”

“I will!” she snapped. Then blinked. “When I return home? You’re not … you don’t intend to keep me here?”

“Not imminently.” I gestured towards a black table, two stone stools resting opposite one another. “Shall we sit down while we discuss the business of your soul?”

“My … my soul?” A tremor crept through her words.

“It’s nothing serious. Just a matter of four repayments,” I replied. My voice sounded so deviously reassuring that her face relaxed slightly, and she followed me to the table.

The knot in my stomach twisted once more. There was nothing reassuring about FiendPay. It was a foregone conclusion that her soul would belong to Hell. The repayments were just a method of drawing out the torture.

“Okay, four repayments. That sounds doable,” she muttered to herself as she took a seat opposite me.

“Indeed,” I lied, conjuring up a larger print version of the ‘terms and conditions’ that she had found impossible to read on her phone device last night. I slid them across the table to her.

“Please peruse these at your leisure.”

She snorted, pushed her glasses defiantly up her nose, and read.