Poor Devil Saloon Novels & Stories

From appearance, this was little more than a hole-in-the-wall western bar, but Rebel knew better. The Midnight Coyote Saloon played host to some of the supernatural world’s most dangerous clientele. The previous incarnation of the bar, which had resided in downtown Billings, had been raided nearly a year ago by the Execution Underground, leaving the bar and its owner out of business. Rebel had personally offered the proprietor, a notorious warlock known as Boss, an interest-free loan to reopen in a location of his choosing. In exchange for his generosity, Rebel expected information about the bar’s patrons.

If I was going to hell anyway, might as well get paid for it. "When?" I asked. "Tonight." The dealer was easy to find. Holed up in a motel room on the edge of town, high on his own supply. No family. No friends. No one who'd miss him. That's what I told myself as I put the gun to his head. That's what I told myself as I pulled the trigger. That's what I told myself as I walked out with twenty thousand dollars in blood money. It didn't help. The Devils paid me. Word spread to other clubs. The calls started coming.

He expelled a harsh breath and stalked over to us, going behind the counter and into the open bar. Disgusted by his ex-mate, disdain veneered his eyes as they swung on Mercedes. She placed the whiskey bottle down and snorted. “Go back to your swamp, Smeagol, cuz you ain't getting a ring on it from him.” Devin jibed, condescendingly. His cold Prussian blue orbs formed sharp stalactites at her. He grabbed the bottle and sent it flying into the bin. Rubbing my temple, I tried to drown both of them out.

And just like that, the oxygen from the deep breath hit her stupid, sleep-deprived brain, chasing off the last of her shock – and it dawned on her that she was sitting in the bedroom above a whole bar full of motorcycle club members. Criminals. Animals. Rapists. Drug-runners. Surely they all had guns, if the scary blond one was any indication. They were barely one half-step above a fucking cult. Which meant that she’d just taken one hundred massive steps backwards… and straight into the shit. Again. You should have stayed where you were, you stupid, stupid fucking idiot. Better the devil you know, and at least I knew Gideon. The Road Devils are a whole new devil… Probably a worse one.

Slow mornings with the devil. Who knew hell could feel this good?

That would be marvelous! Mr. Devon’s embarrassment was up to his head. He was the owner of the bar and now his customers were looking at him apologizing to a woman who hurt his balls but he couldn’t afford to lose his business. With his knees quivered, he slowly bent down his knees on the ground. “I am sorry, Miss.” The clamor had heightened up when they saw Mr. Devon, the braggart owner of the bar, knelt at Arabella.

A jazz club in the old district—front for arms negotiations, hush-money trades, and intelligence swaps disguised as martinis and music. She left at 11:15. No gun. Just a knife tucked inside her boot, and the weight of a hundred unspoken things in her chest. Bar Nocturne was carved into the bones of an old crypt—below street level, cloaked in velvet shadows and saxophone smoke. Ayla stepped inside and became part of the hush. Eyes followed her. Not because she was out of place, but because she fit in too well. Like a familiar ghost. The music was slow, haunting. A woman sang from the corner in French—voice dipped in honey and despair.

I'll tell you what it's like, wherever you are You're totally speechless You can't speak anymore, like someone who sees you freeze The moment she enters the salon And he'll drink, he'll fall, get up and start drinking again Only with a lot of sacrifice he gets home in the morning Until then, it's okay, but it's every day, yes, another one too And all this is the fault of the Devil Woman Who pursues me at night everywhere But if it wasn't for the horn and the tail I wouldn't be able to stand it Anyone is intimidated if caught in his gaze Feels all his luck is gone. And he'll drink, he'll fall, get up and start drinking again Only with a lot of sacrifice he gets home in the morning Until then,