Page 12 of Heart Over Heels

Elliot was a man with a specific aesthetic, and fortunately, there was a store for that. I bagged a hoodie studded with safety pins and a pair of the fingerless gloves he never seemed to have enough of.

The twins didn’t care much for things so much as chaos, so I picked out a cork board and darts with needle-sharp tips that would inevitably end up embedded in walls, furniture, and possibly skin.

With the list complete and pocketed like a vanquished foe, Oz and I took our victory lap. I strolled down walkways and up escalators with my personal colossus looming beside me. We drew plenty of attention. Curious glances, side-eyes, and whispers dogged our steps.

Unlike the Basilica, Mammon’s Mile was firmly situated on the demon side of the Strip. It had a devil in the name for hell’s sake, but demons had only been “out” for the last five years, and humans were historically slow to adapt and slower to accept.

I inched a little closer to my musclebound accomplice as we rounded the last leg of our trip, letting his shadow do the heavy lifting while I kept one eye on the crowd.

Oz had expected lunch, but he did not anticipate our last stop of the day. My calves were protesting my choice to wear heels aswe slowed to a stop outside Jackpot Comics. Oz had spotted it a while back, I could tell by the way his stroll increased to a trot, despite the bags weighing down both of his arms.

If the makeup store was my paradise, this was his, and I intended to treat him to a slice.

Through the shop’s arched entryway, I caught flashes of color in the bold posters and glossy packaging that plastered across every available surface. Action figures struck dramatic poses behind Plexiglas, and spinning racks flaunted the latest issues of a dozen different comic titles. One wall was dedicated entirely to graphic tee shirts, many of which featured characters I recognized from the collage that had nearly blacked out Oz’s dressing room mirror.

Oz bounced on the balls of his feet while he gazed upon the nerd mecca.

Grinning, I tapped his shoulder. “Leave the bags with me.”

His gaze snapped to mine. “Really?”

I nodded and fished the weighty metal credit card from my pocket. Holding it flat in my palm, I offered it to him. “You earned it, big guy.”

I expected a bit of a protest about Beck’s money or being entrusted with club funds, but no. Dutiful Oz had left the building. In his place was the Oz with stars in his eyes and minimal impulse control.

He dropped the bags in a rush that made me glad we hadn’t bought anything fragile. Then, with the briefest pause to nudge his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he was off.

With a mountain of merchandise at my feet, I reposed like a queen. The wide doorframe proved a fine place to lean and observe while Oz flitted about the store like a bee in a field of wildflowers.

Every so often, he’d hold something aloft, and his tail would wriggle over his shoulder in a kind of happy dance. I’d give him a smile or a thumbs up, and he’d return to his reverie.

After a while, I shifted my attention from inside the store to the world outside. The mall buzzed with activity even during the so-called quiet hours. Teenagers loitered in packs, elderly couples shuffled hand in hand, and families navigated stroller traffic jams with practiced expertise.

Ordinary people living ordinary lives.

I didn’t spend much time in places like this. My work took me to private dining rooms and velvet-roped lounges. Michelin-starred restaurants, underground parties, and high-roller suites with gold-plated everything—those were the arenas I moved through.

This was different. People existed here without pretense or polish. They laughed or bickered over where to go next while munching on greasy fast food. It was messy, unfiltered, and genuine, and I didn’t fit in.

I’d felt that way at the Basilica surrounded by angels and their ilk, but having it echoed here among regular human beings had a different sting.

Suddenly, it wasn’t a sting, rather a caress. A feather-light touch that raised the hairs along my spine.

The sensation on my tail jolted me and I whipped around, half expecting to find mall security responding to the threat of my existence. Like they knew as well as I did that I didn’t belong here.

But the culprit I found instead was a young girl, not quite a teenager, with a blunt brown bob and wide, owlish eyes. She stood behind me, holding the tip of my tail between her fingers like she’d discovered something strange on the ground and couldn’t help but pick it up. Her face was splotched withpowdery pink, and her mouth hung open in a surprised little “whoa.”

We stared at each other for a second.

“Careful, honey,” I said gently. “It’s sharp.”

“Oh.” Slowly, she let my tail slither free. Her nose crinkled. “It feels like a snake.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “It kinda does.” I glanced around, searching for whoever she was supposed to be with. “Are you shopping?”

“My brother is.” She pointed to a little boy who stood a few rows over, utterly mesmerized by a wall of action figures. Beside him was a young woman—presumably their mother—equally transfixed by whatever she was reading on her phone.

“It’s his birthday,” the girl explained. “But he’s taking forever, and I’m bored.”