THE LOT

She reached for a small, obsidian vial. Uncorking it, the room filled with the tang of oil and the copper-sweet scent of fresh blood. This was the Quimbanda—the black oil of the crossroads. She pushed him down on the bed, straddling him. Andrew was enthralled, his heart hammering an uneven rhythm. She poured the black, viscous slick onto herself, then onto her palms. This was the Ponto de Fogo—a point of fire. She began to massage it onto them both, tracing the oil down his abdomen in a "slippery" transgression that made his skin hum. Then, the horror bled through the pleasure. As the oil touched her skin, the black sigils on her body began to hum. The ink began to glow with a bruised, neon-purple light. Andrew’s breath hitched—a mix of raw arousal and spiking terror. He tried to pull back, but the oil was too magnetic. The tattoos began to weep. Tiny, needle-thin lines of blood seeped from the glowing ink, mixing with the oil. Mariana leaned down, her eyes wide and obsidian. She pressed her thumb into a weeping sigil on her collarbone—a spiritual signature—and then forced it into his mouth. Andrew swallowed. He didn't just taste the oil; he drank of her. The taste was of iron and —the flavor of a soul being signed over to the Exu. Fear clawed at his throat, but the intoxication of the Scotch and the raw, filthy heat of her body made him dismiss the terror. He reached up, his hands finding the curve of her hips, pulling the glowing, bleeding nightmare of her down onto him.

They say the road to... ’Ruin’ is paved with good intentions. But for Andrew Karpen, the road is paved in red clay, kerosene, and the lies we tell ourselves to sleep at night. He thinks he’s found a ‘kindly’ old stranger. He thinks he’s catching a ride in a simple tow truck.

Poor, deluded Andrew.

He isn’t getting into a truck. He’s stepping into a ledger that for a certain Peter LeBlanc hasn’t been in balance in two thousand years... not since the Son of Man wrote a check for the souls of all mankind. Something Peter looks to... ‘rectify.’

And the ride Andrew is about to take? Well... it doesn’t end at a repair shop. It ends in the dark, where he will discover that while most can say they are more than the sum of their parts—for him, the parts are expensive. And the currency to ‘buy back’ that which you have given away... is much closer to... ‘the bone.’

Back at the safehouse, the silence was heavier than the smoke. Peter’s body lay prostrate on the floor, engulfed in a ball of yellow flame. For a moment, the world thought debts were settled. Then... he stirred. As he picked himself up, the fire didn't burn him—it obeyed him. He seemed to absorb the flames, his charred flesh knitting itself back together like wet ink on a page. He dusted the soot from his tweed sleeve, walking to the balcony with the cold, measured step of a man who has all the time in the world. 'Disappointed. Mr. Felix this is going to cost you plenty.' Then in a sudden, violent flash of brimstone and ash, he was gone.

Somewhere between science and the supernatural, between blood and oil... there is another world. A world where the righteous and the wicked collide at the crossroads of destiny... Welcome... to THE LOT.

He gestured to the empty chair opposite him.

As Felix pulled out the heavy mahogany chair,

Peter simply smiled as if savoring the moments before a meal.

His movement was methodical, predatory, and ancient.

A pleasure, Mr. Felix, LeBlanc repeated.

It is a shame that British friend of yours couldn't accompany you.

James something, wasn't it?

The Lot returns. Endangered Species. A 1956 Willys Wagon. A soul jaguar. And a friend who pays the final price. Jack McCallum learns love is the last gear.

The suburbs are but a memory. The Willys is caked in the mud of the Petén. Jack McKellen has arrived at the “Marketplace of Dead Gods”—a place where legends don’t stay buried just because you stop believing in them. He’s looking for a guide, a map, and a way to silence the screams from a basement fifteen years gone. But the road ends here, and the Soul Jaguar has already caught his scent.

Posting an hour late. Still eight p.m. somewhere — unless you're in my stomach. Sick as a dog Enjoy.

For Alan Reeves, everything is a transaction. Love, loyalty, life — he’s about to find out that some things come at a final and ultimate cost.