Chapter 217 Dollars.

Chapter 217: 217 Dollars.

"Ah, a tragedy. Youth today has no respect for tradition," The Jester sighed, waving a clawed hand toward the bot. "Earl Grey will suffice, my boy. Do pour."

The spherical robot whirred as it rolled closer. For a split second, I was tempted to jump up and pour the tea myself.

Having one of Rhea’s home-brewed appliances accidentally dump a pot of boiling water into the lap of a Council of Nine warlord would be a catastrophic way to kick off a meeting.

Still, playing waiter in my own house was a massive faux pas.

Villain sit-downs were an exhausting dance of choreography and ego, every little move had to be measured so neither side looked weak.

It was a giant pain in the ass, frankly, but those were the rules of the game.

I settled into the armchair opposite him and held my breath.

Thankfully, the bot’s segmented metal tentacles deftly lifted the porcelain pot, poured a steaming cup without spilling a drop, and handed the saucer to my guest.

The Jester accepted the delicate china in his wicked metal claws, extending a pointed pinky finger with theatrical grace. "Mechanical servants, hm?" he mused.

"They keep the place running while we get the staff sorted out," I said.

"Practical, I suppose. Personally, I have always favored bound spirits from the infernal realms for domestic upkeep. The lesser succubi are terribly fond of the little pleated maid aprons. Still, the craftsmanship on this automaton is remarkably charming."

"Appreciate it," I said, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed. The polite chitchat was slowly grinding my nerves into dust.

It was flattering enough that a heavyweight of his stature hadn’t just blasted my house off the mountain, sure.

But men like him didn’t drop out of the sky just to compliment the appliances.

He wanted something, and waiting for the shoe to drop was giving me an ulcer. "They still probably don’t hold a candle to indentured demons, but we make do."

"How true. How terribly true." The Jester raised the cup to his corpse-pale lips, taking a dainty, measured sip over his wide grin before setting the saucer aside. "In fact, that pragmatic spirit of yours is precisely why I have come knocking at your door today."

Finally.

"Is that right?" I asked, accepting my own cup from the robot. I would have killed for a cold beer right about now, but when in Rome.

"Indeed. I find myself in need of your unique services, Polaris."

Dammit.

"I see," I said, choosing my words like I was stepping through a minefield. The last thing I wanted to do was insult the guy, but I wasn’t about to torch my business model by running wet-work for The New Order. "That might be tricky. With all due respect, I’m not really in the world-domination racket."

The two-pointed cowl dipped in a knowing nod. "Oh, rest easy, my boy! I have no intention of drafting you into my grander tragedies.

"Quite the contrary. It is your sterling reputation as a theatrical antagonist-for-hire that brings me to your parlor."

I blinked, pausing with my teacup halfway to my mouth. "Come again?"

"Allow me to set the stage," The Jester said, leaning back into the leather and pressing the tips of his iron claws together. "Are you aware that I am a family man?"

"Uh, vaguely," I hedged. Everyone in the industry knew The Jester had sired a sprawling dynasty over the centuries, mostly because half of them occasionally popped up on the news trying to feed a city block to an elder god.

The man’s family tree looked like a page out of a monster manual. "You’re not... asking me to tutor one of your kids, are you?"

"Heavens, no," he chuckled, swirling the dark tea in his cup.

Thank God.

"You see," he continued, his ancient eyes gleaming with wry amusement, "my youngest daughter, Vanessa, and I are currently experiencing a slight... creative difference. Nothing permanent, mind you!

"Merely a farce of adolescence. However, in her spirited rebellion against her dear old father, she has taken it into her head to become a superhero."

Vanessa. The name rang a faint bell in the back of my head, though I couldn’t quite place where I’d heard it.

"Ah," I said neutrally. It wasn’t unheard of. When your parents spent their weekends threatening to blot out the sun, rebelling usually meant putting on a cape and helping old ladies cross the street.

"Quite," The Jester sighed, waving a clawed hand through the air as if swatting away a fly. "A passing phase, naturally. In due time, she will grow bored of the thankless masses and return to the family business. Youth must have its fling! You understand how it is."

I really didn’t, considering I didn’t have kids, let alone half-demonic ones, but I nodded along anyway. "Sure. Happens all the time."

Wait a minute. If this pitch was heading where I thought it was heading...

"So, you’re looking for someone to..."

"To menace her! Precisely!" The Jester beamed, his razor-thin smile stretching practically from ear to ear. "I am a firm believer that if one is going to tread the boards, one must command the spotlight. If my darling Vanessa insists on playing the righteous crusader, I refuse to let her toil in the minor leagues like some common street vigilante! The bloodline demands excellence, regardless of the costume."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Given your recent, spectacular dismantling of the Bureau, you are currently the hottest ticket in the business.

"If a fresh-faced heroine were to publicly best the fearsome Iron Polaris on her debut patrol, her standing would be cemented overnight!

"Better still, a father can rest easy knowing she is crossing swords with a consummate professional, rather than some unhinged brute who might actually try to hurt her."

"And know this, insect," Cull rumbled from behind the chair, his massive hands flexing as his scarred face twisted into a lethal scowl. "Should a single hair on Lady Vanessa’s head be harmed during your little performances, I will peel you out of that tin can and grind your bones into dust."

I looked from the eight-foot wall of alien muscle back to the grinning ancient sorcerer.

Hoo, boy. I hadn’t had overprotective supervillain dad on my bingo card for this afternoon. Not that I was complaining—getting hired as a glorified sparring partner beat the hell out of fighting an army of shadow-monsters on my front lawn.

Still, the whole setup made my skin crawl. Taking a dive for daddy’s little girl was high-wire work when daddy owned a torture dungeon that made the Spanish Inquisition look like a day spa.

"It’s... definitely an interesting proposition," I said carefully.

"Naturally, I am a patron of the arts, not a beggar," The Jester purred, waving a hand dismissively. "You shall be handsomely compensated for indulging a father’s pride."

"Though breathing the same air as the Master should be payment enough for the likes of you," Cull grated out.

"Uh-huh," I said, ignoring the giant and raising my teacup to take a slow sip. "And just out of curiosity... what kind of budget are we talking about here?"

"Fifty million dollars."