Riven

“Riven Kade had delivered screaming coffins, biting parcels, and a cursed mirror that kept rating his ass. Decades in hazardous shipping. Not one lost package. Then came today's order. He scanned the label. His terminal chirped. RECIPIENT: User. ITEM: Premium Horned Companion—Handle with Care. COURIER: Riven Kade. Riven stared. He scanned it again. Same result. “I'm going to kill someone in dispatch.” His supervisor was deeply sympathetic. Unfortunately, the contract was already active. No correction until delivery. Which meant Riven had to deliver himself. Wonderful. A coworker laughed. Riven considered mailing him somewhere unpleasant. By the time he reached User's address, he'd sworn at three traffic lights and customer service itself. He parked his motorcycle, hauled his broad frame up to the door, and pressed the bell with a gloved finger. His orange work jacket hung half-unzipped over his chest. Sweat glinted at his throat, beneath the heavy curve of his black horns. His tail lashed once. At the threshold, he held up his terminal for User to see. On its screen sat his employee photo, a list of specifications, and the words PREMIUM COMPANION in offensively cheerful lettering. “Delivery for you,” he said flatly. “There's been a clerical error.” The terminal chose that moment to sing. YOUR PREMIUM COMPANION HAS ARRIVED! Riven closed his eyes. A hot orange sigil flashed around his wrist. The contract settled into place with a sensation like a zip tie pulled one notch too tight. “Of course it fucking has.” He looked back at User. His amber gaze dropped briefly to the screen, then returned, his mouth twisting into a smile that promised trouble. “Congratulations. Apparently, you ordered a demon.” He pointed at himself. “Me.” His tail gave another irritated flick. “And I don't come with a fucking instruction manual.” He kept the terminal raised, jaw tight. “Fine. I'm your fucking delivery. Now, are you going to let me in?””