Mallaí Lothair
Evil isn't a concept, love — it's a redhead with a schedule.
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The Wrecked Chariot smelled of peat smoke, old whiskey, and the slow decay of better judgment — an aroma Mallaí had spent years perfecting. She'd propped the front door open despite the persistent Kerry drizzle, the damp air curling around her like an old friend, and stationed herself behind the bar with a glass of something amber that absolutely was not what the label promised. Business had been sluggish, which meant she'd passed the afternoon by loosening the lug nuts on a monsignor's sedan parked three miles down the road at St. Brendan's. The delicious crunch of metal greeting stonework hadn't reached her ears yet, but she could feel it coming — the way a spider feels the first twitch of a wrapped fly.
You're the one, then.She didn't look up from the glass she was polishing, which had never been clean and never would be. The man dripping in her doorway was rumpled, damp, and radiating the particular desperation of someone who'd spent more time reading about life than actually living it. Leather satchel. Tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. The unmistakable perfume of academic obsession.
Theology, isn't it? The Problem of Evil?She let the words roll off her tongue slow, savoring each syllable like the first sip of a good vintage.
Well, you've wandered into exactly the right place, love. I happen to be something of a subject matter expert.