“Why the hell do you screw around with him?” Zeke came up after Solomon disappeared out the front door and hissed at my elbow.
I raised my eyebrows sharply. Griffin grabbed Zeke’s wrist and squeezed lightly. It was his guiding signal. Think. What do we say, this or that? What do we do, this or that? What are the consequences of each choice? Think.
Zeke blinked at me, considered for a second, then said, “Shit . . . I meant, why the hell do you put up with him? Messing with you?”
I smiled and leaned over to kiss his jaw, a whisper of copper stubble against my lips. I wanted to say he’d done well, very well, but he would’ve hated that . . . attention brought to his problem. He was proud, stubborn, and temperamental—add that to the all-or-nothing hardwiring of his brain and he was a handful. More of a hell-raiser than any demon.
“Because Solomon is big or he wouldn’t stick around Vegas.” But they knew that already. The minor demons never stay in one place too long and they definitely don’t own and operate nightclubs . . . those that aren’t burned to the ground. “You know that. Your organization knows that. Everyone who knows demons exist knows that. Solomon has useful information. And you know how I like information.” As I’d said, it kept the roof over my head just as much as the bar did. I sold information. It didn’t have to be demon related, especially since ninety-nine point nine percent of the people out there refused to believe in them, but it didn’t necessarily mean it couldn’t be demon related either. Lucky horse? High-stakes illegal poker game? Jewelry store robbery? Who stole your gorgeous gold Cadillac? You heard a lot of things in a bar and I’d tell any one of them for a price. As long as no one was hurt . . . no one who didn’t have it coming, anyway.
Leo interrupted, disgruntled—no more a fan of demons than the rest of us—and jerked a thumb toward the back exit. “There’s another one in the alley trying to eat a homeless guy. This is one bitch of a night.”
Zeke grinned, and when Zeke grinned that was never a good thing, at least for the person or nonper son that grin was meant for. It was the grin of a hungry wolf in midleap on something tasty and slow—damn happy and utterly without remorse. He headed immediately for the back door. Griffin looked at me. “Yeah, yeah,” I sighed. “I’ll get the shotgun out of your car. Go.” Right now Zeke had his objective in sight: Kill the demon. The homeless guy—let’s hope he was out of the way when Zeke went into action. That was why Griffin was going with him and I was going after the shotgun. Zeke was white, the demon was black, and the homeless guy was that shade of gray Zeke had so much difficulty seeing.
Being saved from a demon didn’t do you much good if you were accidentally between the shotgun and your attacker when rescue came.
God had supposedly given man free will—so it was debated anyway—but without a good deal of practice or an inborn instruction manual, free will . . . well, it could be more a nightmare than a blessing. We all saw it and we all knew it, but Griffin knew it most of all. Their current employers had apparently tried psychotherapy and every medication known to the field, but nothing had improved Zeke’s condition; nothing had worked. Only Griffin worked . . . to a certain degree. “How many damn drugs did his bitch of a mother take while she was pregnant to make him this way?” he’d asked once over a drink after a particular mission had gone sideways because of Zeke and his inability to stop, once in motion, to exercise that will. “How could someone do that? To their own baby?”
How indeed?
But that had been last year that Griffin had spilled his frustration over whiskey—last year, and this was now. And now required a shotgun, so let’s concentrate on that. I had it out of the car and in the alley in seconds. A dirty, disheveled man went tearing past me, so it was safe to say Zeke hadn’t trampled over the top of him to get to the demon—or shot through him. Either that or it was one tough homeless guy, and he was gone so fast, I didn’t have a chance to look for footprints on his back or a hole in the middle of him.
Zeke was still grinning in the gloom of the ill-lit alley. He was never happier than when he had a job to do, a task to perform, a demon to kill. A strand of hair had fallen free from his short braid as he wrestled the demon to keep him on the ground. He had one arm and Griffin had the other, and both had buried knives in the man’s chest.
The man’s chest because the demon looked like a man now. Actually, he looked like Elvis . . . the very best Elvis impersonator in the city, thanks to a demon’s chameleon abilities. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought the King himself was spitting foul curses at us. Zeke did know better because, like several other local demon chasers, he was telepathic. He could sense a demon’s surface thoughts if he was close enough. I once asked if he’d ever rummaged around in my thoughts. He’d said no and with Zeke-honesty, admitting that it was only because he hadn’t thought of it. “Good,” I’d said, pointing the knife I was using to cut lemons at the bar. “If you do, I’ll rummage around inside you with this.” Zeke definitely comprehended that consequence. Whether he could only sense surface thoughts or not, my thoughts, no matter how shallow or deep, were my own. I made sure of that.
Griffin, because he was an empath, knew the man was a demon, and this was why Eden House had recruited Zeke and Griffin both. They had the abilities Eden House prized above all, a mirror of the Above and Below.
Angels had telepathy, which was useful for impressing long-ago shepherds by pushing God’s word directly into their minds, and demons had empathy—very good for feeling out what a human would trade for his soul. A human empath could feel a demon’s emotions, which were similar to a human’s emotions—if he was one helluva bad human—only multiplied ten times over. And a telepath could hear a demon’s recruitment plan forming in its head or its murdering intent—unless you were a high-level angel or demon, in which case it all went out the window. No one could tell what you were up to. It was a peculiar balance the Universe had come up with—if the angels and demons had those powers, then so did the humans.
It gave Eden House and its demon hunters an extra edge. To destroy demons and bring Eden back to Earth . . . as if demons were the only thing keeping that from happening. But men were men. Try telling them anything, especially as the occasional angel reinforced the belief by showing up and giving an order or two. Free labor—not even angels would turn that down.
Now, when it came to me, how did I know a demon in human form? Griffin and Zeke had asked me that when they became aware that what they’d found out regarding the world around them when they were recruited by Eden House wasn’t precisely news to me. Demons were real. They were here. For once, movies and TV hadn’t lied.
I told them the truth. My family had been gypsies and travelers since—since before anyone could remember. We’d seen a lot in our travels and we passed on our stories to relatives when the reunions came around. And then I told them a lie, but a small one. I also told them that my family, my ancestors, had been pagans before a druid had ever danced naked under the moon. I said we’d worshipped the gods of nature when they were the only gods known to man. Honestly, I wasn’t into worship myself. Respect and reverence, yes, but not worship.
But regardless, hear about and see enough demons over the years and you knew one when you saw it. You didn’t need any fancy, psychic empath abilities. You just knew. The blinding good looks, the waves of unnatural charm they put off, the sly glint in their eyes . . . the scales and tail tended to tip you off as well, when they were caught.
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