“Do you really need the nail?” I say through gritted teeth.
“Maybe not. We’ll see. The hair is the most important part. It’s how I’ll set the locator spell.”
“Good,” I say. “Then figure it out without a toenail.”
She sighs. “I mean, I’ve done it before, but the results aren’t always precise. And I’ve never done it with a vampire before.”
Across from us, Drax shakes his head, gets up, and slips into his Cheeto-stained hoodie. “I’m heading out. Either of you need anything?”
“Yeah,” I say, my gaze fixated on Rachel. “How about some brain cells?”
Rachel glares back at me. “Didn’t you say you’re a demon?”
“Yeah,” I say. “What’s your point?”
“So, are you like, immortal?”
“What does this have to do with anything?” I ask, my voice rising.
“Well, you’re fighting with a sixteen-year-old. And if you’re immortal, you’re probably like a gazillion years old, which makes you super immature for your age.”
I turn my torso toward Drax, my arm resting against the sofa’s back. “Can you also grab a bat?”
Without responding, he turns away and walks out.
Rachel gives me a dirty look before sticking her nose back into her spell book. It’s about the size of a typical fiction novel and has all kinds of runes on the cover.
I’m not sure which version of Rachel annoys me more—the bubbly one I met at first or the bitchy one who looks at me like she wants to punch me in the throat.
“If you need a toenail for your portals, how’d you pull off getting into my apartment? It’s not like I left any toenails behind.”
She drops her book on her lap, which I assume is translation for, You’re such an idiot.
Goddamn teenage hormones.
“It’s different with vampires,” she says. “You know… ’Cause they aren’t alive.”
I’m about to remind her that she wouldn’t even know that vampires were real if it weren’t for me, but instead, I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to continue.
She jabs her finger in the book as if I can read what it says. “It’s right here. There’s a whole section on tracking demons. I thought it was a bunch of hocus pocus stuff… But now that I know it’s real, well, I’m gonna have to pay better attention to the actual spells.”
“What do you mean?” I say. “You were winging it?”
She shrugs. “Kinda. My mom doesn’t cook with a recipe book.”
“Your mom’s lasagna doesn’t have the ability to blow up an entire city!”
She gradually raises her hands and inspects them with bewilderment. “Whoa. You think I have that kind of power? I mean… Not that I’d ever blow up a city. I’d never wanna hurt anyone. But… That’s a lot of power.”
“Don’t get all power hungry on me,” I say.
“I’m not,” she retorts.
Rolling my eyes, I stretch out on my couch, punch the pillow under my neck, and call Mr. Mushroom up onto my lap. He jumps up so fast it’s as if he was waiting for the invitation.
“You’d better get back home,” I say, eyeing my retro clock. “Don’t you have school or something?”
“Shit,” she says. “Riskus, wake up!”
Her little goblin springs upright from behind the couch, his long silver hair resting in waves over his shoulders. He pulls it all back and ties it into a perfect little bun atop his head. Rachel then stands up, reaches into her pocket, and throws a purple powder at my wooden floor.
I’m about to scold her for adding more filth to this place when a huge opening tears through the air in front of me. Blue flame-like swirls move around the portal, and a gust of wind blows Rachel’s auburn hair through the air.
“When is that guy giving you the strand?” she shouts over the loud noise.
“If all goes well, eight p.m. tonight,” I say.
“What?” she shouts.
“Eight p.m.!” I shout back.
She nods. “I’ll be back after school. I left my cell number on your coffee table.”
And with that, she throws herself into the portal with her spell book clasped in her elbow and Riskus jumping in after her.
* * *
“That ain’t how business works, lady,” Adrian says.
Crossing my arms, I stare at him from behind the tip of my nose. “I don’t give a shit about how you do your business. This is a different kind of business. The only way I’ll know this hair belongs to Veerka is if my plan works. And only when my plan works do you get paid.”
He must think I’m crazy.
“I did the job,” he says. “You owe me now.”
“After,” I say.
He tucks the strand of hair into a white envelope and slips it into his back pocket. Then, giving me an I don’t give a flying fuck who you think you are look, he sucks on his front teeth and stares me down.
He’s an arrogant little prick, and while it might be super easy for me to get what I want by using my Lure, or by kicking him in the balls, I’d rather intimidate him.
“You know vampires exist,” I say matter-of-factly.
He doesn’t seem too impressed with where I’m going with this.
“That must mean you know that magic exists.”
He scoffs, saliva sprinkling onto my chin.
I’m not sure what I find more insulting—that the idea of magic makes him laugh or that I now have feeble juice on my face.
“I’m going to make myself very clear,” I say, expanding my wings. At the same time, I extract my slick curved horns and lower my head to cast shadows under my eyes for dramatic effect.
All I’m missing now is a giant wind machine to creepily blow my hair back.
He steps back, his mouth a dark hole, but nothing comes out.
At long last, a bit of fear.
“I only get paid once I complete my job, which means you only get paid if you did your job the right way. Now hand me the fucking hair before I gut you open and strangle you by your intestines.”
He clears his throat, reaches into his back pocket, and hands me the envelope.
“Y-y-yeah, okay. Whatever, lady. Just take it.”
Flipping the envelope around, I say, “Write down your cell.”
He hesitates, as if giving me his phone number is equivalent to signing a contract with me. When I raise my eyebrows, he knows I’m not messing around. He pulls a pen out of his baggy pants, scribbles it down, and takes a step back.
Folding my wings, I snatch the envelope, force a smile, and tuck it into the pocket of my leather jacket. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch soon. Now close your mouth. You look like a fucking moron.”
Chapter 25
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I’m about to enter The Orange Pub—I have plenty of time to waste until Rachel finishes school—when my phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.
It’s Jamieson.
One thing’s for certain—he’s calling about Veerka. Flipping my phone open, I enter the bar anyways.
“What’s up, Jamieson?”
“What’s up?” he repeats. “Youngsters these days.”
If only he knew how old I really was.
“I have some information for you,” he continues. “The Lotus Hotel. That’s where the party is going to be. Oh, and do you remember the smartphone you wanted, darling? Mr. Timothy is willing to meet you at his apartment on Third Street, apartment eight.”
While to anyone else, that may have sounded like a harmless conversation about a new gadget, what Jamieson is telling me is your mark will be at the Lotus Hotel at 8:00 p.m., room 308.
“Oh, awesome,” I say, feigning excitement. “I’ll get ready and go pick up the phone.”
“Enjoy it, darling.”
His last word comes out playfully—his subtle way of reminding me that a shitload of money is on the line. Without responding, I hang up, walk toward the varnished mahogany bar counter, and sit on the very
last bar stool.
Stephen the bartender—a young guy with a square face, an eyebrow with a sexy scar cutting through it, and seductive golden-brown eyes that make most barhopping girls swoon over him—reaches down by his waist and pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.
“Three, or four?” he asks, trying to read me.
He knows me well.
“Five,” I say, and he smirks.
He pulls out a frosted whiskey glass and without measuring, turns the bottle upside down, filling the glass up close to the brim. “How’s that?”
I pick up the cool glass, raise it, and wink at him. “Perfect.”
Before taking a sip, I inhale the scent and close my eyes. I enjoy inhaling the smell of alcohol as much as I do drinking it. Tilting the glass, I allow the liquid to touch my lips, almost teasingly. The burning satisfies me.
In only a few short hours, I’ll be playing on my new Mac and scanning through real estate listings for a new place.
I smile at the thought and pour the entire glass of whiskey into my mouth.
At the same time, an older guy with a military baseball cap and a torn jacket pulls up a stool a few feet away from me. He sits down and grunts something at the bartender. When Stephen hands him a cold beer, the guy reaches for the pub’s TV remote resting on the bar and aims it at the television.
The screen flickers a few times as he scans through the channels, skipping sports stations and infomercials. Finally, he lands on WTV News.
Barf.
Why would anyone want to ruin their buzz by watching the horrors of the world?
And while I want to ignore what’s being broadcast, I can’t.
A bold header scrolls across the television screen: Adam Shaw – No Foul Play Suspected.
News anchors start babbling about how the investigation is over and that the cause was that of sudden death.
Looks like the vampires got involved again. They tend to do this when a large investigation risks exposing the Underworld. I’m willing to bet that with all the creatures popping in and out of Adam’s house in search of the talisman, Asmodeus put a stop to the feeble investigation.
“I’ll have another,” I say to Stephen, and he fills up my glass.
While no one else in this room knows it, I’m celebrating my freedom. I raise a glass at the television but lower it when a new headline pops up: Fire at Adam Shaw’s House – Estimated Damages of 3.5 Million Dollars.
So that dumbass witch did burn it down.
Fucking idiot.
Whatever. I’m still celebrating.
Okay, maybe what I’m doing is trying to calm my nerves, which breaks my rule of not drinking on the job. Five million dollars is life-changing… if I pull this off. For the first time since working for Jamieson, I’m not entirely confident about this. I’ve barely taken the time to research my mark.
What the hell is wrong with me? I need to stop this self-sabotaging bullshit. It isn’t hot.
“Excuse me,” a man says. “Is someone sitting here?”
I wait a beat and turn to face the person responsible for interrupting my one-person party. He appears young, with smooth olive skin, but under his jet-black hair and along his temples are silver sideburns. They suit him, and I can imagine the ladies love the subtle gray. He smiles at me, revealing a set of perfectly straight teeth in the middle of his salt-and-pepper beard.
I can’t help but wonder how much money he spent on his teeth and whether insurance covered it.
His eyes, two bright blue marbles under thick, nicely trimmed brows, move toward the stool next to me as if trying to obtain an invitation.
Then, one eyelid droops lower than the other and he sways from side to side.
For a second there, I considered feeding off this hunk, but it’s obvious he’s hammered.
“Yeah, it’s taken,” I say, my voice monotone. “Meet Holly. My invisible friend.”
He smirks, likely amused by my sense of humor. What he doesn’t know is that I’m not trying to be funny—I’m trying to be a smart-ass instead of being an outright bitch. If he wants me to be a bitch, all he has to do is keep talking.
“You’re funny,” he says.
If I make my eyelids go any flatter, I’ll be closing my eyes. So instead, I roll them and take a swig of my drink.
“Man, leave the girl alone,” says an older guy sitting three stools down.
He readjusts his military baseball cap and glides his thumb across the condensation of his beer.
“Mind your business, old man.”
And there it is—the egotistical prick living underneath a hot skin suit.
The guy with the baseball cap doesn’t seem intimidated at all. He scoffs, points his beer at me, and says, “Is he givin’ you a hard time? You don’t deserve that, miss.”
While I appreciate the concern and admire the chivalry, I can handle myself.
“I’m fine,” I say, and the arrogant asshole next to me smiles as if he’s won some arm-wrestling match.
Just as I go to take another sip of my drink, he pulls out the stool next to me, puffs out his chest like the testosterone-driven animal that he is, and sits down.
My right eyelid twitches.
Stephen, being the watchful bartender that he is, gives me a look that translates to Want me to kick him out?
I force a smile. “No need. Thanks, Stephen.” I spin around on my stool and hop off. “You can put it on my tab.”
“Where you going, gorgeous?”
Without looking at the drunk idiot, I brush past him and kick the bottom of his stool. His arms shoot up and he goes flying in the air before landing hard on his ass. The bar vibrates and the wooden floor planks shake.
The whole bar turns to look, but before anyone can say anything—and before Stephen can give me a hard time about keeping track of my bill without a credit card on file—I walk out of The Orange Pub on an angle, holding the wall to keep myself from falling.
Chapter 26
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“So, let me get this straight,” I say, staring at Rachel’s red and black witchcraft book. “You can create a portal to Veerka’s personal room at the hotel?”
Rachel looks up at me like I skipped most of high school. “No, that’s not what I said.”
I plop myself down onto my sofa and Mr. Mushroom jumps down before being squished like a pancake.
“Oh, I’m so sorry my little shnookums. Mommy didn’t see—” I stop talking when I catch a glimpse of Rachel’s judgmental gaze.
She jabs her finger into her book. “Like I already explained to you three times, this spell doesn’t tell me where the person is or whether or not they’re alone.”
“So, get a better spell!”
She glares at me, then at my beer. It’s my third one, and that’s not counting the drinks I had at The Orange Pub, which is probably why I keep asking her to repeat herself. Placing it down on my coffee table, I sigh and reach for a water bottle.
Stop being a fucking idiot and sober up.
“This is the spell I’ve been practicing,” she says. “It works well in the sense that it’ll take you to who you’re looking for… but there’s no guarantee where you’ll end up.”
I scoff. “So you’re telling me that if we time this wrong, I could end up appearing in front of a shitload of vampires.”
She shrugs and I’m tempted to throw my water bottle at her head. I hate her nonchalant attitude—it’s equivalent to saying, Well, yeah, but that’s not my problem, so I don’t care.
“You better hope your friend knows what he’s talking about,” she adds.
By friend, she means Jamieson the asshole.
He gave me a time—8:00 p.m., which doesn’t tell me much. What that tells me is that Veerka’s going to be at the hotel at that time. Jamieson has no idea what I’m planning. For all he knows, I’ll do what I always do, and that’s show up in some fancy evening gown and charm my way into Veerka’s room.
Because of my lip ri
ng microphone and pin camera, Jamieson knows how I work. He’s made it clear that he doesn’t understand how I’m so good at getting people to do what I want, but he doesn’t seem to want to ask questions.
Tonight, however, it’s important I leave my camera off until the right moment. If he sees me jumping into some magical portal, he’ll either cut me out of his life completely, which means no more paychecks for me, or he’ll yell at me until I go deaf.
“Even with the time he gave me,” I say, “that doesn’t tell me where she’ll be inside the hotel. We need to find a way to—” I cut myself short when I hear Riskus snoring in Mr. Mushroom’s bed.
“Your goblin,” I say.
She frowns.
I wiggle a finger toward Mr. Mushroom’s bed. “Your… thing.”
“Thing?” she says, now glaring at me so intensely I fight the urge to tell her she might need glasses.
If she were a more experienced witch, I’d cover my eyes in fear of being transformed into some rodent. If looks could kill… well… never mind, that’s a horrible example for an immortal to use.
“Whatever he is,” I say. “I can’t keep track of all the demon names out there.”
She rolls her eyes and slaps her book. “He’s a Serifus.”
“Ser—” I try, but I’m too drunk to enunciate it. “Okay, yeah. Let’s send him in.”
She jolts upright, as does Riskus. “Send him in? Where? The hotel?”
Isn’t it obvious? Where the hell else would I be sending him? The grocery store? I must be making a face. She leans back into the sofa and lets out a defeated sigh. Clearly, she doesn’t want to do it, but at the same time, she wants what I promised her—the talisman and her grandmother’s book.
“He’s small enough to not be seen,” I say. “I’d do this myself… go into her room early and wait for her, but vampires have crazy noses. I need to appear at the perfect moment if I don’t want this tying back to me. All I need is for him to sneak into the vents or something and let me know when she’s alone.”
I could fly up onto the roof myself, but that would be suicide. If Veerka is going to be at the hotel tonight, that means Lucius will also be there, which means he’ll have vampires everywhere.
Mortal Blow: An Urban Fantasy Series (Succubus Hitwoman Book 1) Page 14
