I have a super-bad feeling about this. “I don’t think that’s—” The ringing of my phone cuts me off. DeLuca. Awesome. He’s texted, too.
“You wanna take that?” Alex grumbles.
I open WhatsApp first to read the messages. At least a dozen say “call me,” but the last one makes me want to hurl. “FBI looking for you! Call me ASAP!”
“Manda.” Jesse looks worried. “Everything okay?”
The blood drains from my face. “Yeah,” I croak, forcing a half-hearted smile. “I gotta make a call, though.”
Alex raises his brows. “What, Pony-Boy can’t wait?”
How he knows it’s DeLuca, I don’t know. Don’t have time to think about it, either. “I’ll be right back,” I say, ignoring Alex’s murderous expression.
Chapter 23
The music in the club is too damn loud. I rush outside, regretting it instantly. Bourbon Street at night is slightly crazier than Walmart on Black Friday. Granted, no one is on the hunt for a new laptop or fancy clothes, but everyone sure as hell wants to buy a good time and lots of booze. The best place to get both is the famous French Quarter, with its breathtaking Spanish-influenced architecture.
I try not to pay attention to the buzz around me and key in DeLuca’s number. It rings once, twice. “Amanda?” he squawks. “Is that you?”
“No, DeLuca. E.T. hijacked my cell to phone home.”
“Jesus,” he hisses. “I was worried sick. Where the hell are you? Wait, is that music? Are you…at a party?”
DeLuca keeps shooting questions at me, and I don’t listen to half of them. A selfie-taking, shitfaced guy bumps into me. “Watch it,” I snap, close to bursting.
The douchebag doesn’t apologize. He’s too damn busy staring at my boobs. “Damn, I love this city,” he mutters, never taking his eyes off my two ladies.
Something must have gone terribly wrong in the creation process of men. Yeah, their brains were delivered to their freaking penises.
“Amanda?” DeLuca shouts, tearing my eardrum in the process. “What’s going on?”
“Hold on.” I walk down the small alley leading to the staff entrance of Rick’s Cabaret. It’s deserted and quiet.
“Amanda?”
Has no one ever told the guy patience is a fucking virtue? “I’m here.”
“You going to tell me why the goddamn FBI interrogated me yesterday? They’re looking for you. And Chelsea? She had to be taken to the hospital because she found a blood-soaked couch in your apartment. Whose blood? Are you on the run? Did you…did you kill Jules?”
Wow, those are sure as hell a lot of questions. Too bad I don’t intend to answer any of them. “What did the FBI guys say?”
“They just asked a lot of odd stuff. Like if you and Jules had issues, if you’ve ever done something weird, if animals had gone missing in the neighborhood. What does any of this even mean?”
Questions only a hunter would ask. Awesome. I lean against the cool brick wall. “Did they mention their names?”
“Agents Marple and Brown.”
Why do I get the feeling those guys are less FBI and more fans of British crime fiction? I mean, really? Marple and Brown? As in Miss Marple and Father Brown? Sorry, not buying it. “What did you tell them?”
“Nothing. It’s not like I know anything.”
True.
“Sugar”—his tone softens—“are you in trouble?”
I laugh. “Always, DeLuca.”
“Stop fooling around.” His voice is sharp. “This is serious. Goddamn FBI serious, Amanda.”
Goddamn hunter serious would be more accurate. “Rel—”
Metal squeaks. The back door of Rick’s Cabaret swings open and as if this night didn’t suck bad enough, Mamba-Guy and five of his creepy friends stroll toward me.
Shivers roll down my spine.
Ankh hurts.
I’m fucked.
“Amanda, you still there?” DeLuca sounds as freaked out as I am.
“Any chance you’ve got B’s number?” I whisper.
“Why?” he barks. “What’s going on?”
“I need you to call h—”
Mamba-Guy yanks the phone out of my hand and ends the call. “Hello, sweetheart. Long time no see,” he says, a sinister grin on his prominent face.
Who the hell does he think he is? I ball my fists. “Give me my phone.”
“No. Told you we weren’t done yet.”
The way he looks at me gives me the creeps. Everything about him—his demeanor, the cocky grin on his lips, the devilish expression—screams psycho, but I can’t keep my provoking mouth shut. “Oh, we are,” I assure him, pulse quickening, elbow itching to deliver a jab to his face.
His asshole friends surround me like a horde of starving vultures. “Deliciously feisty,” the black-haired, sunglasses-wearing dude moans.
I cock a brow. “McDonald’s is down the street, pal.”
Mamba-Guy laughs. “We’re not big on fast food, sweetheart.”
My chest tightens. This is bad—I’m-in-bigger-trouble-than-usual bad. I look for an escape route. There’s none.
The one who looks a bit like Chucky from Child’s Play wiggles a strand of my hair around his index finger and smirks. “We like it nice and slow, baby.”
Lava courses through my system, melting the part of my brain begging me to keep my mouth shut. “You think I’m scared of a bunch of rich kids?” I slap Chucky’s hand hard enough to make him cringe. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve handled worse scum than you.”
Mamba-Guy gets in my face. A flash of anger is in his eyes. “It’s funny how you refer to us as scum, little witch.”
Here we go with the witch again, and this time he can’t talk his way out of it. I heard it loud and clear. No music around to make me doubt my ears. I cock a brow. “Charmatic or Buffyatic?”
Mamba-Guy’s face turns into a canvas of confusion. “What?”
I flash him a devilish smile. “You keep calling me witch. I assume you’re either a Buffy or Charmed fanatic.” I stare at his too-sharp face. “Shame, you kinda look more like an American Horror Story Freak Show guy, huh?”
His buddies laugh. Mamba-Guy shoots them a look, and they shut their holes. He locks his midnight gaze on mine. “Your kind always thinks they’re so smart.” Mamba-Guy spits on the ground. “But you’re really just our whores. Mud under our boots.”
Our whores? Our boots? Something tells me this isn’t a figure of speech. I stiffen. “Who the hell are you?”
He throws his head back and laughs. When he looks at me again, I get a glimpse of his real face. Garnet eyes stare back at me. Gruesome decayed skin hugs red flesh. Ugly would be too nice a word to describe his wicked grimace.
I eyeball his friends. They, too, are on the Ugliest Things Alive list. I choke back a scream. They’re—
Demons! You pissed off a bunch of fuckin’ demons.
I’m dead. Not I-was-killed-by-the-spirit-of-a-kid-and-linger-in-limbo dead, but six feet under, pushing up daisies, exanimated dead. These creatures are vicious and merciless. Worse, they’re immune to spells unless you know their names. I doubt they’re dumb enough to give them to me.
Flight instinct kicks in, but there’s nowhere to go. The asshole wraps his hand around the nape of my neck and pulls me closer. “Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” He looks at his friends and grins. “This party is just getting started.”
“Let go!” I scream, digging my sharp nails into his decaying hand.
Laughter echoes off the walls. “Sorry, baby. We can’t do that,” Chucky says.
“Get ready,” Mamba-Guy orders. They walk to different spots, forming a pentagram around their asshole friend and me.
“What, you gonna kill me right here in the middle of Bourbon Street?” What ever happened to the Don’t Draw Too Much Attention to Your Demon Activities rule?
“Kill you? Sweetheart, when we’re done with you, you’ll wish we’d ended your pathetic life.” He nods,
and his creeper friends start chanting. I don’t understand a single word they’re saying. Never even heard the language.
I’m outnumbered, and out-powered.
Any time now would be good, hunter-heroic.
The air around me catches fire. I might be a smart-ass, but I’m not naïve enough to believe I stand a chance against six demons. Still need to try, though. I straighten and gaze into Mamba-Guy’s garnet eyes. “Tell me, what do demons do in a strip club? Did hell run out of slutty demons?” Buying time seems my best chance to survive.
He grabs my face and jerks my head to the side. “So much attitude.”
Sharp pain jolts through my chin, but I don’t flinch. Speak no fear, see no fear, hear no fear—that’s how you make it on the street. Should work with demons too. I shrug and grin. “WWA.”
“What?”
“Witches With Attitude,” I say.
Mamba-Guy raises his brows. “What’s that? A private witch whore club?”
I smirk. “No. It’s code for: I’m straight outta Salem and gonna kick your ugly demon ass.” How, I’m not sure yet.
His sulfur breath beats against my cheek. “Yeah? And how are you going to do this, little witch? Your magic can’t hurt us.”
I smile sweetly. “You’re right. But…” I bring my knee up and slam it into his crotch.
Cupping his groin, he cries out in pain. “Fucking bitch!”
I shrug. “Looks like you’re less immune to my knee.”
I start running, but the asshole catches my hair and hauls me back. He pushes me to the ground. “Do that again, and I’ll cut out your fucking eyes.”
I forget about the pain in my back and pull myself up. “You know, for a demon, you’re throwing around pretty lame threats.”
“Shut up,” he warns, his garnet eyes catching fire.
The chanting around me grows louder. The air is so fucking hot, it sizzles. “Something’s wrong,” Mamba-Guy mutters. He glares at one of his friends. The guy looks like a bad imitation of James Dean. “Why is she still conscious?”
James Dean Wannabe stops chanting and narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t know. The spell should have taken her out by now.”
Untouchable, huh? “Looks like your magic can’t hurt me, either. So how about we call it even?”
Mamba-Guy clenches my arm. “Are you deaf? I said shut up.”
“I’m not one to follow orders,” I say matter-of-factly. The dude stares at me as if I’m totally nuts. I use his momentary bamboozlement to fold my hand around his withering wrist, turning it with full force.
He cusses under his breath, but instead of letting go, he pulls an athame out of his expensive designer jacket. “You are starting to piss me off, little witch.” He pushes the blade against my neck, slicing my skin.
Warm crimson runs down to my collarbone. I grit my teeth, swallowing the pain. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can,” Mamba-Guy says, cutting my dress in two. It—or rather what’s left of it—lands on the cement.
Ain’t that great? I’m basically dying in my underwear.
“How is she still standing?” Chucky asks behind me.
Mamba-Guy shrugs. “She’s strong. But not strong enough. Keep chanting.”
While I stand there and wait for my death, I think of three things. One, I’m glad I picked the black lace bra and panties. At least I’ll look hot when I’m reaped. Two, who thought I’d end up in hell while trying to save Alex from it? Three, I’m going to miss jerk-face.
Minutes go by, or maybe just seconds, before Chucky screams, “Stop.”
“What’s the matter?” Mamba-Guy barks.
“Look at her back,” Chucky says.
Mamba-Guy faces James Dean Wannabe. “Hold her.”
Like an obedient little demon dog, James Dean Wannabe thrusts his fingers through my hair and hauls me toward him, making this the second time I’m almost scalped. “Behave,” he warns as his friend examines my back.
“Shit,” he hisses. “That’s the mark.”
The mark? Is he talking about my ankh-shaped birthmark? The reason why I got the ankh tattoo on my wrist in the first place?
They all stop chanting and stare at me with fear in their eyes.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” Chucky says.
“Amanda Bishop.” Mamba-Guy spits out my name as if it’s pure venom. Hilarious, bearing in mind he’s the one with the deadly snake tattoo on his neck.
“We’re dead,” Sunglasses Boy barks.
James Dean Wannabe pushes me to the ground. My knees smash against the asphalt. “That fuckin’ hurt,” I shout. Fresh blood spills on the cement. The distinctive scent of rusty iron crawls up my nose.
“I told you there was something off about her,” Chucky says to Mamba-Guy. “The runes didn’t affect her.”
Runes? What runes? Seriously, what is going on?
I’m about to ask just that when Bonnie’s voice thunders through the alley. “Amanda?”
Not good. “Stay a—”
“What the fuck?” she screams when she spots me on the ground, half-naked.
I want to scream “run,” beg her to get Alex and Jesse, but the demons jump into action. Without any warning they lunge forward—all six at once. It happens so freaking fast, I can’t do a thing about it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. They’re going to kill her. She’ll die in the city of her nightmares, and it will be my fucking fault.
I wait for the sound of tearing flesh and breaking bones. What I hear is something else entirely. “Playing with toys that don’t belong to you, I see.” Bonnie’s lips move, but the blood-curdling voice coming out of her mouth isn’t hers.
I stare at the bizarre scene. Bonnie still standing? Check. Her eyes white like snow? Check. Demons kneeling before her? Check. The shadow dog—yes, the one from my nightmares—next to her growling? Check.
Mamba-Guy’s head is bowed. He’s the first of the demon horde to speak. “We didn’t know it was her.”
“Yeah,” James Dean Wannabe whispers. “We wouldn’t have touched her if we had.”
I get on my feet, fighting shock and panic. “What did you do to my friend?”
Bonnie’s white eyes gaze back at me. “She’s a mambo. What do you think I did to her?” There’s not a trace of hostility in the voice. Quite the contrary. It’s almost gentle.
White eyes plus mambo? Equals a demon riding her. In short, she’s possessed. Oh boy, and here I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. I hate when I’m wrong. “Get the hell outta my friend.” I sound slightly crazy.
Bonnie aka the thing inside her steps forward, the shadow dog on her heel. “I won’t harm your friend, love. You have my word.” Then it approaches James Dean Wannabe. “You were saying?”
“We stopped when we saw the mark.”
“Of course you did,” the thing says.
This whole I’m-looking-at-my-best-friend-but-listening-to-a-demon thing creeps me out.
“Can we leave?” Chucky asks. “It was clearly a mistake.”
Mamba-Guy nods. “My bad. Won’t happen again.”
“It won’t,” the thing confirms. “Your business in this club draws to an end. Demon-strip-paradise will be shut down.”
I’m hit by a bolt of lightning. The men upstairs weren’t men at all. They’re all demons. That’s why they stared at me. It’s why my ankh hurt, too.
Mamba-Guy lifts his gaze. “But—”
The thing inside Bonnie wiggles her index finger, and the dude’s mouth snaps shut.
I smell the fear of the other demons. It poisons the air like acid rain. “We never meant to cross you,” James Dean Wannabe whines.
“I’m afraid…” The ground shakes as if an earthquake is hitting the city. “It’s too late for apologies.” The thing raises Bonnie’s hands in the air, and the demons levitate.
“Don’t do this,” Chucky begs.
The thing laughs. “Rule number one in hell?”
“Show no mercy,” James Dean Wannab
e blurts out.
The thing winks at him. “Exactly.” Then the demons fly against the wall. The impact is so hard I hear their bones cracking. What happens next is a freaking nightmare. The shadow dog jumps at them. Blood splatters. Teeth sink into rotten skin. Screams penetrate the night. Then there’s silence.
I look over the mutilated bodies. All I see is blood and more blood. They’re deader than dead. “Shit,” I hiss as my best friend approaches me.
“Sorry about the mess.” It shrugs. “But I hate when someone touches my things.” The shadow dog is by its side. The demon pats its head, and the dog leans in.
“W-who are you?” I stammer, surprised I still have a voice.
A sinister smile tugs at its lips. “Your question should be what can you do for me, love.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I shouldn’t yell at a demon who just killed six of his kind and has a hellhound as a pet, but lunacy corrupts my brain.
It stops a few feet in front of me and tilts its head to the side. “All in good time, love.” It gazes at the dead demons. “The girl you’re looking for, by the way…well, she’s no more. Don’t waste your precious time.”
The girl is Melissa. How the hell does the thing know about her? “How—”
“I’m inside your friend, remember?”
“How could I forget?” I mutter.
“Amanda?”
Jesse? I look over Bonnie’s shoulder. Alex and Jesse run toward us, guns drawn. Now they’re coming? Great timing.
“What the fuck?” Alex barks, ogling the dead demons.
The thing turns around, and both hunters stop dead in their tracks.
“Oh my God,” Jesse utters, hands shaking. “Is she—”
“Possessed,” I say, hoping it will keep them from shooting her.
The thing laughs. “I’m a sucker for reunions, but I have some business to take care of.” It turns to me. “See you soon, love.” And just like that, the color returns to Bonnie’s eyes.
Alex glares at my half-naked body and my bloody neck. “Someone tell me what the fuck just happened?”
I wish I knew.
Chapter 24
Soulmates Page 19
