Her phone beeped and the hug ended.
“Sorry sweetie, I have to take this.” She spent the next thirty seconds reading a very long text before sliding the phone back into her leopard-print bag and giving me an apologetic smile. “I’ve got to run.”
I cradled the cute little clutch for a few moments before forcing myself to hand it back over. “Don’t forget the purse for Tess.”
She waved me off. “You keep it. I think you need it a lot more than she does.”
I grinned and watched her body shimmer and fade into the surrounding darkness.
Most demons utilize the usual modes of transportation in this realm because zapping in and out requires a lot of power that they simply don’t have. Demon juice is a cumulative thing that grows over the years, meaning the older the demon, the more gas in the tank. Since my aunt Lucy is older than dirt, she cashed in the frequent flier miles in favor of popping in every now and then.
I drew a deep, steadying breath, turned, and headed for my front door.
I could do this, I told myself. I had a good friend in my corner. A terrific aunt pulling for me. And even more, I had my very own new preseason, couture clutch.
I could pull this whole thing off and get my mom off my back.
The confidence lasted for a few minutes, until I walked into my bathroom. Then doubt screamed in my head. Literally. My gaze hooked on the mirror and the words smeared in red.
You’re in over your head,
Back off now or you’re dead.
The air rushed from my lungs and cold horror slid through me. A sharp, pungent scent tickled my nostrils. Blood. The message was written in blood. AB negative, to be specific.
I quickly became aware of the closed shower curtain behind me and the possibility that whoever had scribbled the worst poetry I’d ever read (and I’d been a huge Walt Whitman fan back in the day) could still be here.
Yeah, and you just ran smack-dab into her.
Aunt Lucy?
I drop-kicked the thought as soon as it struck. She would never, ever do such a thing. Forget death and destruction. She was the anti-auntie. The one shining light in the darkness. The demon of designer handbags.
Threats? Not her style. Especially when it came to her favorite niece.
Aunt Bella was a totally different story. Her claim to fame was physical anguish. Think the Spanish Inquisition. The Salem witch trials. The Saw flicks.
Even more, she hated all her nieces. Yours truly especially, since I’d given her a bouquet of flowers for her birthday last year instead of the expected body part. She’d been waiting for an excuse to come after me with her arsenal of toys, i.e., knives, whips, chain saws, the Jackass movies on DVD.
I knew then that it wasn’t a coincidence that Portia had called earlier tonight. She’d probably been spying for her mother to find out the truth. And now Aunt Bella wanted to throw a wrench into my ma’s plans by taking me out.
AB negative was her favorite blood type.
Ba-bom. Ba-bom. Ba-bom.
My heart beat a frantic rhythm as I turned, my gaze riveted on the closed shower curtain. I inched backward one awkward step at a time.
One. Two. Easy—yikes!
I banged into the doorframe and whirled. Panic bolted through me and I raced down the hallway and into the kitchen. Rummaging in the drawers, I searched for the biggest knife I could find. Not that I intended to use it. The sight of blood and guts made me queasy, and I was already batting one for two at the moment.
My hands trembled. Talk about a wimp—but my auntie didn’t know that.
If it was Aunt Bella.
My mother wasn’t my only bride, after all. For a split second, I considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe, the threat stemmed from one of my other clients. I was sure there were a few jilted exes out there who might want to stop a wedding.
But enough to break in and write a bloody death threat?
Doubtful.
Either way, I desperately needed a weapon.
A few frantic seconds later, I realized that the one detriment to having my own business was that I had little time to cook, which meant that my arsenal of weapons consisted of three plastic sporks left over from yesterday’s Italian takeout, a pair of chopsticks, and a monogrammed cake server from three weeks ago. The bride—Margaret—had ditched the groom—Jim—during their Jamaican honeymoon when she’d caught him cheating with a cabana girl. Needless to say, she hadn’t wanted a souvenir from the wedding.
I grabbed the cake server and tried to calm my pounding heart. When that didn’t work, I reached for the cookie jar and the mountain of Oreos stuffed inside. I shoved two Oreos into my mouth. Did I mention that demons have a superfast metabolism? Which meant the three slices of cake and their soothing powers were long gone.
I chewed the mouthful and by the time I swallowed, I felt loads better.
Okay, so loads was stretching it a bit. But I felt calm enough to face my no-win situation—me and my cake server vs. crazy, bloodthirsty Aunt Bella should I go through with the wedding from Hell. Or me and my cake server vs. crazy, bloodthirsty Mother should I back out. While Aunt Bella was a card-carrying sadist for sure, my own mother had founded the club and written the handbook. Aunt Bella could hurt me, but my own mother could hurt me. As in calling me back to Hell and keeping me there for all eternity.
On the other hand, if I went through with it and pulled off a successful wedding, I would bank enough money to move my business into an actual storefront. Even more, my mother would be so busy controlling everything and everyone Down Under that she would have zero time left over to keep tabs on me.
And if she did, by some crazy twist, eventually discover that I’d gone legit, she would still be so grateful that I’d pulled off such a fabulous event that she would show a teeny tiny ounce of mercy and leave me alone.
What can I say? Sugar not only boosts my mood, it also makes me slightly delusional.
I held tight to the crumb of hope, stuffed another Oreo into my mouth for an added rush, and marched back into the bathroom. After ripping aside the curtain and checking every nook and cranny of my apartment, I headed back to the kitchen for a dishrag and some Palmolive.
A few minutes later, I’d washed all the evidence of the threat off the mirror and out of my head.
Kind of.
I still had the cake server in one hand (just in case) when I walked into my bedroom. I pulled off my skirt and blouse and climbed into some comfy sweats. While I had a thing for designer handbags, my weakness didn’t stretch to my wardrobe. I much preferred comfort over couture. My favorite outfit? A pair of pink Costco sweatpants and a Hello Kitty sweatshirt. Pinky swear.
Back in the living room, I collapsed on the sofa and reached for the remote. I was just about to pull up last night’s episode of My Fair Wedding with David Tutera when a strange sense of awareness crawled through me and I felt a prickly sensation on my bare foot.
I screamed and jumped, and the spider scuttled under a nearby chair.
My cousin Aylena had a great recipe for a mean tarantula omelet, but big or small, I hated anything with more legs than me.
Which explained why I was still standing on my couch a full fifteen minutes later, cake server in hand, eyes frantically searching for the MIA spider, when I smelled the sharp scent of sulfur.
I knew even before I turned around that there was a demon standing behind me. What I didn’t know was which one had decided to pay me a visit.
With my luck at an all-time low, I had no doubt it was Aunt Bella herself, chain saw in one hand, DVD in the other.
I drew a deep breath, held tight to Margaret & Jim 4-ever, and turned to face my nemesis.
5
“It’s a little kinky, but I can work with it.”
The deep voice rumbled through my head and relief washed over me, followed by a wave of irritation. Turning, I found myself face-to-face with the hottest-looking pirate I’d ever seen—and trust me, I’d seen plenty in my line of work.
He had the whole romance-novel-cover-model thing going on, with long dark hair, tight black pants stuffed into knee-high black leather boots, and a flowing white shirt.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Ahoy Matey was the male version of my kind: an incubus, with mucho sex appeal and enough charisma to make any woman rip off her clothes with nothing more than a glance. Like all demons, his name was something ancient and pompous and impossible to pronounce—Argagiorasmosisarath, for the record. But everybody in this realm called him Gio because, let’s face it, long-winded and older-than-dirt didn’t up his score on the lust-o-meter.
I’d known Gio since I was eighteen (that’s year number eighteen out of my whopping one thousand in existence). We’d both been wet-behind-the-ears virgins back then. Surprising as it might be, I wasn’t born knowing every position in the Kama Sutra. I’d had to learn it all like every other sexual demon in the universe. Enter Signorina Camellia and her academy of carnal delights. Gio and I had met on our first day of class. He’d had a fondness for scratching his butt, belching, and talking about his bug collection every five seconds until Signorina Camellia had nixed his bad habits and taught him a zillion different ways to please the opposite sex. Ditto for me.
After graduation, Gio and I had joined forces (i.e., bodies) a time or two. Or three. Or more. In the spirit of continuing education, of course. We’d been study buddies. The proverbial friends with benefits.
Until my epiphany.
Since then I’d been avoiding him like the plague, which hadn’t been all that difficult because he’d been busy wooing and wowing an Italian socialite whose upcoming wedding was going to unite two nations and end a thousand-year-old feud. No feud, no fighting and killing. Hence my ma and aunties had sent Gio in to seduce the bride and stop the wedding.
I stepped down off the couch and set the cake server on my coffee table. “What are you doing here?”
“Syra’s winging it to New York via private jet to meet her mother for a week-long shopping trip. Her mother doesn’t know about me, so I needed to get lost for a little while.” He collapsed on the sofa. “I had Syra drop me off on her way to the Big Apple. Told her I was going to hang out with some old college friends.” Syra wasn’t privy to Gio’s demon status. “I’m staying at the Hilton.”
“Shouldn’t you be conserving your energy instead of popping in?”
“I couldn’t get a cab. There’s a dental convention going on downtown.”
“Syra still marrying the prince?” I sank down next to him.
“Technically, yes. But I’ve just about got her where I want her. She’s this close to calling it off.” A strange glimmer of unease flitted across his face, and I had the fleeting thought that he wasn’t half as sure as he wanted to be. “She just hasn’t figured out how to break the news. A few more nights like last night, however”—the expression faded into a knowing grin—“and she’ll be updating her status on her Facebook page.”
“Don’t you think you should have changed before getting off the plane?” I blurted, desperately trying to divert his attention from the lavish wedding blazing across the screen and the fact that I was watching said wedding instead of the latest Guys Gone Wild video. “You look like Johnny Depp.”
He shrugged. “Syra wanted to play a mile-high version of Pirates of the Caribbean. Listen, I’m glad I caught you off duty. I really need to talk.”
Talk was incubus code for I want to jump your bones so that I can perfect my bone-jumping technique.
A sexy vision rushed into my head and I saw myself stretched out on the sofa, a man leaning over me, touching me, wowing me. A man with short, dark hair and piercing green eyes.
A man who looked a lot more like Cutter Owens than like the hot demon standing in front of me.
Uh-oh.
“Off duty? Me?” I bolted to my feet. “I’m not off duty. I’m just getting started.” When his gaze swept me from head to toe, drinking in my sweats, I added, “He’s into Hello Kitty. My date, that is. He’s a huge collector. He’s got the Hello Kitty popcorn machine, the waffle maker, phone case, screen saver—you name it. And you know me, I aim to please. Speaking of which”—I did an exaggerated neck roll as if I were about to climb into a WWE ring—“I hate to cut our reunion short, but he’ll be here any minute and I’d like to get some stretching in first. He likes his women flexible.”
Gio gave me a hurt look, and I fought down a pang of guilt. As much as I hated lying, I knew I had no choice. Friend or not, he was still a demon, and therefore unlikely to understand me wanting to find my One and Only. Even if he did, I still couldn’t risk him mentioning it to any of his incubus buddies. My mother was going to find out the truth soon enough, and I was determined to get myself into her good graces before then. “If he sees you here, he’s liable to run the other way, and I can’t risk that. I’ve been working on this guy forever.” I motioned toward the door. “You should go.”
“But I really want to talk.”
Um, yeah.
“I’ll call you,” I heard myself say as I grabbed his arm and hauled him off the couch.
“But I want to talk face-to-face,” he protested as I pushed him toward the door.
“We’ll do it face-to-face.” I yanked open the door and nudged him out onto the front porch. “We’ll do it missionary and doggie and any other way you want to do it.” Not. While I didn’t want to mess up my karma with a lie, my back was flat against the wall. Better to tell a teeny tiny fib than rip off my clothes and screw things up in a major way. “We just can’t do it right now.” I slammed the door shut in his face.
I wasn’t going to sleep with Gio.
And I certainly wasn’t going to sleep with Cutter Owens. I wanted more than sex from a man.
My head knew that, but damned if my body had gotten the message just yet.
I waited, my heart beating a frantic rhythm, for the next few seconds until I heard the soft poof! The smell of sulfur faded, and as quickly as Gio had dropped in, he was gone.
I let out the breath I’d been holding and headed back to the living room and the forgotten remote control. I’d just upped the volume on the TV when my nose twitched with the familiar scent, although it was much more subtle this time.
Foreboding rippled through me, followed by a rush of relief when I turned my head to find Blythe standing behind me.
She was tall and voluptuous, her long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail above a pair of double-D breasts barely contained in an itty-bitty pink tank top that read Limos Are Luscious. Tight jeans and strappy stilettos completed her party-girl ensemble.
“Doesn’t anyone knock anymore?” I frowned at her. “I thought you were a bloodthirsty demon.”
“One out of two.” She whistled. “Not bad. And I would have knocked, but my hands were full.” She made a beeline for the kitchen and set her grocery bag down on the counter, then pulled a bottle of champagne from inside, followed by a carton of orange juice and three bags of peanut M&Ms. “I had a twenty-first B-day celebration that got cut short tonight because the birthday girl turned out to be preggos, which totally killed cocktail hour. She was craving all-you-can-eat pancakes, so I dropped them off at an IHOP and brought the party favors here. I figured you could use some cheering up, i.e., alcohol.” She popped a few candies into her mouth as her gaze dropped to my clenched hand. “What’s with the cake server?”
“Spiders and horny demons.” When she arched a brow, I gave her a quick rundown of my day, including the brief encounter with Cutter Owens.
“I’ve heard about him. He took out one of my second cousins a few years ago. Sliced his head clean off before he realized that Apopyr—that was his name—wasn’t the demon he was looking for.”
“Who was he after?”
“Azazel.”
“Why do I know that name?”
“Everyone knows that name.” She popped the champagne top and took a long swig of the bubbly. “He’s one of the oldest demons in existence,” she added when she finally
came up for air.
“That’s right.” I’d heard stories about how smart and cunning and elusive he was. There were even a few who claimed he’d been the one to tempt Eve in that garden so long ago instead of my ma. Not that anyone said that to her face.
“Why does he want Azazel?” I handed her a champagne glass from a nearby cabinet. “I mean, I know why he wants him—he’s a demon slayer and Azazel’s a demon—but why this demon in particular?”
“He stole Cutter’s soul.” Blythe mixed the orange juice with the champagne and handed me a mimosa. “Azazel is a collector. He travels this realm, imprisoning as many souls as possible. He’s supposed to hand them over to your gramps, but rumor has it he’s been keeping some for himself.”
“Gramps would never allow that.”
“He would if he’s too busy worrying about your ma and aunties. He doesn’t have the time to micromanage every ancient in existence. Sure, they bow down to your gramps because he led the way, but they don’t do it because they have to. It’s their choice. Your gramps knows that, so maybe he looks the other way on purpose. To keep the peace.”
“How do you know all of this?”
She shrugged. “My great-great-great-great-uncle is the chief demon of gossip, remember?”
Duh. I knew that. I’d just been too freaked out by recent events to remember that all-important fact. “So tell me more.”
“Well, it seems Cutter has been hunting Azazel forever. He’s pissed and he wants revenge.”
I didn’t blame him. I knew how much I loved my favorite pair of shoes. I could only imagine how it would be to have your very essence ripped away.
“He almost caught him.” Blythe sipped her drink. “Cutter actually narrowed down Azazel’s location to some ancient castle in Rome a few years back. He goes there for the final showdown, only to get sidetracked by a bunch of lower-tier demons Azazel had gathered as a distraction. Cutter got busy slaying his way through the crowd, which gave Azazel a chance to slip away. Again.”
The Devil's in the Details Page 4
