I half turned, my gaze catching sight of him sitting at the bar. He wore the usual black jeans and a matching T-shirt that outlined his broad shoulders. One bicep rippled, and a slave-band tattoo played peekaboo beneath the edge of his sleeve as he lifted a mug of beer to his lips. Our eyes locked and my stomach fluttered, followed by a rush of coldness when I noticed the crook of his sensual lips.
He was smiling at my predicament. The rat.
Agarth stabbed another roll and Cutter’s grin widened as if to say priceless.
I stiffened and glared. Seriously. If he had an ounce of compassion, he would waltz over and save me from the most boring night of my life.
But slayers weren’t compassionate and his presence had nothing to do with looking out for my well-being. He was keeping tabs on me. Nothing more.
Okay, so he was laughing too. Particularly when Agarth threatened to impale a flirty accountant who offered to buy me a drink.
“I think I can handle things myself,” I told the ancient demon.
“Nonsense. Ye be a mere woman.”
Blythe gave me an I-am-so-getting-you-back-for-this look, and I busied myself ignoring the blistering heat from Cutter’s gaze and the yawning hunger inside of me. I sucked down the chocolate banana daiquiri I’d just ordered and set it aside. “Wow, would you look at the time? I really need to go and leave you two lovebirds—”
“You can’t run off,” Blythe cut in, her fingers closing around my wrist in a vise grip that made me wince. “They’re having a Greek warriors festival over at the Palladium. It’s a double feature tonight—Clash of the Titans and 300.” She smiled, her eyes pleading. “I’ll buy the popcorn.”
“Bite your tongue, woman,” Agarth growled. “I’ll be buying ye popcorn and any other nourishment ye require. And ye, too.” He pointed at me with his knife. As opposed as he was to having a third wheel, he knew it was the only way he was going to get a few more minutes with Blythe.
I thought of Cutter and how he’d held me after my near-death experience, and how I’d liked it. And how I’d felt so alone when I’d driven away from him, even though, realistically, I knew there could never be anything between us.
“Throw in a box of Jujubes,” I told Agarth, “and I’m there.”
12
Someone was in my apartment.
The thought struck as I pulled into my driveway. I stared through the windshield at the light edging the drapes in my living room. After the evening I’d just had—near-death experience followed by dinner and a double feature with Blythe and Agarth—I’d figured my luck had already tanked and there was nowhere to go but up.
I’d been wrong.
The front door of my duplex trembled and my flight mechanism kicked in. I debated my two options—shift the car into reverse and hightail it out of there or kill the engine, fling open the car door, and race toward the black Land Rover parked a half block down the street.
I’d throw myself into Cutter’s arms and he would hold me close. Then I’d kiss him and he’d kiss me. I’d slip my hands under his shirt and he’d slip his hands under my shirt. I’d touch him and he’d touch me. I’d lick his nipple and he’d lick mine.
If I managed to find Azazel.
Otherwise, I’d be just another kill on his résumé.
My hand tightened on the gearshift and my foot poised over the gas. Just as I slid into reverse, my front door opened and I let out a huge sigh of relief at the mega-hot cowboy framed in the doorway: black Cowboy Up T-shirt, worn jeans, fringed leather chaps, and boots. A black Stetson sat low on his head.
Gio gave me a look that said what the fuck are you sitting out there for?
I slipped the car back into park, killed the engine, and climbed from behind the wheel.
“Don’t tell me Syra has a Roy Rogers thing going on.”
“Ty Murray. She flew to Vegas after New York and caught the pro bull riding finals. It was lust at first sight.”
“Where is she now?”
“Dinner party with the groom-to-be and his parents. I’m meeting her later for a little after-hours fun. I had some time to kill, so I thought I’d stop by.”
I knew exactly what he was thinking.
What he was always thinking.
“I can’t. I mean, I would, of course. If I didn’t have to save my energy for later. I’ve got a hot date. I’ve got the libido of a demon, but it’s all wrapped up in a human package.”
“I know what you mean. Syra’s insatiable, and it gets a little exhausting.” A smile touched his lips. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was a demon herself.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you really like this girl.”
Longing glimmered in his gaze before diving deep into the bright-blue depths. “Yeah, right. She’s my assignment. That’s it.” At least that’s what he was telling himself.
Sheesh. I really was tired, otherwise I wouldn’t be thinking such crazy thoughts. Gio falling for a woman? Nah.
“I’m hungry,” he announced. “For food,” he added when I summoned a yawn.
“Seriously?”
He nodded. “Something sweet.”
Now here was a man after my own heart. Cutter was parked out front, watching, waiting, and the knowledge was playing havoc with my self-control. My own stomach grumbled. “I’ve got Twinkies,” I told Gio.
“That’ll work.”
“Where’s Mom?” I asked Cheryl the next morning when I walked into one of Houston’s top bridal salons and found her flying solo.
“Foot massage.”
“But I thought she was meeting me this morning.”
“She was, but then she had an emergency.”
“A foot massage emergency?”
“Bunions,” Cheryl mouthed because, apparently, even Satan wasn’t immune to icky feet.
I had a quick mental image of myself huddled inside a ridiculously cold igloo after fleeing for my existence. “But she’s the bride,” I said, doing my best to keep the shriek out of my voice. It crept in anyway. “And this is a fitting for the bridal gown. She has to be here.” I touched Cheryl’s hand. “Please.”
Cheryl gave me an odd look, as if she couldn’t quite believe I was related to her boss. I didn’t blame her. Demons weren’t the sort to appear so openly rattled. Rather, they did the rattling. They were cool, calm, collected, vicious.
I glanced down at my fingers clasping the woman’s arm. Everything about me screamed desperate.
Cheryl seemed hesitant, but then she caved. “I could call her and tell her we really need her.” She pulled out her cell. “Of course, the last time I bothered her during a bunion extraction, she zapped me and gave me hemorrhoids.” She gathered her courage and punched a button. “Pebbles has obedience class tomorrow night. We’re learning how to sit and I really don’t want to use one of those doughnut pillows—” Her voice cut off as my mom picked up the line. “Miss Lillith?” She drew a deep breath and summoned her courage. “We have a little bit of a prob—”
“You have to get over here,” I blurted, snatching the phone from Cheryl’s hand. What? She couldn’t very well teach her dog to sit if she couldn’t take a load off herself.
“Jezebel?” my mother demanded. “What is the meaning of this intrusion?”
“You’re the bride. You have to pick the dress.”
“But that’s what I hired you for.”
“You hired me to plan the wedding. This is different. This is the dress. Time is of the essence. We have to choose something today. Now.”
“So choose one.”
“I can’t choose your wedding dress. That’s something special. Personal.” What was I saying? Lillith wasn’t the typical blushing bride. This wasn’t a declaration of love. It was a show. A statement. A coup to overtake the big H, which my mother had made perfectly clear. And even if she hadn’t made it perfectly clear, I was supposed to be in business to spoil big days. I should have welcomed the chance to pick someone’s dress. Talk about a prime opportu
nity to throw a wrench into what should have been the most wonderful day of a girl’s life. I was a spoiler. A deceiver.
At least that’s what my ma was supposed to think.
“What I mean is,” I rushed on, “I would so love to pick the dress if this were any of my other weddings. But it’s yours, so I want things to be perfect, and I’m not a stylist. I don’t know what looks good on you.”
“I look good in everything.” So sayeth the most vain woman in the universe.
“True, but I’m sure you want to look really good. To show up the aunts, of course. That’s why I wanted you to model a few dresses. To see what looks the best. An A-line? Empire cut? Mermaid svelte? Strapless or sleeves? Ruching or ruffles?”
“Yes.”
“To which one?”
“All of the above.”
“But it has to be fitted specifically to you.”
“Cheryl has my measurements.”
“But—”
“Just pick something that screams dark and powerful,” she snapped and then hung up.
I blinked back a rush of hot tears and put on my most professional face as Devon Diamond, owner of Designs by Devon, floated from the back room. She looked as pristine and professional as ever in a white fitted suit with a pink rose pinned to her lapel.
“Welcome!” The woman made a beeline straight for me and did the proverbial kiss-kiss on each cheek. “You must be our bride,” she said, turning to Cheryl and taking both of her hands.
“Actually, I’m—”
“Nervous,” I cut in. Devon was the most sought after bridal dress designer in the South. I’d had a hell of a time getting her on the phone yesterday, much less wrangling an appointment on such short notice.
Devon booked months in advance for her custom couture.
But after a lot of pleading and a little bribery, with a spur-of-the-moment rush fee and a promise to set her up with one of my seriously hot incubus friends—she was recently divorced and starting to date again—she’d finally agreed.
Since we were crunched for time, she’d also agreed to take a preexisting sample dress and do the unthinkable—alter to fit. To say she would feel extremely slighted that my demanding bride couldn’t find the time to make it to her own appointment would be an understatement. Devon was a prima donna when it came to her work. And a drama queen.
I sent up a silent prayer (our little secret) that the next two hours didn’t blow up in my face. “Why don’t we get started?” I steered Cheryl into a nearby chair and motioned to Devon. “Bring on the magic.”
Devon clapped her hands and motioned to the two clerks standing in the doorway. A model entered the room wearing a vision in white.
“What do you think?”
“Lillith, here, is more of a nontraditional bride.” I indicated Cheryl. “She really wants something a bit more, um, colorful.”
Devon seemed to think. “I can do color. What are we talking? Ivory? Champagne? Blush?” When I shook my head, she added, “Rose?”
“Deeper.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “Purple?”
“Darker.” And sinister.
Disbelief fueled her expression. “Don’t tell me you want a navy dress.”
“Why, that’s crazy. Navy for a bride?” While dark, navy wasn’t even close to sinister. I summoned a laugh. “I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would order a navy wedding dress.”
“But you said darker than purple, and if navy is out, the only thing left is brown. Or black.” She said it as if she couldn’t possibly have heard me correctly.
I smiled. “Bingo.”
Finding a black sample wedding dress proved much more difficult than I’d imagined. So much so that I had a major migraine and a serious craving for cookies by the time the deed was done a whopping six hours later. Not that we’d actually found one. But I had managed to settle on a satin number that could be dyed.
Very, very carefully.
Talk about stress.
Not only that, but I’d had to persuade Devon that Lillith, aka Cheryl, was going to grow three inches and slim down by about twenty pounds in less than two weeks.
Needless to say, I’d had to dip into my demon bag of tricks. I’d hopped into the salon owner’s body for all of five seconds and written down my mother’s correct measurements. Then I’d taken a hike, leaving her feeling hot and sexy and ready to pounce on the nearest man.
I know, I know. Movies and books would have you think possession is about as fun as a root canal, but it’s not the possession itself that’s bad. It’s the demon. Since I’m the demonic version of Aphrodite, I tend to leave my humans with a heightened sensual awareness and a boost of lust.
“When did you say I could meet your friend?” Devon had asked after assuring me the chosen dress would be altered in time. “Because I’m ready to get back in the game.”
What’d I tell ya?
“Do you think she’ll like it?” Cheryl asked me for the zillionth time as we walked out of the salon.
“Sure,” I said with more confidence than I felt because, hey, that was my job. I was the rock of assurance when it came to nervous brides. Then again, we were talking my mother. “But if I were you, I’d stock up on some Preparation H. Just in case.”
13
“Did you get lucky?” I asked Blythe later that night after a long afternoon at the office nailing down more of the endless wedding details for my mother. While I was making progress and crossing things off my list, I wasn’t one hundred percent confident in my choices. Instead of feeling relieved, I felt nervous.
“I most certainly did not get lucky.” Blythe’s voice stirred the anxiety already rolling in my stomach as I propped the phone against my shoulder and opened a can of dog food for Snooki. “But it wasn’t because Agarth didn’t try when he took me home. He told me how hot I was making him, and then he tried to throw me over his shoulder and tote me to my front door. And then he tried to kiss me. It wasn’t pretty. The only thing that didn’t suck about the whole going-home thing was when he punched my doorman for trying to cop a feel when I walked by him. Seriously, that guy is the sorriest excuse for a doorman. He’s always dropping my groceries when he brings them up and he always loses my mail, and just last week he tried to grab my ass. I even reported him, but apparently he’s related to the building manager. A nephew or cousin or something. Anyhow, when Agarth threw that punch, I was like wow. Not that I’m reevaluating my opinion of him. He’s still a total caveman and I’m not interested.”
Um, yeah. I could practically feel the sexual tension crackling over the phone line.
“I meant lucky as in a lead on Azazel,” I told her. “I have to find out if he’s here or Down Under.”
“Agarth knows this demon over in the Motherland—” i.e., Italy “—who’s in charge of keeping the archives on all the ancient spirits. He tracks everyone. Documents, possessions, et cetera. Agarth has a call in to him to see if he knows anything about Azazel.”
“I didn’t know we had archives.”
“We don’t. The archives were started by this brotherhood of theologians about a zillion years ago. The job’s been handed down over the years. The most recent guy in charge choked on a meatball last year, and just as his spirit took a hike a demon by the name of Rathenbubzer checked in. He’s been keeping tabs on all the oldies but goodies for the past six months now.”
“Including Azazel?” Hope filled my voice as I set the doggie bowl down and opened the gate for Snooki. She yapped (when did she not yap?) and growled at me until I backed away and left her to her dinner.
“Maybe. Rath’s still new to the whole record-keeping system. He said it might take him a few weeks to track Azazel through the endless pages of documentation. They’re old school and still haven’t managed to computerize.”
“A few weeks?” Panic welled.
Easy. Calm. It’s not the end of your life here on earth.
“Or a few months.”
Bye-bye, cupcakes an
d cable TV.
A golf-ball-size lump pushed into my throat, and I reached for a bag of Chips Ahoy sitting on the counter. “But my mother’s wedding is in two weeks,” I said in between cookies. “If I don’t hand over Azazel before then, Cutter will chop off her head.”
Blythe grew silent, making the thunderous crunch of the store-bought treats more pronounced. “Maybe you can persuade him to give you more time?” she finally said.
I swallowed with a loud gulp. “I’m totally going down. In flames.”
“Maybe not,” she said, jumping in to cheer me up in true BFF fashion. “You’ve been known to work a little magic with the opposite sex. Maybe you could persuade Cutter to give you more time.”
But while Cutter Owens might be attracted to me, I knew he didn’t want to be attracted to me. Which meant he had his guard up. Which meant I might as well be a green alien with three eyeballs in the middle of my forehead. “Can’t Rath move any faster?”
“He’s trying, but the last theologian was so old that he was still writing in ancient Hebrew when Rath took over. He’ll have to find a translator to decipher the records.” Her voice grew softer. “You might want to think of a plan B.”
My plan B consisted of more Chips Ahoy, a box of Kleenex (what? A demon can’t cry?), and an evening with Google.
I knew it was a long shot, but I was desperate. I needed something—anything—that might lead me to the ancient demon.
The good news? There were over two hundred thousand references to Azazel.
The bad news? There were over two hundred thousand references. Everything from Wikipedia definitions to several black magic spells guaranteed to summon an ancient demon ($9.99 or your money back).
I spent most of the night clicking one by one, soaking up all of the information, however crazy or sparse, desperate for any clue that might lead me to his whereabouts. I spent a ridiculous amount of money purchasing a few spells, complete with a bottle of virgin’s blood and overnight shipping.
I know, I know.
The odds that I was forking over money for the real thing were slim to none, but it was the best I could come up with. I couldn’t just sit around waiting for Blythe to find me a lead.
The Devil's in the Details Page 10
