The demon tilted his head as he regarded her. “Are you drunk?”
“No, I am not drunk! I’m just being honest with you. It’s a virtue, so you probably haven’t encountered honesty before.”
“And there’s the angel I know and love,” he teased. “Don’t be so quick with the thanks, because our evening isn’t over yet. I’ve got something else planned.”
“I’m not having sex with you.” It was a knee-jerk response, because at that moment she really did want to have sex with him. Or at least have him kiss her again.
Dar looked pained. “Yes, you’ve said that repeatedly. I’m starting to have self-esteem problems with the regularity you insist you won’t have sex with me. I haven’t even tried to feel you up . . . yet. No, we’re going to a little Karaoke bar a few blocks away.”
Asta halted in the middle of the sidewalk. “Karaoke?” She’d lingered outside and listened but hadn’t actually ventured into any establishment that had karaoke. It always sounded like the singers were having such fun, even the ones who weren’t particularly gifted.
The demon folded her arm in his. “You’re an angel. You must sing. It’s a sort of birthright with you guys, isn’t it? After eating and drinking alcoholic beverages, I’d assumed this would be the easiest part of the evening for you to get through.”
“I sing.” Sound was a vital part of every angel’s existence, although it wasn’t quite the same as how the human sensory organs perceived. Still, angelic song seemed to have a strong link to human music. She’d always found herself spellbound by the street musicians, the sounds spilling from bars hosting local bands, and even the radios blaring from passing automobiles. But to replicate that sound? That was something just as new as the lobster bisque.
Dar led her a few streets over and down a set of stairs to a garden-level club — which was a generous term for basement. Once across the threshold, Asta was entranced. The room was long, with a bar to the left and narrow tables to the right. A skinny aisle led between the two toward the back, where speakers and electronic equipment was set up. Patrons leafed through songbooks, chatting cheerfully and drinking beer from the bottle. She and Dar were distinctly overdressed, but no one seemed to mind. The demon thrust a beer bottle into her hand and snatched a songbook from the bar.
“I’m going to suggest Like a Virgin or perhaps Closer.”
Asta grabbed the book from the demon. “I’m not going to sing about my lack of sexual experience or croon that I want to have carnal intercourse like an animal. Perhaps Amazing Grace or that song about the little boy purchasing his dying mother footwear for Christmas.”
Dar tried to grab the book back, and they struggled in a brief tug of war. “What is it with you and footwear? How about I pick a song for you, and you pick one for me?”
The angel paused. It would be deliciously satisfying to make the demon sing something pure and sweet, but the trade-off would be her having to sing a horribly vulgar melody in front of all these people.
“No deal.”
Dar let go of the songbook, and Asta nearly toppled backwards. “Spoilsport. Okay, but you go first.”
Sipping her beer, the angel picked out a song and waited her turn, applauding and cheering for the humans as they belted out various tunes with great enthusiasm, if not with particular skill. When her turn came, Asta skipped to the monitor, eager to sing Unchained Melody.
The opening chorus of notes was definitely not Unchained Melody. No, she recognized this song. Asta looked up from the monitor to scowl at the demon, who lifted his bottle of beer in salute. There wasn’t much she could do — either sing and throw herself into it, or storm off like a petulant child. Asta knew when she’d been bested and had the grace to appreciate a sneaky move when she saw one. Taking a breath, she looked down at the monitor and poured her heart and soul into Runnin’ With The Devil.
“That was very unfair of you,” she scolded teasingly after the applause had died down. What a great time she was having, and, honestly, she wasn’t ashamed to admit it was because of Dar. Doing all these things by herself wasn’t nearly as exciting as enjoying them in the company of a demon — a demon she was coming to like far too much.
“You stuck with it admirably. Eddie Van Halen would be proud.” Dar handed her another beer. “Since you were such a good sport, I’ll let you pick the song I sing.”
Now, this was going to be fun. “This one.” Asta pointed to a song in the book as Dar looked over her shoulder.
“Touché. Quite the payback, my beautiful angel. Fair is fair, though.”
Dar downed his beer then strode to the back of the bar, singing Over the Rainbow with great feeling.
They laughed and sang a few more songs. Then the demon gave her a strange look, as if he’d come to a decision. “I’d planned to end the evening here, but there’s a place I want to show you. Are you up for a taxi ride?”
“I’ve never ridden in a taxi,” Asta confessed. “Actually, I’ve never ridden in a car.”
Dar looked astounded. “What? You’ve been here a hundred years and never ridden in a car?”
Asta gave a sheepish smile then pinned her thumbs together, fluttering her fingers like wings. “I’ve got my own built-in transportation.”
“Ah yes, you naughty angel. Well, prepare to be significantly underwhelmed. Taxis are a far cry from flying above rooftops.”
The vehicle smelled of garlic, and the torn vinyl cushions threatened to snag the edges of her dress, but Asta was still enchanted by the taxi ride. Fast music blared from the speakers as the driver rocketed them around corners, sending the angel flying back and forth across the bench seat. It was like one of the children’s rides she’d watched at the end of Navy Pier, and she laughed along with Dar as they bounced around the back of the vehicle.
With a screech of sub-par breaks, the taxi swerved to the curb. Asta peered out the window as Dar passed the driver a handful of money through the slot in the clear plastic divider. She recognized this section of town as the one where she’d first followed Dar, where he’d shoplifted and visited the amazing bakery.
“We’re here,” the demon announced, helping her out of the taxi.
‘Here’ was a sidewalk with a broken piece jutting a good three inches above the rest, just waiting for a woman with expensive heels to trip over. Beyond the hazardous walkway was a brick building, stained from decades of automotive exhaust and ground-out cigarettes. Iron gates were folded to either side of a glossy, green wooden door, which had ‘Stanley’s’ stenciled in chipped gold across it. With a flourish, Dar ushered her forward, and she walked into the small bar, its neon signage proclaiming they proudly served Old Style.
Asta wasn’t sure about style, but the place was definitely old by human standards. It looked as though nothing had changed since 1950. The mirrored wall behind the worn oak bar was cloudy with a film of tobacco smoke, reflecting the liquor bottles lined in front of it in a hazy blur. The bar seats held an assortment of elderly men wearing Sansabelt trousers with waistbands practically under their armpits. Asta suspected they hadn’t budged from their seats all day. Shelves full of six-packs and cheap wine lined the wall opposite the bar. There were no tables, and Asta stood awkwardly, wondering where she was supposed to sit.
“Dar!” The elderly men all raised their draft beers and shouted the demon’s name in unison.
“Hey, guys. Got room for me and my girl?”
The men shuffled stools, all the while winking and intoning ‘hubba-hubba’ at Asta. It took inordinately long for them to swap seats, but eventually there were two empty chairs waiting for them between the crowd of ancient men.
“The usual, Dar? And what can I get you, dear?” The bartender would have been no more than a shadowy figure in the dim lighting had it not been for the reflective quality of the platinum-blond hair piled into an impressive cone at the top of her head.
There were two taps behind the bar — one labeled Pabst Blue Ribbon, and the other the Old Style. Hmm, that must be
what the sign in the window was about.
She wasn’t sure about anything that included the word ‘old’ in combination with the word ‘style’, and that blue ribbon had probably been awarded fifty years ago. Maybe they had other choices. “Wine?”
Asta expected to be handed a list, but the woman ticked the selections off impeccably manicured fingers. “Red, white, or purple?”
“Purple?” It was a question meant to result in further clarification, but the woman took it to be her order and got to work pouring Dar a mug of PBR. She then blew the dust out of a wine glass and heaved a giant bottle to the bar. With a twist of her wrist, she’d unscrewed the cap, and thick purple liquid filled the glass.
Oh my stars, what had she ordered? And in a dusty wineglass that probably hadn’t been used in the last decade. Who knew how old the wine was, but she doubted that its aging in a gallon screw-top jug did much for the quality.
With everyone watching her, she took a tentative sip. “Thank you. Very nice,” she choked, taking another quick drink to cover her dismay. This was a far cry from what Dar had been plying her with earlier.
Manischewitz, probably purchased when the bar originally opened. She was drinking decades-old kosher wine in a Polish bar in downtown Chicago — a bar full of elderly men that greeted Dar like he was a long-lost brother, men who were now regaling the demon with tales of their younger years.
“See that scar? No, that other scar. Got that climbing out a window when my girl’s father came home early. Ripped the skin on a nail and had to go get a tetanus shot.”
“Dotty know about that girl?” One of the others teased.
“That girl is Dotty. Married fifty years this April, and worth every scar and tetanus shot.”
The men erupted in laughter, Dar along with them.
“They’re a good bunch,” the bartender said to Asta, glancing fondly at the humans. “They love it when Dar comes in and they can dredge up all the old stories for him. He’s heard that one about Dotty at least a dozen times, but he still laughs.”
Asta looked at the demon in confusion. What was he doing, hanging out with a bunch of elderly men? Shouldn’t he be killing, plundering, or at least corrupting more politicians?
“He’s a nice man, your boyfriend,” the bartender continued. “Cute, too. If I were twenty years younger, I’d give you a run for your money.”
Boyfriend? And a demon described as a ‘nice man’? Asta shook her head in disbelief. What could he possibly have to gain by spending time with these humans?
Unless he actually like them. How very undemonic. And how very unangelic of her to envy him this closeness with the men. For a century, she’d watched over these humans, struggling to keep her distance, and here this demon had done the very thing she’d always longed to do — he’d connected with them. He’d become part of their lives. They called his name when he came in. No human knew her name beyond Carter. None. For one-hundred years she’d forced herself to keep her distance, and all she had was this empty feeling inside. And envy. Horrible envy eating her away because Dar had been brave enough to break the rules and have something she’d never dared. He’d made human friends. He’d become important in their lives. They cared about him.
There was sin, and there was this. Her heart nearly burst realizing she’d missed out on so much more than espresso and macarons during her time here — she’d missed connecting with the people she’d been sent to protect.
“So, introduce us to your date, Dar.”
The demon placed a hand on Asta’s back. “This is my angel, Asta.”
“Oh, she’s an angel all right.”
“Whatcha doing with this loser, honey? Need to find yourself a nice Polish man; that’s what you need to do.”
“Like you, Henry? You’re out of your league if you think an angel is going to look your way.”
And just like that, Dar had brought her into his circle. The men made a terrible fuss over her, recounting their own conquests with the fair sex in their youth, and telling her how lucky Dar was to have such a beautiful girlfriend. Some were widowed, some had wives off at bingo, and a few had never married.
The bartender topped off her ‘purple’ wine, as the man next to her, Dawid, recounted his family’s experiences in World War II.
“I was seventeen and got in just as things were wrapping up. All my cousins went in earlier and so many didn’t return . It was expected that I’d go too. We had family still in Poland, so this was a war that cut close to our hearts.” His pale-blue eyes misted. “But I’ll be honest; I was always glad I was too young to go when the war first started. Call me a coward, but I’d seen my aunts cry over those yellow slips delivered to their doorway, and I never wanted my mother to go through the same thing.”
She reached out and squeezed his hand, feeling the fragile bones and crepe-textured skin under her fingers. “I lost both my parents in a war — a war I was too young to serve in. I know it’s treasonous to think this, but I’m glad I was too young to fight. So many died — beings who were not necessarily evil, but were fighting because they thought they had to. The cause may have been just, but I’m still relieved I didn’t have to look across at another and end his life.”
Suddenly it hit her — that’s what she did. She executed demons. They’d done the equivalent of climbing the Berlin Wall, and somehow that warranted death? What if they were like Dar and just here for vacation? There had to be some way to judge evil intent, to eradicate those who wished to harm the humans without resorting to this kill-them-all-and-let-God-sort-them-out philosophy.
Dawid gave her hand a surprisingly firm squeeze in return. “I’m sorry about your parents. War is the hardest on children, it seems. I hope you’ve been able to find a family here. Family is more than blood, you know. Keep those you love close, and they’re your family.”
She couldn’t help but look over at Dar, arguing good-naturedly with Gerard and Lew about the benefits of unionization in the textile industry. Who did she love? She was very grateful to Gabriel for taking her under his wing and admired many of the angels in Aaru, but. . . .
“I’ve worked too hard to really think about family,” she admitted. “But you’re right. I need to find someone who I care about, who cares about me, and keep them close.”
“There you go, Asta.” Dawid let her hand go to pat her gently on the shoulder.
She spent the rest of the night listening to stories and good-natured ribbing between men who had clearly been friends for a long time. When the bartender finally ushered her and Dar out the door, pulling the heavy metal gate closed behind them, it was early in the morning.
“Okay, I’ll admit that was fun.” Asta’s head was floating, and she couldn’t seem to keep the smile from her face as they walked the brightly lit, still lively city streets. It was more than fun. There was something fulfilled, deep in her soul, from getting to know these humans. “How do you know them, the men in the bar?”
“I found Stanley’s a few decades ago and try to pop in a couple times per year. About half the original patrons I knew have died. I’m not sure what’s going to happen when the rest of them go. It’s not like that place appeals to the younger, more hip crowd that’s taking over the neighborhood. I keep thinking one year I’m going to come back to find Marsha has sold it and it’s become a gourmet pizzeria or something.” He paused, looking down the street behind him. “That place has been in her family for three generations. It loses a ton of money, but she keeps it open because all those guys remind her of her father.”
Asta felt a prick of tears behind her eyes. Time was so unforgiving to humans. But it wasn’t just the thought of the little bar closing that upset Asta it was the stinging fact that the demon had a closer, more intimate feel for the city’s residents than she did. This had always been her city, and she’d prided herself on how much she’d cared for the fate of the humans here. Now she faced a cold truth — viewing the humans from a thousand feet up and caring about their general welfare wasn’t th
e same as really knowing their lives, really immersing herself into their hopes and dreams, their pain and sorrow. How was it that this demon seemed nobler than all the angels in Aaru?
Maybe contemplation and grace were nothing without the experience of deep emotional connection.
“Short cut.” Dar pulled her down a side street, holding her arm as she picked her way carefully over the broken bits of sidewalk.
“I don’t want to break a heel.” Asta clung to his shoulder and hopped as she removed her shoes. Stupid shallow angel, worrying about her shoes, the cost of which were probably more than Marsha brought home in a week. Asta eyed the red soles and cream patent leather tops with sudden shame. She would only be here for a few more days. How could she change in such a short time? How could she make a difference in just a few days before she flew back to Aaru?
Aaru. Her homeland had always seemed a refuge, but now the thought of returning sat like something foul in her stomach. How could she go back and sit for centuries in meditation while Marsha struggled to keep her business afloat, Otto mourned the death of his grandson, and Eugene went home and struggled to climb the three flights of stairs to his little apartment.
Tucking the shoe under her arm, she took off the other and stretched her toes, marveling at the feel of rough cement under her feet. There were times when shoes were overrated, and this was one of them.
“There.” She smiled at Dar, realizing she was now the same height as the demon she’d towered over all evening.
“Penny for your thoughts?” He took the shoes from her and stuck them in his jacket pockets. She couldn’t help but notice how they ruined the smooth lines of the suit, heels jutting like weapons from his hips.
“I was thinking maybe Marsha could have a very lucky day with a scratch-off lottery ticket.”
Her brown eyes met his silver-colored ones. Then suddenly her back was pressed to brick and his mouth was on hers.
His body was firm against hers, his lips gentle and soft. They pulled at hers, as his tongue teased and teeth nibbled. Her heart lurched and her hands gathered the fabric of his shirt. For a moment, she was unable to move, unable to do anything as he traced the lines of her mouth, tasting the warmth between her lips.
Demons & Djinn: Nine Paranormal Romance and Urban Fantasy Novels Featuring Demons, Djinn, and other Bad Boys of the Underworld Page 38
