were places in Boston —and in most capital cities—that an Enforcer only went if they were looking for trouble, like sending a cop into gang territory. I knew about the demon sanctuaries: parts of the city that harbored arriving demons, acclimatizing them to this world, but they were beyond my pay grade. I’d never visited one before. That was about to change.
I had a measly amount of cash in my pocket, a gun with limited ammo, and an unreliable elemental issue. Where else could I have gone? The Institute would lock me up and knock me out. They’d run tests from which I might never wake up. No thanks. At least the demons kept it simple. Yes, they all wanted me dead. A half-blood was about as low in the demon food-chain as you can get. There was probably a bounty on my head for killing my owner (despite the fact he was still alive) and for taking down a Prince of Hell. But I could use my reputation as armor. They would know my name, and would think twice about tackling me, at least to begin with. A half-demon, trainee Enforcer in demonville, without her demon, had about as much chance of surviving as a kitten in a lion’s den.
The Voodoo Lounge is the sort of backstreet club that tried very hard to be trendy but fell just short of the mark. Bathed in neon lights, it wasn’t shy about its presence. Inside white plastic glowed beneath ultraviolet light, and multicolored light rained across split level dance floors.
I slipped unnoticed into the crowd and ordered a drink at the bar. The congregation on the dance floor rippled to the dance music. Demons masquerading as humans moved differently than the real deal. They didn’t waste energy. A human woman might tap her nails against the bar to the music, for example, but a female demon wouldn’t bother unless it served a purpose. In the company of others, they sprang into motion, but a demons liquid gestures and smooth stride give them away. They’re good though. You have to know what to look for. Demons have spent just as long pretending to be us as we’ve walked upright on this earth.
The crowd at the Voodoo Lounge was perhaps eighty percent demon and all dressed in human suits. The crowd moved in one heaving mass of bodies, like a flock of birds evading a predator. It was surreal and deeply disconcerting.
The Institute could shut places like the Lounge down only when the clientele were caught breaking the law. It was a losing battle. Another demon gathering point would open up down the street within weeks.
I was there because I needed someone outside of the Institute who could figure out why my element was on the fritz.
“Hello, sweet thing.” The woman who leaned casually against the bar beside me was the sort of beautiful bought beneath a surgeon’s knife and just as fake. If the flawless latte tone of her skin and plump kiss-me-quick lips didn’t trigger a few mental alarms, her iridescent eyes would have. Her navy blue trouser suit was tucked around an hourglass figure and flared over shapely hips. Stiletto heels hitched her height up a few more unnecessary inches so that she towered over my petite frame. Her dark hair, pinned back from one side of her face, exhibited an electric blue streak.
My skin prickled. I didn’t need a sixth sense to know she was demon. Too beautiful to be real, she didn’t exist in the same world as the rest of us. If I’d had my demon, I could have extended an elemental touch—a demon handshake—and gauged what sort of demon she was. But all I had to go on was my gut reaction.
“Don’t I know you?” Her words rolled syrup-like off her lips.
“Maybe,” I smiled and took a sip of my drink. Fear would get me killed. Demons smell it, taste it on you, and it drives them wild. Chaos adores fear. “You might be able to help me. I’m looking for a doctor.”
Her plucked eyebrows arched. “Does this look like a clinic?” She flicked long pianist fingers at the crowd before curling them back into her palm. I suspected her
I had a measly amount of cash in my pocket, a gun with limited ammo, and an unreliable elemental issue. Where else could I have gone? The Institute would lock me up and knock me out. They’d run tests from which I might never wake up. No thanks. At least the demons kept it simple. Yes, they all wanted me dead. A half-blood was about as low in the demon food-chain as you can get. There was probably a bounty on my head for killing my owner (despite the fact he was still alive) and for taking down a Prince of Hell. But I could use my reputation as armor. They would know my name, and would think twice about tackling me, at least to begin with. A half-demon, trainee Enforcer in demonville, without her demon, had about as much chance of surviving as a kitten in a lion’s den.
The Voodoo Lounge is the sort of backstreet club that tried very hard to be trendy but fell just short of the mark. Bathed in neon lights, it wasn’t shy about its presence. Inside white plastic glowed beneath ultraviolet light, and multicolored light rained across split level dance floors.
I slipped unnoticed into the crowd and ordered a drink at the bar. The congregation on the dance floor rippled to the dance music. Demons masquerading as humans moved differently than the real deal. They didn’t waste energy. A human woman might tap her nails against the bar to the music, for example, but a female demon wouldn’t bother unless it served a purpose. In the company of others, they sprang into motion, but a demons liquid gestures and smooth stride give them away. They’re good though. You have to know what to look for. Demons have spent just as long pretending to be us as we’ve walked upright on this earth.
The crowd at the Voodoo Lounge was perhaps eighty percent demon and all dressed in human suits. The crowd moved in one heaving mass of bodies, like a flock of birds evading a predator. It was surreal and deeply disconcerting.
The Institute could shut places like the Lounge down only when the clientele were caught breaking the law. It was a losing battle. Another demon gathering point would open up down the street within weeks.
I was there because I needed someone outside of the Institute who could figure out why my element was on the fritz.
“Hello, sweet thing.” The woman who leaned casually against the bar beside me was the sort of beautiful bought beneath a surgeon’s knife and just as fake. If the flawless latte tone of her skin and plump kiss-me-quick lips didn’t trigger a few mental alarms, her iridescent eyes would have. Her navy blue trouser suit was tucked around an hourglass figure and flared over shapely hips. Stiletto heels hitched her height up a few more unnecessary inches so that she towered over my petite frame. Her dark hair, pinned back from one side of her face, exhibited an electric blue streak.
My skin prickled. I didn’t need a sixth sense to know she was demon. Too beautiful to be real, she didn’t exist in the same world as the rest of us. If I’d had my demon, I could have extended an elemental touch—a demon handshake—and gauged what sort of demon she was. But all I had to go on was my gut reaction.
“Don’t I know you?” Her words rolled syrup-like off her lips.
“Maybe,” I smiled and took a sip of my drink. Fear would get me killed. Demons smell it, taste it on you, and it drives them wild. Chaos adores fear. “You might be able to help me. I’m looking for a doctor.”
Her plucked eyebrows arched. “Does this look like a clinic?” She flicked long pianist fingers at the crowd before curling them back into her palm. I suspected her
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