Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) (2 page)

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The Devil's Drink

Baltimore, Maryland

Simon Alliant hated nightclubs.

Tourist trap clubs, anyway, with their aseptic furniture and the plastic and chrome and high ceilings and LED lights. They were poor competition to the places he'd frequented in his youth—dingy basement bars with small stages that barely fit a five-man band, people packed up against the edge like kettle fish. When the music started and the lights glared, the crowd bounced like a single, mindless mass.

The humanity, the press of flesh, the scents of smoke and skin and sweat. The often-predictable drunken fist fight and resulting overnight stay in the city can.

He smiled a little, reminiscing. Ah. The good old days.

But not here. Who came up with the name for this place, anyway? The Devil's Drink? Hardly. He spared a glance at the neon-lit walls and white plastic stools. Places like this always felt more like after hours in a hospital when the med cabinet was left unlocked. Potential for a good time, but not quite making it.

This one was definitely too clean for his taste. Everything was blue and silver, a desperate attempt to capture an ethereal feel. It might have succeeded, if one were drunk enough and crossed his eyes. But not tonight.

Tonight, he was on the clock.

He weaved his way through the
haute couture
and the slick-styled posh. Mostly new university graduates living far beyond their means. None of these kids earned enough to wear the clothes or drive the cars they did, unless they'd made some sort of deal with the devil.

And, as far as he knew, there was only bloke here who'd actually done just that.

The bar looked like a chemistry laboratory. More of that aseptic feel, futuristic glass and colorful decanters, minus the white laboratory coats. It didn't feel like a place to slake a thirst or drown a sorrow.

"Hey." He lifted his chin at the bartender to get his attention. And failed. The bartender passed him by three times without pausing or even making eye contact.

Grumbling, Simon pulled a ten dollar bill out of his pocket and smoothed it out, folding it sharply lengthwise, before holding it like a flag between two fingers. This time, he didn't even need to make eye contact with the kid, who manifested in front of him within seconds.

Of course. Money worked its own magic.

"What will it be?"

"Martini, squeaky clean. Oh, and hold the vermouth."

The bartender rolled his eyes before reaching under the bar for the cheap gin.

Thirty seconds later, Simon was staring at an oddly misshapen twist of glassware. Looking down the length of the bar, he noticed others drinking from similar vessels.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this? I can't even figure out how to drink out of this fricken thing.

Finally, he admitted defeat. He signaled to the bartender. "Can I get a glass?"

With a sour look, the bartender reached under the bar. He popped a plain tumbler in front of him. "Would you like a straw?"

Simon grinned and nodded. "Good one."

He examined the garnish briefly before determining it was inedible, and tossed it onto the napkin before sloshing the gin into the glass.

Seeing the bartender's disdain, he raised the glass in a mock toast. "Cheers."

He raised the glass to his lips and paused. It wasn't the acrid pineyness of the booze that stopped him from drinking. A spike of metaphysical energy hit him like the bite of a bad grounding.

The edges of his senses tingled, a prickling deep in his brain. He didn't even have to try to notice it. This was a part of himself that never shut off. It was always watchful, waiting.

His gaze jerked to the side and he cocked his head before grimacing, his face awash in a cold humor.

"All work and no play." Shaking his head, he clunked the glass down with a rueful smile. "Alright, pal. Let's have a look at you."

With a kick against the bar, he slowly spun his barstool around. He slipped a lens out of his pocket and held it up in front of his eye and scanned the crowd.

Through the scrying lens, the light scattered into rainbow streaks. Kind of like an infrared camera, except this didn't detect heat—it detected divine energy. Particularly, hell stain. Came in real handy when looking for the bad guys.

As he surveyed the room, he noticed a figure near the wall, so much different than all the others. That figure glowed a dark, seething red, dripping heat.

He lowered the lens to see an otherwise normal-looking guy, talking up a pretty brunette.

Simon stowed the lens in his jacket pocket. "Righto, then. Time to crash his little party."

He picked up his drink, centered himself, then wove his way through the crowd with a tipsy smile. Despite his cheerful blunders when he artfully bumped into this one and that, he never took his eyes off the guy.

The guy leaned over the woman, his hand on the wall behind her. She played with the straw in her drink, obviously enthralled with him. Such intense conversation. How can they hear each other over the racket? And, he knew, she shouldn't want to hear him. Not if she had any idea what he was, or what his words could do.

She raised up on her toes to whisper in his ear and slipped her hand around his neck. Over her shoulder, the kid's eyes flashed a sinister red glow.

God help her. She didn't realize she was hooking up with a demon.

No time to waste. Hell wasn't going to ruin another innocent girl. Not while he was still able to do something about it.

He shot through the crowd like an arrow, slowing his last steps to an exaggerated stagger. Tripping over his feet, he wedged himself between the couple.

"Ah, thought I smelled a party." He grinned and looped an arm around each of their necks. "Mind if I join?"

With a huff, the woman flipped his arm off and pushed him back. Her touch was surprisingly gentle, considering the expression on her face. Her eyebrows were practically touching, though, she was so put out. "Why don't you get lost, buddy?"

Simon swung his face close to hers, his voice low and steely. "You're the one who needs to skedaddle. I got business with my friend here."

She pinched her lips, then took a deep breath. "He's not your friend."

"And he really shouldn't be yours." Reaching into his side pocket, he pulled out a bundle of woven reeds, the center darkened by a metal charm that had been seared into it. St. Bridget's cross, with a touch of St. Michael for good measure.

A measure well taken. The demon screamed at the sight of it and recoiled, temporarily losing control on its human guise. Its mouth stretched impossibly wide, teeth like wicked needles, eyes ablaze with red fury.

Simon smiled a mean slant. Watching a demon writhe in agony did wonders for a guy's spirits.

For as long as it lasted, anyway, which wasn't more than a few moments. Before he could utter the binding spell, the demon-possessed man broke and ran, deftly snaking through the crowd toward the exit.

The woman looked stunned. Apparently she wasn't accustomed to being ditched. Poor girl. The first taste of disappointment was always a bitter one.

"Well, can't say I didn't try." Simon stowed the cross, unwilling to waste any of its considerable power on the trivialities of the passing immoral. "No need to thank me, love."

"Damn straight there isn't. I should throttle you." She glared at him a moment before pushing past him, sending him against the wall with a surprising amount of force.

He stared after her, his jaw slacking. She was going after the bastard.

"What in hell…?" He shook his head before scrambling to catch up. Some girls just couldn't take no for an answer.

The streets were damp and noisy, car traffic in an endless stream in front of the popular club. Simon ignored the pedestrians, the line of people waiting to get in. Rounding the corner, he scanned the alley before stepping out of the safety of the streetlights into the shadows beyond. He extended his hands out, as if walking in the dark. Not that he worried about bumping into a wall or a dumpster—it was the spiritual dark he feared. Eyes half-closed, he let the sensitive part of his brain go wide open. Taking a stiff inhale, he lifted his chin.

A trace of rancid smoke wound its way like a ribbon through the heavy air. The demon's wake.

He followed the trail, deeper into the alley, the smell growing stronger. There, in a recessed doorway, he spied the couple in an embrace.

The woman's back was to Simon, the only visible part of the demon his arms wrapped around her. Below the rolled-up sleeves and weight-room biceps, the flesh was marred, molten and gnarled, ending in hands that were blackened, scaled, and claw-tipped.

Its face was hidden in the shadows. Over the woman's shoulder gleamed twin slits of baleful red.

"Shit." Simon muttered as he assessed the demon's appearance. The human host was disappearing, little by little. Only a matter of time before it took full control. "Hey! You there!"

The demon snarled.
GO AWAY.
A myriad of voices twisted the syllables into an unholy chorus.

"Ugh." The woman half-turned to glance at Simon. "You again? Can't you see I'm busy?

"Sure, you are." He popped thick matching rings onto his thumbs and spread his hands apart, stretching a glowing hum between his palms, collecting power that zapped and sparked around the odd silver circles. The light quickly built to an opaque glow.

"In the name of the Light, I draw thee." His gaze firmly on the demon's eyes, Simon chanted the binding spell. "In the name of the Light, I bind thee. In the name of the Light, I cast thee back into darkness. In the name of the Light, I—"

The demon screamed in loathsome rage, the collection of voices reaching an ear-splitting pitch, but it could not look away from the exorcist who held it in thrall. It pushed the woman aside and stumbled forward, writhing in pain.

Suddenly, the host hunched over, crunching tight against his knees, dropping to the ground. Tighter, tighter he folded himself, impossibly smaller, shrinking down until he imploded.

The demon planed out and disappeared, taking the host with it. The power snap impacted Simon so hard he had to take a step back to brace himself. A very human scream echoed off the walls of the buildings, reverberating into the distance.

"No, no, no, no!" Simon bit back a curse and rubbed a hand over the back of his head, ruffling his hair as he tried to massage away the ache in his brain. "That should have worked."

He lifted his hands like antennae, hoping to catch the tail-end of the demon's wake. There was nothing. Not a damn thing. "Sorry 'bout that, sweetheart. Go on back to your clubbing. And for the love of all that's decent, stay away from that one."

The woman stared at him, utterly agape. Probably not used to guys being all hands one minute and imploding into brimstone smoke the next. Well, she was still alive. She'd get over it.

Or not.

She rushed him and stuck with both hands flat on his chest, knocking him back a pace. "What are you doing?"

"Protecting you from a certain end, that's what."

"He was listening to me." She looked mad enough to spit. "I just about had him!"

"You shouldn't have needed a second warning and you definitely shouldn't have gotten a second chance." He nosed into her, genuine steel in his eyes. "You just remember, sweetheart. Third time is always the charm—and you don't have the right charm to survive."

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to hit him, hard.

He merely turned aside and lit a cigarette. It wasn't merely a matter of dismissing her—turning his hips would protect his assets, the most likely target of a woman scorned.

She put her hands up in a "whatever" gesture and left with a huff. Halfway to the sidewalk, she turned to yell over her shoulder. "Don't mess with things you don't understand."

Of all the things—he just saved her sweet behind from a demon. A
demon
. Not some tanked-up pretty-boy college kid who had drunk himself past the God's-Gift-To-Woman stage and halfway to Bulletproof. A demon, with enough power to completely transform a mortal body. According to the rules of divinity and mortality, it shouldn't have been able to do that, not out in the open like that.