Confessions of a Demon

Table of Contents

• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  
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• 4
  
• 5
  
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• 7
  
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• 9
  
• 10
  
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• 15
  
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• 21
  
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• ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  

 

 

I hung up my black apron and realized it had been a good shift as I sneaked half my tips into Lolita’s jar. Lo deserved it. She brought a friendly, fun vibe to the bar. All I did was pour and serve with a smile, touching my patrons to steal away their emotional energy.

 

Suddenly my hand froze on the tip jar, my senses tingling. The feeling was so mild, I almost mistook it for my own guilty excitement at finally being able to feed off my patrons. But the sensation built, and I knew what it was.

 

A demon is coming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Way-fast read, intensely built world, tortured hero, kick-ass heroine—what’s not to like?”

 

—Jennifer Stevenson, author of
Trash Sex Magic

 

 

 

“A fascinating, utterly original demon world, teeming with conflict and intrigue. I fell in love with Allay and her struggle to keep her humanity despite the forces aligned against her. Mesmerizing and addictive,
Confessions of a Demon
is urban fantasy at its best!”

 

—Jeri Smith-Ready, award-winning author of
Wicked Game

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I would like to thank Jessica Wade, my editor at Roc, and my agent, Lucienne Diver, for their dedication in making this novel the best that it could be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was the usual Friday night at the Den on C, the neighborhood bar in New York City I had managed for almost a decade. That was a long time by human standards, but then again, I wasn’t a standard human. I was something more—or less. The jury was still out on that one.

 

A group of pool-playing coeds had stopped by after hanging out at a beer garden in the East Village, but they were starting to trickle away as the midnight rush eased off. Some would end up in the chic bars popping up just to the south on the Lower East Side, leaving behind the regulars, mostly older Latino men and a smattering of working-class guys covered in ghostly drywall dust. A few crowded tables of arty hipsters still filled the back, where everyone was loudly talking over one another.

 

I swung open the front door wide to catch the mild night air of early spring, trying to ignore the metallic tang of exhaust. A few streets below Houston was Delancey Street, where the lights were much brighter and the avenue opened up wide to accommodate the steady flow of cars over the Williamsburg Bridge. The congestion always got worse late Friday night, choking the streets with fumes and honking horns as too many people tried to get in and out of Manhattan at the same time.

 

I could see my own reflection in the narrow glass pane; the light from the aluminum shade overhead cast a speckled pattern across my face. Wisps of dark hair touched my forehead, cheeks, and neck. I had tried to stay faithful to my original, human appearance, a heart-shaped face that was pretty enough, capable looking rather than delicate. I had aged myself over the years to look like I should—twenty-eight this spring.

 

Behind me, the opening strains of “Kiss Me,” the original version by Six Pence None the Richer, with its tinny drums and silly, sweet vocals, came through the speakers hanging high in the corners. I knew the words by heart: “Kiss me, beneath the milky twilight / Lead me out on the moonlit floor. . . .”

 

It lifted my heart for a moment, like the song always had ever since the year I’d been turned. But that touch of minor key, the slight note of sadness, resonated much deeper than it should have. It meant so much more to me—all that I had lost; all that I would never be.

 

I knew better than to try to ignore my regret. That made it worse. The pain that came with the past was something I just had to endure.

 

Since I became a demon.

 

“Possessed” is the correct term
, I reminded myself.
I’m possessed by a demon.

 

I was a human-demon hybrid, the only one alive. No longer sustained by food or drink, I lived off emotions—any would do, but my preferred elixir, the feeling I’d do anything to provoke, was the simple yet all-powerful feeling of respite: relief from sorrow or pain. That was why I was known as Allay.

 

Plenty of people came to my bar looking for a little release from their pain. I provided all of the usual services bartenders typically give their patrons: I served them drinks and listened to them when no one else would. And when it was really bad, I would pat their hand and steal away some of their pain. But taking energy from people, even the bad feelings, caused an imbalance in their system. I took only enough to make them feel better, and then for my reward I would sip a drop of their brief contentment.

 

I had to be careful, for their own good, not to go too far. When people were drained of their emotional energy, they could turn schizophrenic, manic, or so depressed they killed themselves. Some people became physically ill and died.

 

I wasn’t sure, but I thought emotions were the seat of the soul. That was why they radiated so much energy.

 

But how can you recognize a soul when you don’t have one?

 

When the song was over, I decided it was time to call it quits and spend some quality time with my patrons. I could afford to hire only one bartender a shift, so I tended bar during the busy hours, along with restocking, dealing with salesmen, maintaining the books, and cleaning up the puke from the bathroom floor when my janitor and all-round handyman, Pepe, couldn’t make it in.

 

The Den on C was narrow and deep like most of the other storefronts along the avenue, with a scarred mahogany bar along one side. There was enough space to put two tables against the front windows and a few next to the bar. In the back, there was an old pool table that I had refelted a few years earlier. I thought the bar’s best feature was the floor, with its tiny black and white hexagon tiles. It made a pleasing old-fashioned pattern in spite of the cracked and missing tiles. My customers liked the bar-long mirror hanging from the ceiling that let them see behind them without turning around.

 

With my demon insight into people’s emotions, I could have talked my way into a bartending job anywhere in the city. Every week a new hot spot opened up for the celebrities and party girls who clattered over the narrow cobblestones in their spiky heels.

 

But I felt comfortable at the Den. They needed me here. When I found the bar, Alphabet City was still riddled with crack dealers and the gutters were strewn with empty vials and dime bags. But there were also vibrant murals decorating every long brick wall—images of trees, cars, people, animals, and exaggerated renderings of city buildings in hot tropical colors. The lower facades of the old tenements were painted bright red, turquoise, and green, and the air was usually pungent with the smell of cilantro, fried plantains, and roasted pork. Now the neighborhood was full of trendy bars and restaurants, and bakeries that sold cup-cakes for five bucks each.

 

I hung up my black apron and realized it had been a good shift as I sneaked half my tips into Lolita’s jar. Lo deserved it. She brought a friendly, fun vibe to the bar. All I did was pour and serve with a smile, touching my patrons to steal away their emotional energy.

 

Suddenly my hand froze on the tip jar, my senses tingling. The feeling was so mild, I almost mistook it for my own guilty excitement at finally being able to feed off my patrons. But the sensation built, and I knew what it was.

 

A demon is coming
.

 

Nobody else in the bar could tell. But one of the cats who had adopted the bar as home suddenly rose to his toes in the deep window frame. Snowplow’s back arched and his tail puffed out like a Christmas tree, tapering to its Angora tip. He was a misplaced purebred, but to me, he was the best demon-alert device in the city—and his sirens were blaring. As he leaped onto the bar, his claws scattered napkins, and a couple of people snatched up their glasses as he dashed down its length.

 

“Watch out!” Lolita said as Snowplow’s final leap took him up into the duct leading to my second-floor apartment. She scooped up the overturned gin and tonic the cat had knocked over. “That was a good one. At least seven feet, maybe more.”