Getting Familiar with Your Demon: That Old Black Magic, Book 4 (6 page)

Pricilla moved away from him, and he used the opportunity to struggle to his feet. Pain splintered through his ribs, and he sucked in a sharp breath, unwilling to grant Pricilla the pleasure of hearing the sound.

She picked up a brass letter opener and used it to slash through the flap of an envelope. “I’m leaving in the morning for the council’s semiannual retreat. I’ll only be gone for the weekend.”

“Pity.”

Her lips tightened. “I have an important mission for you to carry out while I’m gone. Tomorrow night I want you to travel to sector nine of the Death Wards and bring me back one of its resident souls.”

The request was so unexpected it took him a moment to register it. Once he did, he narrowed his eyes and stared at her profile. “Sector nine is high security.”

She shrugged. “Yes, but you obviously have clearance. You don’t have to worry about being apprehended.”

“Like hell I don’t. You know damn well it’s impossible to traffic souls from sector nine.”

Pricilla’s smile dripped with acid sweetness. “I have the utmost faith in your abilities.”

Didn’t that just make him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Who is it I’m supposed to bring back?”

“That isn’t something for you to concern yourself with.”

It took massive amounts of effort to unclench his teeth. “How do you expect me to fetch this soul if you don’t tell me who it is?”

She tore off a corner of the envelope and jotted something on it before handing the scrap of paper to him. “This is the address where you’ll find the resident. That’s all you need to know at this point.”

He eyed the number coordinates. They meant nothing to him. Not that he’d expected them to. In the seventy-eight years he’d been a soul collector he’d been dispatched to the restricted zone of the Death Wards a grand total of two times, and neither occasion had involved hauling back one of its denizens. As he’d already pointed out to Pricilla, that was a prohibited activity—one that would earn him a bullet in the brain. Or worse. Which only made him all the more suspicious of what Pricilla had up her sleeve.

If not for the fact the Samhain ball likely held his only shot at getting out from beneath Pricilla’s thumb, he’d be sorely tempted to postpone breaking his seal and track down this soul. He’d have to settle for passing the address to Nikki and Cass and see if they couldn’t dig up some information on it. Although sector nine was out of the grim reaper jurisdiction, the Lassiters had connections thanks to their demon ties.

He pocketed the slip of paper, stashing it alongside the box of condoms. “Your wish is my command, oh mighty master.” He resisted the urge to sweep Pricilla a mocking bow.

A menacing gleam hardened her expression. “That’s right, Samael. Remember it well in case you have any notion of undermining me. The misery you profess to have endured under Nettie? It’s nothing compared to what I am capable of delivering. Understood?”

Fuck, he was going to enjoy destroying this bitch’s plans. “Implicitly.”

“Good. Now leave. I have a ton of packing that still needs doing.” She waved him off like a bug that’d been annoyingly buzzing around her head.

He gave Pricilla one final look, hoping with every breath in his body it’d be the last time he’d be forced to gaze upon her, or at least while under her control. Conjuring the image of his GTO, he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he was sitting behind the wheel of his vehicle. The warm, welcome smell of leather upholstery surrounded him an instant before the suffocating heat followed suit.

Bloody hell. Talk about fucking hot. Sweat sliding down his forehead, he grimaced and dug in his jacket pocket, fumbling for the key. Locating it before he melted into an unrecognizable puddle, he twisted the key in the ignition and cranked down the windows. Six months of accumulated stale air escaped the vehicle. He struggled out of his jacket and dumped it on the passenger seat. The coolant finally kicked in, blasting him in the face with the full impact of its icy fury.

He clicked the automatic door opener and glanced at the dashboard clock. Eight p.m. He had no idea how long this damn ball was going to run tonight. Hopefully he’d have enough time to find and seduce his potential brand-breaker into knocking boots and then high-tailing it out of there before anyone became wise to him.

Realizing he had no clue where he was going, he rifled one-handed in his jacket until he located the checklist from Cass. At the bottom she’d scrawled directions to the Cosgrove mansion. The residency was in an affluent section of Savannah. He knew the area well, since it wasn’t far from one of his favorite watering holes.

He took a left out of his drive and headed into the heart of the city. Tourists and locals jam-packed the streets and sidewalks. The smoky strains of rhythm-and-blues and the dirtier, wailing beat of honky-tonk drifted from the numerous nightspots luring in patrons. Eventually making his way through the congested traffic, he entered the quieter neighborhood near Monterey Square. Lush palms bordered the road, filling the air with the pungency of tropical greens. Here the houses were bigger than life. Refined, elegant reminders of days gone by.

Up ahead, a long line of cars blocked the street. Safe to say he wasn’t the only one making a fashionably late arrival to the ball. Choosing to forgo the wait at the valet stand, he parked in front of one of the neighboring houses. The tall, Palladian windows were dark. Either the owners were down the street at the party or not at home. Regardless, not much chance they’d bitch about him blocking their drive. And if they did, they could kiss his ass.

He decided to leave his jacket—along with Cass’s damn checklist—in his GTO. After fetching a couple condoms from the box and stuffing them in his pocket, he slammed the door shut and strode toward party central. He typically wasn’t one for festive hoopla. His stance on large gatherings quadrupled when he neared the Cosgrove mansion and noticed the amount of people milling around outside.

There was a reason he didn’t do parties. The potential of vast hordes of annoying people in one space were huge. Knowing pretty much everyone here was a Glen and Glinda the Good Witch made him wish Cass had packed along some antacids. He neared the walkway leading to the main house, and several of the folks loitering outside slid him curious looks. When a few of them started to frown, he sped up his pace, bypassing the congested front entrance. He hoofed it toward the narrow lane bisecting the mansion and its smaller carriage house. Illuminated glass lanterns staked along the jasmine-lined path guided the way to the unmanned service door.

Grateful to have no witnesses to his stealthy entrance, he tried the knob and discovered it was unlocked. He ducked inside the small corridor. Judging from the noise and clatter coming from the adjacent room, he was on the other side of the kitchen. He ambled in the direction of the white double doors in the distance. The ironic symbol of those doors wasn’t something he failed to catch—the innocent purity ready to bar admittance to the evil dark demon. He was half tempted to propel the things open with one fell kick. Show ’em who was boss.

Unfortunately, it’d probably only make him look like a jackass with a strange grudge against doors. Not to mention it’d draw unwanted attention. Slightly disappointed at the necessity of using the handle, he walked out into a much larger hallway filled with costumed revelers. Chatter was loud and boisterous. No one paid him much mind as he made his way through the throng.

A dude in servant livery sidestepped a pair of lovebirds locked in an embrace. Sam stole one of the bottles of beer from the guy’s tray before striding in the direction where the majority of partiers seemed to be headed. He took a swallow of the microbrew and walked into the crowded ballroom. The alcohol went down hard as the headache-inducing chorus of
Funkytown
pounded his eardrums at a decibel easily heard the next county over. His temples throbbing in tempo with the beat, he gaped at the dancers grooving joyously in the middle of the cavernous ballroom.
What fresh hell is this?

Convinced he was walking into his worst nightmare, he took a halting step into the room. For devil’s sake. The things he did in the name of survival. As if the torturous music wasn’t enough to contend with, the overwhelming white energy emanating from those around him felt suffocating. Sticky beads of sweat dotted his forehead and crawled along the nape of his neck.

Ignoring the consuming need to turn tail and run his ass as fast as he could out of there, he ventured deeper into the overcrowded space. Enthusiastic dancers jostled him on all sides. He’d never been more aggravated with humans in his life. And considering some of the assholes he’d had to deal with, that was saying a hell of a lot. He maneuvered around a guy dressed like Elvis who was doing some kind of weird flapping chicken dance.

These people shouldn’t be allowed out in public. Smothering his growl—and the urge to punch Elvis in the side of the head—Sam approached the bar. He drained the remainder of his beer in one long, chugging swallow. At this rate, he’d have to consume an amount that’d put anyone else into a coma just so he’d develop enough of a buzz that’d hopefully keep him from killing someone. Might be kind of hard convincing one of these witches to sleep with him if he was strangling their dance partner.

A spot opened at the bar, and he took over the space. Plunking the empty bottle down, he held up a finger, giving the bartender the signal for a replacement beer. Drumming his other hand on top of the bar, Sam glanced down. He cocked an eyebrow when he realized he was tapping the lid of a coffin. Despite his foul mood, he grinned. Okay, the music sucked donkey dong, but at least the decorations were cool.

The bartender deposited a newly opened bottle of Budweiser in front of Sam. Glancing toward the overflowing tip container, Sam grimaced. Shit. He hadn’t brought his wallet. If he didn’t leave a buck or something, he’d look like a damn cheapskate. Digging in his pocket, he grabbed one of the condom packets and flipped it into the jar. The bartender blinked before a come-hither smile curved beneath his mustache.

Even if the dude was a white witch, there was no fucking way Sam was playing hide the salami with him. He grabbed his beer and quickly pivoted—right into the woman rushing toward the bar. She smacked into him, spilling her drink on his shirt.

“Oh goddess, I’m so sorry.” She looked up at him and gasped, her big blue eyes widening.

Even with her glorious blonde hair half hidden beneath an ivy wreath and glitter sprinkling her face, he’d recognize his rescuer anywhere. Their stares remained fused on each other. Although he’d known there was a strong chance she’d be here, he’d held out hope they wouldn’t run into each other. That right there had been his first mistake. It was damn well a universal law that if there was a way for something to fuck up his plans, it was gonna happen. His second mistake had been assuming a clear head would mellow his reaction to her. The exact opposite proved true. He held his breath, trying without success not to drag in her delicious scent.

A clumsy dancer knocked into them and propelled her against Sam’s chest. Breaking from the spell of stunned silence that’d apparently held her hostage, she blinked at him. “What are you doing here?” she demanded in a fierce whisper, her fingers clutching his waist.

“Enjoying the party.” Shit, that had to be the biggest lie he’d ever uttered. Although having her wedged against him might prove to be the highlight of his night.

“Are you insane?” The question must have only been rhetorical because she looked away from him and darted a furtive glance to the sea of bodies moving around them. Panic tightening her features, she jerked her attention to him and let go of his soaked T-shirt. Her empty glass fell from her fingers and slammed against the toe of his boot before rolling to the floor between their feet. She inched backwards. “Y-you can’t be here, Samael.”

He stared at her. “How the hell do you know who I am?”

She swallowed, the slender muscles in her throat working. “I—I heard Jasper call your name. So I looked you up in the registry.”

These damn witches had a
registry
on him? Then again, should he be surprised? They were aggravating, meddlesome creatures.

She took another tiny step back, and her gaze slashed to the left again. He narrowed his eyes. A waiter passed by, and Sam thunked his full beer on the silver tray before advancing on her with grim purpose. “What, precisely, did you find out about me?”

“Enough.”

Another exuberant dancer whirled into her, jostling her sideways. The individual laughed and swung a scrawny arm around her waist. “There you are, Marabella.”

Sam glared at the sandy-haired pipsqueak. For fuck’s sake, the dude was wearing fangs
and
glitter. What was the damn world coming to?

Twinkle Toes frowned at Marabella when she didn’t respond to him. He followed her gaze to Sam, and his frown deepened. “Who’re you?”

Your worst nightmare, Glitter Boy.
“Her date. What the fuck is it to you?”

“No you’re not.”
Scowling, the kid turned toward Marabella. “Is this guy bugging you?”

Worried she was seconds away from blowing his impromptu cover, Sam tugged Marabella into his arms. “She loves it when I bug her, don’t ya, snookums?”

She gaped at him, and he read the panic flashing in her eyes. Her lips parted, the threat of exposure likely milliseconds from popping free.

Desperation had cornered him into committing plenty of half-baked, moronic acts. None of them came remotely close to the stupid asshatery of what he was about to do. Sliding his hands through the loose tendrils of hair framing her head, he leaned down and crushed his mouth over hers. He swallowed her shocked gasp. Her sweet, addictive taste immediately invaded his senses, firing his awareness of her into hyperdrive.

What started as a means of keeping her from revealing his identity quickly morphed into something far more primal and elemental. He thrust past her lips, his tongue seeking hers. She submitted with a hunger that nearly matched his, leaning into him so her delectable breasts pillowed his chest. He grazed a hand along her shoulder and dipped beneath her elbow to cup the side of one plump mound. She moaned breathlessly.