by Kat Simons
“They always are,” she muttered.
“But by the time we reached him, his daughter was gone. And he’s asking us to get her back.”
That was…strange. “Wait, did the demon take her, or did she run away?”
“Her father doesn’t know. That’s why we need you,” he said.
“Have the bastard father call the demon again,” she said. “Force the demon to tell you.”
“Demons lie. Even to us. Or twist the truth.”
And those lies and twisted truths could put even a demon hunter into a bad position, weakening their will. Especially when a child’s life was on the line. It had happened before. Cost hunters their lives over the years. Children in danger were a weak spot for all of them.
Probably because a lot of demon hunters had been that child in danger.
“What is it about bargaining away their own kids,” Angie muttered, not expecting an answer. There wasn’t an answer. Some people were just horrible horrible humans and didn’t deserve kids.
“We just need you to take a quick look,” Sebastian said. “There’s every chance she’s run away. The father says he didn’t go through with the ceremony, but he did activate the circle and left it active while he walked away from it.”
“Stupid,” Angie said, clenching her fists. “Does he think the demon talked the daughter over the threshold while he wasn’t paying attention?”
“He doesn’t know. The circle was still active when he came back to it after he couldn’t find his daughter. He doesn’t know what happened.”
If the demon had taken the girl behind the father’s back, the father wouldn’t receive his part of the bargain. Though, without the ceremony being formally completed, the demon might not have been freed from the bargain either, even if it had taken the sacrifice. That all depended on the initial deal.
“From what I gather from her bastard father,” Sebastian said, his deep voice harsh, “she’s ‘too clever and smart for her own good.’”
“He said that?”
“And then tried to backtrack and make it seem like he was complimenting her.”
“So, not really one of the ones who regrets his bargain, then,” she said, a deep well of hate settling in her gut.
This was one of the many reasons she didn’t want anything to do with the demon hunting world anymore. Too many of the people who summoned demons, the ones who bargained for wealth or power or other greedy rewards, they were the worst of humanity. She hated dealing with them. She already had a pretty cynical view of humanity, thanks to her skills as a psychic. She didn’t need the added knowledge she picked up dealing with the demon world.
“Aidan thinks the girl has run away,” Sebastian said, “and the father wants her back to fulfill the deal with the demon.”
“And you?” Angie turned to face him.
“I agree with Aidan.”
“Then why find her? Why not let her stay hidden from the asshole trying to sacrifice her to a demon?”
“To ensure her father, or anyone more dangerous, doesn’t find her first. The bargain has been made. We need to keep her safe until the demon can be vanquished.”
“If you’re sure she hasn’t been taken already, why come to me?”
There was no point to her looking into a demon world for a girl not there. And it was safer for all involved if she didn’t look into a demon world. When they noticed, when they realized she’d opened a way for them to get out, they always tried to take that opening. And closing the breach between realms wasn’t always as easy as it had been that morning.
“We’d still like to check,” he said. Then, with a shrug, “And we’d like you to…meet the father.”
Ah. She straightened, rocking back a little as she realized what they really wanted from her. “You want me to read him if I can. You want me to go around his place touching things to figure out what happened.”
Relief made her slump. This was something she could do without fear, without serious and dangerous repercussions. One of her primary witchy skills came in the form of her psychic talents. She read by touch. Physical contact brought up images of things that had happened or were happening under the surface. Sometimes even of things that might happen in the future, though that was always more ephemeral—as future predictions naturally were.
She’d needed years and years of training and practice to control her psychic gift. These days, she only rarely touched things and got readings on accident. Though it still occasionally happened with people, it was rare she picked up random impressions from objects. Which was fortunate or she wouldn’t have been able to live in New York City.
Now that she controlled the gift, she used it in her business. Those who came to her for a psychic reading were looking for future predictions. Using what she could pick up of them and their past from an initial handshake, she used her knowledge and understanding of people—earned with a Bachelors and then a Masters degree in psychology—to “predict” their future. Mostly, she was a counselor for troubled souls, a way for them to put their current issue into perspective. She just used a less conventional method than most therapists.
Sebastian nodded, and some of the tension crinkling the corners of his eyes eased. “Yes,” he said. “We’d like you to use your psychic skills first. I understand why the other…skill is dangerous. I won’t ask that of you unless it’s absolutely necessary. Not again.”
The last time he had, the last time she’d looked into a demon realm on purpose, she’d nearly died. Again. After that, she’d walked away from demon hunting forever.
Or at least, she’d intended it to be forever. She thought she’d finally gotten forever when she didn’t hear from Sebastian for a year and a half. She thought she’d put her feelings for him aside, managed to let the anger and fear overcome the love, and settled into as normal a life as she was likely to lead. With no demons. And no demon hunters.
She’d been wrong.
And now, here he was, dragging her back into his world. She had very mixed feelings about seeing him again. Unfortunately, not all of those feelings were anger. Damn it.
She pursed her lips and stared down at the grass. “I charge for this kind of thing, you know,” she said, stalling.
She’d help. He knew she would. There was a young girl’s life in the balance. Still, it didn’t seem wise to just buckle and do as he asked without at least some push back. Just because this request wasn’t likely to get her killed, didn’t mean his next request wouldn’t. This was how those first six months after she’d tried to leave had gone—he’d ask, she’d cave, she’d get hurt and tell him it was over again, he’d ask again, and she’d give in again. She couldn’t let that pattern start all over. Not after she’d finally found some peace.
“We’ll pay you,” he said, “but I’m not sure you’d trust our money.”
There was a note of amusement in his tone, a teasing lilt that brought back too many memories. She ignored the giddy dance in her stomach.
“I’ll give you an hour,” she said. “Find what I can, tell you what I pick up.” She faced him, met his dark eyes without flinching from the hint of red in the depths—a sure sign of a demon hunter, that little flicker of red. Someone who didn’t know better could almost convince themselves it wasn’t real. She knew better. “Then I’m done,” she said firmly. “For good this time. This is it, Sebastian. No more. And I won’t deal with the demon or its realm. I tell you what I can pick up from the father and his home, but then I’m out.”
“Fair enough. I’ll take what I can get.”
She ignored the potential double meaning in that last sentence. “Will Aidan be there?” she asked.
Seeing Aidan would raise memories better left buried, memories already too close to the surface for Angie’s mental wellbeing. Seeing Sebastian again was hard enough.
“She had to leave for another job, something more…immediate.”
Angie nodded in understanding. Aidan had been “called” to a hunt. How that worked, even
the demon hunters couldn’t entirely explain. They got a sense they needed to be somewhere and they went. Hopefully arriving in time to fend off a demon on the verge of escaping the bonds of the person who’d summoned it. Hopefully.
“So it’s just the two of us,” Sebastian said. “Like old times.”
“No,” Angie said, pointing a finger at him. “Not like old times. Never again like old times.”
He raised his hands, palms facing her, a defense and a surrender. “I get the message, Ang. I won’t push. This one hour of your time and I’ll leave you be.”
She nodded, ignoring the twinge of regret, the nostalgic longing that wrapped around her heart. Nope. Not this time. Not again. One hour. One hour to discover what had happened to the girl. One hour to help Sebastian save her.
And then Angie was done.
Chapter Three
Bartholomew Grant’s home was a massive, five story townhouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The kind of home only the very rich could afford to own. In Manhattan, it wasn’t the initial cost of a place that got to a homeowner. It was the annual taxes and maintenance fees. You had to be able to keep the place up over time. And that took money.
Which meant Bartholomew Grant had plenty of the stuff.
“What the hell did he bargain with a demon for?” Angie asked, scowling up at the red brick building.
Beautifully carved stonework edged the front door and formed decorative highlights against the bricks, giving the place a lovely elegance not seen in modern buildings. The steps up to the front door were bracketed by carved red marble. The door itself had a vaguely medieval feel to it with its solid oak construction punctuated by wrought iron accents and hinges. The wrought iron balconies along the lower levels were crowded with planters filled with flowers on their last gasp before full autumn took over. High up, the roof was circled by stone balustrades, through which Angie could just make out more greenery. A roof garden, most likely.
The place was gorgeous from the outside. An enviable home on a street lined with fabulously impressive homes.
“He hasn’t actually told me,” Sebastian said, his gaze also on the house. “I’ve a few guesses, though.”
“Do I want to know?”
“Probably not.” He flashed her a look from the corner of his eye, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. “Though I suspect you’ll know more than me in short order.”
“Ha.” She snorted. Then straightened her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with. I skipped lunch, and I’m hungry.”
He gestured for her to proceed him up the stairs. Always the gentleman, she thought with a suppressed smile.
Sebastian pressed the doorbell. They only waited a few seconds before a dark-haired woman answered. She took in Angie with a sweeping, assessing glance that revealed nothing except polite curiosity, a reserved inquiry into Angie’s business without having to say a word.
Then she spotted Sebastian and her entire body language changed. Her shoulders sagged, her expression softened, and the neutral line of her lips pursed into a fretful mew.
“Mr. Sebastian,” she said. “I’m so glad to see you again. Come in. Come in.”
“Carmen,” he greeted. “How’s everything been?”
“Not good, Mr. Sebastian. Not good. He’s very angry. He’s trying to pretend it’s worry, but—” Carmen pressed her lips together and glanced over her shoulder, falling silent.
Sebastian didn’t push her, his gaze also moving toward the interior of the house.
“We’ll do what we can, Carmen,” he said. “May we see him?”
“Of course, of course,” she said, gesturing them inside. “Please. This way. He’s in the downstairs study.”
They followed Carmen down a long narrow hall, past a staircase with highly polished wooden rails that snaked around to the second story. The inlaid wooden floors were also polished to a glossy shine. The art on the light-green walls consisted of tasteful, muted landscapes. A Turkish rug in light blues, greens, and golds ran down the long center of the hallway, quieting their footsteps. A few polished dark wood tables lined the hall, one held a simple brass lamp, another an empty blue Venetian glass bowl, another was bare.
The place was very…neutral, Angie decided. Not a lot of personality. Like something in a magazine, cleaned and tidied to photograph. There were no family pictures on the walls or tables. No shoes on the floor. No mugs or cups or soda bottles. No dropped books, or pieces of junk mail on a table. No signs of a kid even being in the house.
She realized with a maid there wasn’t likely to be any random untidiness on the main floor, where the family might have visitors, but still. The place didn’t feel like a home. Even the smell was pretty bland and neutral. Clean and with a very faint undertone of bleach cleaner. Not even a nice lemon-scented wood polish.
The nothingness of it all made her jumpy. She followed a step behind Sebastian trying not to shiver. She didn’t have to touch anything for her psychic senses to read this house’s “public” aura. And its public face said, “Façade.”
Carmen led them to a door at the back of the house near a window letting in the late afternoon sunlight. Angie could just see a walled garden behind the house and down a level. A real luxury in Manhattan, even for a wealthy townhouse owner. She made an attempt to swing close to the window to get a better look—she loved gardens even if she had to be careful around trees—but they were too far away for her to see more than just a little bit of green against the red stone walls.
At the closed door, Carmen knocked so quietly, Angie was surprised anyone inside could hear. Through the door, Carmen said, “Mr. Grant? Mr. Sebastian is here. He would like to speak with you.”
Angie didn’t hear the response, but Carmen must have because she opened the door and stood back to let them proceed. She gave Sebastian a significant look, a steady gaze that said more than anything she’d said aloud, and then she turned and disappeared down a small stairway hidden behind a wall panel Angie hadn’t noticed.
Angie didn’t speak as they moved into the darkened interior of the study. She let Sebastian take the lead, hanging back to assess her surroundings. The study itself was as neutral as the hallway had been. The bookshelves lining one interior wall were floor-to-ceiling and made of lovely dark wood. Glass fronted doors covered the lower three shelves. The top four remained open. The shelves were filled with books, but they were all leather-bound matching sets, like volumes of law books or academic digests. She wasn’t close enough to see the titles, but it was obvious there were no paperbacks, and she doubted much of it was fiction, even classics.
Except for the one wall of shelves, the rest of the room was open. The windows opposite the shelves were covered by thick blue curtains that were closed to the afternoon sunshine, though a line of light managed to sneak through. The floors were the same inlaid wood as outside, but the rugs here were small circular things set at various points and surrounded by chairs, establishing three smaller sitting areas. The wall opposite the door had a brick fireplace, but it was obvious no one had used it in years. Inside the grate, an arrangement of fake flowers filled the space.
There was a two-person couch next to the fireplace. And a small desk in front of the bookshelves, though there wasn’t anything but an ornamental desk lamp sitting on the desk, and the chair behind it looked less than ergonomic.
All for show. Again, nothing personal. Nothing that might reveal the lives of the people who lived here. A place to take visitors and guests, a façade to hide behind.
And what, she wondered, did Mr. Bartholomew Grant have to hide?
Grant sat in one of the more comfortable chairs in a grouping of three near the window, though his back was to the thin strip of light. That position, with the curtains drawn, made his face difficult to see clearly.
A deliberate ploy, she suspected.
He gave the impression of being tall and broad, his shoulders spanning the width of the chair, his physique thickly muscled with maybe a few extra pounds hidden
beneath an expensive, well-tailored suit. His hair was a light shade of brown and cut very short. His features seemed pleasant enough, if shadowed. His skin was pale, but whether he was unusually pale from his current situation or just naturally that pale was hard to tell. His age was impossible to discern in the dark lighting, but if he had a twelve-year-old daughter, she’d guess at least mid-thirties. His suit was dark, the shirt under white, and his tie was as dark as the suit with no obvious pattern in it. He rested his hands on the armrests of the chair and Angie noted very long fingers.
For some reasons, the sight of his hands bothered her, made her instincts jumpy again. Why, she couldn’t be sure. But she trusted her instincts implicitly. She kept several feet of distance between herself and Grant. Without conscious thought, she tucked her fingers under her jacket sleeve to brush against the pentagram hanging from her bracelet.
“Mr. Grant,” Sebastian spoke first. “May I introduce my colleague, Angela Jordan.”
“Ms. Jordan,” Grant said without moving anything but his gaze toward her. “Thank you for assisting us. I assume Sebastian has…filled you in.”
He wasn’t asking a question. Still she nodded. “It would be helpful to me if I can have access to your daughter’s bedroom.”
Grant cut a look to Sebastian. Sebastian met the gaze without a flicker of emotion. Grant leveled his gaze on her again. His eyes seemed overly pale in the faint light coming in from the slit in the curtains. Pale but bright, with dark brows raised over them—a sharp contrast to his skin’s pallor. His eyes were almost watery and yet sharply focused. Not the sort of person whose gaze was comfortable when directed at you.
“Are you another demon hunter?” Grant asked quietly and bluntly.
For some reason, the bluntness surprised Angie. She’d assumed he’d want to dance around the obvious, given his comments up to now.
“I’m not,” she said. “I’m a psychic.” At least that was why she was here. He didn’t need to know anything more than that.
“I don’t believe in psychics,” he said.