Hell, she might be killed anyway. They might kill her just for fun.
The thought made Emma shiver. She turned in a slow circle, searching the darkness for some clue as to what she should do, some way to banish the unfamiliar feeling sliding its cold fingers up her spine. She’d never feared the bigger, nastier people in the world—having a “gift” for sucking the life out of the bad guys made a girl cocky—but now she was starting to fear. Big-time. She might be able to handle one or two members of the Death Ministry, but what if there were more? There were ways to wield the dark craving as a weapon, but she’d never dared try any of the chants she’d read about in the spell book she’d stolen from Father Paul.
The spell book. Shit! She’d left it in her purse as well.
She’d been working on translating the spells in the demon grimoire for months, and the hours between four and six were usually slow on Tuesdays. She’d thought she’d have time to work on the translation at the bar. She hadn’t, and the book had stayed in her purse all night, tucked in with the other valuables.
It was probably locked away right now—safe and sound—but realizing she couldn’t get her hands on it made her even more anxious. The book had taught her almost everything she knew about aura demons and the ways ancient people had controlled them. Without it, she couldn’t have saved her sister’s life five months ago or had hope that she might someday rule the hunger that drove her—there were spells designed to help those altered by the demons gain more control over their marks—but still ... the demon grimoire was ... scary.
But not as scary as a dead body at her feet and not so much as a dollar to her name to call for help.
Not that she had anyone to call. Sam and Jace were on the West Coast on their honeymoon, and Ginger would be useless in a situation like this ... even if Emma trusted her enough to explain how she’d killed this man. But she didn’t trust Ginger that much. The fewer people who knew about her curse, the better.
Which left ... no one to turn to ... except ...
“The mob,” Emma whispered aloud. Uncle Francis knew she “wasn’t quite right.” He didn’t know the true extent of her mark, but he knew she’d been damaged by the aura demons. He’d been there when Emma’s brother had turned into some kind of humanoid monster—the consequence of his own demon mark—and Uncle Francis’s bounty hunters had helped dispose of the bodies after the craziness that went down last spring.
The Italian side of Jace’s family ran Conti Bounty, the biggest bounty-hunting operation in New York City and a convenient cover for Uncle Francis’s illegal activities. The Contis dabbled in a bit of everything typically mob—from extortion to arms dealing to construction—but they drew the line at demon drugs. They left the peddling of demon highs to the Death Ministry, as long as the DM kept their harvest respectable. In the past few months, the gang had killed more demons than usual, leading to increased tension between the two groups. Relations were strained as Uncle Francis tried to work out an agreement before an all-out street war erupted.
The Contis wouldn’t be happy to hear she’d killed a DM member. This was the kind of thing that halted negotiations and ended in bloodshed, even the deaths of innocent people.
Emma’s trembling hands flew to her face, fingers rubbing at the tops of her eyes as if she could scrub away this nightmare, erase her own stupidity. But Blue Eyes was still there when she dropped her arms to her sides. This wasn’t going to go away, and she wasn’t equipped to handle a murder cover-up on her own. She was going to have to make that call to the mob, but maybe she didn’t have to go straight to the top.... Maybe she could find someone a little lower on the totem pole to help her out, someone who might be convinced to keep her mistake to himself.
Andre was far from her favorite Conti, but he was a lawyer, a mob lawyer. Who better to help her figure out how to avoid the long arm of the law and the swift retribution of New York’s deadliest gang?
But first things first. Something had to be done about ... the body.
Swallowing hard, Emma bent down and wedged her hands beneath Blue Eyes’ arms, struggling not to think about how cold he felt, or that she’d had this corpse’s tongue in her mouth earlier in the evening. He was a wretched excuse for a man. It was better for everyone that he was dead—everyone but her.
With a minimum of grunting and groaning, she maneuvered the body over to the twin Dumpsters and shoved it into the shadows between. It was a lousy hiding place but the only one available. There was no way she could drag more than two hundred pounds of deadweight much farther. She was just going to have to pray that no one found Blue Eyes before she found a way to get rid of him. The recycling and garbage truck didn’t come until Friday, and in the meantime, most people would be too afraid to wander around in a dark alley.
The Death Ministry wouldn’t blink. You’re just lucky they haven’t come back to look for their missing coworker already.
The scaremongering inner voice was right. She had to hurry.
Emma ran down the alley, boots thudding softly on the pavement. It took only a few moments to reach the end of the block, but her heart was racing by the time she emerged onto the sidewalk and circled back around to the front of the row of buildings. She felt so thready inside ... weak and loose ... as if the systems in her body were slowly disconnecting.
She shouldn’t feel this way so soon after a feed. Usually, she was high on life for days afterward. But then, she usually didn’t pass out or kill people immediately, either.
Emma slowed to a walk, though there was no reason to worry about attracting attention. There wasn’t a soul on the street. Even the prostitutes who lingered under the streetlights until the last party boy vacated the bars and clubs on the west side of Southie were strangely absent. The utter lack of movement made the avenue seem wider, ominous.
Even before she reached the Demon’s Breath, Emma knew she’d find the windows dark and the red CLOSED sign—the devil’s tail curling out from the D—glowing above the door. It had to be late, really late. She must have been out for nearly an hour.
She crossed her thin arms, fingers digging into the bare flesh, suddenly cold despite the warm summer night. She had to figure out what had gone wrong with Blue Eyes and make sure she never did whatever it was again. She couldn’t afford to lose consciousness when she fed, and she certainly couldn’t afford to collect any more dead bodies.
Emma supposed she should be grateful that Ginger hadn’t thought to look for her out back before she’d closed up and headed for home—if she had, she would have called the cops, and Emma would have had a lot of explaining to do—but she was still angry that her roommate hadn’t made any effort to track her down. Emma made a point of letting people know she could take care of herself, but still, it—
Oh no. The door—it wasn’t locked.
And apparently, the alarm system wasn’t activated, either. No blaring siren cut through the night when Emma pushed on the door. The crackle of neon was the only sound as she stepped inside the musty, sour-smelling bar and searched the shadows for some sign of life.
The pub was deserted, and everything seemed to be fine—all the demon artifacts that made the Demon’s Breath a tourist attraction still hung in their places on the walls, and the bottles sat in orderly lines behind the bar. But still ... this wasn’t right; something bad had to have happened. All critical thoughts of her roomie faded in a wave of panic. Ginger was a little flighty and had a tendency to drink her daily caloric intake, but she wasn’t irresponsible. She never forgot to lock up or arm the alarm.
Emma crept across the room, slipping behind the bar, feeling strangely like an intruder in her own place of business. She’d expected to find some clue as to what had gone wrong during closing, but the glasses were washed and stacked and all the well drinks capped and put away. Ginger had even remembered to put the plastic pour spigots to soak in the sink. The register was locked, and the safe ...
The safe was open. Wide open.
Emma hurried to the end of
the bar, crouching down to peer inside the small, square-foot space. It was empty. Shit!
The safe was tiny, just big enough to hold whatever valuables the staff brought with them on a given night. The cash taken in by the Demon’s Breath was deposited directly into a vault deep underground after each transaction and emptied weekly by a pair of armed guards in a secured truck, a common practice for businesses on this side of the barricade. Most criminals would know there was nothing worth stealing inside the safe. Any thief with half a brain would know the demon artifacts on the wall were worth way more than a couple of purses.
Which meant Ginger had probably taken Emma’s purse home with her, leaving Emma with no phone, no keys, no cash, and no spell book.
For a second, the anxiety at being separated from the book returned with a vengeance. Father Paul had been right—the book wasn’t safe in just anyone’s hands. It was a powerful tool and should be locked away in a museum, ensuring that no one could ever use it for evil again.
But then ... Ezra had proven how “safe” museums kept dangerous artifacts. Any teacher or historian with the proper clearance could get his or her hands on occult relics. The fact that the average citizen believed invisible demons with supernatural powers were a bunch of horseshit and that the dinosaur-like demons infesting major cities were the only monsters to fear worked in the bad people’s favor.
The book had been safest with Father Paul ... at least until she’d stolen it and proved once and for all that kids like her couldn’t be trusted. Now it was her cross to bear. At least she had enough restraint to keep from casting any of the spells before she understood what she’d be doing if she chanted the ancient words.
Of course, she could have locked the book away in a safety-deposit box somewhere and truly kept it safe from everyone, even herself. But she hadn’t. And she wouldn’t. She might be strong enough to resist temptation, but she wasn’t strong enough to resist the urge to play with it a little, to dance along the edge of giving in. She wondered whether Ginger would feel the pull of the grimoire, the urge to open it and paw through its contents and discover its secrets. Or was Emma drawn to the book only because she carried the mark of the aura demons? She couldn’t be sure ... but the dark craving was always stronger when she held the grimoire in her hands.
That—more than any of her strong principles—was the true reason she’d never dared to work any of the book’s spells. Anything that made her unnatural hunger worse couldn’t be good news.
“No good news tonight,” Emma muttered to herself as she dug the slim Southie phone book from the end of the bar and switched the phone on the wall to voice-activated mode. “Ginger,” she ordered in a sharp voice.
“Dialing,” a feminine-sounding robotic voice announced. Seconds later Ginger’s phone was ringing—once ... twice ... three times—and then Emma was sent to voice mail.
“Hey, it’s Ginger! I’m probably out and can’t hear my phone ringing over the music. So leave me a message. If you sound sexy, maybe I’ll tell you where the party’s at. Hollah!” Ginger’s message ended in a giggle, a very drunk giggle.
“It’s Emma. I need to talk to you. Call me ... or at least leave my key with Gary at the liquor store so I can get into the apartment. Later,” Emma said, barely managing to keep her tone civil.
Ginger was probably out partying with the stupid frat boys she’d been waiting on half the night. With the barricade closed and only a handful of bars open this late, there was a good chance Emma would be able to find her roomie if she went looking, but she couldn’t waste the time.
There would be opportunities to rip Ginger a new one for taking her purse and leaving the bar door unlocked later. Right now, she had a ticking time bomb wedged between her Dumpsters. She needed to wake up Andre and see whether she could sweet-talk the womanizing bastard into meeting her. The clock on the wall read four fifteen, so it would be only another forty-five minutes until the barricade opened.
Hastily, she flipped through the Southie phone book, looking for Sam’s familiar scrawl. Andre lived in Manhattan proper, but she thought she remembered seeing his number scribbled somewhere in the book, where Sam had jotted it down for her in case she ever needed it.
For her first few months on the job, Emma had felt like a kid with an overprotective parent. Sam was always hovering, trying to make her home-cooked meals, giving her endless lists of people to call if she encountered trouble in the forty-five minutes it took Sam and Jace to grab some dinner. Emma had secretly been relieved when Sam and Jace had announced their intention to take a month-long honeymoon on the West Coast. Finally, she would have some space to breathe. She’d been looking forward to it. She’d never dreamed she’d actually be wishing her control-freak big sis was close enough to come running when she called.
She flipped faster through the book but couldn’t find the number she searched for.
“Andre,” she ordered aloud, taking a chance that Sam or Jace might have programmed his number into the bar’s phone.
“Dialing,” the robotic voice announced again, making Emma release the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
A stroke of luck ... the first she’d had this entire horrible night. Now, if only Andre wasn’t too out of it to answer his phone. Andre wasn’t a big drinker—she’d never seen him have more than a couple of glasses of red wine when she tagged along with Sam and Jace to the Conti Bounty meetings at the family restaurant every Thursday night—but he had other hobbies that kept him up late.
Blond hobbies, brunette hobbies, white hobbies, African-American hobbies—Andre had a healthy appreciation for a wide variety of women. As long as they were model thin, with legs that went on for miles, and pretty enough to earn a living pouting at a camera. He brought a different girl with him every Thursday, leaving her for Sam and Emma to entertain when he went into the back room for the private, criminal portion of the evening.
So far, Emma hadn’t been impressed with any of his arm candy, and even less impressed with Andre himself. Shallow, pretty boys who spent ridiculous amounts of money on designer suits and ten-thousand-dollar watches made her ill.
Still, when Andre’s sleep-scratchy voice picked up on the fourth ring, her relief was so strong that she would have leapt into his arms and hugged the bastard if he’d been standing in front of her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so grateful to hear someone’s voice.
“Andre, it’s Emma,” she said, her voice shaking more than she would have liked. “Sam’s sister. I—”
“I know.” He sounded sharper, all fuzziness banished from his tone. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“Uh ... no.” The understatement of the year. “I ... I’ve run into some trouble.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the bar.”
“I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes.”
Emma shook her head, shocked speechless for a moment by the realization that he didn’t even want to know what was wrong. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t yelled at her for waking him up late; he’d simply heard that she was in trouble, and that had been enough. It was ... surprising. ...
“But the barricade is closed until—”
“I can get through.” Of course he could; he was the nephew of the most powerful mobster in the city, a man who owned half the guards working the barricade. “Just sit tight and—”
“No. We shouldn’t meet here.” Emma was suddenly hyperaware of the dead body just outside the back door. She didn’t want Andre coming here. It was too close to the scene of her crime. It wouldn’t be right to implicate him in that without his prior knowledge, and this confession wasn’t the kind of thing done over the phone. “I’ll meet you at the coffee shop just off Broadway, near the barricade.”
“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”
“Okay. And ... thanks, Andre.”
A moment of silence, and then Andre sighed. “Just be careful on your way over there. Jace will kill me if you get hurt when I’m supposed to
be looking out for you.” And then he hung up before Emma could say another word.
Probably for the best. Telling him she didn’t need anyone looking out for her would be dumb. Ninety percent of the time, the words would be true, but tonight ... well, she needed all the help she could get. Even if it came from a chickenshit, asshole lawyer.
CHAPTER THREE
South of the barricade, Andre Conti’s Canali suit stood out like a perfectly shaped thumb in a hand full of sore fingers.
Just the fact that he’d brushed his teeth before jumping in the car that had spirited him through a sleepy Manhattan would have attracted attention, but the suit ... It was definitely overkill.
Heads turned, and bleary, red-eyed men and women stared as he slipped into the coffee shop. The small, cramped room smelled of burned beans and fried eggs with a top note of sweat—compliments of the drunk people who had spent most of their night partying before stumbling into Hair on Your Chest just before dawn to wait for the barricade to open. The tile was dirty and cracked, the white walls smeared with streaks of brown, and not even the large, framed photographs of the ruins just after the demon emergence were able to distract from the absolute filth.
It figured Emma would want to meet in a place like this.
She was the complete opposite of her sister. Sam ran a flower shop, dressed in flowing, filmy skirts, and surrounded herself with soft, fresh-smelling things—except for her husband, Jace, of course. Emma ran a bar, wore black unisex jeans and T-shirts, and gravitated toward the roughest crowd she could find.
Andre spotted her right away, huddled in a corner booth over a cup of coffee, her dirty blond hair hanging limply around her narrow face. She was thin but muscular, with well-defined arms that made her look like she could kick a little ass if she had to.
Which she did, occasionally, working at the Demon’s Breath. Andre would have said it was a dumb call to give a teenage kid responsibility for managing a rowdy bar, but Emma usually handled herself. She was tough, hard ... acidic, like the oily coffee in the cup she clutched so tightly her fingertips were nearly white.
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