The Devil's in the Details

by Kimberly Raye

  “I spare you and you lead me to Azazel?”

  “That, and you leave my newest client alone.”

  “Now why would I do that?”

  “Because you want Azazel more than you want Lillith. I know she’s the Devil and a bitch to work for, but Azazel stole your soul.” He stiffened and I knew Blythe had been right on the money. “You want revenge and I want to stay in this realm. You back off Lillith and let me do my job and I’ll give you Azazel. A win-win for both of us.”

  He didn’t look convinced at first, but then he slid the knife back into his waistband. “You deliver Azazel and I’ll abort the new mission.”

  “And let me go through with the wedding?”

  “If you deliver Azazel before then. Otherwise, there won’t be a wedding, because there won’t be a Lillith.” His somber expression said he meant every word. “And there won’t be a you.”

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “You did what?” Blythe’s hand stalled on the ice cream carton she’d just pulled from her shopping bag. She’d arrived at my apartment five minutes ago after a voice mail plea for help.

  “I promised Cutter I’d help him find Azazel.”

  “But you don’t know where Azazel is,” she pointed out. She still wore her work uniform—a pink Luscious Limos tank top, skinny jeans, and a pair of to-die-for leopard-print stilettos. “You don’t even know if he’s in this realm. He could be Down Under.” She retrieved a spoon and handed me the carton of fudge brownie nut. “Why would you make a crazy deal like that?”

  “Maybe because Cutter pulled a knife on me and threatened my existence.” After he’d saved said existence from a stubborn mint. That little bit of FYI had stuck in my brain and niggled at me for the past half hour as I’d tried to write Cutter Owens off as a cold-hearted demon hunter who would sooner kill me than look at me.

  The thing was, he’d saved me before I’d announced that I could lead him to Azazel, but after he knew what I was. Which meant that Cutter wasn’t half the ruthless hunter he made himself out to be.

  Because of my do me vibe, of course. He was picking up on it. Responding to it. All men did, and while Cutter was a badass hunter, he was still human. Susceptible.

  But if he had been head over heels because of my carnal vibe, he surely would have tried to hump my brains out instead of doing the Heimlich.

  “You’ll never find him,” Blythe said, pulling me away from my thoughts. Thankfully. The more I went over it in my head, the more confused I became.

  And turned on.

  “Azazel is elusive,” Blythe went on. “That’s his thing.”

  “Somebody somewhere has to know where he is. It’s just a matter of finding that someone who can lead us to him—”

  “You mean you. Finding someone who can lead you to him, because I am not getting pulled into this.”

  “But I need your help. I’ve got work coming out of my ears. I can’t look for Azazel and plan my mother’s wedding in two weeks. You have to help me. At least ask around. Put out some feelers. Talk to Agarth. He’s an ancient like Azazel.” Hope blossomed and my adrenaline pumped faster. “Surely those guys keep in touch.”

  “Why don’t you talk to Agarth?”

  “Because I’m not the one starring in his baby mama fantasies,” I pointed out, a grin teasing my own lips. “He wants you for the mother of his demon spawn.” When she didn’t say anything, my smile faded and desperation crept into my voice. “Please. I would do it for you.”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Yes, you would,” she finally admitted. She shrugged. “Fine. I’ll talk to Agarth and see if he knows anything. But you owe me. Big-time.”

  I beamed. “Don’t worry. When Agarth finally talks you into a wedding, I’ll do all of the planning for free.”

  “Very funny. First off, I won’t even go on a date with him, much less waltz down the aisle, and second, I was thinking more along the lines of a little instant gratification.”

  I glanced at Snooki yapping away in the corner and gave Blythe a hopeful expression. “How about your very own pet? I guarantee you’ll never be lonely—”

  “A clutch,” Blythe cut in. “The one from your aunt’s new spring line.”

  “My cheer-me-up purse?”

  “The one and only.” I thought of the custom-made silver and the near orgasm I’d had when I’d held it in my hands for the first time. Smelled it. Cradled it.

  “You sure you don’t want the dog? I’ll throw in the doggie bed and a year’s supply of Kibbles ’n Bits.”

  “I’m sure an ancient demon like Agarth won’t have a clue how to get in touch with another ancient demon—”

  “It’s yours,” I cut in, my lust for life overwhelming my lust for designer handbags. “And I’ll throw in the dog too, because, you know, this is such a big deal and I want to do everything I possibly can—”

  “Why don’t you just call animal control?”

  “I’m going to.” Unless, of course, Snooki warmed up to me and learned to keep her trap shut. “I was thinking we might actually be able to coexist.”

  Blythe arched an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  I gave the dog a hopeful expression, but she only yapped louder. “Or maybe not.”

  “Call the pound,” Blythe said again. “She’s irritating.”

  “She’s just having adjustment issues. Once she gets used to me, she’ll settle down.” Snooki barked louder, and I shrugged. “All right, all right. I’ll call the pound.”

  First thing tomorrow.

  10

  “These are for a wedding?”

  I shrugged as if it wasn’t the least bit unusual to order a black vellum invite with bloodred font and embossed silver skulls edging the thick paper stock. I knew it was a bit much, but my mother wasn’t known for subtlety. “What else?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the young clerk at the Paper Emporium in River Oaks, “A Halloween party. A Day of the Dead celebration. A funeral.” She eyed me as if I was trying to hide something. “But a wedding?”

  “You got me,” I blurted. “It’s a Day of the Dead–themed wedding. We’re doing this great big morbid production complete with lots of black candles and edible white chocolate skull favors.” The idea struck and I made a mental note to call a chocolatier ASAP.

  “I guess it could work. But I’d go with a little more color on the invites if you want true Day of the Dead.”

  She was actually right. If I’d been going for festive Day of the Dead with lots of reds and oranges and blues and yellows. But my mother wanted dark and sinister, and I aimed to please.

  “So, um, how soon can you have them ready?” I rushed on before she could press the color issue. “I need them, like, yesterday.”

  “I need to talk to my manager first, but I don’t see why we couldn’t do an in-house rush and get them finished in two days, if you can provide me with the venue and address by ten thirty p.m. tonight. I can’t very well print without a venue.”

  “I’ll nail that down this afternoon. I swear. So?” I eyed her. “If I get that to you, can you get them done by tomorrow afternoon instead of the following day?”

  She stared at me as if I had grown two heads. Which wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility. I was a demon, after all, and at a thousand years old I’d accumulated a little gas in my tank for just such an occasion. But since I was a lover not a fighter, I opted for something more emotional than physical.

  I stared deep into Jeanie’s eyes, picked up on her dream man, and did my best imitation.

  “If you can make it happen by tomorrow, that would be totally fresh. Then we could spend the rest of the time getting our GTL on.”

  For those not sadly addicted to reality TV, Jeanie’s dream man was Pauly D from Jersey Shore. I know. There was no accounting for the taste of today’s youth.

  Myself included—I hadn’t missed an episode in four s
easons.

  A dreamy look came over her face. I knew then that she was buying into the illusion and seeing the image that went with the voice. “Anything for you, Pauly.” She licked her lips. “Anything.”

  O-kay.

  “I really appreciate it,” I told her. “Not the lip licking, but the invitation rush. Of course, if you get them done in time, I’ll be down with the lip licking too.” Not. But hey, the whole point of the illusion was to give her some incentive to get the invites done early. “I’ll text the venue address later this afternoon.” Provided I could confirm a venue between now and then.

  I tamped down the sudden wave of doubt and headed for my car. Climbing inside, I checked off my number two—one thousand invitations—on my Must Do list and moved on to number three—the dress.

  “I’m busy,” my mother told me when I called her to set up an appointment at a couture salon in downtown Houston. “Can’t we do it another time?”

  “It’s the dress. The most important piece of the wedding. The center of the entire ceremony and all of the decor. We have to have the dress to move forward. Not to mention we need to give the designer as much time as possible. Wedding dresses take time.”

  “How much time?”

  “A lot more than two weeks. Not that I can’t get a dress done in two weeks,” I rushed on when I could practically feel the coldness of my mother’s sigh on the other end of the phone. “It’ll be pushing it, but I can totally pull it off. As long as we choose a design and do a fitting now. Today.”

  “Tomorrow,” my mother corrected. “That’s the absolute earliest I can make an appointment. Talk to Cheryl. She’ll set it up.” Before I could protest, she handed me off to her assistant and I spent the next five minutes begging Cheryl to juggle appointments so that we could meet first thing in the morning. She promised me nine a.m. and I called the designer to coordinate.

  Dress? Almost a check.

  I held tight to the hope and turned my attention to the multitude of other things on my plate. I spent the rest of the morning formulating a game plan for each of the two new brides we’d signed yesterday—thanks to Andrew and Burke—and dealing with an endless amount of details for Delaney’s upcoming wedding. First up? A problem with her shoes, which she insisted were supposed to be three-inch Swarovski-covered stilettos rather than three and a quarter inches. In between phone calls with a frantic Delaney and an equally upset shoe designer, I worried over finding Azazel.

  Until I received a cryptic message from Blythe telling me that Agarth would be happy to help her find Azazel, provided she went out with him first.

  I could still hear her final words: “I want matching shoes to go with the bag. And a belt.”

  The shoes I could deliver. The belt? Let’s hope Aunt Lucy had branched out into a wide array of accessories. Otherwise, I was so screwed.

  While morning was spent at my desk, the remainder of the day involved me running around like a chicken this close to the sacrificial altar. First, I headed to Delaney’s photographer to go over the selected photo plan, then to three different cake tastings, then to a fitting for one of my current brides, then to a venue walk-through at the Crystal Ballroom, then to Insanity by Chocolate to look at different skull molds for my brilliant stroke of genius for Mom’s favors.

  And yes, I had three samples while I was there. Sue me.

  Anyhoo, by the time five o’clock arrived, I was slumped over my desk, a Hostess cupcake in one hand and a pen in the other. Burke and Andrew sat across from me, minus the cupcakes, of course. After the doughnut slip yesterday morning, Andrew had jumped into a no-carb plan while Burke cheered him on with his usual banana smoothies and bran muffins.

  Health-conscious humans. Blah.

  Together (Burke and his bran, Andrew and his carrot sticks, and me with my handful of chocolate decadence), we were doing our damnedest to come up with a specific plan for Lillith Damon’s big affair.

  Yep, I’d brought them on board to help. There were too many things to accomplish and not nearly enough time. While I was a superfast demon, I was still stuck in a mortal’s body, vulnerable to brain-dead-itis and fat ankles after putting in a long day on my feet.

  Like today.

  Enter Burke and Andrew to share my pain and help me think of something brilliant.

  “If we’re talking really big, nothing says impressive like a photo booth,” Burke announced.

  Okay, so I couldn’t very well give them all the juicy details—like the Devil overthrowing Hell via over-the-top affair. They only knew that my momzilla was tying the knot with an outrageous budget and eccentric tastes. That, and said event had to happen now.

  “We can have lots of props,” Burke pushed his idea home. “Like fuchsia cowboy hats and sequined boas and big funky sunglasses. An attendant can monitor the whole thing and fit the finished pics into some really darling frames that the guests can take home as mementos. Everyone will be talking about how amazing the wedding was and how brilliant we are. Your mom will love it!”

  “Oh, that’s simply too cute,” Andrew squealed, frantically tapping notes into his iPad. “We are definitely on the fast track to fabulous.”

  I tried to picture even one of my bloodthirsty relatives mugging for the camera while wearing a pink cowboy hat and matching boa.

  Ugh. I sucked down half the cupcake in one desperate bite.

  “No offense, guys,” I managed once I’d swallowed and chased the sweet with a mouthful of Diet Coke, “but I don’t think a photo booth is my mom’s cup of tea. We need something impressive. Something grand. Something memorable.”

  Silence descended for a nanosecond before genius seemed to strike. “Glow bracelets,” Burke announced.

  Scratch the genius.

  “My mom was voted Houston’s top interior decorator,” I hedged. “She’s super high profile. Powerful.” Deadly. “Glow bracelets seem a tad understated.”

  “You’re right. We should pull out the big guns and go straight for the necklaces.” I shook my head, and he added, “Too cheesy?”

  Too human.

  “I’ve got it,” Andrew jumped in, looking as if he’d discovered a supersculpting ab pill that worked regardless of diet and exercise. “A flambé table.”

  A roomful of demons, fire, and dessert?

  “Not bad.” My phone picked that moment to buzz. I glanced at the text from Karla St. Charles telling me she had a lead on the Chase building. Hope blossomed and I grinned. “Fabulous, here we come.”

  “This is so not fabulous,” I told the überpregnant wedding planner a few hours later as we walked into the only available rental space in the Chase Bank building.

  It was just this side of seven p.m. and the building had long since cleared out of all the nine-to-fivers. Thankfully. I didn’t need an audience to witness the meltdown I was about to have.

  I glanced around at the blah, empty space. There were so many things wrong with this that I didn’t even know where to begin.

  Karla, pulling off the professional mommy-to-be look in a clingy blue jersey knit dress, sipped one of those all-natural/organic/gluten-free/supposed-to-be-good-for-the-baby protein shakes that smelled like vitamins and made me want to toss my cookies. (No, really. I’d eaten a handful of Oreos on the way over.)

  “If you want the Chase Bank building,” she said in between sips, “this is what you get.” Sip. “The building is owned by a corporation that doesn’t lease out for special occasions.” Sip. Sip. “They only let out for corporate space. But lucky for you, it just so happens a friend of mine works for an insurance company up on four.” Sip. Sip. Sip. “Since they’re tenants, they have access to the one and only party space in the entire building.” She swept a hand around the room. “Here you go.”

  I glanced around the gold-carpeted space with its minimal windows and fake potted plants. My nose wrinkled with the smell of carpet cleaner and stale food. “This isn’t really what I’d pictured.”

  She tossed her now-empty Styrofoam into a nearby tr
ash can and eyed me. “Why don’t you give this up and go for the Wells Fargo Bank Plaza? I can get you the lobby area. Lots of windows. Great atmosphere. It’s not the tallest building in town, but it comes a close second.”

  If only. But no matter how big, my mom wouldn’t be happy with second place. She wanted this event to be over-the-top and I had to make that happen.

  But tallest building or not, it couldn’t happen here. “This is terrible.”

  “You’re telling me,” Karla echoed, but then she touched a hand to her stomach and I knew she was talking about something other than the space. “I probably shouldn’t have doubled up on the B-twelve in that shake. I think the babies are starting their own Zumba group.” Her eyes twinkled. “Want to feel?”

  Time out. Can someone please tell me why all pregnant women think that the entire world is equally amazed by what is happening inside their bodies? Seriously. I’m not a baby person. I never have been. My cousin Delilah tried to get me to hold her kid at the last family get-together—a birthday party for my second cousin Millicent—and it didn’t end well. There were lots of tears (baby) and spitting up (me on account of said baby was actually a toddler who punched me in the stomach and, well, I’d just eaten four brownies). Needless to say, I’d never been into the whole mommy thing.

  I so didn’t want to get up close and personal with any kicking babies.

  “Here.” She grabbed my hand and pressed it against her tummy before I could make up an excuse. “Feel.”

  “I’ve really got to run—” The words stalled as I felt the tiniest thump against my palm, and then another and another.

  All right, so it was sort of cool.

  A smile played at my lips. “Do they move like that all the time?”

  She nodded. “Especially when I listen to the Black Eyed Peas. The twins absolutely love Fergie.”

  We spent the next few minutes oohing and ahhing over the joys of impending motherhood and the hotness of Fergie’s significant other, aka Karla’s fantasy man, Josh Duhamel. Then her cell beeped and she had to leave to make it to her natural water birth class.