George polished his reading glasses thoughtfully before addressing Phoenix. “How do you know you can handle him? He seemed to get the better of you at your last meeting.”
“I don’t know that I can handle him. That’s where Raya comes in—and possibly a few other allies.”
Cosmo eyed him skeptically. “Since when do you have allies?”
“I have plenty of allies, thank you very much.”
“Name one.”
“I happen to know a powerful angel who would be very interested to know about a witch exceeding his limits.”
George made a quizzical face. “Isn’t that the angel who threatened to decapitate you with a flaming sword if he ever saw your face again?”
Raya sat forward in her chair. “Hold up—angels are real?”
All three demons looked at her with amusement.
George spoke first. “It’s not commonly known. They’re in hiding, mostly. Too much pressure.”
“Pressure from what?”
George shrugged his massive shoulders. “Keeping the peace. Being customer service representatives for a deity. It’s a hard job.”
Phoenix leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head with a grin. “One benefit of being a demon: low expectations.”
Raya shot him a look. “Don’t I know it.”
“You really think this is serious enough to call in outside help?” asked Cosmo.
Phoenix nodded.
“Fine. I’ll go along—for now. Use the Dead Drop to keep us informed. If we’re going to go to the trouble of staying away from each other, we might as well take it seriously.”
Raya looked confused. “What’s a dead drop? Like for spies?”
Phoenix stood up before replying to Cosmo. “Meanwhile, I need to get this mortal some food and sleep.”
“Mortals,” said George, shaking his head.
“Hey, now—don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Raya stifled a yawn.
“It’s all right, darling. We only tease the ones we love.” Cosmo winked at Raya. “Isn’t that right, Phoenix?”
Thoroughly flustered and willing to do almost anything to end the conversation, Phoenix pretended he hadn’t heard. “We’re off, then.”
“Sleep tight,” said George. “Metaphorically speaking, of course, Phoenix.”
Phoenix and Raya took the stairs and exited into the fresh, clear sunlight of the early morning.
Raya looked around. “So, where’s breakfast?”
“At a restaurant, I presume?”
“No, I mean where can you find a real breakfast—eggs, bacon, orange juice—the works?”
“That’s an American thing. The French get by on coffee, cigarettes, and the occasional croissant.”
“Vive la Franceand all, but I want a damn omelet. If you’re such an expert on Paris … ”
