Page 9 of Whispers From The Dark

“Your truth, first, Petra,” he says, and though he doesn’t touch me, I feel his presence on my skin. I can’t explain it, but a physical connection traces across my lower back when he speaks. “Something comparable to my true name. Something that holds power.”

“Fine,” I say, looking over my shoulder. “I’m kind, not nice. There’s a difference.”

He chuckles, but I don’t think he believes me.

Call me back mom

My phone is fucked. Goddamn Dmitri and his stupid demon. My screen is shattered, and I can barely type. An entire chunk is missing, and it’s a wonder I can even see anything. Burner phones are cheap, but I use this for the internet almost every day. I don’t have time to loiter at the library, waiting to use their computers for apartment hunting or paying bills or, fuck, just watching Gabi’s Netflix. I think I’m allowed some bit of mind-numbing relief, and Dmitri fucking ruined that.

I take a deep breath of the chilly night air, savoring its burn in my lungs. I need to get my shit together. On my way outside, Courtney told me about the big clients coming tonight, and I’m pretty sure I saw Roman Sauveterre walking down the block. Knowing he’s here, I should go back in and make sure I’m seen so they can request me. Instead, I people-watch.

Roman is one tall motherfucker, and despite the other obnoxiously tall and beautiful people he’s with, he stands out. Since working at Last Drop, I can easily tell vampires from humans, but the difference is subtle. They have a glow to them, almost. They’re hot and important—they know they’re hot and important—and they’re not to be fucked with. I recognize Margot Summers, the only vampire I’d maybe consider a friend, but I dip into a shadowed alcove so I don’t get pulled into conversation.

I have research to do and a cunt of a mother to track down within the next few minutes, or I’ll miss out on the Sauveterre party.

Dialing Mom’s cell, I use my free hand to pull my vape out of my bra. I don’t like to hit it on work nights—some vampires don’t like the taste it gives the blood or the scent it leaves on my skin—but I’m so anxious, I don’t have a choice.

That bitch of an egg donor stole my fucking money. My escape plan. My hope. At least, that has to be what happened, right? Why else would she leave after giving Jack that freezer-burnt ice cream sandwich?

When Mom doesn’t answer, I flop back against the wall.

How bad would it be to say yes?

For a split second, the voice inside my head isn’t my own, like a whisper in the dark alcove. Maybe Az used his demonic powers to force the suggestive idea into my mind. Shaking my head, I put my vape to my lips and inhale. The honk of a passing car drowns out the seductive temptation for a moment. But then it’s back as I exhale, invading the recently vacated spot in my lungs. Like pressure beneath the ocean, the enticing voice finds whatever crack it can and forces its way in.

If Az agrees to certain provisions, would it be the worst thing? Maybe he could do some demon fuckery to get me full custody of Jack, and I wouldn’t have to deal with his dad or our dirtbag mom.

A text from said dirtbag comes through.

Mom

After everything I’ve done for you, I can’t believe you held out on me. You knew they cut my shifts at work, and you couldn’t pick up the slack? Your shit better be gone by the time I get home.

My heart races, and my breaths come too quickly. My vision narrows. The brick wall in front of me is covered in spray paint, and there’s a suspicious puddle that I avoid. The rancid scent of an overflowing dumpster singes my nostrils. This back alley is a poetic metaphor of my fucking life right now. I blow out a breath, unable to do anything but laugh.

“After everything she’s done for me.” I scoff.

The front-facing camera still works on my phone, and I attempt to check my makeup. Deciding it’s good enough, I adjust my boobs and hike up my dress a bit before turning back toward the side entrance. I’m about to work my ass off—in more ways than one.

4

ASMODEUS

“You’re some kind of a big deal down there, huh?” Petra says, trailing her fingertips across my shoulders as she walks past and leans against the bar. She places her phone down, gesturing to the busted screen, but I have more interesting things to look at.

I knew she’d be back. She smells of something herbal—marijuana, I think—but it’s already fading. Swiveling in my chair, I steeple my fingers as I take in the way her clothes fit that wicked little body. Petra has tugged on her dress in all the right places, accentuating her cleavage and revealing her muscular thighs.

“What do you mean, angel?”

“Your Wikipedia page has a very long table of contents. You supposedly have three heads, you murdered seven different husbands of a woman named Sarah—probably the first Sarah ever, actually,” she says, tilting her head. In the light, I glimpse the scars one might obtain from working at a vampire bar. My eyes narrow on the imperfections, annoyed they weren’t more delicate with her. “You like to gamble, you hold control over seventy-two legions⁠—”

“Aren’t you supposed to verify sources from Wikipedia before assuming them as fact?”

“I could just ask the primary source,” she says, giving me a mischievous grin. “Do you have three heads, Az?”

“Just the two, as of now.”

A delightful, splotchy red patch of skin appears on her chest as she understands my meaning. But she brushes a strand of hair out of her face and smiles at me. Her bottom teeth are charmingly misaligned, thanks to poor dental care from the abusive mother, I assume. But her top teeth are nearly straight. Her canines are naturally sharp, and if she wasn’t so sickeningly sweet, the look she gives could be predatory.