Page 1

CHAPTER 1

I adjusted my tie, using my reflection in the whiskey bottle sitting on the bar. “How do I look?”

Tom Collins, the bartender, lifted his gaze from wiping a glass and gave me a head-to-waist once-over. He arched a dark eyebrow, and went back to cleaning the glass. “Lose the tie.”

“Really?” I frowned. I liked the tie. I’d never worn one before. And today was important. All about first impressions. If the hotel guests were going to take me seriously, then I needed to look the part. That was, if any guests showed up. “Doesn’t it make me look sophisticated?”

“You look like a lawyer,” Tom said, with zero tact. “If that’s the vibe you’re going for, fucking have at it.”

Guests probably wouldn’t want a snarky, judgmental bartender. They’d want a bartender who poured drinks and listened to their woes. All cheer and no sneer. “Maybe you should turn your profanity filter on?”

“Fuck you.”

Oh-kay, it appeared as though the Tom Collins AI bartender package I’d bought off the shady fae in downtown San Francisco needed some settings tweaked. I should have known it was a deal too good to be true. The fae were notorious con-artists.

At least he looked the part, in his three-piece suit and styled, smooth black hair. Quite dashing, in that 1930s chipper way.

I’d take a look at his settings later. There wasn’t time to fix him now. The clock on the wall read eight forty-five. I had fifteen minutes before the hotel doors officially opened for the first time. Six months’ work. A whole lot of cash, blood, sweat, and bodily fluids—and some questionable ritual sacrifices—had all been leading to this moment. Opening day had to go off without a hitch.

My heart squeezed. I grabbed the glass of whiskey, downed it, almost coughed it back up again and while wheezing, waggled the glass at AI Tom for a refill.

He obliged. I downed the second glass, winced around the burn, and climbed off the stool. Checking my reflection again, I huffed and yanked off the tie, then undid the first few buttons on my shirt, going for the smart-casual vibe. “Better?”

Tom pointed a finger and winked. “Classy. Pay the tab before you leave.”

“You know I own this place, right?”

“No freeloaders.” He pointed to the sign on the wall beside a mounted shotgun, that read: No Freeloaders, as well as No Fights, No Bounty Hunters, No Biting, and Don’t Fucking Argue with the Bartender. I definitely should have checked his settings after plugging him in. But if an AI bartender who swore like a sailor was my only problem today, then I’d call it a win.

Somehow, I doubted I’d get off that easy.

A hotel for supernaturals—Lost Ones, as they were more commonly known—was always going to be a tall order. But it had to work. My ability to stay alive depended on it.

I did the rounds one more time—walking the lobby, the halls, checking the rooms, the kitchens, the dining area, and the lounge. The staff were all at their places. A team of misfits, held together by hope and the fact they were safer here than outside, in a world that begrudgingly lived alongside them but would prefer to burn most of them at the stake.

With my rounds done, I stopped at the front door, my hand on the push bar, and took a long, deep breath to steady my heart.

A low thrumming filtered through the door seals. Or maybe that was the sound of my heart racing in my ears. Was this crazy? Was I crazy? Once I did this, there would be no putting the djinn back in the bottle.

The other option was to run. But I’d tried that, and it hadn’t turned out so well.

At least, like the guests, I’d be safe here. The wards made sure of it.

A blast of purple static burst into the corner of my vision. I gasped, reeled, then got a proper look at the demon who had appeared in a cloud of electric glitter. Only one demon could flit about the hotel, appearing and disappearing like a rat running through the walls.

Zodiac. My business partner, and inimitable pain in my ass.

He grinned, baring small, sharp teeth in a brilliant smile. “Fuck, did I scare you again?”

“I need to put a bell on you.”

His smile widened, turning salacious. “Does it come with a collar?”

I rolled my eyes but kept him in the corner of my vision. He wore slim-fitting black pants, high-heeled boots that ended at the knee, and a purple waistcoat a size too small—and nothing else—leaving his arms and Adonis belt bare, while exposing an arrow tattoo on his hip that pointed downward. His wings—angular expanses of leather—framed slim shoulders. A gold ring glinted in one of his two sweeping horns, while a length of silver chain looped around his neck as jewelry. His jaw-length hair, parted in the middle, was half black, half purple.

“Zee, we talked about this.”

“About the bell? Did we? I’d remember⁠—”