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A few nearby demons turned their heads, glancing our way.
Somers noticed and attempted to make himself an inch taller by puffing out his chest. “I didn’t say I don’t like demons. Every one of God’s creatures has its place.”
But, according to him, Zodiac’s place was on the other side of the veil. I knew his sort. They liked to wave crosses and preach about the second coming, about how sin would be cleansed by the second coming of their prophesied one. I knew a thing or two about prophecies. They were rarely accurate. More like guidelines, really. “Then it’s Zodiac you have a problem with?”
A big demon jostled against Somers, almost toppling him into me. “Out the way, demon bait,” the demon grumbled, shoving by.
“I h-have a problem with criminals, Mr. Vex,” Somers stammered. “Mr. Reese, the protestor, remains missing. Gruesome murders right outside this club. All the signs point to one person, don’t you think?” He nodded toward the stage, where the lights began to shift from soft white to a deep red. “Demons like him never change, Mr. Vex. They’ll always be killers.”
Zee’s show was about to begin. Remembering Ramone’s warning, I tucked a smile into my cheek. “Are you staying to watch? I hear Zodiac’s performances are mesmerizing.”
He grimaced. “I might.”
The lights dimmed again, and the opening violins from Michael Bublé’s version of “Feeling Good” played. Zee’s voice glided over our heads, teasing every single person in the crowd—demon, fae, human, all manner of Lost Ones—none could deny its smooth, delicious timbre. I’d heard him sing before, at the hotel, when he’d belted out a rendition of “House of the Rising Sun.” But that hadn’t been like this.
His voice poured over and into me like warm syrup, its physical pull undeniable.
A spotlight burst onto the curtain onstage, highlighting Zee’s frozen but unmistakable silhouette behind. The dramatic outline showed his wings splayed, his tail flicked out, and his heels accentuating long legs.
“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me. And I’m feeeelin’ . . . good.”
The beat dropped. The orchestra kicked in. The trumpets sang. And the curtain fell.
I gasped.
He wore a blood-red suit jacket over a black silk shirt, clinging on by a single button. Red tailored pants dropped to glossy black shoes. I’d thought Reynard rocked a suit like nobody else, but until this moment, I’d never seen Zee wear one. And he wore it with style.
He strutted forward, heeled shoes striking the stage floor with every drumbeat. His black wings, painted with red ladybug dots, rocked with every sway of his hips. The opening crescendo built until Zee reached the front of the stage. He dropped into a crouch, tail causing mischief off to one side with a big-eyed fan who appeared to be on the verge of losing their mind.
He sang, as though the music lived and breathed inside of him.
The crowd hollered, howled and screamed, and Zee smiled, absorbing everything. He stood, shrugged off the jacket and flung it away, then grasped the pole, hooked a leg around it, and went to work.
He owned that stage, and every single living being in the club. His incubus allure beat out in waves, washing over the audience, whipping them into a frenzy. This was what happened when there weren’t wards to temper him. And he was . . . glorious.
Even Detective Somers stood stunned and enthralled. He swallowed hard, his mind and body no longer his own.
A glance to my left, through the many horns and wing tips, revealed Sebastien, standing and gazing at Zee. Admiration shone in his eyes. Blatant desire parted his lips.
Zee had everyone under his thrall. Everyone except me. I wanted nothing more than to stay and watch too, but I had my own part to play.
I stepped back from the masses. Pride lifted me up. That clever, powerful demon on stage was my bestie, and part of my heart too.
Nobody stopped me from passing through the side door, and climbing up the tall, narrow staircase. But the dutiful guard outside Sebastien’s suite saw me. He stepped forward. “You again—”
Nobody expects the blond-haired, softly spoken, twenty-something human to punch above their weight. So when I thrust out a hand, grabbed his face, and slammed his head against the wall, he didn’t know what had hit him. And I’d learned, from previous visits, there were no cameras here to witness it.
As he slumped, out cold, I caught him, and gently laid him down. “Just a little nap. You’ll be right as rain in no time.”
Inside Sebastien’s apartment, Zee’s voice sailed up to me, giving his all and driving me on. I dashed for the cabinets, grabbed the box file Reynard had found, and dumped its contents on the floor. Contracts fluttered, but the addendum wasn’t among them.
It had to be here.
Where would Sebastien keep something capable of ruining his business? He wouldn’t destroy it, in case he needed to renew it. So where would he hide the one thing that could bring all this tumbling down?
I spotted the remains of the shattered glass wall that Reynard had shoved Sebastien through, and hurried around it. Sebastien’s enormous, red silk–draped bed was all kinds of hideous. And a mirror above, to add to the creeper vibe.
I dropped to my knees, lifted the sheets, and peered under the bed. A shiny reinforced suitcase lay among his sex toys. I dragged it out and popped the latches. The lid sprung open, and inside lay a messy pile of documents. A deed to Razorsedge, multiple loan agreements, several explicit photographs of Sebastien and a . . . goat? I shoved all that aside, and there it was, the original slip of paper. The addendum. Proof that Sebastien’s reign as the king of Razorsedge was over.
