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Son of a bitch. Adrenaline dumped into my system to send my pulse racing, and it took all the willpower I possessed to form a lazy smile.
“Not anymore,” I said. “I got a better offer.” With any luck her imagination would fill in lurid details. Enforcer for a cartel, or mercenary, or international spy.
Unfortunately, she wasn’t that creative. She sneered down her nose at me. “Doesn’t matter. Cop or ex-cop, I’ll beat you bloody before they pull me off you.”
If they pulled her off me. The dread roared to life. Even if the guards on duty thought Farouche deserved what he got, I couldn’t depend on their support. Far likelier that they regarded me as nothing more than a cop gone bad who deserved whatever might happen. And right now the “whatever might happen” I faced topped me by several inches and outweighed me by at least thirty pounds.
Sweat rolled down my sides despite the chill. My mind raced in search of a tactic to avoid a nasty fight but kept circling back to one ploy. Shit.
Heaving a deep sigh, I stood, nice and slowly, maintaining eye contact. When I spoke it was with a quiet and scary intensity that I’d learned from months of dealing with immortal beings of vast power.
“I’ve survived more pain, more torture than you could ever hope to dish out,” I said, stupidly pleased that I’d pitched my voice just right to resonate against the walls. With deliberate movements I pulled up my shirts to reveal my collection of scars. A whisper of horror flitted through her eyes. Sure, there were people who were into body modification through scarring, but a primal sense told her these scars were different.
Though my heart pounded like a marching band drumline, I lowered the sweatshirt and adjusted my clothing with steady hands. “Now then, you need to ask yourself if it’s worth trying to knock me down and punch me a few times when you know I’ll get Right. Back. Up.” I had no need to pygah to remain calm. Every word I spoke was the absolute truth.
Angry Chick knew it too. She retreated a step then put on the scowl of someone who knows they’ve been beaten but doesn’t want to look like a coward. “You ain’t worth my time,” she scoffed, but her words had no strength behind them. “Bitch, you lucky I don’t want more charges on me right now.”
“I am indeed very lucky,” I replied as I resumed my seat. I glanced over at the sniveling girl—who wasn’t sniveling anymore. She and the three others watched me with wide-eyed awe.
Angry Chick muttered under her breath but plopped back down onto her bench, no less angry than before, although cowed.
Good enough. With that settled, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter 31
I managed an entire hour of sleep before the irate cursing of a newcomer to the holding cell woke me. Mid-to-late thirties, blond and fit in a Cardio Barbie way. Expensive jeans and a rumpled silk blouse over perky and perfect fake tits. Obviously intoxicated, she continued a steady stream of high-volume cursing, even after the guard closed the door and walked off. I glared at her, but her ranting stayed aimed at the door as if she believed her words could carve through the metal. Original gems such as “Don’t you know who I am?” and “I’ll sue every one of you worthless morons!” and “I’ll have your jobs and you’ll be cleaning toilets!”— all accompanied by colorful descriptions of parentage and sexual preference.
A growl built in my throat as the tirade continued, but Angry Chick stood before I had a chance to say my piece.
“Sit your ass down and shut your hole!” Her voice cut right through the drunken cursing.
Rich Bitch swung around, tilted her head back to deliver a disparaging look. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do!” she ordered, radiating shocked insult that Angry Chick had spoken to her at all, much less with such disrespect. I knew this kind too well. Mega-Society upper class, entitled and convinced the world existed to serve her. Insulted when anyone had the unmitigated gall to treat her like an ordinary person. Most people swallowed their tongues around her type—myself included, back in the day—because every now and then the “I’ll have your job” threat was
carried out.
But Angry Chick had nothing Rich Bitch could threaten. I watched with undisguised delight as she closed the distance. Rich Bitch retreated until her fit and trim ass smashed up against the cell door. Inches away, Angry Chick loomed over the wide-eyed woman.
“Sit your ass down and shut your hole,” she repeated, slowly but with no less menace.
Tickled, I watched Rich Bitch’s face shift from outrage to consternation as she realized she wasn’t the most powerful person in the room. Gulping, she hunched her shoulders then scurried to the back of the holding cell to sit beside Young Thing. Angry Chick gave me a satisfied nod as if to say I got it covered then resumed her seat. Bemused, I returned the slight nod. Apparently I’d scored a follower. Maybe Angry Chick could be my lieutenant if I ended up staying here for any length of time.
A trustee brought in terrible bologna sandwiches and weak lemonade along with scratchy blankets for each of us. I let Angry Chick have my blanket to use as a pillow. She deserved it.
I ate my lousy sandwich, leaned my head back and closed my eyes once more, but sleep evaded me. My earlier nap had taken the edge off my exhaustion, and worry and tension wound through my thoughts. The women in this holding cell ran the gamut of social classes, as did the women and men enslaved in the demon realm. Amaryllis Castlebrook had been targeted because no one would miss her for a couple of days. What of the others? The captives deserved to go home if they wished, regardless of their backgrounds or how well—or not—they were treated by their captors.
Rhyzkahl was the kingpin on the demon side of the human trafficking. A grim smile tugged at my mouth. I had something he wanted. Perhaps I had enough leverage for what I wanted.
Cautious, I relaxed my mind and recalled the feeling of the dream state visit, as familiar and effortless as if I’d done it a million times. I felt him sleeping, willed myself into his presence.
A terrace of white demon marble shimmered and solidified around me. Beyond the stone balustrade, bright moonlight washed the turquoise sea far below the cliffs, and the leaves of Rhyzkahl’s grove glimmered emerald and amethyst a hundred paces away. I’d suspected, and Seretis had confirmed: This was the true demon realm, and in the dreamstate I saw and experienced it like an interactive remote viewing.
My breath caught as the arcane whispered through me, and glints of potency flows greeted me like long lost friends. Barely perceptible, yet I drank it in like licking morning dew off leaves to slake my thirst.
Rhyzkahl sprawled face down on a chaise lounge, an overturned goblet on the tiles beside his dangling hand. A silky white shift hugged the contours of his back, plastered by sweat. Ugh, he’d slept with my aunt! Though I dearly wished to confront him about that particular liaison, I restrained the impulse. I wasn’t sure if he knew about Idris’s parentage, and no way did I want to give him that info. Besides, I already had an agenda in mind.
“Hey, turdbucket!” I gave the couch a hard kick. “Wake up!”
Groaning, he opened his eyes. “Kara,” he said, voice thick.
