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Agrat blinks the fiery lust from her eyes and lifts her hands innocently, smirking. “I’m under control, darling. Perhaps the angel isn’t so untouchable by the force of this city.”
“The reek of it disgusts me,” I mutter, dropping her arm.
She merely grabs it again and hugs it, giving me a blithe smile I can’t help but be reluctantly charmed by. “I could help you change that, of course.” Flames dance at her fingertips. “All it would take is a little hellfire to roast those chicken wings of yours.”
I ignore her and point ahead. “This way.”
We take a spatial shortcut and appear in front of Heaven’s Gate. The sign is made up of neon turquoise and orchid shades, casting bright, shapeless streaks on the wet pavement. The outside of the building, other than the sign, is pitch black.
The sense of them inside is an oily, creeping sensation through my blood, as though I’m infected with the worst kind of virus and can feel it mutating within me. My upper lip curls. “I’m sure you can feel that.”
“I can.” She breathes deeply through her nose, closing her eyes. “Naughty, naughty little demons.”
The way she says “naughty,” however, is practically loving.
Agrat turns to me with a lovely smile. “Well, we can’t learn much standing out here, can we?”
Before I can respond, we’re suddenly inside the bar. I look at my companion, an eyebrow arched.
“What?” she says innocently, still hugging my arm. “You’re not the only one who knows fun tricks.”
I glance around the bar, wondering who’s seen us, tensing for a fight. The air is dense with the stench of demonic forces.
The decor is sleek and modern; glossy black marble covers the floor, matching the black lacquered tables and black leather couches. The lighting is soft and muted, the same shades of neon turquoise and orchid as the sign outside. Bartenders and servers dressed in all black work busily to cater to the few dozen patrons currently inside. For all appearances, it’s nothing more than your regular trendy lounge, with its modern techno-hop pouring quietly from hidden speakers.
“Don’t worry, they can’t see us,” Agrat says cheerfully, strolling about. She looks like a proud parent as she peers at each demon in our immediate area, going from table to table. “I can see why they like to come here.” She grabs a hardcover menu off the table and flips it open. “Ah! How creative. Idolove an artisan craft cockt—”
I snatch the menu from her hand and throw it to the floor. “Cut the shit, Agrat. This isn’t what we’re here for!”
She sighs and shakes her head, giving my cheek a soft pat. “It must be such a miserable place up there, my love. I think we should sit, have a drink, and observe. Just like two regular ol’ demonic patrons.”
“What purpose would that serve?” I demand through gritted teeth. “They’d recognize you instantly and scatter like the roaches they are. If they seeme, I’ll be forced to smite them all, which would provoke your dark lord and also get me in trouble. We’re breaking the treaty by being here at all, you absolute twat.”
Agrat looks offended. “I will conceal both our identities. No one will know who I am. And certainly no one will know my companion is an angel. We’ll just be two demons, enjoying a drink like everyone else. The purpose here is reconnaissance.”
She snaps her fingers. A short, gusty breeze brushes my face, and a hostess makes her way over to us. “Table?”
The hostess doesn’t bat an eye at either one of us.
“Please,” Agrat says with a wide smile, sliding her arms around mine again. She glances up. “Is there seating available up there?”
I glance up at the ceiling, confused, then note the shadowy staircase against the far wall leading to an upper floor..
The hostess nods. “Follow me.”
Agrat winks at me, and we follow her up the stairs. I glance back at the main floor; no one has even looked in our direction. I suppose whatever glamor Agrat has thrown worked.
The upstairs area is decorated much like the downstairs, but there are several gaming tables scattered around. Agrat casts a longing glance at them as we’re seated at a two-person table.
“No games,” I say sharply. “Reconnaissance, remember? Your words.”
“I know.” She draws out the last syllable like a whining child. “You never want to have any fun.” Her lips quirk as she eyes me seductively. “I could help you with that, you know.”
“We know,” I reply dryly.
She orders us two glasses of one-hundred-fifty-year-old bourbon. When it arrives, I taste it more out of curiosity than anything.
“The humans consider this a rarity,” she tells me, taking a sip with relish. “It was manufactured during the Second World War.”
