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But I clicked off the call and dialed Thorn. I didn’t give him a chance to say hello. Through our connection, he knows who is calling.
“My roommate is home from her trip, and she’s not safe there alone.”
“Well, hello to you, too, Miss Barlow,” Thorn said with a touch of amusement in his voice.
“I’m serious as a crutch, Thorn. I want my roommate safe. Because of me, and that dweomer of yours in my chest, she’s in danger from the pack.”
There was a long silence where I imagined Thorn mulling the different ways to tell me to fuck myself. I’m sure none of his other associates talked to him as I just did.
Sarcasm laced his voice.
“Is it just your roommate, or do we need to find safe houses for half of Baton Rouge?”
This last statement cut deep. The only family I had was the pack, and they ain’t mine anymore. No, Chastity was all I had for a family now.
“Only her.”
“Tell her someone is coming for her.”
“I did.”
From the phone came long, deep hiss and Thorn’s displeasure rippled through my body.
“Fine,” he said.
“Wait. Can she come here?”
“Where the hell did you think I’d deposit her?” he blurted. “It’s not like I possess a hotel filled with safe houses.”
I yanked the phone away from my ear at this explosion. This is the second time I touched a nerve with old Dagon, and I wondered why. He’s a Syndicate demon crime lord. Why would a low-level shifter who couldn’t upset him? And he’s not the one that has a magical object burrowed in his chest.
“Whoa, a problem with the wifey?” I asked.
“Excuse me?” he snapped.
“Your succubus?”
“Oh, for—” he said with exasperation. And as quickly as his temper flared, his voice turned ice cold, and the suave, haughty Thorn returned.
“Your roommate will be deposited forthwith.” And he clicked off the call.
I stared at the phone. Forthwith? What the fuck? And I guess I should be concerned he treated Chastity like a sack of groceries, but my former pack raised her danger profile more than the demon who apparently wanted to keep me safe and happy.
For now.
Then I slapped my forehead. I forgot to ask for beer.
While waiting for Chastity, I dug around for plates and silverware and made two PB&Js. Thus I was prepared when Chastity pounded on the entrance. With a plate in hand, I opened the front door.
A flustered Chastity stood there, all of her five-four, voluptuous self, her dark skin already gleaming with a sweat sheen courtesy of Baton Rouge’s morning humidity. She clutched a brown paper bag in one hand, a wheeled suitcase in the other, her purse slung over her shoulder and sported fire in her normally placid brown eyes.
She stuck out the bag. “The driver told me to hand you this.”
I set the plate down on a table by the door and peered into the bag. Well, I’ll be damned. Inside, I spotted a cacophony of different-shaped bottles—probably filched from one of Thorn’s casino bars. This looked to be fun.
Way to go, supernatural connection.
There were perks to this deal with the devil after all.
