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“I’m under no obligation to answer. In fact, Kane instructed me to pinch your cheek and call you adorable each time you dug for information about him. I’ve decided to exercise free will and not indulge him.”
“That would be the fastest way to lose a hand.” I smiled at my new demon friend. “How do you feel about beer?”
“I’m not opposed.”
“Good. Let’s go out.” I felt funny about letting Dan hang around inside the house all evening, yet I didn’t want him to leave. If Kane was worried enough to send a great duke of hell to babysit me, I’d be a fool to ditch him.
“If you’d like,” he said. “I can wait outside while you get changed.”
I glanced down at my cotton shorts and T-shirt. “You’re right. It’s chilly at this hour. I’ll bring a sweater.”
I slipped on a pair of sneakers on my way to the door. “You’re in charge,” I told the ghosts on our way to the truck.
The demon craned his neck as I turned the truck left. “The Devil’s Playground is the other way.”
“I thought we’d go somewhere a little more casual. Kane’s place is too fancy. The bouncer is allergic to denim.”
“I think Kane would prefer that you remain somewhere secure until the threat has passed.”
I glanced at him. “What do you think the odds are of me doing exactly what your master says?”
“He isn’t my master. I told you, he’s a dear friend.”
Once again, I failed to ruffle Dan’s feathers, not for lack of effort.
“Ruby’s Pet Resort,” he said, reading the name of the sign aloud as we passed by. “Humans treat their animal companions better than each other.”
The tires sprayed dirt as I pulled into the unofficial parking lot of Monk’s, the local dive bar.
“This is your beer establishment?” Dan looked skeptical as he took in the large wooden shack. “It looks severely neglected.”
“Relax, Dandelion. The beers are cold and cheap, and the only supernaturals that hang around this bar are werewolves. It’s perfect.”
I parked between a Ford F-150 and a dented Jetta. Rock music poured from the open door and windows. In another couple weeks, it would be too cool to keep them open. Monk’s in wintertime had to be stifling.
Dan got a few curious looks from the other patrons, not that I was surprised. He was unfamiliar and handsome, and he radiated more charisma than a politician on the campaign trail.
“What’s your favorite part about being a great duke of hell?” I asked, once we were settled on a bench outside with pints of beer.
Dan looked thoughtful as he turned his gaze skyward. “The torment.”
Huh. “You seem so chill.”
“I’m so chill because I work out all my angst at the office, so to speak.” He nudged me with his arm. “You should try it. You seem to have pent-up aggression.”
“You think?”
Dan nodded with enthusiasm. “I sense a lot of tension in your body. That kind of stiffness tends to stem from past trauma.”
I swilled my beer. “And you know this because you inflict it so often?”
His smile evaporated. “I know this because I recognize a tortured soul when I see one. It doesn’t necessarily stem from physical pain. It might be emotional wounds or simply secrets that don’t wish to stay buried.” He drank half his beer in one swallow. “Sometimes all of the above.”
“My body is stiff because I spend an inordinate amount of time with a paintbrush or a tool in my hand.”
“You could have help if you wished it.”
“Can’t afford help.”
