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“Enough,” Petra says. “It’s actually kind of nice. I don’t have to worry about getting mugged on the street or assaulted at work. If anything happens to me, I know I’m protected. I have a demon willing to handle it.Eagerto handle it.”

“Speaking of,” I say as a black mist seeps through my kitchen window. I make my way back over to my seat, drink refreshed, just as the demon slams back into Petra’s body.

“Still me,” Petra says , smiling wide. “He’s not supposed to take over without permission, but he likes to bend the rules of the deal as much as he can.”

The curve of her mouth softens the longer I look at her, and with a brief glance toward Remy, she delivers the bad news. “Salcan’t speak yet, but Barb told Az she’s dead. The directive in their circle is to kill hostages if…”

She trails off as Remy begins to cry.

Loud, wracking sobs shake his body, and my heart drops into my stomach. I knew this was a likely outcome, and still, I wish there was anything that I could do to take his pain away. But instead, I ask for details. While I can’t give him back to her, maybe I can give him retribution. Or at the very least, I can try to give him peace.

“Was there a grace period? A time frame that she would have lived before the other demons killed her?”

Petra goes still, tilting her head as if she’s in thought, but I’m sure she’s listening to the demon taking residence inside her head.

“Az said they would’ve probably killed her the same night the demons didn’t return. Definitely within the week.”

“And what did they do with her body?”

Her brows furrow, and her mouth opens in affront. She scoffs, muttering to herself, and then she jumps from her chair. Pacing across my dining room, I can tell the woman is arguing with the monster in her head.

It makes me think of another woman with monsters in her head, and I pull my phone out of my pocket.

19

GWYN

The gun grows heavierin my hand every time the melody on my phone plays. It’s probably just the horny demon butt dialing me by mistake, and there’s no way I can hear him blow his load in Dahlia’s mouth and still come back to this moment.

It won’t be right. All momentum will have passed, and I’ll be more disgusted with what I heard than I am with myself.

But now I’m thinking about that, and without even answering, I fear the moment has already passed.

There’s always another moment though, lurking just around the corner, ready to latch onto whatever self-flagellating thought I have next. There are plenty, as usual, so I just have to bide my time.

I really shouldn’t have a gun, but Sasha insisted for my self defense, and Hale actually believed me when I said I was fine. But that’s what happens when you have suicidal friends.

They lie.

It was so easy for me to lie to Roman because if I’m not lying about something to someone, I’m just not living.

With a sigh, I put the firearm back in the nightstand, and close the drawer. I’m not going to fucking kill myself now. I’m deflated. My anger has withered like fresh cut blooms left ina vase too long. Bright and fragrant, my anger had bloomed quickly. But just like flowers ripped from the soul, my rage has shriveled away without proper tending. And without the fury, my impulse to take that final initiative has passed.

Fucking demon with his goddamn blowjob.

Now that I have a moment to think, I worry about Zuul. How long would it take for someone to find him? And what would they do with him? He’s snoring loudly, oblivious to my plight, and his all-black coat gleams in the lamp’s glow.

My phone rings again, and I’m about to give the demon a piece of my mind, when I see the number on the screen.

From the minute I started stalking him, or “Uno reversed” him as Hale calls it, I had Roman’s number memorized. I never saved it, but I knew it from the jump. Just like I knew Hale’s by heart during my early teens, when I’d balanced my training with standard eighth grade bullshit about cute boys and mean girls and strict teachers. Just like the number of the girl who I had a nasty friend breakup with, and I’m certain was actually my bi-awakening. It’s always been strangely easy for me to memorize phone numbers.

And this one, with its familiar Chicago area code, belongs to Roman.

I almost don’t answer, but I decide I’m just pissed off enough to do it because Roman has thwarted my self-indulgence once again.

“Normal people are asleep at this time,” I snap upon answering.

“Did you know about Kayla?”