Page 101 of Cold Curses

Dim overhead lights were on, in addition to the colored strobes that I guessed were supposed to add atmosphere. Even here on the deck, with the wind blowing around the lake scents outside the closed doors of the party room, I smelled cigars and brimstone.

I held out a hand. “Give me your tray.”

“Gladly,” the waitress said, and handed it over. Her fingers were shaking, and she wiped them on the short apron tied around her waist. “Not even supposed to be my shift, but freaking no oneelse is in town, so I had to take it. And I get freaking cops and demons. No offense,” she added.

“None taken,” I said sincerely. She hadn’t included me in that list. “They bothering you?”

“No. Just weird. Like they think they’re some kind of Mafia, but look around,” she said, waving her hands. “It’s just them on a booze cruise, which isn’t very impressive. Anyway, not my business. I just want to be somewhere else.”

“There a staff break room or something?” I asked, and she nodded. “Good, go down there. Someone will let you know when this is all done.”

And I hoped, for the sake of this woman with her shaking hands and tidy apron, that we’d do it safely.

“Clear,” the cop behind me said when the human had made it down the stairs.

“Stay back,” I said, then flipped off the thumb guard on my katana, adjusted my tray, and put on a brilliant smile. And then I pushed open the doors.

The scents were stronger with the doors open, and the shed magic felt like a curtain I had to push through. The demons were situated in the conversation area, Dante in the middle of a sofa, his preferred position. They all ignored me until I reached them; apparently they assumed I was a server with another round of drinks, which was perfect.

“Hello,” I said, and pretended to stumble, showering drinks and glasses onto the nearest demon. He bolted to his feet at the shock of ice and insult. Glass shattered, and booze spilled across the floor.

“Oh, my gosh,” I said, covering my mouth with my hands. “I’m so sorry! I’m such a klutz. Let me help you,” I said.

And as all the other demons looked my way, I picked up a cocktail napkin and stooped to swab at his feet. He still sworeloudly at my incompetence, which gave Gwen and the others time to come in and block the doors.

When the music fell silent and the lights were turned up, I stood, met her eyes. “The floor is yours,” I told her.

“Dantalion aka Dante,” Gwen said, staring at him, “you are severely under arrest for conspiracy to murder Felix Buckley, Jake Durante, and Ernesto País. You have the right to remain silent, but please feel free to say something incriminating, so we can dispense with the niceties.”

She worked through the recitation of Dante’s rights; the other demons waited in stillness for some order from their master. For a moment, the only other sound was theplinkof spilled tequila dripping from a coffee table.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Dante said. Then he stroked his jaw, eyes skittering across the room, no doubt looking for exits.

Or giving silent instructions to his crew. Because all hell broke loose.

The demon nearest me jumped up, ready to brawl.

I snatched up the drink tray, swung it like a baseball bat. The demon fell back onto the sofa, out cold.

The next one hopped up, and I tossed aside the tray, unsheathed my sword, and aimed. I sliced diagonally, managed to catch his arm before he pivoted. I jumped onto the coffee table, used a two-handed downward arc.

He blocked it with magic—some kind of buzzing barrier that made the blade bounce an inch above his skin. Then he opened his mouth andliterally exhaled magic—a blue-black mist of particles that flew toward me like horizontal sleet, a Chicago wintertime favorite. I swept a few particles away with my sword, but the others hit me. And while I braced for their assault, they bounced on the floor like pearls from a broken necklace.

We both looked down at my chest. His magic had done nothing.

“Way to go, Aunt Mallory,” I whispered, and grinned at him. “You’re going to have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“Behind you!” someone called out, and I spun just in time to avoid being hit across the back with a stacking chair.

“Oh, you aren’t even trying,” I said, and clucked my tongue at the demon who wielded the chair.

I used my sword to bat it away, and when the demon dropped it, I kicked him in the stomach. He stumbled back but stayed upright, then put his head down and simply barreled toward me. I brought my sword low, spun up and around as he reached me, and caught him in the chest. The laceration was deep and filled the air with sourness. Screaming, he went down with a thud.

I stepped over him, flicked demon gunk from the blade, and looked up to check the rest of the fight. His hands in the air, Dante stood with Gwen, surrounded by cops. He wore a slightly baffled expression, as if unsure what move to make.

The other cops were fighting the handful of demons who hadn’t yet given up. In other words, the situation seemed to be contained.

Which is exactly when you get overconfident.