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Chapter Thirteen

Had he really just confessed all to Delia Dunne?

It sure looked that way.

Why he’d done such a crazy-ass thing, Caleb wasn’t even sure. Maybe he’d decided to take a chance because she was someone who already had plenty of experience with the supernatural…or maybe he’d gotten tired of pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Whatever the reason for unburdening himself, he thought she’d taken it pretty well. She hadn’t freaked out or run away or tried to throw holy water on him — something he knew she could have easily done, since she always seemed to carry some in that little banishing kit she kept in her purse — and instead had asked some fairly sensible questions.

And even though he knew a real estate agent wasn’t the same thing as a lawyer and they didn’t have anything close to a confidentiality clause, he still thought he could trust her to keep his secret.

Probably because no one would believe her if she decided to spill the beans.

But at least he’d done one good thing today by removing the skeletons of those dead women and sending them to a place where someone could properly handle them. No doubt there would be a million questions and some finger-pointing, because a batch of remains from people who’d been dead for decades generally didn’t show up out of nowhere, but he had to believe they’d still be taken care of and hopefully identified.

Just as he was turning onto his street, rain began to fall, spattering his freshly washed Range Rover, but he told himself it wasn’t that big a deal. He’d take it to the car wash tomorrow or whenever it was obvious that they wouldn’t get any more rain for a while.

All the same, he couldn’t help feeling a little melancholy as he picked up his phone and ordered some DoorDash for lunch — a sub sandwich from a deli that wasn’t too far away, along with a tub of potato salad. What he really would have liked was to take Delia out instead, but the expression she’d worn while they were wrapping things up at the house on Pueblo Street told him it would be a long time — if ever — before she was okay with sharing a meal with him again.

Damn it.

Despite that reaction, he was still glad he’d told her the truth. While she’d been shocked, she hadn’t looked at him as if he was some kind of horrible mutant and had even talked about totally normal things afterward, like his plans for the kitchen and some snippets about their high school life.

He would have loved to see her with hair dyed an even brighter red than its normal copper hue, dressed all in black with Doc Martens to finish off the look.

Man, his mother would have freaked out if he’d ever brought a girl like that home.

Smiling in spite of himself, he sat down in the living room and watched raindrops hit the water in the swimming pool, sending up little splashes as they fell. It was a nice pool, surrounded by a carefully landscaped backyard, but he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about the yard at the formerly haunted house on Pueblo Street, which was much bigger and gave the impression of being even larger than it actually was because of the way it backed up to the golf course and all that open green space.

The house had so much potential…potential he was fairly certain would now be realized, since it didn’t seem as if Delia was going to back away from helping him with the renovations despite what she’d learned about him earlier today.

That had to count for something, didn’t it?

And he knew it had been a novel experience to stand there and talk to a woman who’d learned the worst about him but was still willing to be matter-of-fact about the whole thing.

Although she hadn’t stopped herself from asking whether he was a murderer, too, just like the man who’d once owned that house.

He’d answered honestly because he had nothing to hide on that front. He didn’t think his father could have responded the same way and still been telling the truth, but their lives had been very different. By the time Caleb’s generation had come along, it was much more about maintaining the illusion that they had nothing to hide and continuing to build their wealth and position in society, rather than merely biding their time in the hope that Belial might call on them to come to his aid.

Which he had…and the results hadn’t been very pretty.

But he, Caleb, had escaped, and that was the important thing.

The doorbell rang, so he went to get his lunch from the DoorDash driver and then tip a little extra because the weather was so shitty. Now the rain was coming down almost in sheets, and he found himself wishing he’d ordered something warm instead of a cold sub and some potato salad.

Well, it couldn’t be helped now.

He returned to the living room and switched on the TV and made himself eat, all the while wondering if Delia really had a client at one-thirty or whether she’d made up the story so she could get away from him.

No, she didn’t seem like the type of person to lie about that kind of thing.

At least, he hoped she wasn’t.

And although he’d had the passing thought that he might hit the casinos later today, he knew he didn’t much feel like going out. Drivers around here went absolutely nuts when it rained, probably because it happened so rarely.

No, he’d sit tight, maybe watch some home reno shows for inspiration. He already had a few ideas as to what he wanted to do with the Pueblo Street house — Delia’s obvious disapproval of his all-black kitchen notwithstanding — and he couldn’t think of a better use of his time than sitting here with his feet up and letting the afternoon go by.

And the evening, and….

And as long as it takes, he told himself. Right now, he knew he was kind of in limbo, just waiting for the clear title on the house before he could finalize the transaction. Even once that was done, he and Delia would have to focus on finding a general contractor to oversee the renovations, and that would probably take a while, too. Although he certainly hadn’t moved here with the idea of building a house-flipping empire, he thought that might not be a bad way to end up. If nothing else, it would keep him occupied for a while.

He went into the kitchen to get a beer and then, because he thought that was a whole lot of cold on a gloomy afternoon, switched on the fireplace before he sat down again. As he swallowed some beer, he pondered what Delia had told him about her experiences in the parking structure at the Bellagio.

Somehow, she’d sensed that he’d fought a demon there, which meant her strange abilities were attuned to a whole lot more than just ghosts and spirits. Good thing she was on his side — albeit marginally — or that could have caused some trouble.

The last thing he wanted was for anyone to know that a part-demon had been manipulating his winnings at the various casinos in order to plump up his wallet.

But she hadn’t seemed too worried about that part of it. Maybe she figured that because everything was rigged by the casinos anyway, it wasn’t too big a deal for him to indulge in his own form of cheating.

He appreciated that kind of morally gray thinking in a woman.

Delia Dunne wasn’t morally gray, though. Or at least, while she seemed willing to keep his secrets, he doubted she would ever participate in any openly illegal dealings.

Too bad he wasn’t on speaking terms with any of the Project Demon Hunters gang. Then he could have asked them if they’d ever encountered someone like Delia before, a woman who could whisper to ghosts but also somehow detect the residue of a day-old battle with a demon.

But they weren’t speaking. In fact, all of them believed he was safely trapped in Hell, and he certainly wasn’t going to do anything to disabuse them of that notion.

Well, except send a mysterious wedding gift to Rosemary, who might or might not have figured out that he wasn’t quite as caught in the underworld as they believed.

He ate half his sandwich and some of the potato salad, then put the leftovers in the fridge so he could return to the couch and finish his beer.

That imp in the parking garage. Were there more of them hiding in various places around town, just waiting to attack?

Possibly. Or maybe he just had spectacularly bad luck.

If it wasn’t bad luck…if someone had detected his presence here and wasn’t terribly thrilled by it…then he might be in for a whole world of hurt.

That didn’t make much sense, though. While he knew the various casino owners probably weren’t happy about losing several million bucks to him over the past few months, they were mortals. There was no way in the world — or in Hell — they’d be able to guess he was anything except an ordinary man.

Especially since he’d been so careful never to wear his real face — or the same face twice — when he went gambling. He was untraceable…unfindable.

He hoped.

The weather cleared the next day, and Caleb went out, determined to add a few extra hundred grand to his expanding bank accounts. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t necessary, but with the purchase of the house looming — along with all its associated renovation costs — he thought it better to be safe.

That meant taking an Uber instead of driving; he was in no mood to have a repeat of the incident in the parking garage, and figured it would be safer to get dropped off and then call another car when he wanted to head for home.

And although he was careful, he still ended up a hundred grand richer after visiting the first three stops — changing his face between each one, of course — and wondered if he should quit while he was ahead or try his luck one more time.

Since going home to an empty house in the middle of the afternoon didn’t sound very appealing, he decided to go a little off the beaten track and head over to Treasure Island. He hadn’t visited that casino for more than three weeks, and it seemed like working the tables there for a bit would be a good idea. After all, it had been almost a month since they’d suffered any big losses at his hands.

On that sunny Tuesday afternoon, the place wasn’t very crowded. Caleb didn’t like that as much, since big crowds gave him many more opportunities to hide. Still, he cleared about twenty-five grand at the blackjack tables before he went into the bathroom so he could switch his appearance once again.

Before, he’d been an older man in his sixties in a blue windbreaker and deck shoes. Now he wore the face of someone much younger, middle twenties at best, a good-looking Hispanic guy wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt and faded jeans.

Most people probably would have thought his ability to shapeshift in such a way was downright miraculous. But because Caleb had always been able to change his appearance — well, since he was around seven, just old enough to understand his father when Daniel told him he could never do that in front of his mother or any other mortals — he didn’t think it was that big a deal. The gift was one he’d been born with. It certainly wasn’t anything he’d earned, unlike his position as quarterback on the football team, which had been the result of lots of coaching and summers spent working out and tossing a ball around with anyone who would humor him.

He’d wanted to have one thing he thought was truly his.

Unlike winning at poker or craps or roulette, which was accomplished purely by allowing his demonic talents to reach out and push the dice over so they showed a lucky seven, or to have the roulette ball fall on the correct color and number.

Or even subtly influencing a dealer’s hands so they always gave Caleb the exact cards he needed.

Because the guy he was impersonating seemed like the type of man who would play craps, he headed over to that section of the casino floor, snagging a gin and tonic from a passing waitress who told him he could have it, that the person who’d ordered the drink had left the casino floor before she could deliver it.

His loss.

Gin and tonics weren’t his favorite beverage, but he didn’t care too much about the flavor right now. No, he only wanted some alcohol in his system — not too much, only enough to cushion reality a bit.

This time, he took it easy, losing almost as much as he won, but his winnings accumulated at a steady rate nonetheless. From time to time, the dealer shot him a considering look from under her false eyelashes, but she didn’t say anything.

Why would she? His hands rested on the table in front of him, and it would have been clear to anyone watching that there was no way he could have been influencing the dice.

It would have been impossible to detect the mental nudges he gave them from time to time…well, unless you were another demon.

Only mortals around the craps table this afternoon, though, most of them tourists, mixed in with a few people of retirement age who probably came to hang out at the casinos because it was better than sitting at home and watching Wheel of Fortune, or whatever.

Even though Caleb was only about forty grand ahead, he decided to stop there. Something about the vibe here was getting to him, and he thought it might be better to call it a day and head home.

He thanked the dealer, tipped her generously, and collected his chips, then performed the familiar ritual of trading them in for cash, which went into his messenger bag. The bag was the only thing that might have given him away, but he changed its appearance as well — sometimes it was brown, sometimes black, and sometimes it wasn’t a messenger bag at all, just a plain old backpack.

That was what it looked like today, dark green with worn straps. He hefted it over one shoulder as he pulled out his phone with his free hand, maneuvering so he could summon an Uber to take him home…or rather, to the strip mall not too far from his house that was his usual destination.

One gin and tonic definitely wasn’t enough to make him forget all his precautions and have the driver go straight to his house.

And because it was Vegas and there were hundreds of rideshare cars roaming the city at any given time, one showed up less than five minutes after he made the request.

“Foursquare Plaza,” he told the guy, even though the driver would have already known their destination from the app.

“Got it,” the man said. He was probably around Caleb’s age, with dark hair and a scruff of beard covering his chin. “Caleb Lowe, right?”

“That’s me,” Caleb replied, which seemed to be enough to satisfy the man that he had the correct person riding in his car.

After that brief exchange, though, the guy went quiet, and Caleb was fine with that. While in general he didn’t mind chatting with his Uber and Lyft drivers — he’d gotten some valuable local area knowledge through those exchanges — today he only wanted to be left alone to think.

Radio silence from Delia, and he didn’t know why he should be so bothered by that. It had only been a few hours since he last saw her, and it wasn’t as if the title check could have been completed that quickly. There was no reason for them to be in contact.

Except for the part where he’d hit her with some pretty earth-shattering information, and for some reason, he’d thought she might have more questions for him.

Apparently not.

Rain continued to fall, not as hard as an hour or so ago, but enough that all the streets were slick and people seemed to drive crazier than ever. Once or twice, the driver had to speed up or hit the brakes to avoid a collision, and Caleb found himself questioning his decision to Uber home. Yes, he knew it would look suspicious to go into a casino bathroom and teleport back to his house from there — the casinos had cameras everywhere, and they’d surely record a strange man heading into a restroom and never coming out, the whole reason why he took taxis and Ubers on the majority of these forays — but that still had to be better than getting creamed in a car accident.

Well, it couldn’t be helped now. His fingers tightened around the strap of the backpack that still hung from one shoulder, although he wasn’t sure what that would do.

Up ahead, the light turned yellow, and the driver accelerated.

Goddamn it.

Approaching from the left was a big black truck, and Caleb knew they weren’t going to make it. The Uber was a Mazda CX-5, a decent-sized vehicle, but that truck still massed a whole lot more.

His body clenched in advance of the impact. While he knew a car accident wouldn’t kill him — even part demons were tougher than that — it didn’t mean it still wouldn’t hurt…a lot.

Wham!

The truck collided with the Mazda’s front fender, and the SUV began to spin, gray skies and raindrops and the other vehicles in the intersection whirling all around him like some kind of horrible kaleidoscope.

And in the front seat, the driver turned to look over his shoulder, his mouth spreading in a horrible rictus of a grin.

A grin that kept widening, now showing yellow, jagged fangs.

Shit.

Even though the Mazda was still spinning, Caleb grabbed hold of the seatbelt and unlatched it. While he thought he might be able to teleport with the thing holding him in place, he didn’t want to waste the time to find out.

Not with that disguised imp in the driver’s seat, a demon who clearly wanted him out of commission for a while.

Still clutching the disguised messenger bag, he visualized the kitchen at his house, with its white quartz countertops and dark blue cabinets…cabinets that held some pretty fine tequila.

He was definitely going to need a drink after this.

And then he was out of the spinning vehicle and safely home. The world still revolved around him for a few seconds until his inner ear got caught up and realized he was now standing on solid ground.

Damn. That had been a close one.

He went to one of the cupboards and got out a shot glass, then headed into the pantry to pick up the bottle of Lalo he’d snagged at Total Wine a few weeks earlier. After pouring himself a half inch or so, he took one gulp, then another, and refilled the glass.

Outside, the rain began to pour down harder, so he went into the living room, turned on the fireplace, and sat on the couch.

A good day to stay home.

If only he’d done that very thing.

How the hell had that imp known he would be in that Uber?

He hoped the person driving the black truck was all right. Most likely, they would have survived the collision just fine, since their vehicle was much bigger and heavier than the Mazda.

Still, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the truck had been totaled.

As for the Uber, well, he was sure the imp had fled the scene just as soon as it realized he’d flown the coop. The cops were going to have a hard time figuring that one out…not that it was so unusual for the person at fault in an accident to try to get away before the authorities arrived, but he doubted they had seen too many instances where any eyewitnesses on hand would swear they hadn’t seen anyone leave the vehicle.

While he knew that demons could detect the presence of others of their kind, he’d done everything he could to shield himself and make his movements difficult to track.

Obviously, he hadn’t done enough.

Another swallow of tequila. His phone was still in the messenger bag, which he’d set down on the kitchen counter as soon as he got here. Maybe he should call Delia and tell her what had happened, let her know she needed to be on her guard.

As soon as that thought went through his mind, however, he guessed that she shouldn’t be in any danger — why would the demons who were after him be interested in harassing an ordinary human? — and that he only wanted to call her because he needed to hear a half-friendly voice. His own fault for not working very hard to develop any kind of a social circle here, he supposed, although at the time, he’d told himself it just wasn’t safe to make connections until he was absolutely sure that no one had discovered where he’d gone to ground.

Well, those imps sure knew he was here…and that meant someone much higher up the food chain was the one pulling the strings. Lower-level demons like that simply didn’t come topside on their own.

However, he got the feeling they hadn’t yet discovered where he lived, or surely they would have already laid siege to the house. So maybe all his subterfuges hadn’t been completely useless.

With that not entirely cheerful thought to buoy him, he headed back into the kitchen to get more tequila.

Whatever else happened, he didn’t plan on going out again unless he had a damn good reason.