Devil's Paw (Imp Book 4) (16 page)

“Do you have your ID, sir?” the woman asked nicely. She was smiling at him with all her might.
Ha, busted,
I thought, grinning with anticipation.

“You have it right there,” the angel indicated gently, a cloud of blue coming from him.

Fucking bastard. It worked. If the woman had been besotted before, she was in rapture now. He’d gone from hottie movie star to avatar of her god. She didn’t even look down at the paperwork. Didn’t look anywhere but into his eyes with worshipful adoration.

“Of course, sir. Have a wonderful flight.”

I–told–you–so was written all over his smug face as we walked to the pile of grey bins. Fine. This was war. Gregory stood there and watched me, tapping his foot as I stripped off shoes, belt, and necklace. Asshole. He didn’t even remove his shoes. Glaring at him, I yanked my t–shirt off and threw it in the bin.

“Oh, you only have to take coats and jackets off, not your shirt,” the security guy told my lacy, bra–clad breasts.

“Cockroach,” Gregory warned. “Put your shirt back on and behave.”

Nope. Not going to happen. I knew I was pushing too hard, that I was becoming annoying, like that drunk cousin at Grandma’s birthday party. I couldn’t help it, though. I was an imp, after all. So I ignored his command and kept right on baiting him.

“The shirt has metal threads. I don’t want to set off the alarm.” I turned to walk through the scanner and turned back. “Will my piercings set off the scanner?” I batted my eyes at the security guy. The innocent routine usually didn’t work, but it’s not like he was even looking at my face.

“Put your shirt back on, right now,” a blond woman in a security uniform commanded.

I looked down at the shirt in my hand and up at Gregory, delaying just a moment as if I were considering noncompliance. I knew I was a breath away from a lengthy strip search and possible expulsion from the airport. As much as I wanted to piss Gregory off, some common sense rattled its way into my head. I did need to get out and examine this demon. And I didn’t want this whole thing to be extended any longer than it had to.

“Cockroach, if you don’t put your shirt back on right now, I will forcibly stuff you into it.”

I paused, the shirt just above my head and sighed as I pulled it on. I really did want Gregory to “stuff me into it”, but we didn’t have the time for that sort of fun.

“Fine. Spoil sport.”

“I’ll send her through and wand her,” the security woman announced.

While we were waiting for the scanner, Gregory had already walked right past and was waiting, bored, on the other side next to my pile of stuff. I assumed the position, and held still while the scanner whirred away. As I thought, the folks looking at the readout asked to have me patted down and gone over with the wand. I was surprised they didn’t order a strip search with the interesting piercings I’d created just for this event.

“Where are you heading?” the blond security woman asked, her tone indicating this was some kind of terrorist screening question.

“Seattle,” I told her. “I’m checking over a dead demon to see if I can find any clues to the killer and help track him down before the angels blame the whole mess on me.”

“And I take it the big guy is your doctor?” she asked dryly. “Ensuring you’re safely on your meds for the flight?”

I laughed. “Nope. He’s an angel.”

She looked longingly over at Gregory as she patted me down. “I’ll say he is. He could be my angel any day.”

“Not likely,” I told her cheerfully. “He doesn’t have the right parts for you. You’d be terribly disappointed.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m sure we’d manage somehow. You’re good to go. Have a good flight.”

Gregory glared at me and paced as I put on the enormous quantity of accessories I’d removed for the security process. Although this game of annoy–the–angel was fun, I was quickly running out of ideas, and I was on a tightrope in regards to Gregory’s temper. I would love for him to lose control and slam me around a bit, but I didn’t want him so furious that I’d spend a seven hour flight stuffed in the overhead bins, or strapped to the wing.

One of us was going to have to give in. I knew it would have to be me. We made our way toward our gate, me sneaking quick glances at him as he walked, brooding, beside me.

“All right, all right. You win round one. With the blue stuff and your angelic magnetism you clearly can overcome any human security measure. I admit defeat and bow down to your superior skills.”

Nothing. Actually, his scowl grew more menacing.

“Are we still friends?” I teased. “How long are you going to be mad at me?”

Nothing.

“Come on. How about I buy you a drink? A make–amends cocktail? Or a blow job? That always cheers Wyatt up.”

He halted, grabbed my arm and yanked me around to face him. “I do not consume food or drink, and I have no need to experience human reproductive methods. When will you get that through your thick head?”

I didn’t think it was a good time to mention that blow jobs had nothing to do with human reproduction, but I couldn’t resist pushing him further.

“I’m an imp,” I mocked. “I seize every opportunity to piss you off and cause trouble. When will you get that through
your
thick head.”

I’d been teasing him horribly, and this was a sore spot I loved to dig into. I just couldn’t help myself. The stupid Ruling Council reports, worrying over Nyalla and Amber, having hardly any time to spend with Wyatt — it was all a heavy weight crushing me. I had spent so much time lately tip–toeing around Wyatt, that this was a relief to act out, to be an imp. Plus, annoying him and having him react in such a way was fun, the only fun I seemed to be having in the last couple of days.

“You are in danger of being accused of killing an angel, being executed as punishment for his murder. Stop playing around and get serious.”

I looked up at him. Serious. He wanted me to be serious. Gregory shook his head as if recognizing the absurdity of his command and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Truce. But only if you stop this incessant nagging about sexual organs and attempts at physical stimulation. I have no desire to indulge in that sort of thing, and I’m annoyed that you won’t let the topic rest.”

I felt hurt …and somewhat angry.

“Too fucking bad. This is who I am. I’m a demon, an imp. I ‘wallow in physical sensation like a pig’. I am annoying — a pain in the ass. Either like me the way I am, or not. Stop trying to pretend I’m a fallen angel you can bring back into the fold. It’s insulting.”

For a split second, he looked shocked, then that cold mask descended over his face. “Fine. I thought you had potential, but I can’t drag you unwilling into the light. You just keep on being a demon, but don’t expect me to join you. I’m not going to descend to that level — ever.”

I deserved this. He was right — I needed to stop pestering him and start taking my duties more seriously, even though I was an imp. But it wasn’t really the loss of my favorite topic that saddened me, it was the fact that whatever relationship we had would only be on his terms. He’d never share a cup of coffee with me, never kiss me. Never. My relationship with Wyatt was damaged because he couldn’t fully accept who I was. Yes, we were still friends with benefits. Yes, we’d always love each other, but we were broken and it was killing me to see the scars and think about what we might have had. The same thing was happening with Gregory. I felt a wave of sadness. I should just go home, go back to Hel where I could be a demon and not have the people I love constantly trying to change me.

“Fine.” My voice was barely audible, and I just couldn’t look at him. I pulled away from his hands and turned to walk to the terminal. This was going to be a long flight, out and back. And all I wanted to do right now was curl up in my bed — alone.

~12~

G
regory directed me to leave the rental car a few blocks away from our destination. It was a beautiful summer day in Seattle. The Fremont area rocked with action, and a wave of nostalgia hit me. It had been so long since I’d been here. The neighborhood had always been a bit funky, but it had somehow turned hipster, upscale, over the years. Smart coffee shops and ethnic eateries flanked shops selling sculptures and original paintings. The smell of sandalwood and myrrh wafted from the open door of a shabby–chic gift shop. I longed to explore, familiarize myself with my old stomping grounds, but we had a dead body to examine, and Gregory was clearly in no mood for play.

“There is an angel standing guard,” he told me as we turned right on N. 35th street. “I’m going to go in, relieve him of duty, then walk outside to question him about the demon while you sneak in. Make sure he doesn’t see you.”

I nodded. No one was supposed to know I was here, or that there was anything suspicious about this dead demon. Just a routine incident, with Gregory here to do the paperwork.

We turned onto Evanston, and I headed left at the next block so I could sneak down Dayton and come at the house from the other end of the block. As I peered around the corner, I saw Gregory stride out of sight with another angel. That was my cue. Trying to not look out of place, I strode down Evanston and up to the six–foot–high privacy fence. Behind the gate, the yard was covered in wooden plank decking with a decorative array of potted flowers leading toward the 1900’s era house

It was a smallish house, with artistically weathered, grey wood siding and a porch barely large enough for the white, wooden rocker. The neighboring houses were tightly wedged in their respective lots, a scant few feet away. Even with the close proximity, no neighbors seemed to notice a woman walking up to and through the front door.

The inside confirmed why this house would fetch over half a million on the market. Pristine cherry floors in the foyer led up a narrow staircase to the left. I opened the door to a downstairs powder room and found modern bathroom fixtures but no dead demons. To the right, the walls of what had been a segmented house had been knocked out to make one large room. Cherry floors continued into the main room where a modern dinette sat in front of a turn–of–the–century fireplace. Overstuffed sofas and loveseats created a living area, and an open doorway led to a quaint, modernized antique–style kitchen.

Enormous bay windows surrounded a breakfast nook next to the narrow kitchen with its 1950’s replica stove and tiled countertops. The backyard out the bay windows was small, but between the six–foot–tall privacy fence, the yard was verdant and full of heirloom roses and irises. I loved this little house. If I hadn’t been so attached to my home in Maryland and my life there, I would have been tempted to oust the current owner and snag it for my own. There was no demon in the backyard, so I turned my attention to the narrow, elegant kitchen extending the width of the house.

It was a beautiful kitchen, but it was a pigsty. A pot on the stove contained hardened noodles, empty beer bottles lay on the floor and spilled out of the garbage can, dishes in the sink were piled high. The floor was covered with muddy footprints and spills, and a sticky chair lay overturned by the doorway. I frowned, perplexed at the difference between the care that had been lavished on the rest of the house and the utter neglect of hygiene in the kitchen. Demons. They were downright weird.

I walked back through the living/dining area to make my way upstairs and saw the angels through the bay window. Damn. I didn’t exactly want to crawl, but I had no choice. Luckily, the fabulous cherry floors were highly polished, and I managed to scoot under the windows and through the living room into the foyer.

I trotted up the stairs and smelled the deceased before I actually saw him. Blood has a special odor, especially in such a large quantity. As I walked into the first bedroom, I saw a decorative design of red covering the walls and floors. For a moment, I wondered if it were from the dead demon or one of his human playthings. Gregory had said the other demons hadn’t shown any sign of injury, but perhaps this one was different. Could the devouring spirit now be torturing his victims? Or perhaps this one fought back.

Walking around the massive oak dresser, I saw a twisted body on the floor. Something stirred my memory to see him there, legs splayed and arms outstretched, his head half under the bed. What an undignified way to go. The room was unremarkable other than the blood on the walls and the body on the floor, so without further ado, I yanked him by his legs. Might as well get this over with and fly back home. As his head came into view, I stopped, frozen. Cold iced my veins and all sound receded into the distance. I knew this demon. I knew him well.

Baphomet. I dropped to my knees and ran my energy through him, but found nothing to confirm the demon he’d been before his death. But I knew. I recognized this human form all too well — it had been his favorite. We’d won and lost bets with each other over the centuries, trading items and favors as our luck came and went. Time and time again, I’d lost fireball launchers, bladed snares, and even Boomer to him, only to win them all back. My luck always returned, his evidently hadn’t.

Grief washed over me in waves. Baphomet had been a good friend. Yes, he’d tried to kill me a few times, but I’d done the same to him. We’d had good times together, and, in a way, he’d been instrumental in beginning my whole extended vacation here among the humans. We used to connect regularly, run off to cause trouble every year or so, but over the decades, our times together grew further and further apart. I hadn’t seen him in nearly five years, and the last time the differences between us were becoming clear. He was a demon, and I’d begun to turn into something else.

I ran my hands over the cold flesh, no longer the warm, dark brown I remembered. I touched his high cheekbones and short ebony hair. I mourned, not just for Baphomet, but for our friendship that had begun a slow death years ago. And I mourned for me, for the demon that I used to be. Life was so much easier then, when I didn’t care. Now everything I did had a ripple effect. I was aware of the future my actions affected. It wasn’t just the impact analysis required for the four–nine–five reports; I’d learned firsthand how much pain I could cause Wyatt and all the other beings I’d come to care for. Yes, life had been easier, more carefree as a demon, but I wasn’t a demon anymore. There was no use crying over my past, and no use crying over this corpse before me. The only thing I could do for Baphomet right now was find his killer.