The Devil's in the Details (2 page)

Uh-oh.

I’d expected her to call off the wedding. Throw a few punches. Burn his clothes. At the very least, post a few derogatory comments on his Facebook page before rushing out to have rebound sex with the first guy she could find. But lo and behold, she’d done none of the above.

Rather, she’d actually
forgiven
him.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. He’d begged. She’d cried. They’d hugged. The next thing I knew, they’d left me shocked and bare-assed on the bar while they headed home together. A few days later, they’d said
I do
in front of two hundred of their closest friends and family.

I’d been so stunned at Mark’s rejection that I’d crashed the wedding and watched the entire thing from the back row. I’d also bawled like a baby (do
not
tell my mother).

You know how people talk about defining moments? Well, that was mine. A long time coming, but better late than never.

For the first time in my existence I’d realized that hot monkey sex wasn’t the be-all and end-all between a man and a woman. Oh, sure, I’d suspected it after watching
The Notebook
a record nineteen times (yep, I’m a closet romantic too). But sitting at the ceremony, holding a bottle of bubbles and listening to “Always on My Mind” (the Willie Nelson version), I’d
known
.

There was so much more to a relationship than what I’d been able to experience. Like spending time together and cuddling on the couch and watching TV and putting up with his snoring and pretending to like her five cats.

We’re talking understanding.

Acceptance.

Love.

That was my first wedding, and I’d been hooked ever since. Who wouldn’t fall head over heels for a towering fondant-covered
masterpiece with white chocolate flowers, marzipan lace, and ganache filling?

I’d realized then that I was missing out on what really mattered. And so I’d renounced my wicked ways and given up meaningless flings to plan happily-ever-afters and secretly hope for one of my own.

My mother was convinced I’d taken up my current profession in order to spoil as many Big Days as possible and hook up with hunky groomsmen. She’d even sent me a fruit basket, along with a list of evil to-dos, when I’d first opened up shop.

Shred the wedding dress.

Kill the doves.

Poison the champagne fountain.

Invite the ex-girlfriend.

Sleep with the groom.

Sleep with the dad.

Sleep with the bride
.

Hey, we’re talking Satan, as in zero boundaries.

For now she was impressed by my stroke of employment genius. But the moment she got wind that I was being featured in next month’s issue of
Texas Brides
magazine, all hell would break loose. Literally. She would cut my career short and banish me back Down Under. My chances of finding my own One and Only would go from
maybe
to
ne-vah
.

Which explained why I was about to freak fifty ways till Sunday.

I tamped down my anxiety and tried to get a grip. As startling as her presence was, she hadn’t skewered me with her pitchfork yet, which meant she didn’t know (thank you, thank you,
thank you
) about the magazine. I still had a whole twenty-seven days to figure out a way to explain that my career wasn’t just an ingenious way to make trouble—I was actually the real deal.

That, or I could move to Iceland.

FYI—demons hate cold weather and Mother would never follow me that far north.

I cleared my throat and forced the nerves out of my voice. “You want to have an actual wedding?”

“Of course. I haven’t nailed down any specifics, but I was thinking we’d do it next month.” The outer edges of her pupils blazed a brilliant red. “Make no mistake. I’ll have none of that mundane wedding hurrah. Forget the bubbles. And the butterflies. And don’t even suggest a unity candle. The only fire will be the flames shooting out of my eyes should any of my sisters dare interfere. This wedding needs to be intimidating. Dark. Sinister. Frightening.” The red faded into her usual ice blue. “If you have any questions”—she snapped her fingers and motioned to the fortysomething woman who stood a few feet away with an iPad in her hands—“Cheryl is the go-to person.”

Cheryl Simcox was a human who’d sacrificed it all for the life of her cockerdoodle. Cheryl (single, introverted, and addicted to
Animal Planet
) utterly adored her dog, Pebbles, so much so that when Pebbles nearly died of congestive heart failure, she’d done the unthinkable to save her: she’d conjured up my ma and struck a deal. Since Cheryl was skilled in every software known to mankind
and
could type one hundred and twenty words per minute, my mother had been more interested in her office skills than her eternal soul. They’d worked out a slightly untraditional arrangement—Pebbles’s health and a semidecent 401(k) in exchange for a lifetime of personal assistance. Throw in two weeks paid vacation and a monthly supply of doggie biscuits, and Cheryl had gladly accepted Mom’s employment offer. She’d been my mother’s right hand for over four years now. Meanwhile, Pebbles had regained her health and given birth to six puppies. All female.

What’d I tell ya?

“I’ve jotted down a few must-haves to help you get started with the plans,” Mom said as Cheryl pulled a thick notebook from the large brown satchel hooked over her shoulder.

“Plus sixty-eight pages of don’t-even-think-about-its,” Cheryl added. “Your mother highlighted those in yellow.”

Did I mention my mom is a control freak on top of being the epitome of evil?

“I know this sort of stuff doesn’t come cheap.” Mom snapped her fingers and Cheryl pulled a check from the satchel. “This should be a more than adequate down payment. The rest will follow as soon as all of the plans are in place.”

I stared down at the six-figure amount and tried not to salivate.

“Why not elope?” Yikes. What was I saying? While I was a definite up-and-comer on the wedding circuit, I hadn’t actually
arrived
. Translation? I needed the money in the worst way if I wanted to quit running things out of my duplex and lease my own storefront. That, and I sort of had an appreciation for designer handbags. Currently I was lusting over the new Marc Jacobs hobo. This check was more than enough to turn that bad boy from a screen saver into the real thing.

Take the money and run
, my conscience screamed.

My mouth, however, had a direct line to my deepest, darkest fears, so I blurted, “A wedding is so time-consuming. And costly. And you have to get the whole family involved.” Which meant me and my sisters and my aunties and…
ugh
. I needed a Xanax just thinking about it. “Why bother with the formalities of a lavish affair? Wouldn’t it be better to get it over with?” Quick and painless. That was my vote.

“I need proof of the union. If I say Samael and I have officially joined forces, your aunts will think I’m lying.” Cheryl nodded while my mother shrugged. “Besides, I’ve tried it already and it didn’t work.” She shook her head. “I don’t want anyone to doubt my new authority.” She motioned again to Cheryl, who promptly produced a BlackBerry and handed it over.

“I seriously doubt anyone would be that bold—” I started, but Mom waved off my opinion as she focused on her touch screen.

“Landon Parks
must
officiate at the ceremony.” She gave me a don’t-screw-this-up look. “His contact information is in my notes. He’s the chief demon of slavery and oppression, which means he’s the only one qualified to launch me into an eternity chained to Samael.”

My ma was such a romantic.

“He also occupies the body of a local judge, so the marriage will be legitimate both Down Under and in this realm.”

“Landon Parks,” I murmured. “Got it.”

“Oh, and throw in a bachelorette party and a few male strippers. Your grandfather’s ridiculous rules stipulate that I have to be faithful, otherwise it negates the union.” She eyed the screen and blew out an exasperated breath before handing the device back over to Cheryl. “If I’m going to commit myself for the rest of eternity, I want to have as much fun while I still can. Speaking of which, I have a massage scheduled in half an hour.” She cast a knowing glance at the tuxedo-clad groom standing outside the ballroom double doors, nervously checking his watch. She gave me a wink and a suggestive smile. “You’d better get to work.”

Ick.

Not that he wasn’t attractive. He was, but I was
so
over the spoiling-men phase of my existence. Plus, said groom was hopelessly in love with his bride. Her name was Mary Ann and she was a pediatric nurse and one of the nicest humans
ever
. She’d been a real trouper despite a hellacious mix-up with the invitations. She’d even given a beautiful quote to the magazine on my behalf.

I could never do such an awful thing to Mary Ann, and I should just confess as much to my mother. She would know the truth about me—that I’d turned my back on my birthright and gone legit—when the magazine came out anyway. No sense putting off the inevitable. My career was over and I was headed straight back to Hell.

“I’m on it,” I said instead.

What? We’re talking
Hell
.

“The groom’s uncle Jeffrey can’t sit next to his ex-wife,” I told Burke Carmichael a half hour after my mother had waltzed out of the hotel and left me to digest her request.

I was standing in the main ballroom where the reception would be held, staring in horror at the place cards set side by side on the pale-pink, linen-draped table. “They hate each other.” I plucked Uncle Jeffrey’s card and handed it to my assistant.

Burke and his identical twin brother, Andrew—the dynamic wedding duo—were two of the hottest guys I’d ever seen. Twenty-nine. Blond hair. Light-brown peepers. Broad shoulders. Six-pack abs. They were also heterosexually challenged, which made them the perfect assistants because their concentration centered solely on creating matrimonial bliss rather than on how to charm me out of my skinny jeans.

Female sexual demons ooze—you guessed it—sex appeal. With one glance we inspire the most lascivious thoughts in humans of the opposite sex. The average guy doesn’t stand a chance.

Unless said guy is attracted to men.

As if to prove the point, my gaze collided with Burke’s and an image popped into my head—Brad Pitt from
Legends of the Fall
, complete with long hair, tanned skin, and oodles of emotional torment.

As a sexual demon, I don’t just wow humans with my sex appeal, I can also read their deepest, most erotic thoughts. Bottom line, I can see the object of any human’s hottest fantasy.

Burke had always been a Brad man. While the details might change—Brad à la
Ocean’s Eleven
or Brad à la
Thelma & Louise
(my own personal fave)—he was always faithful to the überhot actor. A helpful tidbit if I’d still been in the spoiling-and-seducing phase of my existence.

At the moment, it just reminded me of my own self-imposed deprivation. Two years on the celibacy wagon. I hadn’t even had a date.

Your own fault
, a voice whispered. I’d promised myself I’d take the bull by the horns and sign up for an online dating service or something, but I was just so busy on the weekends, what with everyone else’s weddings. That, and I was doing my damnedest to curb temptation. No dates. No one-night stands.

No disappointment.

I ignored the last thought and paged my way through the notes on my iPad. “We’ll sit Uncle Jeffrey next to the bride’s relatives on the other side of the room.”

If only the seating at my mother’s wedding would be this manageable.

Fat chance.

Evil entities weren’t exactly known for their camaraderie. The last time Beelzebub had been within one hundred feet of Ashtoreth, they’d beheaded each other. Sure, the heads had regrown and they’d been back at it during the very next get-together, but still. We’re talking a massive dry-cleaning bill, and I was sure to puke all over my shoes at the first sign of blood.

Hey, I’m a lover, not a fighter.

I clicked my headset and called for Burke, who’d just headed to the kitchen to check on the menu for the hors d’oeuvres and cocktails that would keep the guests celebrating until the reception dinner began in an hour. Judging by the round of applause coming from the ceremony space, the doors would open any moment and
a pack of hungry guests would head upstairs to the mezzanine level for cocktail time.

“Is everything ready?” I asked.

“The signature drinks are flowing and the platters are being loaded.”

“Good, because all hell is about to break loose.”

And how.

Forget seating. The food choices at Mom’s big event would be even more of a nightmare. While every demon could appreciate a decked-out wedding cake (we all had an insatiable sweet tooth), each had a different palate when it came to main courses. I
so
didn’t want to be the one to ask a caterer to substitute braised eyeballs for the salmon croquettes. Talk about killing my chances at being voted Houston’s hottest wedding planner of the year.