Personal Demon (3 page)

When Savannah had decided to take a year off after high school and work at the agency, we’d presumed that once she discovered how dull secretarial work could be, she’d eagerly embrace college life. But the deadlines for college application were fast approaching, and the forms lay on her dresser, untouched.

As I reached for the phone, she said, “Oh, it’s your dad.”

My stomach executed a familiar flip-flop. Paige peeked around the barrier, green eyes and frowning mouth framed by long dark hair. She shooed Savannah out, followed her into the hall and closed the door behind them.

Their footsteps tapped away down the hall until I was left with the hum of the computer and that blinking phone light.

I reached for my water glass and took a deep gulp. Yesterday’s water—warm and brackish. I took another sip, then answered the phone. “Good morning, Papá.”

“Lucas. This isn’t too early, is it?”

“I’ve been in since eight.”

“Good, good. How’s Paige?”

And so it went for five minutes. How was Paige? How was Savannah? How was business? Was the new office working out? I had no objection to small talk with my father, but I knew it was only the preliminary step to some less pleasant subject. He’d called at exactly nine Pacific time—the earliest reasonable moment. That could mean it was important or just that he wanted me to think it was. With my father, either was equally likely, and equally a cause for concern.

“The reason I’m calling…” he finally said.

“Yes, Papá?”

“It’s Hope Adams. I’ve offered her a week of contract work investigating a local gang, and she’s accepted.”

He went on to explain the situation, in far more detail than it warranted, hammering home the message that he wasn’t hiding anything, which almost certainly meant he was.

“Is this in regards to the debt Hope and Karl owe?” I asked.

“They don’t owe me anything, Lucas. I’ve told you that. This is an independent project.”

“And Hope in no way feels obligated or coerced?”

“Absolutely not. She’s here on the plane now. You can speak to her if you’d like.”

I flicked a stray paper clip back into the pile. “This seems very sudden. I haven’t heard any rumblings of an impending gang insurgence.”

“They’ve been small so far, but they
are
there, and it’s a problem best nipped in the bud.”

“Particularly if ‘nipping it in the bud’ provides an excuse to test a young Expisco half-demon, evaluate her powers and demonstrate to her the benefits of Cabal employment.”

He laughed. “I won’t say I wouldn’t love to have Hope on staff. But I know better than to poach her from the council.”

“Perhaps you should speak to Paige, then. She’s the council member, so she’s the one who should be apprised—”

“Which is exactly what I hope you’ll do.”

There was no reason to go through me—he was on very good terms with Paige. So what was he up to?

“Are you concerned about the job, Lucas?” he asked after a moment.

“Frankly, yes. Hope is a capable young woman, but this could be a dangerous situation, particularly without Karl as backup.”

“Having Karl would be ideal, but he’s not available so…” He paused. “I know. Why don’t you and Paige come to Miami? Finish up your work today and I’ll send the jet for you tonight. You can provide Hope with backup and direct supervision.”

I pinched my nose as I pushed my glasses up. I’d leapt straight into that one.

My father had done this before, calling with a case that would “benefit” from my attention. And while I was in Miami, he’d pester me to attend board meetings, client dinners, review recent organizational changes…anything to involve me in Cabal life.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll provide her with direct access to Cabal security. I’ll oversee her investigation from here.”

“If you change your mind…”

“I’ll let you know. Now, if you’ll give me a moment to update Paige, we’d like to speak to Hope.”

HOPE: GOBLIN ROMEO

I
f the situation alarmed Lucas, there was no trace of it in his voice. He was his usual self—calm and serious, words chosen with care, as if he was addressing a courtroom.

Lucas confirmed everything his father had told me about the gangs. He agreed I was a good choice to infiltrate one and he saw nothing suspicious in his father’s proposal. He would monitor the situation from Portland and, if I had any concerns or questions, he was only a phone call away.

Then Paige came on, and the tone changed. Was I comfortable with the job? How did I feel about it? Did everything
seem
okay? If the job bothered me at any point, even just a sense that something was amiss, I could call her, day or night—at home, at work or on her cell.

Not knowing the root of my powers—the chaos hunger was my guilty secret—they saw nothing odd about me taking this job. I was relieving myself of an obligation while gaining some experience, and that seemed perfectly reasonable to them.

Nor did they suggest the job might be more than I could handle. That would have been the first comment out of Karl’s mouth. I chalked that up to age. Karl was at least fifteen years older than me—with a werewolf’s slow aging, it was hard to tell exactly—but Paige was my age, and Lucas a year or two older. They could handle a job like this, so they knew I could.

When I hung up, I relaxed, my mind able to refocus on the task at hand.

“I need to know more about this gang,” I said as Benicio sat across from me. “You said there were rumblings. Exactly what are we talking about? Causing more trouble than usual? Or planning a strike against the Cabal?”

“The latter, I suspect, though at this point, it
is
only rumblings. I doubt they’re considering anything specific yet. You’re only there to get a better idea of the situation.”

He settled back in his seat and opened the window blind, as if that should be all I needed to know.

“So what
are
these rumblings?” I pressed.

He took a moment before answering. “This gang finds its recruits through an outside agent. That agent is also on my payroll, which is how I’ll get you in. The gang leader, Guy Benoit, knows that this agent was an employee of mine, before an apparent falling out. Benoit has, of late, been asking him questions about the Cabal.”

“Pumping your guy for information?”

The corners of Benicio’s mouth twitched. “No, Benoit would never be so crude. He’s a far cry from your typical street thug, Hope, and you’d do well to keep that in mind when dealing with him. Benoit is a brilliant leader.

I sincerely hope to have him on my staff one day, but unfortunately he’s not eager to embrace Cabal life.”

A young woman stepped from the back room, phone in hand. Benicio motioned for her to take a message, then waited until she’d retreated before continuing.

“Guy Benoit is a sorcerer. His father started a small Cabal in Guyana twenty years ago. An ambitious project and one I would have been happy to support, if we hadn’t run into a conflict of interest. The Benoit Cabal was disbanded and Guy’s mother, a Vodoun priestess, fled with him to Louisiana. Five years ago, Benoit appeared in Miami and toppled the former leader of his gang in a masterful coup.”

“Masterful?”

“Guy has a reputation for avoiding violence. Even his coup was bloodless. Ruthless, but bloodless. That’s one reason I very much hope to hire him someday.”

“After what you did to his family? If he’s set up base in Miami, he’s obviously looking for revenge, not a job offer.”

Benicio only shrugged, unruffled by my bluntness. “In five years, Guy has given me very little trouble.

Perhaps that was the calm before the storm—settling in and quietly getting the lay of the land—but he seemed to be happy to exact his revenge simply by lining his pockets at our expense, taking advantage of the Cabal’s willingness to protect the gangs. It’s only recently that he’s begun asking my agent vague questions about our security force and our general organization. That must be significant. As for what it portends…”

“Finding out is my job.”

He nodded.

FAITH EDMONDS WAS
the undercover name Benicio had chosen for me. A rich college girl, Faith had quit school to enjoy a six-month stint of self-indulgence in Miami—parentally funded in exchange for a promise to return to her studies in the fall. The persona came with a South Beach apartment and a full set of ID, including platinum credit cards to buy a suitable wardrobe.

First, though, I had to pass the initiation. That afternoon, I’d meet a gang liaison who screened potential recruits. Benicio assured me the test would be only a formality. A rare Expisco half-demon would be a prize for any gang, and I was coming highly recommended by the recruiter on Benicio’s payroll. The path had been groomed for me—I just needed to follow it.

ONLY IN MIAMI
can you find a gang agent in a beach tent. Before I headed out, I bought suitable camouflage—bikini, sarong and sandals. In the store the bikini had looked lime green. Out in the sunlight, it turned neon. Another typical Hope Adams fashion disaster. I considered trying again, but a glance around the beach assured me I wasn’t the most outrageously dressed. With a big pair of sunglasses, I blended right in. Even had the tan, though mine came with no risk of skin cancer.

I’d been to Miami before, but there’s something deliciously surreal about standing on the sand under the blazing sun mere hours after being splashed with slush. While I knew I had a job to do, I couldn’t resist taking the longer route, strolling along the beach.

As I wove through the carpet of rainbow-hued bikinis and umbrellas, I kept my face uplifted to the sky like a sun-starved flower, and almost tripped over a few outstretched legs. Sandals hanging over my arm, I scrunched through the hot sand to the shore, letting the ocean lap around my feet. When the breeze changed, the smell of empanadas broke through the heady mix of sea salt and sunscreen, and my stomach growled.

I paused by a vendor selling Latin sodas, drawn by the bright, unfamiliar labels, throat constricting as I eyed the sweaty, ice-cold bottles. But walking into this meeting casually sipping a soda wouldn’t set the right tone.

So I pushed on and quickened my pace until I saw the tent ahead.

A poster was plastered on the side: Spring Break Party Videos—Come On Girls, Show Us What Ya Got. A blond grinned out from it, her shirt lifted, a blackout banner with the company logo across her chest. I checked Benicio’s directions again, in case I’d taken a wrong turn and missed the “Instructional Tai Chi” video tent where I was supposed to be. No such luck.

My contact was the dramatically named Caesar Romeo. He wasn’t a gang member, just a supernatural they hired to weed through potential recruits sent by Benicio’s agent. As for what kind of supernatural he was, either it wasn’t important or Benicio thought I could figure it out. Doing so—safely—was my next goal.

I took my time sliding my sandals back on, then slowly walked along the side of the tent, but caught not so much as a vision flicker. My sense for supernaturals has about a 60 percent accuracy rating: the “weaker” someone’s power is, the less likely I’d detect it. I’d been told I could hone this skill, but had no idea how except through practice and concentration. There were maybe a half-dozen other Expisco half-demons in the world and I had no idea how to find them, so I was stuck muddling through on my own.

Two girls stood at the tent flap, daring each other to go inside as a male friend egged them on. Typical students on a spring break, with burnt noses and bad dye jobs from a last-minute decision to test whether blonds really did have more fun.

“I hope she’s not trying out for a spot,” one girl muttered as I headed their way. “My fourteen-year-old sister has bigger boobs.”

“She can practice her Kama Sutra on me anytime,” the guy said.

I nodded to them as I passed, pretending I hadn’t heard. Just like Mom would have done…though she probably wouldn’t have added the mental “Fuck you.”

I pulled the tent flap open a crack. A stomach-churning blend of pot and incense rolled out.

“Caesar Romeo?” I called.

“Who’s askin’?”

“Faith Edmonds. You’re expecting me?”

The dimly lit tent was divided into rooms. The front one was a reception area, complete with chairs and magazines—
Playboy
and
Penthouse
. Maybe for inspiration.

“Well?” the voice barked. “If I’m expecting you, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get your ass in here.”

I followed the voice into a room that looked like a sultan’s tent. Multicolored pillows carpeted the sand floor. A huge gilt mirror on a stand had been tilted at an odd angle—odd until I followed the reflection to the pillows.

Caesar Romeo perched on an ornate wood seat, so huge it looked like a throne. He was no taller than my five feet. His skin was wizened, and so darkened by the sun I couldn’t guess his age or ethnic background. Beady black eyes glared out from deep-set sockets. A flame-red Afro, gold lamé shirt and tight white leather pants completed the look. If I believed in goblins, that’s what I’d peg him as—one of the
pisacha
from my mother’s tales.

His gaze crawled up me, then down, as cold and critical as a matron eying a slab of beef she wouldn’t serve to her dog.

“Turn around,” he said.

“I’m not trying out for a part,” I said. “I’m Faith Edmonds. Ned Baker sent me.”

Romeo waved a hand and I thought he was motioning at me, until I noticed a man smoking a joint off to the side, who was giving me a much more flattering appraisal.

“Felippe,” Romeo said. “Go. Shoot those bimbos giggling at the door.”

“Should I give them T-shirts?” Felippe asked.

“Don’t waste the merchandise. They’ll be lucky if they make the cut.”

Felippe stubbed out his joint on a brass urn and left. Romeo’s gaze followed him, and he listened as his assistant offered the girls a “role.”

“Hear that?” Romeo said. “They’ll flash their tits on film for nothing but the honor of being ogled by men they’d cross the road to avoid. Teasing little bitches. Like all you girls. Can’t resist flaunting it at some guy who doesn’t have a hope of touching.”