Free Devil May Care by Pippa DaCosta Page A

soot from her shoulder and humphed something like reluctant admiration. She wouldn’t press my buttons again unless I revealed a weakness. Considering my buttons were my weakness, the possibility of a long night ahead was a very real one.
    “I’ll have that injector back now please,” I said, surprised at the clarity of my words.
    Her two men stumbled from the back of the van, sodden clothes steaming. She returned the injector and my gun. Her gaze searched mine as the sound of sirens pierced the night. She hadn’t sensed the power in me because it hadn’t been there. She wouldn’t feel it now either. It should have been a constant presence at my core. She and I both knew that. Something was very wrong with me. I hoped Jerry had some answers.

Chapter 11
    J erry was not the sort of man I’d been expecting. When I’d read about a doctor who treated demons, I’d assumed he’d be the academic type, and with a name like Jerry, surely he’d be a cheery, approachable kind of guy.
    Jerry was built like a pro-wrestler. His wife-beater shirt stretched thin over obscenely butch muscles. Intricate black tattoos marked every visible inch of flesh. The markings swirled and dipped around his forearms, wove over his biceps, and rode across his shoulders. Even his face was marked. His eyes drilled through a ski-mask of symbols. Jerry did not look at all like a Jerry.
    He glared at me in such a way I felt sure he expected me to wilt and die. I blinked back at him. I’d survived a childhood of torture, faced Hellhounds, and drained a Prince of Hell. Jerry didn’t scare me. It helped that he was human, at least as far as I could tell. My senses weren’t tingling.
    “Jerry,” Carol-Anne snapped, “let us in.”
    He grunted, turned his huge bulk in the doorway, and stalked into a poor replica of a waiting room. Plastic chairs formed a neat row down one side of the room. Dog-eared magazines looked as though they’d been scattered into the room at random. The lone light bulb barely penetrated the thick gloom, and I had to wonder whether I was looking at shadows or dirt on the floor. Or maybe blood? I couldn’t smell blood, at least not beneath the stifling odor of antiseptic.
    Jerry led us into an empty examination room and flicked on the lights, bathing us in a glare so bright it made the stainless steel surfaces of the table and washbasins look brittle. Carol-Anne maintained her flawless appearance, her skin mannequin smooth. I could only imagine what I looked like. Haggard and edgy probably.
    “What’s she?” Jerry’s bass voice rumbled against my rib cage. He jerked a thumb at me and leaned back against the polished steel work surface, avoiding eye contact.
    “A puzzle.” Carol-Anne skewed her liquid eyes at me. “A half-blood with some control issues.”
    Jerry’s eyebrows jumped, an expression which I took to be one of surprise, and then he gave me an up-and-down visual assessment, taking in my unassuming appearance. “A half-blood?”
    The depth of his rumbling voice curled and teased its way beneath my façade of resilience and planted seeds of uncertainty about good ol’ Jerry.
    He folded his stout arms over his chest. “Well aren’t you somethin’... How are you hiding your power?”
    “I’m not.” My voice sounded high and prickly compared to his. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not an easy morsel you can chew up and spit out, as Carol-Anne here will testify, so don’t get any funny ideas. I don’t want trouble. I just want to know if you can help.”
    As I spoke, his smile grew until he practically beamed at me. “You’re the half-blood they’re looking for.”
    “Yes.” There were others like me, but they were few and far between. Half-bloods are generally killed at birth or sold as playthings to lesser demons. Few survive into adulthood, and those who do are usually damaged beyond repair. Stefan had been the only other half-blood I’d ever met.
    Jerry’s chuckle rolled out of him and