Free How to Lose a Demon in 10 Days by Saranna DeWylde Page B

alone at the back entrance to an after-hours club that was home to bookmaking, smuggling, and anything else that Michael could dip his paws into. Goddess, but the guy was scum. What had she been thinking when she got herself tangled up with him? Certainly not about a child, a future, or dealing with demons, that was for sure.
    A tall, lanky man dressed in a pin-striped suit leaned against the brick wall of the alley. “You comin’ in or what, kid?”
    “Maybe ‘or what.’ Don’t know yet.”
    “Sure ya do. Sure, doll. You want to talk to Michael. He’s really hot about those crabs.” He grinned.
    Grace was confused. “What crabs?”
    “The ones you sicced on him. Nasty little buggers.” The guy tipped his hat at her as if saluting.
    “I don’t understand.”
    “No need to play coy with me, sweet face. I know a witch’s work when I see it. Unless it was Caspian?”
    The faint scent of sulfur tangled around her. Ethelred, she realized.
    “Yeah, that was great, huh?” she agreed, even though she had no clue as to the details.
    “Certainly.”
    Grace kicked at a rock with her shoe, suddenly engrossed, hoping against hope that Ethelred would just go away and leave her alone. She didn’t think it was likely.
    “You’re a pretty little thing. I’ve always thought so,” Ethelred said as he tilted her chin up with his finger. Grace was forced to look up into those hellfire eyes. They were nothing like Caspian’s. Whereas Caspian’s eyes sent shivers of desire down her back, Ethelred’s Hell-gaze inspired a gut-twisting fear.
    “Always thought so?”
    “Little Gracie, I’ve kept an eye on you for some time. Orders from your gramps, don’t ya know.”
    “No, I don’t know.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “So, is Michael’s newest depravity your doing?”
    “All will be revealed, Graciekins. In time.” Ethelred held the door open, and it appeared Grace had no choice but to walk through. The demon didn’t follow.
    Gramps? Who the hell was he talking about, anyway? This was probably another plot to drive her absolutely, irrevocably insane. Also, she would ask next time why all demonkind was determined to call her Gracie. She hated it.
    She walked the long, shadowed corridor. The room at the end wasn’t much homier. It hadn’t changed much in four years, either. There was still ugly, circa-1973 faux wood-paneling stained even darker with nicotine and despair. A cliché it might be, but this bar was dim and smoky. In fact, Grace was sure she could feel cancer about to stage a takeover in her lungs as she stood there scanning the room for her quarry.
    A jukebox leaned to one side in the corner, one of the front lights hanging from it like a knocked-out tooth still attached by the root. All it played was Elvis covers, unless someone had changed things, and at any time during business hours you could hear the sad strains of English and Russian blending into horrible, riotous mockeries of the King.
    The specialty of this “dinner club” was hot vodka. Michael called it his Russian Tea. The blackberry variety was particularly tasty, and Grace decided she might just need one. Especially since it looked like Michael wasn’t there yet. She knew he would be soon, though. This was where he conducted business.
    She flopped down at the bar, resting her fingers on the worn, scratched, and stained wood. Some of the darker spots she knew to be blood, marks from where a life had been ended. She couldn’t think about that right now, though. Her plate was too full. She had to worry about herself.
    “Blackberry Russian Tea, please.”
    The bartender was new, which surprised her. In four years, a person could expect the staff at most establishments to change, but Michael was very careful about those he kept at the bar. The new guy didn’t know her, for which she was thankful. She could feel eyes boring into her back like dung beetles building condos. The sensation was hot and cold at the same time, and she didn’t