Free Demon by Kristina Douglas

the last trap he’d laid for me. Granted, it had been by his good graces, though I hated to call it that. His guilty conscience.
    This new situation wasn’t nearly as desperate. He wasn’t threatening to kill me, at least not so far. Things had to be looking up.
    We made a strange procession, the maître d’ leading the way through a door in the back of the dining room into a maze of dark, narrow hallways, Azazel behind me to keep me from bolting. It was scarcely necessary—where would I go? I tried to ignore my growing panic as we went deeper and deeper into the bowels of the building. If I was about to confront someone who could bend the intimidating Azazel to his will, then this creature must be terrifying indeed.
    We finally stopped in front of a large, unprepossessing door. Our guide knocked, then pushed it open, and a none-too-gentle nudge from Azazel propelled me forward.
    I found myself in a cozy room with comfortable furniture scattered about, a fire blazing in the fireplace, piles of books on most surfaces. The kind of place one would want to spend a rainy afternoon, I thought, looking around me for the inhabitant.
    I hadn’t seen him at first, sitting in an overstuffed chair, at one with the cozy room. He was very old, with silky pale hair covering his scalp and drifting over his ears. He was as colorless as everyone else in this place, and I wondered if the same thing would happen to me and my captor, assuming we stayed long enough. He wore some kind of robe, and there was the comforting scent of pipe smoke in the air. Odd, how cigarettes and cigars smelled nasty but pipe smoke seemed dignified and comforting.
    The old man gazed at me out of milky eyes, a pleasant expression on his lined face. “There you are, my dear,” he said, and his accent was British. No surprise—it fit perfectly with the ambience of old books and older brandy. His eyes narrowed as he saw Azazel behind me, and he was patently displeased. “Azazel.”
    “Beloch,” Azazel murmured in return with the merest inclination of his head. “This is not a good time.”
    “It’s a good time for me,” the man called Beloch said in a sharp tone. “You’ll have to adapt.” He turned back to me, and his smile was both charming and avuncular. If he and Azazel were enemies, then he was clearly my new best friend. “My dear, why don’t you have a seat across from me? It’s been a long time since I’ve had sucha lovely young woman visit me in my old bachelor quarters. This is quite a treat. Azazel, pour us both a glass of brandy. Pour one for yourself while you’re at it.”
    I’d been right about the brandy. I considered refusing—the idea of drinking anything stronger than wine was not appealing—but I didn’t want this distinguished old gentleman looking at me with the scarcely veiled contempt he directed at Azazel. A moment later Azazel placed a brandy snifter in my cold hand, and I reflexively closed my fingers around the stem, brushing against his skin.
    He jerked back, and the brandy sloshed a little.
    Beloch made a deprecating sound at such clumsiness. “You may leave us.”
    “No.” Azazel’s short, unemotional response wasn’t reserved for me alone, I was glad to see.
    Beloch’s mouth tightened. “Then sit in a corner and be quiet.” He must have noticed my worried glance at Azazel, for he continued in a warm voice, “Don’t worry about him, Rachel. He has a very controlling nature, and he doesn’t like bowing to the will of others. Unfortunately for him, I outrank him when he’s in this place, and he’s sworn to do as I command.”
    At last, a champion, or at the very least a cohort. Someone with the power and ability to stand upto Azazel’s high-handed ways. I gave Beloch a brilliant smile as I sank down on the ottoman.
    “So tell me, young lady,” he said, leaning back and surveying me out of those wintry eyes. “What brings you here to the Dark City? Besides our unpleasant friend over there?”
    “I