Free Demon's Delight by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

and hopelessness that swirled in varying shades of darkness in the area.
    He wore gray slacks and a navy sports coat over a dark gray sweater, and his swept-back dark blond hair gleamed in the light. Despite the strongly chiseled features of his face, the slightly over-large nose, and the surprisingly sensuous mouth, he had a wholesome look—a glaring indication that he was totally out of place here, in the bowels of Dallas. He might be an undercover cop, but she didn’t sense it, and she was rarely wrong about cops.
    Police, like soldiers, had a distinct aura surrounding them. Generally it was an air of power and arrogance, sometimes cruelty and finding sadistic pleasure in the fear of others; although some cops did radiate a genuine concern to help. But the compassionate ones were rarely seen here among the depravity and hopelessness. Not that it mattered; Rachel was well acquainted with the cruelty of corrupted power—and she was no longer helpless.
    A chill swept through her. Mentally damning the stranger whose presence had raised unwelcome memories, she started past him, but he stepped into her path. Surprisingly, he met her gaze, another anomaly for the area. His eyes were dark, intent.
    â€œHello,” he said.
    She shifted around him, kept walking.
    â€œWait!” he called out. “Please.”
    Ordinarily she wouldn’t have stopped, but the please —the rareness of hearing that word—startled her. She paused, looked back over her shoulder.
    â€œI’d like a few minutes of your time.” His well-modulated voice was pitched low, as if someone might actually care that he was negotiating a transaction, but no one around here cared about anything except their next fix, whether it be drugs, alcohol, or sex.
    He definitely wasn’t her type of mark, and she’d had enough blood tonight. “Sorry, not interested.” She pivoted back around.
    â€œI’m not asking for sex,” he responded quickly. “I just want to talk.”
    They all did. They wanted to tell her about their rotten lives, cheating spouses, unemployment, and the crap the world dumped on them in general. Or they wanted to brag about their sexual prowess, or their domination over women, or how important they were—despite all evidence to the contrary. She’d heard it all, seen it all, when she slipped into the pathetic and weak minds she encountered virtually every night of her existence.
    â€œNo,” she said firmly. “I’m done for the night.” She started to walk away.
    â€œI know what you are.”
    She rolled her eyes. Great. He was a missionary, intent on saving the soul of a lowly prostitute. Or a do-gooder, trying to meet his quotient of helping those “less fortunate.”
    She glanced over her shoulder again. “Hooray for you. News flash, mister—I don’t want to be saved, and I don’t want to be helped. But there are plenty of the less fortunate back that way. Just leave me alone.”
    She’d only made it two steps when he spoke again. “And I know who you are, Rachel Emma Stryker.”
    His words stopped her cold. She’d never given her full name to anyone . She had used a false identity for buying her condo and her car and establishing credit.
    Tension lacing through her, she faced him. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else.”
    His gaze remained steady, his eyes an indeterminate color in the artificial light. “Your mother was Gertrude Marie Gutmann Stryker and your father was Abram David Stryker. Aaron was your younger brother.”
    Shock staggered her, but she managed to keep her outward composure. How could he possibly know that? Who or what was he? He certainly wasn’t her kind. She would know if he was. “Who are you?”
    â€œI’m Gabriel Anthony. But my friends call me Gabe.” The light around him seemed to intensify, and she had to avert her eyes. He took a step closer.