Demon Master 2 (The Demon Master Series) Read online

  It was the Holy Grail, a grand slam, and Christmas morning all at once for Owen, who knew that this was one of the moments to be quiet, regardless of the fireworks in his stomach.

  “A bank draft in the full amount then, today. And to clarify, I hope you understand my company wishes to be discreet about our holdings, so as an additional incentive, I am offering you a personal bonus of five percent of the total sale in order to guarantee a minimum of public knowledge about this transaction. Does that agree with you?

  Herr Kreiger waited, his manners impeccable, as Owen hurriedly agreed to the terms. For a quarter of a million dollars above his already fat commission, his silence was most assuredly for sale, and he told his urbane, calm client as much in what he hoped was a suitably collected voice.

  “Contact me when we are prepared to close the sale on all properties at one meeting, no later than ten days hence.”

  And with that, Herr Kreiger stepped out of what was soon to be the last used car Owen would ever own.

  8

  Florida: Ring

  As a man who knows how to strategically yield on a daily basis to, not one, but two women, I get rare opportunities where I have the undisputed, no-doubt-about-it upper hand. When my phone pinged on the way home from my accounting meeting and lunch with Liz, I read a welcome message that put me firmly in the catbird seat. Our friend Blue, strip club owner and fellow boating enthusiast, had invested in a restaurant.

  Blue is a single mother with a son who loves to fish, so we loan her our boat and they bond during long, sunny days on the water in and around Port Everglades. In return, Blue offers us access to information that filters through the Corral. The presence of immortals in a strip club confirms something that I’ve known all along; even if you live forever, you’ll never stop liking a great pair of boobs.

  The fact that she gave us an opening-night reservation at her new place was a sign that we weren’t just friends, we were good friends, and I reminded myself to thank her with an unexpected gift before we were seated on Friday. In the meantime, I would leverage this information to my benefit, but my options were currently limited because I don’t really need anything. I texted Risa immediately, since we only had a few hours to select our dinner garb and then reselect different clothing.

  A few hours later, the plan came together, and it was showtime. Or dinnertime. Whatever term works best.

  I hate to admit it when I’m wrong and Wally is right. I really hate admitting that Risa is right, too, when it concerns the same issue, but as I looked in the mirror at the dinner jacket they selected for me, I felt quite dapper. The fact that I shaved only added to the overall effect of adulthood, all in honor of the fact that we were booked for Blue’s new restaurant at eight o’clock. I know when to clean up.

  When the girls came out to the living room, I was taken aback by their unique beauty all over again. Risa wore black, Wally wore green, and I knew with certainty that every man in the dining room would feel a rush of callow envy as we walked in. In a moment of gallantry, I held the door for both of them, smiling dumbly all the while. In the Wagoneer, we stretched out as I drove toward the beach. Risa poked my shoulder from the back seat. “The bar will be top shelf, so we need to discuss. Is it a martini night or a wine night?”

  “That will depend on whether they have oysters,” I said. “If they do, I’ll have a dangerous erection, and”—

  “It’s always a dong story. Always,” Risa said, snorting with laughter.

  “I’m not going to dignify that with a comment,” I said, because I’m classy that way.

  “Right. Classy. This from the guy who wants porch sex every other day,” Risa said.

  “Twice on Sundays, too,” Wally added.

  “Have you looked in the mirror? Can you blame me?” I asked.

  Wally flicked her eyes at Risa. “Fair enough.”

  We pulled into the alcove of the restaurant where the scripted name Strata was embroidered on heavy sailcloth, which hung at a rakish angle above the smoked glass window. Jacketed staff waited to open the door into the first foyer, where the ambience was a modernized speakeasy accented in black and white with deep toned wood furnishings.

  “Hullo, gang. Quite a scene, don’t you think?” Blue’s voice was low and always hinted at laughter as she waved expansively at the well-dressed horde bustling about. Clad in a simple black dress, she exuded confidence and control in the midst of what must have been a cauldron of stress.

  “This entrance is stunning.” I glanced up and down the wall where history unfolded, one nestled treasure after another. “Right down to the stone setting. It’s a work of art unto itself.”

  Blue smiled slyly. “You should recognize Angel’s handiwork. He’s been here every night for a month, worrying over the placement of each fragment with a watchmaker’s precision.”

  Angel, a bulldozer of a guy with deft hands, was a long-time tenant of the Center and a good friend. It didn’t surprise me that Blue had reached out to him for the project; she knew his reputation as a mason. Linking arms with the girls, Blue began to move into the dining area and we wended our way to an elevated corner dais, where a single table waited. There were three such prime locations in the restaurant, and we were granted one. It was time, before the meal, to thank our friend.

  “Turn around, gorgeous,” Wally said to Blue.

  Risa withdrew a black velvet box from her purse and opened it with a flourish. “For you, from us. Now hold your hair up, further, please.”

  I was allowed to do the honors, draping the simple herringbone gold chain around her neck, which was a mere backdrop to the single, enormous sapphire that rested naturally in the nape of Blue’s neck. Her hands went to it as she gasped and kissed Risa and Wally and then, on tiptoes, placed a playful nip on my nose, her eyes moist with tears. The necklace had been a complete surprise and worth every penny upon seeing her joy. Blue was a good friend, and the stone looked like it belonged. We’d done well.

  “This is an opening night I can tolerate with ease. I have to circulate now,” Blue said with regret. “I’ll be back to give you the tour when you’ve dined.” She touched the necklace again and smiled with unbridled warmth. “Thank you. Again.”

  The sommelier greeted us like old friends, his smart jacket indicating he was at the ready for the entire evening. “I’m Curtis, and before I offer you anything, I know you are a special friend of the restaurant. So may I suggest to you—simply relax, sit back, and we’ll bring you the very best of everything we have to offer, okay?”

  Risa was thrilled, Wally was relieved, and I was starving, so we gave a collective nod. Curtis departed as a young woman stepped to the table and introduced herself as Krista. Her bright expression and smile boded well for us, and to no one’s surprise, knew our names.

  “Risa, I am told you prefer beef, yes? And Waleska, wild game?”

  They both agreed, impressed with Blue’s research.

  “And Ring, for you, seafood this evening, as per the owner’s information, but not before a special amusement, based on your preferences, naturally.” Krista stepped aside as three waiters brought small plates to the table with the beginning course. “Enjoy, and I’ll return in a moment.”

  “Sweet mother of God.” I ogled my plate. Risa and Wally laughed at the hilarity of what was presented to us. Two gargantuan oysters in the shell, awash in their own brine, topped with caviar and a dollop of crème fraiche stood guard under a tall, frosted shot glass of what could only be Polish vodka. Phallic symbols had never looked more delicious in my life and I fell upon an oyster first, avoiding eye contact with the girls as they picked at theirs in a more dignified, but still enthusiastic, manner. Flavors of the sea mixed on my tongue with the fatty wealth of the butterfat. Each bite was a love letter to my palate, and whoever created the dish knew a great deal about me. It was intimate, delicious, and in a moment, gone.

  When Krista returned, she asked, “And how did you enjoy Czar Nicholas’ Balls?”

  Hooti
ng with laughter, Risa snorted like a deranged piglet and Wally dissolved into silent, table slapping spasms as I sipped my wine and maintained my ever-present dignity. Someone had to.

  “First, the name is as brilliant as the flavors. Did Blue create that specifically for me? That was a greatest hits list on a plate. Incredible.” I was already nostalgic for the dish even though the vodka still burned my tongue in an icy wash.

  “Oh, that wasn’t Blue. No, that was a favor for a friend of the other owners, who you’ll no doubt meet later. The idea for that dish was courtesy of the lady—” Krista explained, then turned with her apologies as she was called discreetly to the kitchen.

  The laughter stopped dead, like a meteorite slamming into the seabed. There was only one lady who knew enough about me to make dining suggestions for my particular tastes, and that same lady was on unsteady ground with us, although, I must admit that the situation remained fluid. I turned to the other booth on a dais and raised my glass in thanks, knowing who would be in such an exclusive seat. Resplendent in a dinner gown of raw black silk, Delphine waved back, a smile of intense satisfaction on her face. Dinner for us, it seemed, was destined to be interesting.

  An hour later, Blue returned. “What did you think?” She looked the slightest bit worried for the first time since our arrival. “Would you care to meet the chef? And my investors?” Blue motioned graciously toward a side entrance to the kitchen, discreetly hidden in the corner.

  “Are they one and the same?” Risa’s surprise was shared by all. A casual bit of math revealed that millions of dollars had gone into realizing this restaurant. No detail was overlooked. That wasn’t cheap. And in my experience, investors aren’t chefs, and chefs do not always make the best investments. As Blue held the swinging door for us, we stepped into an enormous, nearly sterile kitchen clad in an array of stainless steel and white surfaces. With the exception of piano music lilting from speakers above, it was quiet, almost subdued, but with an orderly feel that was natural.

  “That’s Patricio, one of my partners, and yes, he’s the chef.” Blue pointed as there was an audible gasp from Wally, who was too busy nudging Risa to care for what was soon to be my bruised ego. Patricio had to be one of the most good-looking humans alive. He was around 5’8”, with black hair, an aquiline nose under his gray eyes, and a deep, resonant voice with which he was calling orders calmly to the busy line chefs around him at their respective stations. He had the build of an artist, lean and intense, but he did not look frail. The muscular butcher was also there, moving as if gravity ignored him, and I made the professional judgment of him as a dangerous fighter at the very least, and an athlete who was world class in one or more sports. To say he moved like a cat would give too much credit to felines; they wished that they could adopt his easy motion and obvious strength.

  “Who is that?” Wally asked Blue.

  “The big guy? He’s my other investor, and a sort of butcher, dishwasher, and all-around helper. Body like a Greek god. He’s also Patricio’s partner. That’s Anxo Saavedra. They’re Galician, but they only recently started investing here in the States. They sought me out. Can you believe it? At first I thought it was bullshit, but their money is green, and endless and so were their talents at making this place happen.”

  In that moment, I felt Wally’s hand at my back, poking me insistently.

  Risa muttered at my ear, “She’s half right about the big guy.”

  Anxo had features similar to those of Patricio. A family relation was not improbable, but his hair was straight, rather than wavy, cut short, and his eyes were the hazel of a people originating somewhere between east and west. Of all the immortals we’ve seen, heard of, or even caught rumors about, they have all been rather plain. No emperors or queens or even mad scientists of note. That was why, standing there in a kitchen at our friend’s restaurant, I almost could not bring myself to believe who was standing ten feet away, feeding each other and laughing like the legendary lovers that they were.

  “Blue? Your investors? I think they’re even more famous than you know. This is as good a time as any to tell you the whole story about our particular business interests, but those two chefs that you’re in business with? I know them by their historical names, Patroclus—and Achilles. I guess the arrow didn’t kill him, after all.”

  Blue turned her head, slowly, to give me a searching look so intense I saw her face flush. In turn, after a long moment, she looked to Wally and Risa, who both nodded and smiled with the sad certainty that we were involving yet another friend in our dangerous circle of awareness. In an instant, we were going to pierce her notion of reality and bring the wolves to her door. Blue then rubbed a fingertip lightly over her jawline pensively, her eyes bordering on confusion and most certainly embroiled in an internal war of doubt. We were trusted; we were a known quantity to her in a life that was grounded in a fluid, frantic business that she had been forced into by the loss of her husband. The simple fact that she stood there deep in thought rather than asking us to leave indicated that she knew to take us seriously, no matter how jarring our revelation had been.

  “It’s past our last seating. Go back to your booth, order some wine, and wait for me there. I don’t know why you would say something like that, but since you haven’t blinked, I’ll listen, but if you’re playing with me for some reason, our friendship isn’t just over, consider it erased.” And with that, Blue strode to the man we called Patroclus and began to discuss kitchen matters, indicating we were dismissed.

  9

  Colorado: The Archangel Karen

  It was too early for a drink, even if she had anything in her pocket other than some coins dying of loneliness. She paused to rub her feet, once trained to dance like water over stones, but now hurting her constantly; she no longer had the tough, athletic gift to propel what had once been a lithe dancer’s body.

  Walking past the bar, she knew that time was not her friend. She was becoming another forgotten face with thinned lips and hair pressed flat by a lack of care, time crushing like a heel and twisting the last of her hopes into the hot pavement.

  She never recovered from the sexual freedom that the 1970s brought her after she left that bastard Roland, he of the noble name but a character crafted from dog shit. Free. There was a cruel word. She hadn’t ever known freedom, not really, just a passing sniff at making her own life, once, for a second. Maybe twice, but then she was pregnant and broke, and it was 1979 and the world looked like it was going to burst into flames all at once, again. She had to find a place to plant her heels and give her own blood and soul to keep the baby that she knew would be a daughter, pink and perfect, some sort of a shot to get the fuck away from the fish that were nibbling her spirit and her will into nothingness, one tiny, cruel bite at a time. Upstream. I have to let my baby go upstream, but not to die. Not like me.

  She was just another Karen in the sweeping sea of the West, but not her baby. She would grow and thrive, and one day, she would challenge—no, demand—something more than just the scraps of a place that didn’t give a shit about whether she lived or breathed, which was, to the cynic in Karen, pretty much anywhere. Colorado had been like an outhouse overlooking the gates of heaven for her, rank with the stench of a failed marriage. Colorado had a sprawling vista of heartbreaking beauty to remind her every day that she walked to the store, that God did indeed have a masterful hand at creation but couldn’t be bothered to waste a second of his precious time on her and her endless rain of failures, both big and small.

  How many other mothers thought the same thing? All of them, or damned near all of them if they were human. That’s my problem. I’m too human. Always was. I cared, even about the little things. Forgiving him, touching his arms as he railed into her, sobbing, his liquor fumes making her eyes water as much as the brutality of his body and lies, oh, endless lies—it was an accident. I fell down—he loves me—it only hurt a little. Yes, of course, I’ll do that for you, but not him. Yes, I love you, the blood doesn’t matter. Oh, honey,
not again, I fell down, down, down, forever to the bottom, down.

  Karen was leaning, forehead against the glass of a store filled with things she couldn’t afford, muttering, crying, “I’m too human, too human. I am, still, please, I think I am, I hope so . . .” her voice roughened and laden with the weight of the years, when a delicate hand touched her shoulder and she smelled perfume, and money, and sensed something she had not believed was still in the world: utter confidence.

  Turning, she saw the woman, a kind smile, with no mockery, only concern, offering her a tissue and a hand, which rested light as a daughter’s kiss on her jawline. The intimacy was overpowering, just like the woman, the sheer closeness of her, dark hair, deep, unknowable brown eyes flecked with gold. She was thin, elegant. Beautiful with breeding and she wore it without effort. Experienced. Fearless. And maybe, in her face was a hint of caring, almost too much to hope for. Karen stepped, powerless, into her arms for an embrace that felt like armor building around the shattered remains of her hull, hearing the cultured voice say only, “I am Elizabeth, and yes, maybe you are.”