Heart and Soul by Jackie May (reading list .TXT) 📗

a deep voice behind me. “Fangers need blood, and you’re full of it.”

Seeing Jay’s eyes widen and his fists clench, I have a pretty good guess what I’ll see when I turn around. Releasing Pinstripes, I face the new threat: two more vampires with cataract eyes. The one who spoke is by far the biggest. A black stripe runs down his chin and throat. With a pencil mustache and wavy, golden hair falling to one side of his widow’s peak hairline, he has the swashbuckling good looks of a movie star from the Golden Age of Hollywood. Or he would have, you know, if he weren’t a demon zombie.

“Capra, yes, here you are,” says Alfred to him with a forced smile.

“Yes, here I am. And just in time, by the looks of it.”

“Oh, it’s nothing at all. These illustrious guests have simply expressed a modicum of distaste for the—I’m sorry to admit—rather unrefined demeanor of certain staff members.”

I raise a finger. “Translation: where we’re from, we see a face with fangs, we bitch-slap that face.”

The tall, thin pinstripe guy swipes the ash wood toothpick from my hand. “With this.”

Capra sweeps a golden curl from his brow. “I see. That’s how it’s done where you’re from? And where, exactly, is that?”

“Is this an interrogation now?” I should stop with that, but I can’t resist the opportunity to say something I’ll never otherwise get a chance to say. “You forget your place.”

Okay, see—dammit—it’s too much. Capra’s eyes kindle with anger. He trades looks with Pinstripes, and then the other revenant goon, who looks surprisingly young—I’d guess eighteen. He wears one of those round bowler hats pulled down low above his eyes.

Yeah, I need to move this along before my big mouth gets us killed. I nod to the toothpick. “You can keep that.”

“I will,” Pinstripes says, and to my delight, he stuffs it into his shirt pocket.

Capra clears his throat. “Now then. If it’s not beyond my station,” he says sarcastically, “might I ask if you are otherwise armed?”

I jerk my thumbs at Jay and Russo. “You mean, besides these guys?”

“Powerful sorcerers, no doubt. However, sorcery is of no concern to anyone tonight. The entire ballroom is warded against magic.”

“Does it look like I depend on my magic?” Russo says.

“No. No, it doesn’t.” Capra’s eyes turn suspicious, sliding to each of us in turn. “Not at all.”

Alfred clasps his hands together. “Well, shall we?”

Capra takes the hint, though reluctantly. He leads his goons up a pile of rubble that used to be stairs.

“Now then, about that EMP…”

“Hit us with your best shot, Alfred.”

“Very good, ma’am.” He traces a circle in the air, then seems to push it in our direction. A ripple of energy washes over us. “Simple as that. Please proceed upstairs to the ballroom. Mind the steps. Rubble and ruin, though pleasing to the eye, can be murder on ankles.”

Hillerman opens her clutch bag and produces a crisp hundred-dollar bill for the demon. He accepts it with a deep bow and says, “May your night produce exquisite debauchery and wickedness.”

“Oh, don’t worry, we’re going to bring the house down,” I promise him as Jay leads us upstairs.

With a sigh, Hillerman flicks her tracking device into the rubble. “So much for these.”

“So much for yours,” I correct her. “Mine is in play.”

All three of their heads snap toward me. Hillerman is the first to connect the dots. “Toothpick.”

Russo whistles softly. “Tricky, damn. Bringing your A game. Love it.”

I wink at Jay. “It helps that we brought our hammer.”

He cracks his knuckles, but otherwise gives no response. I can’t imagine what must be going through his head right now, after literally facing his demons. Honestly, I’m impressed by the restraint he showed. I’m not sure he’ll be able to hold back if there’s a next time.

We ascend the steps into the massive ballroom, and let me tell you, when it comes to vice, demons aren’t just experts—they’re artists. Booze, sex, gambling, and violence are all on display in pools of purple and green light from magic torches. A full bar turns out a constant stream of drinks via half-naked servers wearing bunny rabbit masks. One passes by us with a tray full of colorful drinks topped with swirls of tantalizing whipped cream.

In a boxing ring, two East Side demons brawl. Their brutal attacks are met with polite clapping from the crowd. When one guy uses a baseball bat to shatter the other guy’s kneecap, a murmur of approval rises from the sea of masks, and money is exchanged.

I don’t see a DJ, but music fills the ballroom. It’s trancelike, exotic and dreamy, yet driving, relentless. I don’t know this music, but I know exactly what its purpose is—to put people in the mood for dark, uninhibited escapades. A chorus of pleasureful moans hint at vigorous orgies in the shadows behind pillars.

We need to be inconspicuous, but it’s hard not to stop and gawk. Our expectation—our hope—was a smallish elite gathering of sorcerers and East Side demons. After all, this is a disreputable collaboration. Besides the risk of damage to social status for sorcerers associating with demons, there’s the almost guaranteed consequence of punishment from the FUA. And yet, this place is packed with sorcerers in tuxedos, ball gowns, and masks.

And there are even more demons than sorcerers. Unashamed of this unholy communion, they don’t wear masks, other than the bunny rabbit servers. The demons are here to work, not play. They run the gambling tables and bar. They lure sorcerers into their pleasure dens. Their guards cover every door with assault rifles.

My mouth goes dry. Half of Detroit’s most powerful sorcerers together in a room with a horde of fully-armed demons? If shit goes sour, there’s no chance of getting out of this hell without an army on our side.

When Hillerman says, “Spread out,” I head straight for my comfort zone—the poker table. After changing a thousand dollars for chips, I take my favorite seat on the end, where I can easily