Two demon-possessed bouncers stood sentry, a line of humans winding down the street and hoping to get in. Hard rock pumped through the seam in the doors, though there was an underlying beat of sensuality. One he might not have recognized before Annabelle. Now he knew how smoothly two bodies could move to such a rhythm, grinding when they met before parting, already eager for more.
The males gulped when they spotted him and quickly moved aside, allowing Zacharel to stride past without incident. He shouldered the doors apart.
“Baby’s got street cred,” Annabelle muttered, whatever that meant, as someone in the crowd shouted, “Hey! How’d they get in so easily when—” The doors whooshed closed, cutting off the rest of the complaint.
A waitress glided past, a tray of drinks in her hand. Males and females writhed together on the dance floor, just as he’d imagined, mouths seeking, hands roaming. Atop the shoulders of several of the men and women were minions. Most were small, monkeylike creatures, with dark brown fur and long swinging tails.
“Can you see the demons sitting on their shoulders, whispering into their ears?” he asked Annabelle. “Influencing their thoughts and actions, trying to create a stronghold?”
“Where?”
“There.”
“N-no.”
And she did not like that she couldn’t, he surmised. “My guess is that you can only see demons of a certain rank and higher.”
“Should we, I don’t know, fight them? And what’s a stronghold?”
“Us? No. That is up to the humans. And a stronghold is what I was talking about outside, a permanent place in the life of a mortal, inside the mortal’s mind, where whatever wickedness the demon is pandering consumes every thought, every action.”
“Is this like the rebuking thing? They have to be taught how to fight what they cannot see?”
“Yes. They must learn the spiritual truths and laws and act accordingly.”
Beyond the dancers were the tables. Empty glasses and beer bottles were scattered everywhere. His gaze cut through the sultriness of the dark to see money exchanged for drugs, prostitutes studying their nails as their breasts were fondled, but he found no sign of his helpers.
“Hey, man, you got a light?” a male voice said.
Zacharel jolted to attention. The male stood in front of him, a cigarette balanced between his lips.
He stood as tall as Zacharel, with hair so thick and luxurious any woman would covet it. The mass was a symphony of colors, shades of flax interspaced with caramel, chocolate and coffee. His eyes were a deep, fathomless blue, and his hauntingly lovely face something out of a catalog—or the heavens—and completely at odds with his warrior’s body.
Finally.
Annabelle gasped as if she had just spotted something precious, and Zacharel could only gnash his teeth in irritation.
“Cigarettes kill,” was all Zacharel told the man. Can’t punch him. Really can’t punch him. Especially since I asked him to come here.
“So do a lot of things,” he grumbled. He tugged out the cigarette, dropped the butt, his gaze raking over Annabelle, assessing. “Pretty female. She yours?”
“Yes.” Zacharel’s tone shouted so back off.
Paris, keeper of the demon of Promiscuity, grinned slowly and with a satisfaction that only increased Zacharel’s irritation. “She mute?”
“No.” Though she certainly seemed that way. Her mouth was hanging open, but no sound was emerging.
A husky laugh slipped from Paris, and Zacharel could only marvel at the change in him. A few months ago, there’d been no one more miserable than this male. But then, the right woman could bring any man back to life, couldn’t she?
“Try not to take offense. She can’t help herself.” Whistling under his breath, Paris strolled away.
“You have something to say about everything,” Zacharel said to Annabelle, “and yet you are struck speechless in front of him?”
“It’s his scent…” she replied unabashedly, watching Paris’s muscled back until he disappeared in the crowd. “I’ve never smelled anything like it. Chocolate and coconut and champagne, and utterly mouthwatering.”
“He is possessed by the demon of Promiscuity,” Zacharel blurted out.
“What! No way.”
“Yes way.”