They’d almost reached the café when a mountain of a beast stepped directly into their path. He was demon though of a higher class than a bottom feeder blood born. A lot of the creatures felt the need to hide their true selves behind a human facade. Not this one.
His true form glittered in the darkness, the faint oil lamps from above reflecting off the shine of green, blue, and silver. His skin was like pieces of hard reptilian glass sewn together—his head sported not two but four horns, each with deadly, poisonous ends. He was well over eight feet in height, with mini tree trunks for thighs, a neck nearly as thick, and shoulders impressively wide.
His eyes glowed red, and he huffed large clouds of dark smoke from nostrils flared wide open. “The café is closed.” Sharp, razorlike teeth glistened overly white as the creature bared them.
Azaiel glanced toward the dimly lit café, watched as a hunched-looking dwarf of a man poured a steaming cup of red liquid for an elegantly dressed humanoid creature.
He arched a brow and gazed up at the demon. “Looks open to me.”
The demon’s smile widened. “Not for the likes of you. The café only hosts those invited inside.”
Azaiel glared at the beast, aware that they were attracting attention from the crowd outside Doom. It was not the time to start something. He needed to keep a cool head.
“I’ve business with Seth, so unless you’d like the heat of his wrath on your impressive ass, move the fuck out of my way.”
The demon’s eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared even more, and Azaiel kept his right hand loose, near the hidden weapons that filled his pants and his jacket. He was weak in this new skin he’d been given, and he needed all the help he could get.
If it came to a fight, Azaiel was certain he could slay the beast, but he was also certain his ass would get kicked all over the square and back before the job was done. He thought of Rowan and clenched his teeth together. He would do this for her. He would get it done.
“What business do you have with the golden?”
Azaiel was fast losing impatience. “You will move or—it pained him to play the weakling, but at the moment it was necessary—I will call forth Seth, and you can ask him yourself.”
Azaiel glared at the demon, hating the impotency he felt. He would persevere, and one day his powers would be fully restored. Sometimes it was the only thing that kept him putting one foot in front of the other.
The demon glanced around, and Azaiel knew he had him when he took a step back. “I’ll be watching you . . .” Its gaze swung to Kellen, “both.”
Azaiel ignored the taunt, pushed past the creature, and he and Kellen entered the café. The dwarf glanced up in surprise, his distorted features wrinkling as he studied them for several long moments. The patron that sat was a vampire, an ancient from the looks of it, but the vampire ignored them all as he drank deeply of the dark red liquid. Its fangs were gone—punishment no doubt—and the only way it could feed and survive was to frequent the café.
The small dwarf set his large server on th
e table and shuffled over to them, limping badly with his right foot. His skin was dried and aged so that his cheeks hung like sacks of withered gray tissue paper and his dull, watery blue eyes had no pupils.
The dwarf rubbed his chin, eyes narrowed, and grunted. “Are you here for food?”
“No,” Azaiel answered quietly. “We’re passing through.”
The dwarf glanced at the vampire, but the ancient was still engrossed in his cup. “You cannot pass unless you know the words.”
Azaiel nodded, his gut clenching. Now was crunch time. If things had changed . . . if words uttered before meant nothing now, he was fucked.
He spoke in Egyptian. “Backward is forward.”
The dwarf stared up at him, and the moments that passed were some of the longest Azaiel had ever spent. He didn’t breathe, didn’t blink . . . didn’t do anything but watch the little man, hands loose at his side and ready to rock and roll if need be.
The dwarf turned to Kellen, then swung his gaze back to Azaiel. “As you wish, sir.” The little man moved aside, and Azaiel moved past, signaling for Kellen to follow. The two men headed toward the back of the café and walked through a small storage room that held nothing but large glass vials of blood.
A door on the far wall opened as they neared it, and they headed down the stairs, two at a time, the same dank smell Azaiel remembered thick in the air. Water trickled down the stone walls as if they bled perpetually, and the steady drip that echoed below got louder as they made their way into the basement.
There amongst the many boxes of supplies and whatnot stood a massive oven. It was made of precious metals, the kind found only in District One, and Azaiel knew that Seth had had it forged by a powerful mage.
This was the portal Azaiel remembered. His relief that it was in the same spot was huge, as was the need to keep moving forward. To not stop. Legs without motion were legs that could be cut off. They needed to hurry.
“This is it,” he said curtly. “The oven.”
“Seriously.” Kellen glanced around, his face dark, eyes unreadable. “This is fucking unbelievable. You know this.”
Azaiel nodded and moved forward until he was inches from the large oven. “Down here nothing is impossible. In fact, most things that can be thought of . . . are.” Azaiel reached out and yanked on the large handle, which stuck out two feet along the right of the round oven. The door swung open, and blue flames sizzled and sparked, sending hot flashes of ash onto the floor, where they burned to nothing within seconds.