“I can see that,” the girl replied. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” the necromancer murmured. “Jake around?”
The waitress’s eyes narrowed and she nodded toward the kitchen. “He’s in the back, why?”
“No reason, I just . . .”
Ana surmised by the stain of red that flushed Francesca’s cheeks this Jake was the man she’d been trying to impress when she’d inadvertently summoned Samael.
“I just,” the necromancer continued, “forgot my bag in his office the last time I was here.”
“Ah huh.” The waitress frowned.
“Um, there’s no need to bother Jake. I could just grab it and go.” Francesca’s voice held a hint of nervousness as she fingered a napkin.
“We’re not supposed to let anyone back there.”
“I promise I’ll be quick,” Francesca said. “I don’t think I can see him right now. Things didn’t . . . the last time I saw him . . .”
“I warned you he was a douche bag.” The waitress’s voice softened. “It’s probably locked though, but you can try.”
Ana followed Francesca to the back of the diner, past the booths and into a darkened hall that led to the restrooms. They walked to the end and turned left, quickly sliding past the kitchen area. A set of doors led them into a stockroom.
“Through here.” Francesca pointed toward the far corner. The door was locked but Ana had no problem crushing the handle and within seconds they were safely ensconced within Jake’s office.
The walls were filled with photos of women in various stages of dress and an impressive array of Harleys. Great. The man liked tits and bikes. A real winner. Ana made a face and turned to Francesca.
“Don’t even go there,” the necromancer mumbled.
A desk stood in the corner, overflowing with papers; a dingy window graced the opposite wall. It was the sorriest-looking space she’d seen in a long while and Ana frowned as she glanced at Francesca.
“A portal to the underworld exists here?”
“Open up your mind, Ana. Feel the subtle vibrations that color the air.”
Ana shrugged. “I’m a vampire, not psychic. Sensitivity isn’t one of my strong suits.”
“You don’t say,” Francesca shot back. “Give me a few minutes. The stupid thing moves around and I need to concentrate in order to find it.”
“What do you mean it moves around?”
Francesca remained silent, closed her eyes, and held her hands out, palms up. Her long fingers moved slowly as she turned in a circle. Ana watched her closely. The whole thing stank of weird mojo but she couldn’t deny the tremulous waves of energy that lapped at her body.
The necromancer continued to mumble a bunch of words Ana didn’t understand and she stood back as a low-grade humming started.
Francesca crossed to the desk and ran her hands along the surface, inches above the mess of papers. Her fingers slid over a laptop, a couple of picture frames before she grabbed hold of a paperweight, which incidentally wasn’t being used to its full advantage.
Several mountains of bills fluttered to the floor as Ana continued to watch. That couldn’t be the portal, could it? Francesca swore and tossed the paperweight back onto the desk.
Guess not.
The humming continued to build in strength as the redhead chanted loudly. The sensation was uncomfortable and Ana shook her head, trying to relieve the pressure in her ears.
Pain hit her in the chest suddenly, and she nearly fell to her knees. The air was sucked from her lungs and she clutched at her chest. She felt empty, bereft. He was gone.
Ana’s eyes flew open. “You have to hurry. He’s there . . . in Hell.”
The necromancer stopped suddenly. Ana held her breath as the woman crossed to the far wall, her hands still outstretched. She stopped in front of an elaborate portrait of a classic Harley. It dominated the wall, was heavily framed in gilt. Francesca’s hands ran along the seams of the picture.