Reap the Wind (Cassandra Palmer 7)

And Pritkin chatting up one of the barmaids.

I did a double take at that, because it wasn’t the sort of thing you saw every day. Or ever. The asshole beside me had seen to that.

About a century ago, Rosier had had one of his intermittent bouts of fatherly enthusiasm, during which he usually managed to screw up his son’s life in a major way. That time, he’d decided he wanted Pritkin back in hell on a permanent basis. Not so much for the pleasure of his company as to use him as a pawn in his little power games.

The fact that incubi gain power and influence through sex, and that this plan had therefore involved whoring his son out to the highest bidders, wasn’t thought of as a problem. Or probably thought of at all, since incubi have to feed to live anyway. So obliging other demons merely meant a two-way power exchange for them, with a little added influence for the pimp-in-chief.

At least, it did unless you were Pritkin. Who, as half human, could live off pizza like the rest of us. And who’d had this weird idea that there might be more to life. Long story short, he’d ended up being allowed to stay on earth, but only for as long as he could handle complete abstinence—something that, for most incubi, was considered the same as constant torture. Rosier assumed he’d have his son back inside a month.

He was still waiting.

As a result, when I met the stubborn cuss known as John Pritkin, he’d been that strangest of strange creatures: a celibate incubus. So it was more than a little odd to watch him flirting with a buxom blonde who was trying her best to fall out of a low-cut blouse. It looked like barmaids dressing for tips wasn’t a new concept, I thought, scowling.

And then a mug was shoved in my face. “Here,” Rosier told me abruptly. “I need a refill.”

“So? What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Get me another!”

“With what? You were mugged, remember?” He’d charmed the first round out of the other barmaid somehow, but that sort of thing wasn’t in my repertoire. Besides, I still had beer.

“Do you usually pay for your own drinks?”

“No, but that’s in—what are you doing?” I demanded, as he started unbuttoning the top of my prim little shirtwaist.

“Advertising.”

I slapped his hand away. “Advertise yourself!”

“I’m not his type.”

“His—” I stopped, staring at Rosier.

“We need to get him alone,” the demon said impatiently. “And distracted. Can you think of a better way?”

“I can’t think of too many worse ones,” I said, clutching my top to stop Rosier from looking down my shirt. “And anyway, that sort of thing doesn’t work on Pritkin.”

“Doesn’t work on your version,” he corrected, wiping something off my cheek. “But this isn’t the man you know, and this one didn’t come in here for a drink. He came in for a meal.”

“But this place doesn’t serve—” I broke off at the look Rosier was sending me. “Oh.”

That type of meal.

“Hurry,” Rosier said, stealing my beer. “It looks like he’s already found the first course.”

I looked back at the bar to see that, sure enough, Pritkin was being led off somewhere by the blonde. I felt my face flush. I thought he’d have better taste.

And then Rosier gave me what could only be called a shove, sending me stumbling into the middle of the room.

I might have returned the favor, but he was right, damn him. We couldn’t just de-hex Pritkin from across the bar, however nice that sounded. That’s what had tripped us up in London.

I’d left the poor, unprotected demon lord at the mercy of the city’s murderous brutes in order to play damsel in distress. Or at least damsel in need of some directions. Pritkin had gone sauntering by the alley where we’d popped in, and I’d run after him to lure him back so Rosier could zap him, although not with the counterspell.

We’d planned to knock him out and wait—until his eyes glowed neon green with a double dose of soul energy behind them. We’d showed up in London to get ahead of the hexed spirit, because hitting him with the counterspell before it arrived wouldn’t help. And, knowing Pritkin, would probably get us hit back. So unconscious it had had to be.

Or distracted, although that sort of thing was more daunting for me than for a horny demon lord.

I looked back to see Rosier shooing at me, with an expression of utter disgust on his face. Whatever. I started winding my way through the low, bench-like tables, nervousness gnawing at my gut.