drinks.”
The signboard outside the club read MORTAL COIL, with a hooped snake through one letter o and down through the other to eat its own tail. Inside, the crowd was loud and close, the chill of night banished by body heat and laughter tinged with wild desperation. Appropriate enough, she thought.
He brought her drink, mounded with whipped cream. His own tumbler brimmed with something clear on the rocks. Black coffee, unmixed drinks, blank loft walls. The devil took the blame for any number of human excesses, but somebody certainly wasn’t indulging his inner sinner.
How many years before the extras fell away, before all that remained was . . . What? The demon? The stark business card he’d handed her—@1? Oh, please.
She drank deeply. The tingle of heated vodka and Kahlúa sped through her veins. Damn questions.
A thumping bass beat drowned out casual conversation. Not that they could really do casual since everything they had in common involved supernatural possession.
She took another hit off her drink with a bracing sugar-shot of cream. The crowd milled around them, too hip for their own good. She stared narrowly at a trio nearby who shook small caplets out of a glass vial. The white pills shone with startling luminosity under the black lights. Sera remembered Betsy complaining about
the new club drug. What had her friend called it? Solve or something. As if they’d solve anything that way.
She wrinkled her nose. If only they knew. “I feel like the oldest thing here,” she shouted over the sternum-rattling beat.
“Get used to it.” The low thrum of his voice carried under the chatter, rumbling in her chest in counterpoint to the music.
She frowned at his world-weariness. She finished her drink in one long draught and licked the cream off her lips, not caring that his gaze followed the suggestive motion.
She shoved to her feet. “Let’s dance.”
Ha. That cracked his composure. He stared at her until she grabbed his hand.
He pulled back. “I don’t dance.”
“Really? I never would’ve guessed.” She tugged. “Don’t worry. I haven’t danced in forever. I won’t show you up like I did in the alley.”
He scowled and rose. “If you’ll recall, I killed the feralis.”
“While I distracted it. And if I hadn’t been distracted by it”—by his kiss, that was, but she squelched the thought—“I would’ve gotten away from you.”
“To your everlasting regret.”
“According to you, my regrets will be everlasting anyway.”
They stepped onto the dance floor where the bass made even shouted words pointless.
Maybe once she’d been more of a funk and soul girl, but the pounding techno suited her mood tonight. Angry and insistent, the beat sunk under her skin. The stink of sweat and a drifting thread of weed pierced her senses.
She burned to the beat, letting her body move and flow, a primitive joy. Dancers bearing glow sticks whirled by like cold shooting stars.
Under the flicker of laser light off the mirror ball, she felt Archer watching her. Watching her demon?
She felt like a creature of sin. Strong, dark, vicious. It felt good. But that was the nature of sin, wasn’t it?
She watched Archer now, under her lashes. He hadn’t lied about not being a dancer. But she’d seen him fight, and the intense grace served him well enough. He circled her, guarded her, guided her to an open space on the crowded floor.
She stretched, arms over her head. The pendant thumped against her chest as she moved. Ah, that drew his eye, for sure.
She spun away, adding a sinuous writhe to her hips. She ran her hands down her waist, over the curve of her booty. Let him stare.
Abruptly, she was spun again, into Archer’s arms. He pulled her up against his chest. She gulped down his scent, that musky spice that made her fingers curl as if to bury themselves in him. Though he’d never taken off his trench coat, only a faint slick of sweat glistened at his throat.
“Enough.” Somehow, his
The signboard outside the club read MORTAL COIL, with a hooped snake through one letter o and down through the other to eat its own tail. Inside, the crowd was loud and close, the chill of night banished by body heat and laughter tinged with wild desperation. Appropriate enough, she thought.
He brought her drink, mounded with whipped cream. His own tumbler brimmed with something clear on the rocks. Black coffee, unmixed drinks, blank loft walls. The devil took the blame for any number of human excesses, but somebody certainly wasn’t indulging his inner sinner.
How many years before the extras fell away, before all that remained was . . . What? The demon? The stark business card he’d handed her—@1? Oh, please.
She drank deeply. The tingle of heated vodka and Kahlúa sped through her veins. Damn questions.
A thumping bass beat drowned out casual conversation. Not that they could really do casual since everything they had in common involved supernatural possession.
She took another hit off her drink with a bracing sugar-shot of cream. The crowd milled around them, too hip for their own good. She stared narrowly at a trio nearby who shook small caplets out of a glass vial. The white pills shone with startling luminosity under the black lights. Sera remembered Betsy complaining about
the new club drug. What had her friend called it? Solve or something. As if they’d solve anything that way.
She wrinkled her nose. If only they knew. “I feel like the oldest thing here,” she shouted over the sternum-rattling beat.
“Get used to it.” The low thrum of his voice carried under the chatter, rumbling in her chest in counterpoint to the music.
She frowned at his world-weariness. She finished her drink in one long draught and licked the cream off her lips, not caring that his gaze followed the suggestive motion.
She shoved to her feet. “Let’s dance.”
Ha. That cracked his composure. He stared at her until she grabbed his hand.
He pulled back. “I don’t dance.”
“Really? I never would’ve guessed.” She tugged. “Don’t worry. I haven’t danced in forever. I won’t show you up like I did in the alley.”
He scowled and rose. “If you’ll recall, I killed the feralis.”
“While I distracted it. And if I hadn’t been distracted by it”—by his kiss, that was, but she squelched the thought—“I would’ve gotten away from you.”
“To your everlasting regret.”
“According to you, my regrets will be everlasting anyway.”
They stepped onto the dance floor where the bass made even shouted words pointless.
Maybe once she’d been more of a funk and soul girl, but the pounding techno suited her mood tonight. Angry and insistent, the beat sunk under her skin. The stink of sweat and a drifting thread of weed pierced her senses.
She burned to the beat, letting her body move and flow, a primitive joy. Dancers bearing glow sticks whirled by like cold shooting stars.
Under the flicker of laser light off the mirror ball, she felt Archer watching her. Watching her demon?
She felt like a creature of sin. Strong, dark, vicious. It felt good. But that was the nature of sin, wasn’t it?
She watched Archer now, under her lashes. He hadn’t lied about not being a dancer. But she’d seen him fight, and the intense grace served him well enough. He circled her, guarded her, guided her to an open space on the crowded floor.
She stretched, arms over her head. The pendant thumped against her chest as she moved. Ah, that drew his eye, for sure.
She spun away, adding a sinuous writhe to her hips. She ran her hands down her waist, over the curve of her booty. Let him stare.
Abruptly, she was spun again, into Archer’s arms. He pulled her up against his chest. She gulped down his scent, that musky spice that made her fingers curl as if to bury themselves in him. Though he’d never taken off his trench coat, only a faint slick of sweat glistened at his throat.
“Enough.” Somehow, his
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