Zephyr spoke French. He’d learned aerial stunts, maybe even acrobatics, somewhere. The circus, perhaps? But when? And where?

  In lieu of news about his past, I hoped flowers would suffice.

  Colette and I arrived at the Devil’s Dollhouse before noon. She didn’t offer to accompany me, declaring this was a private affair and she would leave me to it.

  The walk across the parking lot had sweat prickling at my collar, both from nerves and the oppressive desert heat. By the time I reached the club’s front doors, the back of my suit jacket clung to me damply, and my palm was clammy around the tissue wrapping of the bouquet.

  Maslow had no reason to turn me away. I’d paid his extortionate price for my time with Zephyr, and he hadn’t stopped circling the Fairmont Street deal like a vulture. Still, showing up at a strip club with flowers in broad daylight didn’t scream “professional interest.”

  The bouncers, two hellhounds in black clothes and matching mirrored sunglasses, bowed up as I approached, stepping in front of the doors before I could say a word. One of them tipped his head toward the closed sign hanging in the painted-over window.

  “We’re not open.”

  “I wanted to drop these off.” I held up the bouquet. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  The broader of the two gave me a slow once-over. “Bigshot like you can’t afford delivery?”

  “Who’re they for?” the second one asked, grinning like he already knew. “We’ll take a note.”

  “The little redhead, of course,” the first one said. “Takes him out for a date, now flowers. What’s next? An engagement ring?”

  “I’d like to give them to him myself if you don’t mind,” I said, keeping my voice even.

  “We’ll take the flowers and pass the word along.” The first reached for the bouquet. “You’re not the only lovesick puppy dropping off gifts for the performers. Damn bitches get more fan mail than Santa Claus.”

  Both hounds chortled, but I was not amused. It rankled my pride being here. Apologizing looked a lot like groveling, and I didn’t intend to show my belly to these brutes. That vulnerability was reserved for Zephyr because I trusted him not to exploit it.

  And wasn’t that a novel thought?

  The bouncer waited for the bouquet, but I didn’t hand it over.

  “I’m not in the habit of entrusting sentimental gestures to creatures with hourly rates,” I told him.

  That earned a joint chuckle and the continuation of their good humor, but neither of them moved.

  A bead of sweat rolled from my temple to my jaw, and I wiped it away with a grimace. “Your boss in?” I hedged. “Maybe I could talk to him instead.”

  “Maz isn’t taking guests right now.” The second one shrugged. “He’s got a full schedule.”

  “Right,” I muttered, jaw tight. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt whatever pressing matters keep a strip club mogul busy before lunch.”

  With their point made and my options reduced to leaving the flowers in their questionably capable hands or leaving, I chose the latter.

  Turning on my heel, I headed back toward the limo and was halfway there before I hatched another plan. I had plenty of practice sneaking out of Maslow’s club; it couldn’t be so different to sneak in.

  But that would be crazy. Maybe a little desperate. Certainly not behavior becoming a centuries-old demon. It smacked of angst-ridden teen with a boombox on his shoulder, throwing pebbles at a bedroom window to get attention. The specificity of that scenario made me frown. Maybe Colette wasn’t the only one who watched too many movies.

  On the subject of bedroom windows, one slid open above me, and a head popped out. Wavy white hair framed Luxe’s cranky face like a hovering cloud.

  “What are you doing, Becky?” he barked.

  I looked up and across the building’s painted brick edifice. All the upper-level windows had bars affixed to the outside except the one the little demon currently leaned out of. He looked different from how I usually saw him. Less finessed in a pink crop top and a black ribbon choker with matching bows tied around his horns.

  I debated ignoring him, but the Dollhouse doors opened both ways, and if the men outside wouldn’t admit me, maybe the ones inside would.

  “Came for a visit,” I called up. “Think you could let me in?”

  He slid farther out, perching his ass on the window ledge to flash his pleated black skirt and smooth brown legs. “Are those flowers for me?” he asked. I couldn’t tell from this distance, but I would have bet money he was batting his lashes.

  “Zephyr,” I replied flatly.

  Luxe crossed his arms and turned up his nose. “He doesn’t want anything from you right now.”

  I grimaced. Considering how isolated the Dollhouse dancers were, I should have expected word about what happened between Zephyr and I to travel. It seemed my apologies would begin earlier than expected.

  “I know,” I replied. “That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry.”

  Luxe tilted his head and simply said, “Prove it.”

  The weighty heat of the sun bore down on my shoulders until I was practically steaming inside my jacket. I passed the bouquet from one slick palm to the other. “I’m trying,” I said, then huffed. “I will. Can you open the back door or something?”

  “Cannot,” he chirped. “Mazzy boarded it over after your last not-so-secret rendezvous.”

  Of fucking course he did.

  I growled to myself, then muttered, “Pretty sure that violates fire code…” My gaze cut toward the limo where Colette reposed in the driver’s seat, committed to letting me clamber out of the grave I’d dug myself.

  In the window above, Luxe began to shimmy back inside. “Have a nice day, Becky!” he called brightly.

  “Luxe!” I snapped.

  His head poked out again like a sassy little groundhog. “It’s Darby,” he replied. “I’m not on the clock.”

  I couldn’t decide whether his providing his real name was a threat or an invitation, but I decided to take the gamble. “Okay, Darby…” I squared myself with the building, every inch the tragic fool making declarations to a balcony. Romeo with heatstroke. Except my Juliet was somewhere inside, and I had to get through his pint-sized bodyguard first.

  “I’m here to make things right with Zephyr,” I explained. “I care about him.”

  Two more bobbleheads joined Darby’s. Smolder and Spite, the twin cowboys, peered down at me wearing Cheshire grins.

  Was the whole fucking entourage packed in that room watching me humiliate myself?

  “Those sure are some pretty flowers, Mister Beckett,” Spite drawled. I assumed it was him from the ever-present ten-gallon hat.

  Darby shot him a warning look. “They’re for me.”

  Another growl crept up my throat. “You can have the damn flowers. Just… get me inside.”

  “Why should we?” Smolder asked.

  My lips pursed as I pondered. I knew the answer, but honesty required a measure of that vulnerability I preferred not to parcel out.

  Still, the thought of another day passing without making amends chafed more than the trio of jokers squinting down at me. I sighed. “I made Zephyr a promise. I’d like to keep it—if he’ll let me.”

  Spite grinned and sing-songed, “Say please.”

  “Please,” I muttered through clenched teeth.

  They dissolved into laughter and disappeared from the window. I thought that was the end of it until a length of white fabric came tumbling down and dropped against the side of the building. A knotted bedsheet, or maybe several tied together. It was the kind of makeshift escape route you’d see in movies used by rebellious teenagers or prisoners slipping out of their cells.

  The twins peeked out again, their matching green eyes wild with delight. It must have been nice, for once, to make someone else the entertainment.

  “You can’t be serious.” I gestured to the ridiculous strip of cloth dangling before me.

  “It ain’t so bad,” Smolder offered sympathetically while his brother gave the sheet rope a taunting tug.

  “Saddle up, cowboy,” Spite teased. “Come get your man.”

  I considered my expensive clothes, slick-bottomed shoes, the flowers I clutched, and the slew of other reasons I should not be scaling a wall today. I wasn’t sure I could manage it, but I knew for certain I would make an ass of myself trying.

  “Hand over hand, one foot in front of the other,” Smolder coaxed. “Ozzy says it makes him feel like Spiderman.”

  “Who’s Ozzy?” I asked, then shook my head. “Never mind. Can’t Zephyr just come down here?”

  The country-western duo consulted each other before Darby reappeared, bent over the frame with his chin propped on his fist.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “You’re gonna work for this, Becky. Actions being louder than words and all.”

  The other two beamed like this was the best show they’d seen all week. It probably was.

  I looked at the sheet again. Then the bouquet. Then my shoes.

  My dignity was already on life support—might as well finish the job.

  “Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath. Stripping off my suit jacket, I folded it over one arm, then shoved the flowers into the crook of my elbow.

  The first handhold felt shaky. The second was worse. The knotted sheet twisted and stretched and tested my limited upper body strength. I was a desk demon. I pushed papers. Lately, I played card games on my computer. I definitely did not swing from ropes like some kind of urban ape-man.

  Every tug strained my shirt across my back and made sweat run into places sweat shouldn’t go. My dress shoes scraped the wall, and I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might chip.

  It occurred to me that this was not unlike what Zephyr did onstage every night. If I’d lacked any respect for his skill before now, this would have changed that. He made this shit look effortless while I wriggled like a worm on a hook.

  “Doing great, sweetheart,” Darby said sweetly. “Very Cirque du Désespéré.”

  “Is everybody fucking French now?” I snapped between labored breaths.

  Halfway up, my left foot slipped, and I dangled for a heart-stopping moment.

  Spite whooped.

  Smolder leaned out and called, “Almost there!”

  “I hate all of you,” I gasped.

  “You’re doing this for love!” Darby cheered.

  “I’m doing this for closure,” I retorted.

  “Naw,” Spite corrected. “You’re doing this for ass.”

  They were still cackling when I reached the windowsill and hauled myself up, red-faced and out of breath, knees scraping the brick. I scrambled over the ledge, then tumbled headfirst onto the bedroom floor, nearly crushing the flowers in my collapse.

  The three of them waited until I’d regained myself enough to stand before they broke into applause like I’d landed a perfect ten.

  The room in which I’d landed was long and narrow, like a section of a hall. For furnishings, it had a bunk bed and a pair of dressers plus a metal rack stuffed with hanging garments. Pegs on the wall held enough cowboy hats to rival a retail display, and the area beneath the lower bunk was cluttered with at least a dozen pairs of boots.

  Beyond the clothing and accessories, the space was utilitarian. The sheets and blankets were sterile white and gray, and there were no tchotchkes or trinkets to be found. Even the window I’d clambered in through lacked basic blinds or a curtain.

  It was bare. Like a cage. A cell. Zephyr’s room had been the same.

  Zoo animals had more enrichment in their habitats than this.

  Wavering, I passed the flowers to Darby, who lifted them to his nose for a sniff.

  “You okay?” Smolder’s soft expression contrasted with his brother’s bratty smirk.

  “Ain’t gonna have a coronary, are ya?” Spite pulled off his hat and fanned it toward me, blowing cool air across my sweaty face.

  “Knock it off,” I wheezed, shooing him away until he, his brother, and Darby retreated to form a semicircle before me.

  Darby stood flanked by the twins who looked downright subdued in pearl snap shirts and jeans. They were covered, at least, wearing more than assless chaps and bolo ties. In such close proximity, I couldn’t ignore how damn young they were. As much as it grated to have been made into a spectacle for their amusement, it bothered me more to realize that Maslow had collected souls so fresh.

  Maybe it was the time I’d spent thinking about Zephyr’s human life, but I couldn’t help but wonder what each of them had lost. What had been cut short? College, careers, first apartments, first loves? Had any of them made it to thirty? Looking at the twins, at Darby, and considering Zephyr, I doubted it.

  To have been robbed of so much only to end up here, served half naked under stage lights, pressed into someone else’s fantasy… that was its own kind of tragedy.

  Darby clutched the bouquet to his chest like a shield. His stormy glare rose above the cheerful spray of pink and yellow blooms in an almost comical contradiction.

  “Listen, Becky,” he began. “Mazzy may think he owns us, but let me make something clear: the dolls are my babies, and I don’t let anybody fuck with them.”

  He saw the same thing I did—their youth, their fragility. And he wanted to protect that, even though he was no less young or vulnerable himself. I ached a little at the thought of watching this wannabe princess stand up to Maslow and inevitably lose, burgeoning with conviction and promises he probably couldn’t keep. I knew the feeling.

  Spite scoffed and scuffed his boot against the floor. “I ain’t no goddamn baby.”

  “Can it, Colt,” Darby snapped at him. “It’s the sentiment.”

  Colt. I pinpointed the twin with the Stetson crowning his head. His real name may have been accidentally given, but I intentionally committed it to memory.

  “I understand,” I told Darby, who didn’t blink before firing back.

  “You hurt Zephyr.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “You don’t deserve him.”

  “I know,” I repeated.

  Darby crept forward, tail thrashing in a display of indignation I couldn’t help but admire. He was brimming with spitfire and sass, and something quieter too. Struggle. I saw it knitted between his snow-white brows.

  “Zeph’s a sweet kid. He’s still trying to find his place here, and I introduced you because I thought…” He blinked hard enough to flinch when he registered my words at last. “You know?”

  “Yes.”

  The tension binding Darby’s narrow shoulders seemed to loosen. “Well, good,” he muttered. “That’s a start.”

  The twins exchanged a look while I drew my first easy breath since the climb.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Darby waved me off. “Save it for Zephyr.”

  I nodded. “I’d like to. Where is he?”

  Colt crossed his arms. “Not here.”

  “What?” I squawked. “You mean you let me…” I flung my arm toward the sheet rope draped over the window ledge. “You made me do that, and he’s not even here? Where is he?”

  Smolder scratched one of his horns. “Probably at the Basilica.”

  “The Basilica?” I echoed. “Why?”

  “Mazzy plays cards there,” Smolder replied. “With the angels. It’s a regular thing, but this… wasn’t regular.”

  Colt scowled. “He just went last week. It ain’t time yet.”

  Darby spoke quieter now. “He brought some clothes for Zephyr to wear. Had me do his makeup.”

  “To go to a card game?” I couldn’t keep the grit out of my voice.

  Darby looked down at the flowers cradled in his arms, leaving Smolder to fill the silence.

  “We ain’t usually invited. Angels don’t like…” He flicked a glance around our group, then bounced his shoulders. “You know.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I know.”

  Maslow couldn’t be up to anything good. Dragging Zephyr across the Strip’s invisible dividing line and into enemy territory wasn’t a casual outing. It was strategy. Provocation. Maybe punishment.

  The Basilica was the last place in the world I wanted to go. Let the feathered fucks hold their holy ground. I’d never envied them their piety or their power. I knew my place, and I was comfortable in it. Too comfortable, apparently. Loitering in my stale office or lording over the city from my private suite, letting eternity pass me by.

  Coming here had embarrassed me, but it also reminded me of things I should never have forgotten. Like how it felt to want something I wasn’t sure I could have. Like how easily people—young people—got caught in the gears of things bigger than them. These three, trapped in this cell of a room, were all cogs in Maslow’s machine. Somehow, so was I.

  I glanced at Darby, who looked deflated but firm, and wary enough to make it clear this was a test that I’d better not fail.

  “You’re gonna work for this, Becky.”

  I sure as hell was.

  Stepping toward the window, I glanced down. The sheet rope dangled outside, swaying in the breeze. In the lot below, Colette had exited the limo and leaned against the driver’s door. Seeing me, she waved, and I sighed.

  “The Basilica, huh?” I muttered, torn between dread and a growing sense of concern for my incubus. The idea of Maslow parading him into that gilded hell and auctioning him to the highest bidder made my body tighten with rage.

  It was a fucking roadshow. The wraith had taken his act to the angels, where he would whore out my Beauty like some demonic delicacy. And Zephyr would be terrified. I knew it. I’d seen it in the distant, tense look he got when he talked about what Maslow did to him. About starving. About the room downstairs. He tried so hard to hold it together, but he wasn’t built for this. Not the way Maslow wanted him to be.

  Darby’s voice broke through the storm in my head. “If you can get Zephyr out of this,” he said. “Please. Do.”

  I nodded. “I will.”

  The words landed like a coin tossed into a well, and they echoed with finality. There was no handshake required to seal this deal. I would sign it in blood if need be.