But I was not prepared for what I found when I got there.

  There were pillars and paintings and gold slathered over everything, even the refreshments. A large table was occupied by suits more impressive than the men who wore them and flanked by a small flock of angels. Among them were two of Antonella’s bastard sons and her brother, Stefano. Maslow was there too, looking like something scraped from the underside of a boot, desperate to seem important and failing miserably.

  But it was Stefano who stopped me cold.

  He looked the same as the day he sent me away.

  Colette said it would be sad if I hadn’t changed in the last hundred years. I may not have, but Stefano hadn’t either. His smooth silver hair and patrician features were practically stolen from my memory, and I imagined the same was true for other parts of his body currently wrapped in a svelte Devore suit.

  The lap ornament was new, though.

  My incubus sagged against Stefano looking drugged. Or drained.

  He was bare from the waist up, a feast for the eyes of this sordid crowd. His arms hung around Stefano’s neck, and Stefano’s hand curled possessively around his hip. Thumb denting his skin. Chin resting on the crown of Zephyr’s head. I couldn’t decide what was worse: seeing my ex with someone else or that the someone else was Zephyr.

  No one had spoken since Colette’s and my arrival, but tension thickened the air.

  Zephyr shifted enough to stir the sleek line of Stefano’s arm across his waist. Then his eyes opened, glassy and disoriented, but searching.

  They found me, and through whatever haze clouded him, recognition sparked.

  It hit me like a blow.

  Something possessive twisted inside me, fast and violent and alive. I stepped forward before I thought to stop myself, driven by a gut-deep need that didn’t wait for permission.

  Three of the men around the table rose. Hands hovered near inner pockets. Wrists rolled and jackets smoothed, each gesture a rehearsal for violence. The older of Antonella’s sons pushed back and stood.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “And what do you think you’re doing here?”

  I was an intruder. Worse, I was one of the damned. A contract demon in a room full of sanctimony. My kind were outliers in most circles and especially unwelcome in company that fancied itself polite.

  Colette’s presence bolstered me, but only just. Her revolver might put one or two of them down, but she didn’t have enough ammunition to clear the room, and she wasn’t the only hired gun here. The Rossettis weren’t fools; they kept their muscle close and well equipped.

  If this turned into a fight—or worse, a firefight—things would get messy. Bloodstains on brocade. Bodies slumped between wine glasses… No one would walk away clean.

  I didn’t answer the ill-bred brat currently glaring me down.

  Stefano spoke up in my stead.

  “Lucas always has a seat at my table.” His voice resonated, stymying the threat of conflict. “He knows that.”

  Lifting his drink with the hand not gripping Zephyr, he tipped the glass toward Colette. “Nice to see you, old girl.”

  Colette snorted. “Who are you calling old, you fossil?”

  There was no heat in her words, but the undeniable thread of familiarity made my teeth grind.

  The other men glanced between Stefano and Narcissus, waiting for orders. No one sat down, but they didn’t advance either.

  I looked at Zephyr and found him looking back at me. His face had no color besides the splotchy shadows that left stains under his brows and around his lips. He was starved. Reamed out. And how? Was it even possible that this room full of men didn’t desire him? Their lust must have been raging from the moment Maslow brought him through the door.

  Maslow must have taken it. Here, in front of everyone. Leeching off my incubus, leaving him weak and wanting, and Stefano…

  He was looking at me too. Waiting.

  Did he know how long I’d waited for him? Did it matter anymore?

  “Have a seat, Lucas,” he said. “We’ll deal you in.”

  One of the attendants brought a high-backed chair and squeezed it in at the foot of the table, directly across from Stefano. I barely heard the scrape of wood on tile over the riot in my head. I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to drag Zephyr off Stefano’s lap and into my arms, but to win that game, I had to play this one first.

  Colette pulled away from my side and took up a position at the wall, a watchful, ominous presence with a revolver under her coat.

  I lowered myself stiffly and waited for cards and chips to be distributed. The pause left me with nothing to look at but the fragile tilt of Zephyr’s head against Stefano’s collarbone and the way his scarlet tresses striped the angel’s suit coat like rivulets of blood.

  The dealer, an indifferent wisp of a man with powder-blue eyes, passed out cards with practiced ease. Texas hold ’em. High stakes. No one said it out loud, but the buy-in had already cleared five figures, and that was just the first round.

  Didn’t matter. I was good for it.

  The first hand was a feeler. Safe bets. Quiet raises. A few players folded while others hung on. I took the pot with a modest flush and didn’t gloat. The second hand, things got bolder. The table leaned in. Bids crept higher. Stefano played with unhurried confidence, his movements measured and deliberate. He barely glanced at his cards, content to let the game play out around him.

  He had only money to lose, but I was gambling for the fate of something far more precious.

  Maslow sipped his wine, then bent in, his voice too slick to be casual. “How’s business, Stefano? Does the standing order still stand?”

  Stefano smoothed his hand down Zephyr’s thigh like he was petting a cat. “I think we’ll pass this time. Our current supply meets the demand.”

  “Why not increase the demand?” Maslow hedged. “I’ve been stockpiling, and business is good. You could expand. You know what they say: if you aren’t moving forward, you’re falling behind.”

  Stefano’s lashes lowered to shadow his pale eyes. “Stability isn’t a bad thing. Not every empire needs to be expanding to be thriving.”

  “Come on.” Maslow chuckled. “You’ve seen what it’s done for your security team. Your tables have never been more profitable, and your nephew’s practically glowing these days. That’s my product in his veins. Potent. Fresh from the tap.”

  Antonella’s tow-headed sons perked up at that. Judging by their puzzled expressions, neither was the nephew in question. It must have been the third boy. The youngest.

  A beat passed. Stefano turned to look at the wraith. “Maslow,” he said coolly. “You don’t need to sell me on it. I’m already a buyer, and you’re the only supplier in town.”

  My fingers tightened around the chip I’d been fidgeting with.

  They were talking about the Dollhouse boys.

  About Zephyr.

  That was what Maslow was doing with what he siphoned: selling it. To the angels. To Stefano. For his enforcers. Casino patrons. Family members.

  Dancer by dancer, drop by drop, Maslow had turned his club into a refinery, wringing the essence out of young demons and using it as a commodity to traffic. It was bad enough that he sold their bodies, he had to monetize their spirits too?

  But why? Was I expected to believe the Rossettis and their underlings were getting high on infernal fumes for the hell of it? Snorting demon juice off glass tabletops and lacing their prayers with infernal energy for fun?

  No. There was more to this. Something sinister. And Maslow was right at the center of it, smiling while he schemed. Extending his reach to Fairmont, raising another score of vulnerable souls up from Hades… He would burn this city to the ground to keep his throne warm.

  “Your call, Lucas,” the dealer said.

  Right. Cards.

  “It’s Beck,” I corrected. “And I’ll raise. Let’s make this interesting.”

  In a room full of men who didn’t see money as an object, value was assigned to less tangible items. Favors, especially the kind I offered, could endow a person with things far more valuable than riches. Things not bought with dollars and cents.

  “I’m in the mood to make a deal,” I said.

  That got their attention. Especially Stefano’s. He’d never approved of my line of work, claiming it was fraught with dishonesty and treachery he couldn’t abide. Gambling with paper and bills was more his speed than wagering souls. He liked his risks visible, his terms enforceable, and his hands clean.

  I wagered in broader strokes. Fortunes. Futures. I’d dabbled in life and death more times than I could count. It was a business I’d been steadily backing away from. Not because I’d gone soft, but because I’d stopped needing it.

  But tonight, I was putting my cards quite literally on the table.

  The other players must have known me or at least known of me, judging by the ripple of whispers that answered my statement. But my pitch was for the wraith. Tailor-made for Maslow because he was the only one in this room who possessed something worth betting on.

  “I can make your dreams come true, gentlemen,” I said, giving the words a bit of flair. A little showmanship never hurt. “One dream fulfilled. One wish granted. Guaranteed. Who’s in?”

  Gazing around the table, I watched the other men squirm. I knew what they were thinking, what they were weighing up. Everyone had a list, a few things they believed to be unattainable. I’d been asked for lifesaving medical treatments, extra years of life, the return of a lost love, fame, or a second chance.

  I could grant those. At a cost, sure. The universe always took its cut, but I could manipulate that too. Make the price bearable. Almost fair.

  Stefano arched a silvery brow. “How could we possibly assign a value to such an offering? Surely you have some strings to attach.”

  He was giving me an out, which was better than dismissing me entirely since this was his domain and he could decide that my negotiations weren’t welcome in it.

  “Not tonight,” I replied. “I’m feeling generous. Let each of you decide what an equivalent buy-in would be. We’re all honorable fellows; I’m sure the wagers will be fair.”

  The Rossetti brats exchanged glances, and one of the human players crossed himself, half joking. None of them trusted me, but they were tempted.

  Maslow leaned back in his seat. “Come now, Beckett,” he crooned. “Surely you have something in mind. Unless you’re angling to win back your expenditures from the other day. But I should tell you, I don’t issue refunds. Especially not on used goods.”

  My jaw tightened, and I swallowed the retort building in my throat. Bastard.

  We both knew what he would ask for. Maybe not here in front of the angels, but later, if he won, he would point me toward Fairmont. He would ask for his second club, his second set of indentured souls, and I would be beholden to his wishes.

  I let the pause stretch long enough to give the impression of restraint before I answered. “What’s he worth to you, Maslow?” My nod toward Zephyr might have been unnecessary, but I would leave no room for misinterpretation.

  Zephyr slumped in Stefano’s lap, hung by his own hands while his lashes fluttered like he was caught in a dream he couldn’t wake from. Maslow dressed him up for this. Had Darby paint his face with the makeup that was now streaked with tears.

  The wraith gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “The incubus? He’s… useful. Decorative. Profitable.”

  “You’ve told me yourself,” I pressed. “He’s one of thousands of souls. You can replace him or trade him for something you’d rather have. Something only I can give you.”

  Diminishing Zephyr felt like carving my own ribs out. Each word sliced deeper than the last, but I couldn’t afford sentiment right now. Not if I wanted to win.

  Maslow’s beady eyes glinted. “He’s not as common as you suggest,” he said. “Besides, I have him nearly trained.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper.

  “But,” Maslow went on, “I may be willing to part with something… temporary. A loan of sorts.” Breaking eye contact with me, he consulted the rest of the table. “How would you gentlemen like to have this sweet young thing at your disposal for, let’s say, forty-eight uninterrupted hours?”

  Zephyr roused with a whimper. The sound barely broke the surface of the room’s quiet, but it cut straight through me.

  Stefano cooed and shushed him, and Zephyr settled, so fucking fragile in his depleted state. When Stefano began to sway and rock Zephyr back into that fitful sleep, I felt myself coming unstitched.

  I stood too fast, chair legs skittering across the tile. My voice came out rushed, words forced between gritted teeth. “Deal,” I said. “Forty-eight hours. Starting immediately.”

  My gaze met Maslow’s, and I knew I’d folded too fast. I wasn’t even holding any cards, but he already had my tell. It grated. Worse, it distracted me.

  The other men rustled in their seats, murmuring to themselves or into phones, trying to scrounge up stakes that could measure against what I’d offered. A dream. A wish. A deal. Not exactly something you could toss onto the felt and match with cash.

  My attention drifted from Maslow, and from Colette, because I already knew what she thought of all this. That was when I caught Stefano watching me. His expression was unreadable at first, but then his eyes narrowed, tracking the twitch in my jaw and the way I refused to look at the incubus perched in his lap.

  His lips parted like he meant to ask something, then thought better of it.

  He’d seen it.

  He knew what I was doing and who I was doing it for, which made his unspoken question the only one that remained: why?

  At last, the shuffling and whispering quieted. The players made their choices. Some threw down favors, others property deeds, rare commodities, or names scribbled on slips of paper. Each one was a gamble.

  Antonella’s sons sat out the round, no doubt fearing how their mother would react if they attempted to deal with a demon. Everyone else stayed in, most importantly Maslow and, most surprisingly, Stefano.

  Once the wagers were settled, the dealer passed out cards.

  There was no more banter. No more bravado. Just the soft rustle of cards and the hush of held breath.

  I’d put myself into a difficult position. A damn near impossible one. If I lost, I’d owe a debt to one of the men at this table and be officially back in business. That was unpleasant, but not nearly as appalling as the alternative: Zephyr being whisked away for two days to be victimized and abused.

  There’d be no thought to consent, no regard for comfort. I didn’t doubt that whoever got their hands on him would fuck him raw and drop him on the Dollhouse’s doorstep like a used condom.

  He was a sex toy to them because that was how Maslow marketed him. No one spoke of his sweetness or the way he smiled. No one cared about his magic. All they saw was his body and how they could defile it.

  Peeking at my hand, I found it unimpressive, and I chewed the inside of my lip while waiting for the flop. Things could change fast in hold ’em. I hoped for two pairs, something high, but it didn’t come. I was holding trash, but I couldn’t fold.

  One by one, the others quit their hands with quiet curses or stiff jaws, surrendering their wagers like they were severing limbs. Some tried to laugh it off. Others didn’t speak at all.

  Maslow held on longer than most. His thin lips twisted every time he checked his cards. He needed this win as much as the rest of them, but eventually, he had to concede. He glared at the river, muttered something indistinct, then forfeited his cards with exaggerated grace.

  That left Stefano and me.

  I considered my hand, then the cards spread across the table.

  I’d ended up with a low pair. No flush. No straight. The only thing I had to bet on was my bluff, and that was even weaker than my cards.

  Glancing at Stefano, I searched his face for a flicker of emotion, a crack in the façade. Nothing. He was a study in solemn elegance, a sculpture carved in thought.

  I couldn’t remember what he’d wagered, and that felt suddenly important. I’d been too busy watching Zephyr, worrying about Colette, and wondering how my day had begun with flowers and apologies and ended with a game with stakes so high and tight they felt like a strangling noose.

  Why was the angel even playing? He should have taken a cue from his nephews and steered clear of these nefarious dealings. He couldn’t approve of this. Or of me, despite having excused my arrival as though I truly did have a seat at his table. As though he hadn’t cast me out decades ago.

  When the time came for the final bid, Stefano looked at me.

  There was something in his eyes. Not challenge. Not satisfaction.

  Wistfulness.

  He gazed down at where Zephyr curled against his chest, oblivious to the stakes. Tucking a strand of hair behind Zephyr’s ear, Stefano set his cards face down on the table and pushed them forward.

  “I fold,” he said quietly.

  That was it.

  I’d won.

  Relief surged, but it was chased by something colder. Confusion. Suspicion. Guilt.

  I didn’t know why Stefano had let me win, but I didn’t intend to stay long enough to ask.

  I raked the pot toward me with steady hands and an expression I hoped was unreadable. Inside, I was counting the seconds until I could get out of this room.

  And get Zephyr the hell out with me.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Beck

  If I hadn’t been as transparent as glass before my win, what happened after would have cleared things right the fuck up. With my winnings gathered and chips cashed out, I approached Stefano to collect my final prize.

  I tried not to look frantic, angry, or anything but resolute as Stefano ducked out from under the loop of Zephyr’s arms, then offered his lithe body up with ease.

  “I’ll walk with you,” he said as though I should let him carry my trophy, like I would allow his hands on my incubus for another second.