Chapter 3

I audibly gasped. Fortunately, no one was looking at me - not Devlin, not the blond, not any of the other patrons - but as adrenaline began pumping through my body, I felt like I had the eyes of the entire bar on me.

Like I had in my dream last night.

Mentally running through some katas (it’s weird, but it works - I’m a very physical person, and just picturing myself moving can be enough to calm me down) my breathing soon steadied, and I put on my apron and got ready for my shift.

Marty was nowhere to be found; I considered skipping the rest of my shift as a protest until I got paid, but I knew that I couldn’t do that.

Not as long as the blond was around.

Approaching Devlin’s table, I forced a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. My eyes which never left the blond, even as I took everyone else’s orders. He avoided my gaze, looking pointedly at the dancers on the stage, at the grimy floor, at the flickering light behind the bar.

After everyone else had ordered, I forced my attention away from the succubus towards Devlin, just for a moment. It wouldn’t be right to ignore him.

“Hello Amanda,” he said, and my heart skipped a beat. He’d never used my name before - it was always girly, sweetheart ... one time he’d tried “toots”, but my glare had apparently gotten through, and he’d never used that particular term of endearment again.

“I believe an apology is in order.”

I froze for a second, my mind racing, trying to work out what I needed to apologize for. Had I messed up? Had I taken their orders too slowly? Or worse, had I brought him the wrong drink?

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I reminded myself that I was an excellent waitress, and that I had nothing to apologize for. Especially to a demon.

“Oh?” I said casually, trying not to reveal the sudden anxiety I was feeling.

“Last night,” he said softly, and suddenly every demon at his table was acting like the blond - they all had extremely important things to look at. Anything that wasn’t us.

“I can assure you,” he said, clucking his tongue as he spoke, “my boy has been sufficiently ... punished.”

The blond’s stare intensified, and he started examining the wooden table very closely.

“Nothing will ever happen like that again, not on my watch. As you can see, I’ve brought him back - don’t take this as anything but an indication of my ... control.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up at the last word, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move. I just kept staring at Devlin attentively, soaking up every word.

“If you ever have trouble with one of mine, bring it to my attention immediately. I don’t take my patronage of this fine establishment lightly.”

On any other night, I would have scoffed at his description of the seedy bar, but I just kept gazing into Devlin’s eyes, enthralled. He lifted one hand, and slowly ran the back of his hand down my cheek.

Normally, I should clarify, the club has a strict “no touching” policy. But even though that guideline is occasionally broken (often by my fist and a demon’s face) - more importantly, I have an even stricter “no touching, ever ever ever, especially by a demon” policy.

But Devlin’s stroke didn’t trigger it. I didn’t flip him over and stand on his neck until he was begging for mercy - something I am more than capable of.

I just shivered.

“Do you understand, girly?” he said, a half-smile appearing below his cat-like eyes.

In response, I nodded, and with that he leaned back and the spell was suddenly broken.

“So,” he said casually, “when are we going to see you up on that stage?”

“When pigs fly,” I said breathily, and he laughed.

“I could make that happen.”

For the rest of my shift, I avoided Devlin’s table. I avoided all the demons in the joint. I kept an eye on the blond, but I trusted Devlin - sure, he was a demon, but he also seemed like the kind to keep his word.

I trusted him.

And sure enough, the blond didn’t misbehave all night. I don’t know what getting punished by a creature of Devlin’s power would look like, and I hoped I’d never find out. For the rest of my shift, the blond didn’t so much as catch a dancer’s eye or order a drink - I was glad that Misty wasn’t on tonight ... although considering her experience the previous night, I would be surprised if she ever returned.

When Devlin eventually left, the blond shuffled out after him, and for the first time I noticed he was limping.

I mean, considering I literally stabbed him to death the previous night, just ending up with a limp was pretty impressive ... but I suspected that the limp had nothing to do with me and everything to do with Devlin.

As the last few patrons left, I realized that I still hadn’t seen Marty all night. His office door had remained firmly closed, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in there - I’d once worked a 12-hour shift, and had him stagger out at the end of it, his ever-present leer sleepier than usual.

My knock went unanswered, but after I loudly informed him that I wasn’t afraid to kick the door in, the lock was hastily undone and Marty appeared, sporting a sheepish look.

“Amanda!” he said, his eyes darting around, avoiding my face. “I didn’t know you were on tonight.”

“Pay, Marty.” I growled. I was still feeling a bit light-headed, and was not in the mood for his crap.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

I sighed, and Marty gulped.

“Come on honey,” he said, wincing slightly at the way my eyes narrowed at the term. “You can’t just hit me up for extra cash whenever you’re feeling a bit broke. Besides, wasn’t Devlin in tonight? He’s a generous tipper.”

Devlin’s tip hadn’t been any larger than normal, in fact. After his little speech, I thought he might have thrown a few extra shekels my way, but - perhaps in an effort to reestablish our professional relationship - he’d tipped his usual amount, to the cent.

Not, of course, that his usual amount wasn’t a hefty tip.

“Cut the crap,” I said with a yawn. The spaciness that had been chasing me all day suddenly hit, and I was suddenly exhausted. “I want my money, and I want it now.”

“Of course,” Marty said, and pulled out a wad of bills. “Here’s tonight’s pay.”

He counted out my usual amount, and handed it over. I stared at it for a few seconds, my brain struggling to process what was happening.

“No,” I finally said, “not this money. I mean, yes, this money, but ... yesterday. You were short.”

“Nonsense,” Marty said, his confidence seemingly starting to return. “I don’t make mistakes with money, you know that.”

Again, I was forced to pause and reflect on what he was saying. He was right - normally he was quite fiscally precise ... but no, I’d counted the money, and he’d short-changed me.