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“Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely.”
— P. J. O’Rourke
I DIDN’T GO WITH GABRIEL to see Jack. We’d had enough of each other for one day, and I was more concerned with hunting down Tasha than identifying lion-faced demons, which Gabriel couldn’t understand with visions of Judgment Day dancing through his head.
To be fair, revenge fantasies were having a rave in mine. I couldn’t understand why Tasha would turn on me after everything I’d done for her. And what good was any amount of coin if she was still forced to live on the mortal side where her only companions were disturbed lost souls? I sure as hell wouldn’t be bringing her any more care packages—which meant she’d have to rely on someone else. Like maybe her demon ex, Tack.
It was a longshot, but I collected the hounds from the harbor before paying a visit to both of Tasha’s hideouts. She was nowhere to be found. Of course. Saul tracked her scent, but it didn’t stray far from the perimeter of either property. After a decade of living on the run, she knew how to cover her trail.
I packed up my disappointment and failure and headed home. Rupert was attempting beef Wellington tonight, and I needed to be there to run interference with Bub. Otherwise, we’d be starting over from scratch with a new butler by next week. If anyone else was willing to apply for the position.
Thinking of poor Rupert and the extra work I’d already created for him lately, I sequestered the hounds on the back patio after taking the garden hose to them. Their fur was still matted with a fair amount of hellcat blood, but I didn’t have the energy to dig out the washtub and Februa suds.
I was surprised not to find Bub in the garden, though the corpse lilies weren’t as pungent tonight. Their pollination window must have closed. Maybe we’d be able to enjoy dinner on the patio again soon—so long as the hellcats infesting Hecate’s Grove didn’t find their way to our backyard.
I kicked off my boots at the back door, then thought better of it and gathered them up so the hounds wouldn’t give me a piece of their mind by taking a bite out of my footwear. Coreen grunted in offense, even though I busted her with Bub’s Italian Oxfords any time he evicted the hounds from our bed. I gave her a menacing look, which she ignored as she flopped down on the patio beside Saul.
If I’d had Hecate’s doggo mojo, hiding my shoes wouldn’t have been necessary. I was sure Anubis didn’t have to worry about his jackals gnawing on his sandals or taking off with some witchy dog whisperer. Maybe I’d give him a call and see if I could get a trainer or an obedience school recommendation.
I added the task to my list of things to do if the world didn’t end and went inside. The smell of roasting potatoes and buttery mushrooms greeted me, and my stomach grumbled happily at the promise of food.
Cooking was not Rupert’s strong suit, but against all odds—and the Lord of the Flies’ chastising cynicism—he’d improved tremendously over the past few months. The savory aroma lured me into the kitchen, where I found my fussy demon consort at the stove, backseat-cooking over Rupert’s shoulder.
“You’re burning the Duxelles.” Bub scowled at the skillet. “Turn down the heat and add more butter. I swear, you’d think we were torturing souls in the special hell for chefs who try to pass off tilapia as red snapper.”
“Does that silver tongue need polishing, demon mine?” I asked, wrapping my arms around his waist and gently tugging him away from the stove. Rupert’s shoulders sagged with relief, and the puckered skin around his horns relaxed.
“Welcome home, Lady Lana. Dinner will be ready within the hour,” he said, quickly turning his attention back to the stove at Bub’s sour expression.
“Thank you, Rupert. I can’t wait to try the Wellington.”
“Are you sure?” Bub snorted as I ushered him to the opposite side of the long counter that divided the kitchen from the dining room. “It’s not too late. I could still pick up a pizza from the nearest Styx Stop.”
“We talked about this. You promised you’d save your criticism for after dinner.”
“Yes, yes. I know.” He leaned down to press his lips to mine and then did a double-take at my hair. “Is that... blood?”
“Maybe.” I winced and shot Rupert a hesitant glance. It wasn’t so much a matter of not trusting him, but I didn’t think his nerves, or the beef Wellington, would fare well with the news that the world could be coming to an end.
Bub pulled me closer and dropped his mouth to my ear. “Shall we wash up before dinner?” he whispered, his beard tickling my neck.
If anyone else had been turned on by blood and guts in my hair, I would have called them a freak. But with Beelzebub, it was endearing. He’d explained it once, in the quiet darkness of our bed one night after ravaging me. A vetala, an evil Hindu spirit that liked to possess corpses, had attacked me on the job that afternoon.
Blood in my hair meant there had been a chance that Bub could have lost me. It also meant I’d survived. Maybe he couldn’t stand between me and all the dangers I encountered in my line of work, but he could appreciate that I’d fought—and won. That I’d found my way back into his arms again. And he would never take that for granted.
I grinned and let him lead me through the house and up to our bedroom. Rupert would have his peace in the kitchen, and I would have the Prince of Demons’ undivided attention. Win-win.
I peeled off my jacket and hung it over the hook inside my closet door. It would need to be properly washed, but I’d wiped off most of the slain hellcat’s blood in the bathroom at Reapers Inc. Since white clothing was the ultimate test of Murphy’s Law, Gabriel had taken the brunt of the damage. Even so, a thick line of dried blood marred the collar of my sweater. It was ruined.
“Pity,” Bub said, touching the blue cashmere. He dug a fingernail in above the stain, and the fabric split open with ease. Hellspawn blood was acidic and had weakened the knit.
“Maybe it can be patched?” I suggested as Bub’s fingers widened the hole and traced my collarbone. His lips brushed mine again before finding their way to my neck.
“I’ll buy you another for Christmas,” he whispered against my throat. His hands explored deeper and lower, ripping the sweater. It was now an official casualty.
My breath rasped at the welcome invasion, and I hooked a finger over Bub’s belt as he nudged me backward into the bathroom.
The molten light of dusk filtered through frosted glass skylights, giving the room a red haze. Bub’s cologne lingered in the air, along with the humid warmth of a recent shower. I closed my eyes and breathed in the familiar aphrodisiac. The sensations it conjured were a paradox—or maybe just two sides of the same coin—one part tender devotion and the other raw exhilaration.
By the time Bub finished shredding my sweater, I’d managed to unfasten both of our jeans. He paused to drag mine down my legs and threw them across the room before lifting me onto the edge of the counter. One hand went to the mirror behind me, and his other pressed into the small of my back, drawing my body flush with his. I sucked in an eager breath, anticipating what came next.
There were rare few things that could blot out the troubles of the world from my mind, but this was by far my favorite method. Every thrust and kiss, every graze of teeth and bite of nails, was a reminder that we were alive—and together.
At the end of the day, that was still the thing that mattered the most.
After returning from our escape into carnal oblivion, Bub filled the clawfoot tub, adding Epsom salt and bath oils. He waited until I’d settled between his legs before letting reality slip back in.
“Dare I ask how the soul search went today?” he said, reaching for the shampoo. “I assume you found an original believer if demons were afoot.”
“Uh, sort of.”
“Sort of?” Tension bled through Bub’s confused chuckle.
I folded my hands over my eyes and sighed. “I’m pretty sure we found Judas, but then hellcats attacked, and Tasha Henry snapped up the soul before we left the mortal side.”
“Tasha Henry? The rebel reaper you risked everything to save? That Tasha Henry?”
“Yes,” I snapped. “That one.”
Bub clicked his forked tongue. “I don’t suppose you need to hear it again, but I’ll say it anyway. That bird is bad news, through and through. You should let the council have her.”
“Trust me, I would have, had I found her at either of her usual haunts.” I leaned forward so he could massage the shampoo into my scalp and wrapped a hand around his scarred calf. “What about you? Any luck with Una last night?”
“As you can probably imagine, she was positively horrid. She mentioned your oath never to return and suggested that an envoy also voided the agreement. I made it very clear that my visit was not at your behest, though I did offer our home to Morgan, should she be willing to spend a season here in Tartarus as a surrogate until you fetch Tantalus. At which point, Una threatened to have me riddled with arrows if I ever again suggested that Morgan leave Faerie.”
“Swell.” I pulled my knees up to my chest and let him dip my head back in the water to rinse my hair. He ran his thumb across my cheek, wiping away a spot of foam before stealing a kiss.
“You’ll have better luck tomorrow,” he said. The pinched skin between his brows suggested he was trying to soothe his fears as much as mine.
“The search has been put on hold,” I confessed. “After today’s disaster, the council and the Fates need time to decide how to proceed.”
“They can’t do that.” Bub shifted in the tub, sloshing water over the edge. The panic that had sent him off on a tangent the night before seemed to be rearing its head again.
“They’re considering loaning us Dionysus and the Maenad in the meantime.”
“How is that any better than wild hellcats?”
“It’s not,” I agreed. “I hate to admit it, but Tantalus is the lesser evil in this case.”
“Well, regardless, it’s good to have a backup plan.” Bub relaxed and pulled my back against his chest.
I didn’t have the heart to remind him there was no guarantee a surrogate would fix the problem. But that worry could wait. It wasn’t something we could solve right now anyway. Besides, I had smaller fish to fry.
“Do me a favor?” I asked, tilting my head back to nuzzle Bub’s beard.
“Anything, love.”
“Give Rupert an attaboy for dinner. He’s trying so hard to impress you, and you’re not giving him a fair chance.”
“Tricksy vixen,” Bub grumbled and nipped my earlobe. “Fine. I’ll tell him well done—which is likely the state of this dreadful Welly we’re about to choke down.”
“Be nice.” I splashed a handful of water in his face. Bub caught my wrist and kissed a fiery line down my arm into the bend of my elbow.
“How nice?” he whispered, his free hand caressing my stomach beneath the bathwater. The sharp tang of lust quickened my pulse. The crisis de jour called for more than a countertop quickie, I decided.
“Finish your dinner without complaining, and you can have dessert.”
“Something sinfully delicious, I hope.” His beard tickled my skin as his kisses migrated to my neck.
“So decadent, you’ll need another bath,” I promised.