Demon Night

serious.”
    “Yes.” Ethan nodded slowly, heaviness settling in his chest as he thought of what Charlie’s response might be. “I’d wager anything on it.”
    Jake snorted. “That doesn’t mean anything. You’d put money on a pair of deuces.”
    “That’s true enough.” Even if his odds were low, Ethan would lay down money and bluff his way through. “But I wouldn’t put one cent on Jane not returning to Seattle within a day or two.”

CHAPTER 17
    Charlie woke with a scream paralyzed in her throat and the cold metallic flavor of blood in her mouth. She scrubbed at her tongue with the palm of her hand, tasted nothing instead of salt and skin. Only a memory—and it faded as quickly as the nightmares that had brought it to her tongue.
    God. She opened her eyes, hoping to push away the images of blood and torn flesh that flashed behind her lids. The feather lay crumpled in her fist. Her clothes were damp with sweat. Dear God.
    Her hands shaking, she carefully lifted the edge of the blanket. A faint strip of light ran along the bottom of the drapes, but it was too white to be sunlight. Probably the glow from the fluorescent fixtures outside, then.
    The shower was running, and she could hear, feel Jane’s heartbeat. Her book lay open and upside down on the table—Jane had managed to get through a quarter of it. Not much. Hopefully she’d slept the remainder of the time.
    Charlie wasn’t certain she had; her body felt tired and achy, as if she’d gone several rounds and hadn’t cooled down. Hunger gnawed within her—not just her stomach, but from each cell, chewing every nerve on a path to her fangs.
    She glanced in the mirror over the dresser as she slid off the bed—then froze, looked again. It was as if she’d lost fifteen pounds overnight: her cheekbones sharp, her eyes dark and sunken.
    Strung out. Needy.
    Almost frantically, she washed her face and hands in cold water, ran a comb through her hair. Unplugged the phone from the charger and grabbed a gun from the table. The weight of the weapon in the pouch pulled the sweatshirt tight across her shoulders.
    She knocked on the bathroom door, then poked her head in. The wafting steam settled on her skin, made her jerk her face away from the opening. “Jane? I’m going outside for some air.”
    And some blood some blood some blood .
    Her teeth clenched, and she was outside an instant after Jane made a noise indicating she’d heard.
    And was assaulted. Exhaust. The flickering motel sign. The roar of a semi on the highway, the cry of a baby in a room on the first floor. Bleach in the storeroom. Dogs and conversations and televisions and—
    Verdi. Panting, she covered her ears, backed up against the door. La Traviata. Maria Callas’s intricate, emotional performance.
    The rest fell away.
    Slowly, she stuck her hands back in her sweatshirt pouch, opened her eyes. Still loud, still strong in her lungs and nose, but not overpowering.
    Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Boots, judging by the heavy tread, but she couldn’t see their owner yet—the stairwell split directions at a landing halfway up. Whoever it was would exit the stairwell almost directly in front of her—but she’d have half a flight to see who was coming.
    Their room was at the end of the long balcony that ran along the front of the motel. An ice dispenser and vending machines hummed behind a door to her left. No one would be sneaking up behind her…and she’d have time to hide the pistol if someone came out of the rooms.
    She held it in the pouch, her heart hammering as he walked into view.
    Ethan. His dark brown hair and amber eyes were exactly what she wanted, needed to see.
    But even as the relieved laugh passed her lips, she pulled the gun and took aim down the stairs. Her hands were steady, though none of the rest of her was.
    He stopped. His gaze ran over her face before it settled on the weapon, and he nodded. “All right then.”
    “How do I know?”
    He placed his foot on the first step, but not to climb. His arm rested on the banister as if he intended to wait awhile. “I reckon there might be something we’ve said in private—”
    “Behind the spell,” Charlie interrupted. “So no one could have overheard.”
    His smile rayed from the corners of his eyes. “I just visited a heavenly little city whose name starts with a ‘C,’ not a ‘K.’”
    She barely restrained herself from jumping into his arms. “And a backup,” she whispered. “Because Sammael