Demon Night

reading that newsletter. Over a hundred and twenty years had passed since that hellish week in an Eden jail cell; he’d known his brother couldn’t have been alive. His grief had settled down—but discovering Caleb hadn’t made it out west was still tearing at his gut.
    But Ethan would be damned if his brother’s death meant his sacrifice was nothing, if it meant the demon had won.
    Caleb had always claimed there were two things worth living for: good drink and a pretty woman. Ethan figured he could have one for his brother, and keep on protecting the other.

    “So they must have used a crowbar on that gate, huh?”
    Charlie nodded without glancing up. She didn’t need to see Vin to know he’d be leaning against the bar, the cork-bottomed drink tray balanced on his splayed hand. That stance had accompanied every question he’d tossed her way that evening.
    “Yeah, must have,” she agreed. And she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “What do you need?”
    “G&T and a Riesling. Table ten—take a guess.”
    Charlie glanced over his shoulder. Table ten was in the restaurant, but she had a clear view through the lounge’s entryway. Two men faced each other across the red vinyl booth. Both well fed and groomed. One sported silvering auburn hair, the other lighter with just a touch of red—a father and son, maybe. Surrounded by Cole’s rock-and-roll memorabilia, with the Stones trolling about a little yellow pill, their conservative suits, spit-shiny shoes, and dark overcoats looked wildly out of place.
    She guessed, “The gin and tonic for the uptight blond.” And he apparently needed it. The younger sat with his feet placed firmly together, his back rigid.
    Vin shook his head, his choppy blue bangs brushing his eyebrows, the diamond studs in his ears winking. “That’s zero for three tonight, Char. Junior wanted the wine—and your number.”
    Charlie sighed and returned the Riesling bottle to the small refrigerator under the counter.
    “I didn’t think he was your type, but he said he knew you.”
    She frowned and studied the blond’s profile. It was vaguely familiar, but—
    He swiveled his head, met her eyes, and it clicked into place. She forced a bright smile and returned his wave. “Shit,” she muttered between her teeth when his fingers waggled in a beckoning gesture.
    “Old boyfriend?”
    “One of Jane’s.” What was his name? Patrick? Paul? Something with a “P.” “About five years ago, I think. Will you tell him I’ll come over in a second?”
    Better to go to him than wait until he approached her. If he was chatty, she could use work as an excuse to get away.
    “Will do.” Vin placed the glasses on the tray, the tribal tattoo around his lower biceps peeking out from beneath the edge of his sleeve.
    She watched him deliver the drinks, and delayed as long as possible by wiping down the counter. Five years. She didn’t want to deal with this tonight, didn’t want to lose the sweet buzz left over from her walk with Ethan by dredging up the past with a guy whose name she couldn’t remember.
    Peter? Or maybe the “P” had been in reference to something else…his job? A professor? Five years ago, he wouldn’t have been old enough. A politician—?
    She snapped her fingers in triumph. “Mark Brandt!” It was as close to a crow as she could produce.
    Her lone customer at the bar—a precise elderly gentleman in a tweed coat—raised his graying eyebrows. He was probably wondering if she’d been taking a few drinks and talking to herself as a result.
    Her smile aggravated her sore cheek, so she kept it brief and nodded to his glass. “Another?” A swallow of their best single malt remained in the bottom.
    He shook his head. A quiet one. Charlie was used to it—some of them wanted to talk all night. Others never opened their mouths except to pour in more liquor.
    “I’ll be right back if you change your mind.” She hoped he would now, so that she could put Mark Brandt off for another minute, but he only responded with a slow dip of his neatly combed head.
    Strange that he didn’t seem as out of place here as Mark did, she thought as she crossed the lounge. But then, Mark was on the wrong Capitol Hill; he probably looked on edge anywhere he wasn’t amid movers and shakers. No one at Cole’s came close to qualifying.
    But he’d been nice enough, she remembered. Full of admirable ideals and ambition. Jane had dated him for six or seven months before he’d