As if she’d read his torturous thoughts, Pricilla stepped to the other side of the table and ran her fingertips over his tattoo—the official seal of his now-despised title. The coldness of her touch leached into him like a condemnation. “I have great plans in store for you, Samael Gorasola. Just you wait.”
Less than an hour later, Sam walked out of the Demon Detainment Center. Or as he’d fondly come to refer to it the past six months—his shithole away from home. The blazing sun was an assault compared to the weak fluorescent lighting in his cell. He squinted, wishing for his polarized Ray-Bans. His favorite shades conveniently came up missing from the pile of belongings that’d been returned to him at checkout. If he found out which of the guards had filched the sunglasses, someone would be getting the remainder of their meals fed to them through a straw.
He flexed his arm, not quite used to the absence of the manacles and the cuff that’d blocked his ability to transport—just one of the many tools of the trade that came with his soul-collector status. The last thing he’d expected was for Pricilla to allow for the removal of the cuff. Of course, now that he was her damn beck-and-call boy, it wasn’t as if he could take advantage of the situation and pop down to some tropical isle and lay low with a bevy of busty beauties in skimpy bikinis. His luck, Pricilla would call him to her side the minute he started getting cozy with the local scenery. Shit knows it’d been Nettie’s favorite pastime, yanking him around on the invisible leash that’d chained him to her. Safe to say Pricilla would be no better.
He wished like hell he knew what good ole Pris was up to. Why she wanted him badly enough to seize control of his familiar contract. She hadn’t elaborated beyond her cryptic promise in his cell. Not that he’d expected her to. As a general rule, demons weren’t quick to spill their plans. Distrusting assholes, the whole lot of them. Himself included.
Especially himself. Setting his jaw, he mentally flipped the bird to the building behind him before teleporting to the front entry of his Savannah bachelor pad. The small bungalow had always been his private sanctum—the one place where he could kick back and enjoy a little R&R on the rare occasions Antoinette hadn’t dispatched him on a soul hunt.
So he was suitably annoyed when he spotted his cousins—Nikki and Cassidy Lassiter—lounging on his leather sectional, looking very much at home. He took in the scuffed combat boots Nikki had propped on the lacquered coffee table.
A growl crept up his throat. “What the fuck are you doing squatting in my place?”
Both sisters jumped, but it was Nikki who first leapt into a fighting stance. The instant her eyes locked on him, her mouth dropped and she lowered her fists. “Sam?”
“Who the hell else were you expecting? This is my damn house.” His scowl deepened as he noticed the discarded greasy pizza carton and crumpled potato chip bag littering the floor. No doubt both were courtesy of Nikki. She might be one of the best grim reapers in the biz, but she was also a fucking slob. “Nice to see you’ve been partying in my absence.”
Cassidy broke from her stupor and tore across the room before ambushing him with a fierce hug. While the gesture softened his foul mood a fraction, it also reminded him his body hurt like the devil. He winced, something Cass didn’t fail to observe. She pulled back and eyed him, her expression sharp with concern. Usually she was the quieter, gentler Lassiter sibling, but at the moment her fiery gaze nearly matched the color of her hair. “What did those bastards do to you?”
“Yeah, you look like shit,” Nikki added in her typical blunt fashion. She strode toward them, the reaper cuffs anchored to her belt loop giving a metallic clank as they bounced against her hip. “Please tell me you got in a few punches of your own, and the asswipe who roughed you up at least looks worse than you do.”
“Yeah, he does,” Sam grunted. “But only because Toran was born ugly.” He extricated himself from Cass’s grasp and limped toward the couch, only to slam to a standstill when he spied the blank section of wall where his fifty-inch flat-screen used to be. “Where the hell is my TV?”
“I moved it into the guestroom.” Nikki shrugged in response to his glower. “I like to watch The Tonight Show, and you didn’t have a set in there.”
His blood pressure spiked into the danger zone. Damn it, he’d just endured six months of torture. Was it too much to ask to come home and not find his private sanctum overtaken by moocher relatives? “Put the TV back.”
Nikki’s forehead scrunched. “How will I keep up on Leno?”
“From your own damn bedroom, that’s how.”
“Sorry, no can do, dude. Cass is on the outs with Pops again, and I’m here for moral support.”
For fuck’s sake. Sam plowed a hand through his hair as his last shred of patience shuttled off to Hawaii. Without him, damn it.
Roughly every other month Cassidy and her dad fought over her adamancy about not joining the family business. At the moment, Sam more than understood her decision to steer clear of soul reaping, but he was too cranky and tired to give much of a shit about her personal problems.
“You’re not living here.” He transferred his glare to Nikki. “That goes double for you, Pig-Pen.”
“Sheesh, getting tortured makes you grouchier than usual.” Nikki cocked her head to the side and considered him. “How did you get out of there, anyway?”
He narrowed his eyes. “If I tell you, will you leave?”
“Mmm, possibly.”
He was desperate enough to take his chances. Five minutes later he’d laid out the gory details of his new unglorified status as Pricilla’s familiar. Cass and Nikki were suitably horrified and sympathetic, but they made no move toward packing their belongings so they could hustle their asses out of his home.
Weary defeat sat heavier than a one-ton boulder in his gut. Shit, he was never going to get rid of them. What was it with females and their incessant desire to make his life a living hell? “I’m going to take a shower.” He shot Nikki a warning stare. “Your ass is grass if my TV isn’t on that wall when I come back out here.”
Nikki only rolled her eyes. His teeth in danger of being ground to dust, he staggered into his bedroom. He was gratified to see it looked exactly the same as he’d left it. He’d half expected to find it redecorated in hot pink and fuchsia, with giant stuffed teddy bears or fucking fluffy purple bunnies strewn on his bed.
Damn women.
He shrugged from his grungy shirt, his bruised and battered muscles screaming a fit. Grimacing, he dropped the filthy garment and started toward the bathroom. He managed two steps across the carpet before his gaze landed on the dresser. Or more to the point, the second drawer down. The one that held the sum total of his life’s greatest achievement. And ultimate downfall.
No matter how hard he struggled to resist the calling, his feet still edged him in the direction of the dresser. He yanked open the drawer and stared at the specially commissioned Smith & Wesson revolver resting on a stack of neatly folded T-shirts.
Lucy.
Some males named their cars or boats. He named his gun. Fingers cramping slightly, he reached for the revolver. His palm absorbed the familiar coldness of the steel. It’d been six months since he’d held Lucy. He’d never gone that long without having her close by. Hell, she’d practically been an extension of his hand for seventy-eight years.