“Such poetry,” she teased as he straightened and headed toward the door.
“A cafe in Purgatory might be the best idea you’ve ever had, by the way,” he said, hesitating on the threshold.
“It wasn’t my idea,” she said honestly.
Fingers drumming on the door jamb, he shrugged. “Then your new client is a genius.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s nothing in Purgatory, Waryn.”
“Exactly. No competition,” the Daemon said with a sharp grin. “Oh, don’t forget, we have the charity gala tomorrow night.”
Quin practically growled in irritation. “Another one? What are we raising money for this time?”
“Not sure,” Waryn said, pondering a moment. “Probably illiteracy or hungry orphans or animals or something.”
“Oh gods,” she lamented.
“Chin up, my dear. Your mother already picked out your dress.”
With a huff of steam from her nose, she flipped him off, and he disappeared into the hall, his laughter echoing behind him.
The next night, Quin grudgingly shoved herself into a tasteful but expensive gown that fit like a glove, yet still managed to be the most uncomfortable clothing she’d ever worn. She left her locced hair down, knowing her mother would scold her if she dared to wear it in her usual messy tangle atop her head. A shawl had accompanied the dress in the garment bag, but since it was summer, she left it behind.
Waryn looked sharp in a perfectly tailored suit, and when they entered the banquet hall, more than a few heads turned their way to admire him. He was a handsome man, as men went. He had deep ebony skin and dark burgundy hair that curled around the base of his horns. And his eyes were arresting; thin, oval pupils the lightest shade of blue they almost appeared silver, surrounded by black sclera.
“Shall I get you a drink?” Waryn said, smiling and waving at an acquaintance Quin recognized by face but not by name.
“Make it strong.” She copied his smile and his wave, though she knew it was less convincing.
“Champagne it is,” he said, and her smile turned brittle. “I’ll be back before your mother finds you.”
“And people say chivalry is dead,” she said dryly, bringing a light chuckle from him.
Mingling with the elite of the Pentagram was familiar but as unpleasant as ever. It had been easier when she’d been younger, back when she had fooled herself, however briefly, into believing she fit in this world. She’d never belonged, no, but she could blend in, part of the cast of garish characters in the charade. Upholding the facade in exchange for comfort and privilege.
But it was a farce, through and through. Plastic smiles and compliments ladened with thorns. Decadence dripping with crude oil. Diamonds bought through the suffering of those believed beneath them all.
The Dubois were not immune. Sure, they built charities and made hefty donations to good causes, just like this one. They’d built hospitals and libraries and ensured the papers published their philanthropic accomplishments. It kept the family in mostly good graces with the public. And the police.
However, if anyone dug deeper, they could connect the Duboi empire to the developers who had flattened The Point of Lust to build vacation chalets and condos where people’s family homes had once stood. Or the unethical medical testing, insider trading, and lobbying to ensure that the rich got richer while the poor stayed poor.
She’d known that the family dealings weren’t always above board, and for a time, she had tried to turn a blind eye. But then she’d walked through the demolished Point of Lust and watched a Pyclon child no older than ten help his sick mother pilfer through the crumbled remains of a shack.
It was the first time she’d seen the real-life consequences of her family’s greed, of their entitlement, and it had changed everything. She’d started distancing herself, striking out on her own and building her own business. She wanted to support herself with honest income, giving back how she could.
It wasn’t enough to cleanse the sins of her family, but maybe it would be enough to erase that Pyclon’s haunting pink gaze from her mind so she could sleep.
“Quin?” a familiar voice said, and she blinked away the memory only to startle at the wide, hot pink eyes gawking at her.
“Glyma?”
The Succubus wore an apron and stood behind one of the serving tables, a triangular cake spatula in one hand, a plateholding a slice of cake in the other. Her hair was secured in a tight bun, and beneath her apron was a pair of black slacks and a white blouse. A catering uniform.
“Wow, you look…” Glyma’s gaze slid down Quin’s frame like lava, though the heat it ignited was doused by her next word. “Uncomfortable.”
Quasi-offended, Quin glanced down at the evergreen dress. “I beg your pardon?”
Dark purple flooded Glyma’s cheeks as she set the slice of cake down on the table for guests to take. “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. You look amazing. I just mean that you look uncomfortable in the dress—not that it’s ill-fitting. It fits perfectly. Like, for real, it’s hitting you in all the right places.” She winced, tail whipping erratically behind her. “Nope, that’s not helping. Um, you look like you would rather not be wearing the dress? Or you’d rather be wearing something else instead of the dress? You don’t strike me as a nudist. Oh, sweet deities.”
