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“If you weren’t such a toxic person, they’d choose to be here. That’s what you’re afraid of, isn’t it? Without the contract, Zee would never come back to you. It’s not the club they hate, it’s you.”

Sebastien’s cheek ticked.

“You’re alone. Nobody loves you. Nobody even likes you. I almost pity you⁠—”

He lunged, like a slingshot—wings back—and slammed me into, then through the door, and out into the hall. The guard yelped in surprise, and some demons climbing the stairs swore, then gawked.

Sebastien clamped his hand around my neck and squeezed. Gasping, I kicked out. He lifted me off the floor and pinned me to the wall at his eye level. He was everywhere—his eyes inches from mine, his wings spread, dark canvasses of black blotting out the world. Or maybe that was my vision blurring. My heart pounded, thumping in my ears. I gulped, trying to swallow air, but none came.

He wouldn’t kill me, I knew that much. He wouldn’t dare risk Zee’s compliance. But that thought wasn’t much comfort as the darkness washed in, trying to drown me. I couldn’t even fight back, not with multiple witnesses, all watching on.

His grip vanished. I dropped, landed on my hands and knees, and choked air back into my lungs.

Sebastien crouched, draped his hands over his knees, and reached out to pinch my chin between his finger and thumb. “You just made Zodiac’s life a thousand times worse you dumb fuck. Stay the fuck out of Demontown and away from what’s mine, or the next time we meet, you’ll be as dead as the bitch I dumped like trash on your doorstep.”

I tore my chin free, and tracked Sebastien’s leaving as he stomped down the stairs. The demons who had witnessed it all, gave their wings a ruffle and continued on their way.

Sebastien’s guard arched an eyebrow. “Want me to carry you out?” he grumbled.

“No,” I wheezed, waving him off. “I got this.” I stumbled to my feet and rubbed at my sore throat. “It’s all good. I’m fine. Everything is fine.”

Shrugging my clothes back into place, I flipped my hood up, hiding my face, and hurried from Razorsedge. My visit hadn’t been a complete failure. I’d learned that I needed to get my hands on Zee’s contract, and that Sebastien was sensitive when it came to friends—or his lack of them.

Now, all I had to do was ask Zee to hand over the contract that tied him to Sebastien, and fight its loophole before Sebastien made Zodiac’s life a living hell.

CHAPTER 3

“I can’t perform with him there.” Zee thrust both hands out, gesturing across the room to where Reynard was frowning over the half-constructed cabinet.

Zee had been absent from the hotel since heading to Razorsedge with Ramone the previous evening, and I’d been preoccupied with a minor emergency in the kitchen that saw the wrong kind of mushrooms almost end up on the menu. The potentially fatal error was only caught because one of Chef Étrange’s assistants found a stoned gremlin trying to climb into a pie.

I’d only now found time to check the bar, where I’d found Zee, wrapped in a black and purple, silk and leather outfit, tail lashing, arms crossed, glaring at Reynard. There were others in the bar too, enjoying their drinks and socializing.

Reynard had his back to us, and was focused on the cabinet. He probably didn’t even know we were here. “He’s not even watching.”

“But I fucking know he’s there.” Zee thrust his hands out again, as though the more he gestured, the more I’d get the point.

What was happening here? If he wanted to dance, he could. Reynard was too busy with the cabinet to notice or care.

Tom Collins placed a multicolored cocktail in front of Zee, distracting him, then caught my eye, trying to convey something. Tom was attuned to reading his customers, including dramatic demons. I glanced between him and Zee—who was now guzzling the cocktail like it was water—and then over at Reynard. Nope, I still didn’t get it.

“It’s not like you to get stage fright?”

“It’s not . . . that’s not . . .” Zee huffed, slumped on a stool, and groaned. “It’s fucking worse than that.”

Wait . . . I was lost. Worse than stage fright . . . and it had something to do with Reynard? Tom Collins caught my eye, and motioned cutting a line across his throat—i.e., stop talking, Adam. What could be worse than Zee being afraid to go up on stage? Was he afraid of Reynard? No, that didn’t make any sense. He’d never been afraid of him. So why couldn’t Zee dance?

Tom whipped Zee’s empty cocktail glass away and replaced it with a fresh one. “Thanks,” Zee mumbled, then caught me loitering. “I want him to watch,” he whispered, then chased the confession with a gulp of cocktail.

Wait. ”What?” Zee was all huffy because Reynard wasn’t paying him any attention? Oh. Oooohhh. “Oh.”

“Fuck off. I am not into him. Like that. At all. I don’t do suckers. Especially humorless, heartless, sticks of ice like Fuck-Hard.”

He was definitely into him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You said oh.” He waved at my face. “Like you do.”

I snorted, parked myself on the stool beside Zee, and motioned for Tom to serve my usual whiskey. “Why don’t you just ask him if he wants to watch you dance?”