Personal Demon Read Free

replaced by the murmur of calypso jazz, so soft I had to strain to recognize it. Gone too were the exhaust fumes, making way for the stench of stale smoke.
    “Cigar,” the man said, catching my nose wrinkling. “Cuban, though the expense doesn’t make the smell any better. I requested a nonsmoking vehicle, but with high-end rentals, people think if they pay enough, they can do as they please.”
    Benicio Cortez. He bore little resemblance to the one Cortez I knew—his youngest son, Lucas. Benicio was at least sixty, probably no more than five eight, broad-faced and stocky. Only his eyes reminded me of his son—nice eyes, big and dark. The kind of guy you’d let hold your purse or take your son into the bathroom. Bet that came in handy when he was telling you he understood why you didn’t want to sell your three-generation family business…while text-messaging a fire half-demon to torch the place before you got back from lunch.
    “Do you mind if we drive?” he said. “If we sit here much longer, I’ll be arguing my way out of a sizable ticket.”
    I was sure Benicio Cortez had more than enough cash in his wallet to pay for any ticket. I could say no supernatural likes drawing undue attention to himself, but I suspected he was testing my nerve…and maybe my naiveté, seeing whether I’d let him take me on a ride to parts unknown.
    I said, “If you turn left at the lights, you’ll hit construction, so you can make a very slow trip around the block.”
    “Perfect. Thank you.”
    A press of the button and the divider buzzed down. As he conveyed my directions to the driver, the passenger door opened and Troy climbed in, leaving the other guard behind, as if protecting his boss’s idling spot.
    Benicio raised the divider, then reached between our seats and pulled out a thermos.
    “Another downside to rentals,” he said. “No in-car beverage service. I’m spoiled, I’m afraid. I had this brewed on the jet, and I assure you, it’s excellent, though the container might be somewhat off-putting.” A rueful smile as he lifted the battered army-green thermos. “Ugly, but it does the job better than anything I’ve found.”
    The vacuum seal popped, filling the cabin with rich steam.
    “I apologize for interrupting your work.” He handed me a white china mug. “It wasn’t a council concern, was it? My daughter-in-law would not be pleased.” Lucas’s wife was Paige Winterbourne, witch delegate to the council.
    “It’s not council work,” I said. “But they’ll expect a report from me—and my editor is expecting a story—
    so I need to get back before my sources wander off.”

    He filled my mug, then topped off his.
    “I still feel responsible for the trouble you and Karl experienced with Tristan,” he said finally. “I should have been aware of his activities. In recompense, I wanted to offer you and Karl a job—temporary, of course—and one particularly suited to your talents. You’d be paid, naturally, and I believe it would help you gain valuable skills for your work with the council. I hoped to talk to Karl first, but I have no way of getting in touch with him.”
    His gaze settled on me.
    “I don’t have his number,” I lied, then added a truth. “Anyway, he’s in Europe. Indefinitely.”
    “Indefinitely?”
    “That’s what he said.”
    “How unfortunate.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “Have you had any experience investigating street gangs, Hope?”
    I shook my head.
    “Still you understand the concept—youths banding together at a time when they feel the need to belong, when they’re eager to explore their power. As a young supernatural, you probably have some sense of what that’s like yourself.”
    I didn’t reply, waiting for him to get to the point.
    “We raise our children to hide their powers and fit into human society, and that doesn’t always sit well with them. Some form criminal gangs—mostly male, late teens to midtwenties, when they’re coming into