Neon Blue by E Frost (best big ereader .TXT) 📕

remnants of my hangover throb behind them. “Thanks.”

“She would’ve eventually. Humans who’ve been demon-touched usually do. Gotta find something to replace the lust-rush.” Before I can ask if that will happen to me, he says, “That quiche is smellin’ done.”

He rises in a smooth roll of muscle and pulls a pan out of the oven with his bare hand. He sniffs at it, tests the browned top with one finger, and nods to himself. He pulls out two plates and cuts the quiche into portions with a black talon that he extends from his forefinger. Licking crumbs off the talon, he carries the plates to the table.

“That’s handy,” I observe.

“For all kinda things. You want a beer? Nothin’s better with quiche.”

“No, I do not.”

He chuckles and collects two bottles of Sam Adams out of the fridge.

“I said no.” I’m not spending the rest of my weekend drunk just because he wants to come again.

“They’re for me.”

“Oh. Sorry.” I get two forks out of the silverware drawer, squinting against the mirror brightness they’ve been polished to, and sit down across from him. He takes a bite of quiche, washes it down with a swallow of beer, and belches contentedly.

“That’s charming,” I say.

“In some cultures, it’s considered an insult to the chef if you don’t.” He eyes me.

I swallow the quiche I’m chewing, rich with Gruyere cheese and wild mushrooms, and shake my head. “It’s very good, but I’m not burping just to satisfy your ego.”

“You do other things that’re better for my ego.” A flash of the wicked leer.

I roll my eyes. To think I felt even marginally contrite over snapping at him about the beer. “I want to give Peter the potion after we’re done. Then we’re going to have to get him home.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Can you carry him? I think the potion will knock him out.” At the demon’s raised eyebrow, I say, “Without scrunching him up into that god-awful ball?”

He chuckles. “What was I sayin’ about you bein’ the world’s biggest softie? Yeah, I can carry him.”

The sound of claws scrabbling against the hardwood floor of my hallway distracts me from our conversation. I lean back in my chair so I can look down the hall. Izzy’s tail disappears around the corner into my parlor.

“What’s he doing?” I ask the demon.

“Chasin’ dust bunnies.”

“I’m surprised the cantrip left any. Mad half-hour?”

“Mmm?”

“Housecats do it. Usually just when everyone is getting ready for bed. They race around like they’re possessed, chasing shadows. Is this Izzy’s version?”

“Don’t think so. He’s been doin’ it all morning. Probably that potion you gave him.”

“Oh,” I say, chagrined. “I didn’t think it would hurt him.”

“He look like he’s hurting? He’s got more zip than he’s had in three lifetimes. Watch out for him humpin’ the furniture later.”

“Oh, great. He doesn’t, um—”

“Come fire? Yeah, he does. Better keep the extinguisher handy.”

“Wonderful. Could you send him home for a while? I really don’t want my house burning down while I deal with Peter.”

The demon rubs his chin. “We’ll take him along. Wiz and Giz, too. Blizzard can stay in your ice box.”

I glance at my refrigerator, half expecting an ice salamander to burst out of it. “All four of them are here?!”

“Yeah. Home’s not safe right now. Old man’s on the warpath.”

“Oh.” I swallow my objections to having my house taken over by various breeds of salamander. After seeing the face in the flames, I don’t want to leave anything to its mercy. “What about the others? Your harem?”

“Fulsome’s got ‘em on the move. The Zes are topside anyway.”

“The Zes?”

“Zippy, Zeifyr, and Zahira.”

“Zippy?” I ask. “There’s a demon named Zippy?”

Jou chuckles. “Ziporah. Do not call her that. She doesn’t like it.”

“And they’re here?”

He shakes his head. “They’re in New York. Livin’ the high life.” He finishes his first beer and opens the second with a flick of his thumb.

I give him a smile that manages to be only slightly bitter. “Sorry you’re stuck slumming with me.”

He looks directly at me, eyes dark. “What makes you think I’m slummin’?”

I pick up his empty beer bottle. “It’s not exactly Dom Perignon or whatever they fed you in New York.”

“They didn’t feed me anythin’ in New York, except the occasional junkie. You act like bein’ topside’s a field trip. It’s not. It’s just a break from battle. A chance to screw humans. Collect some souls. And it’s usually frustrating as all fuckout, ‘cause of the promise of somethin’ exactly like this.”

I frown. “Like what?”

“This. Bein’ free.” When I stare at him, uncomprehending, he elaborates, “You know what bedtime stories baby lemures’re told? Stories about the fiend that broke its chains and got to snuff the humans that enslaved it—”

“Oh, charming. No wonder you’ve turned out like you have.”

He lifts a dark eyebrow. “You’re missin’ the point. I’m living the dream, sweet meat. No one controls me. No one can command me to do this or fuck that. I’m free.”

I knew that. On some level. But I hadn’t internalized it. Not in those terms.

“And you’re using that freedom to make me quiche.”

He chuckles and takes a long swallow of the beer. “There are worse ways to spend my time.”

I tap the newspaper under our plates. “You could be manipulating the rich and powerful. Ruling the world.”

That’s what Rowena planned to do. She could have done something worthwhile with all the power she stole. Reversed global warming. Fed the starving. Cured AIDS. Instead, she just wanted to manipulate local politicians.

“Whaddo I want with human power?” he asks.

“What does anyone? I’ve never understood that.”

“Yeah, I got that. I’ve never seen anyone with so much power have so little interest in usin’ it.”

I scowl at him and get up for a glass of water. The glass is so clean my fingertips squeak against it. That’s a little too clean for me. Next time I’ll tone down the cantrip. “So what will you do with your freedom?”

“Same thing I’m doin’ now.”

“Hanging out with me?”

“You say that like there’s somethin’ wrong with it, sweet meat. Something missing? Somethin’