Darian

The Blame Game

"Another beer?"

Darian cast a look at his surroundings and seriously considered it.

The air smelled thick and sweet, choked up with the grease of barbecue chicken wings and fist-sized hamburgers and french fries. He had a feeling he was actually wearing the air now. A football game blared from the nearest of several plasma televisions. Male roars and congratulatory fists rose in correlation with a touchdown by the Dallas Cowboys. The waitresses wore orange shorts and white tanks and slouch socks. Two of them, he had given breast implants. Not surgically, of course.

This was slumming.

He exhaled heavily and moved to adjust his tie, only he wasn't wearing one. It left him fiddling uselessly with the collar of his polo shirt. When in Rome.

Darian tipped up his beer mug and examined the empty bottom. "Why not."

While there were precious few things Grace missed about being human, she had always enjoyed a good plate of chicken. It didn't taste right anymore, of course, but the truth was, no one who came to Hooters was really there for the wings. Parked on a stool almost directly beneath one of the high-definition televisions, the vampire pounded her fist on the bar as the Cowboys scored six more points, idly examining the tank top of the closest waitress while they set up for the field goal. Exactly who designed those things, Lockheed? Not that she was complaining.

She ordered her fourth beer as the game switched over to a commercial, debating ordering a small plate of wings to go with it just for old times' sake. At least she didn't have to worry about the calories going straight to her thighs.

A whoop from across the room drew her attention away from the ad for salad dressing that was now blaring out of the speakers, and Grace thought she had to be hallucinating when she spotted Darian fiddling with the collar of his shirt before studying the bottom of his own mug. She glanced at her watch, then at the wall calendar behind the bar. Was it the End of Days and no one had told her?

She must not stare. She also must not laugh.

Well, okay, maybe she could at least snicker.

She flagged down the second bartender, tossed a twenty at him across the wooden surface. "For the guy at the end of the bar," she said, indicating the Dealmaker surreptitiously. "Tell him it's from a friend."

"Here you go." The curly-haired waitress put a cold one in front of Darian. "It's paid for. Friend of yours." She smiled and squeezed her breasts together with her arms.

"A friend of mine, huh?" Dubiously, the Dealmaker looked around the restaurant full of sweaty men. It was safe to say that Darian had no male friends. His only real charm was in arrogant flirting, a talent that wasn't doled out to same sex associates.

His eyes found Grace at the bar. "I see her. I'll be over there." He indicated the vampire with a tipped head and got up. It was good to stand up. The ordeal with Atia (particularly the part where he renigged on a deal and abandoned his client for dead) left him worse for the wear, physically. For some reason, it always hit him in the legs first. He figured it was because limping was a blow to his confidence. Made it harder to get around. He had to go slower just to hide it.

Darian navigated the tables and put his mug down next to Grace. "Paying me back for past slights? I hate to tell you, but you'll have to do better than Coors Light."

"Sorry," Grace answered with a slightly amused tone. She really didn't want to piss on Darian's shoes, but this place just so wasn't him. "When I saw you over there, I figured you were slumming. Fitting in seems to be kind of a habit with you, I wouldn't want to break your pattern."

Slights. If she had been in a different mood, that would have served as a suggestion of something, but she couldn't recall the demon having annoyed her. "You're walkin' funny," the vampire remarked, turning away a little to take a sip of her own beer. "Got a charlie horse? Maybe you could ask for an ice pack."

Another waitress sidled past the two of them, and she took a few moments to rate the girl's backside. On a scale of one to ten, an eight and a half. "You on office hours, Darian?"

"What do you think?" Darian got on the chair next to her and put his foot on the rung. "Who wants an icepack? I could probably ask for a personal massage in this place." He eyeballed the waitress Grace was oggling. From the neck down she was passable. Then again, he figured a vampire didn't have much use for what went on above the neck. He took a sip of his drink. "You could do better."

Nearby a customer lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke whirl and disburse. "With Atia's help, you could have anyone you wanted. Why bother with the hired help?"

"I can and have done better," Grace agreed a little gravely. But being in a roomful of humans gave her license to look as much as she wanted. The waitress took her butterface off to the kitchen to empty her drink tray, vanishing from sight as the doors swung shut. The vampire swung back around to face forward.

"Who?" she asked, vaguely interested, a little distracted. She swore she could still taste Bethany's blood, running down the inside of that shot glass and then into her mouth like a Molotov cocktail. True freedom and potential. She wondered if Darian knew that someone had been at his girlfriend.

Atia. The name was familiar, come to think of it. Something Leah had said, an order that couldn't be ignored. Who had the Dealmaker been talking to?

"You know something I don't? Has somebody been taking my name in vain even more than usual?"

"I don't know, Grace. You tell me." Darian's demeanor switched from annoyed to something definitively darker. "One night a few weeks back, I ran into Bethany. Actually it's more accurate to say I ran into a version of her." He looked at Grace. "She was poisoned. Normally I wouldn't care how many women Leviathan's new ball-and-chain pulls this stunt with. If you ask me, it's a hand that's been overplayed and played better. But Bethany prides herself on self-control, and to see that taken away really pisses me off. Especially when she's been sent on an errand. Not to kill, but to fuck."

At this point, he wanted to drink back a bourbon and beer would've been a sorry substitute, so he left that alone. "Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be you."

Grace's attention snapped back from wherever it had been wandering off to at the tone of Darian's voice, and she sat up a litte straighter on the stool. 'Not to kill, but to fuck'. She waited, counted to five to see if the demon was joking, then realized that Darian didn't really have a sense of humor. It was going to make her feel pretty ridiculous if she'd gotten into the shit without even doing anything to deserve it.

"Somebody made mention of the name a little while ago," she said slowly, having abandoned her own mug. "And I been hearin' rumors of a major player in the city lately, kickin' up a ruckus. But I don't know nothin' about somebody offerin' me a hand up."

She could have kept the rest to herself, but her peculiar form of honesty unhinged her jaw before she could really consider it. "I bumped into her the other night. Bethany. She was..."

Grace waved her hand around, fluttering it back and forth. "Coming off of a high or something. I'd never seen her like that except after she was done killin' somebody." Frowning a little now, trying to recall every word. Had the Slayer mentioned Atia outright? No, she didn't think she had.

"She was all sweaty and agitated, couldn't hold still. But I never touched her." Except for that one quick drink, but that had been self-inflicted, so who was counting? "Thought about it. Thought real hard."

Darian wondered if her brain had begun to smoke, with all the thinking. "She's hotter than anyone deserves to be, so I can understand the urge. However, I'm sure you know that would put us in an awkward situation. Future business associates..." He trailed off, letting the reminder of the Ring operation they wanted to overtake settle. "Partners. And you fucking my girl." The last phrase settled baldly. "I don't appreciate triangles."

Grace crossed her legs, trying to pretend like she was just like every other girl in the room and failing miserably. On the television, the Cowboys fumbled the ball spectacularly, and the patrons alternately booed and cheered.

"I didn't fuck your girl, Darian," she told the Dealmaker blandly. "Though why you'd call such a thing a triangle when you haven't seen me naked in months might be called hair-splittin;, but why nitpick over the little shit? Right now you look like a man who'd appreciate a drink. And not that light beer crap."

She paused long enough to order him a bourbon and a shot of whiskey for herself, drumming her fingers lightly on the bar. "Jealousy's hot on you, by the way, seriously. You should try it more often."

"I'd rather not have to." Physically he seemed to take a load off. His shoulders relaxed now that he knew Grace hadn't been in league with Atia, orchestrating the Bethany situation behind his back. He couldn't blame her for wanting the blond, and he didn't own any claim to either of them. What had his balls in a twist was thinking they got the drop on him. He wanted to trust Grace.

He lifted the bourbon to her before he drank it. "Either way, Atia's got your number, so keep a look out. Redhead, dressed like a Roman goddess. Kind-of an HBO knock-off." He pushed up the sleeve of his polo shirt and scratched his arm. "You probably figure into her plans. Speaking of plans, when do you want to take down the Ring? I talked to a guy in security. They can definitely be bought."

"I'm ready whenever you are," the vampire said. "I've had this other gig goin' on for a little while, but I'm thinkin' the wheels are about to come off. Time to get out before the shit starts rainin' down." She shrugged, having signed off on Leah's problem at least in her own head.

"Besides, new ground is always more interestin' than the old," she added, picking up her glass when it arrived and lifting it in a vague toast. New year, new ground, new pastures. A whole new world. She could make her own potential, thankyouverymuch.

"So anytime you're ready, you can find me. You know me, baby, I'm always ready to rumble."

Darian nodded. "I want to move fast but," he lowered his voice and his face grew strained, "You might've noticed I'm not at my best. But there's a match coming up in two weeks. Two high profile contenders. There'll be a large crowd. I think it's a good night to make a very public statement, provided I can get security paid off in time."

His waitress swung by to ask if he wanted anything else. Darian shook his head and asked for the bill he racked up before Grace paid the rest. She flounced off to the register and the Dealmaker added, "Try and stay healthy until then."

"Could say the same for you. You do look like somebody jerked you backwards through a knothole." Grace surveyed Darian critically over the rim of her glass before setting it down. She directed her attention to the game just in time for the commercials to start again, then leaned over far enough to grasp the Dealmaker's shirt collar, then lean over and kiss him lingeringly on the mouth.

Because while Bethany might be off limits, he hadn't said he wasn't.

"Partners." Partners and probably friends, no matter hiow bizarre that might be. Unlife was good.

"Partners," he repeated, allowing time for a cocky smirk. "And Grace? Don't stretch the collar."

When In Rome

It was impossible to think around the commotion of the Ring. Of course, it wasn't the sort of place that people went to exercise their brains. People went to air dirtier habits, like putting money on whether a fighter would escape with all its parts intact... even fervently hoping they wouldn't. The combat continued until somebody died. It could get tacky, at times, when a pulse was discovered on an unconscious participant, and the opponent had to keep bludgeoning away.

Darian was keeping a low profile. If the Overseer noticed the Dealmaker in attendance, he'd probably order an unpleasant removal. So he hung back near the exits, getting a feel for the hired security. He was supposed to pay them off and, with Grace's help, orchestrate a hostile takeover of the venue. Not tonight, but soon.

Midway through the second match, he felt his phone vibrate. Darian stepped out on the concourse, where the jeering was muffled, and answered the call. It was Phillip, head concierge at the Bellagio and go-between for Darian and his clients. Plugging his open ear, Darian gave a listen to Phillip. His responses were loud and clipped, as was the case whenever a new client attempted to renege on payment. The distraction took him farther down the concourse, out of the way of spectators and the single vendor, who pedaled beer.

She'd been running her hands along the crevices of the multi-verse, seeking something out. While it was not true that she was omnipotent, she did have her spies, her ways of gathering information. There was a particular spark she was after, a particular smell. Breathing deep, she allowed the odor to draw her forth, blocking out the tummult surrounding her as if it didn't exist. Regal. Imperious. Filthy. Warped.

Atia.

"A fine night for combat," she said to the impeccably-dressed man standing next to her, giving him a borderline disinterested look as she fell into step beside him. "Reminiscent of the Coliseum. The only thing that's changed is the year. Beasts will always fight."

Her voice carried despite the finger he'd put in his ear, so she knew he heard her. Heard her down in his bones, in his guts, where the creature beyond the human facade lived. She was wearing a simple white tunic and leather sandals, her arms exposed to the night air. "You do not mind if I walk with you, do you?" A coy smile, followed by a touch to his arm. Lingering on the surface of his psyche before withdrawing. She was not without her resources, could likely do grievous harm to him should she so choose, but he'd succeeded in interfering with something she'd wanted done, no matter how briefly. It made her curious.

"Most strange," the Corruptress remarked. "The girl struggled for a few moments, but she eventually succumbed. What I did not count on...was you."

Darian stopped walking and pulled the phone away from his ear. From the small speaker, Phillip's voice could still be heard, asking Darian if he was there. He was no longer interested. He closed the device and put it in the inside pocket of his coat.

"You must be Atia."

In his voice, too, a certain nonchalance, though he could feel the supernatural significance of the entity radiating off her in invisible, blackened waves. She was the new consort of Leviathan. There was no way he'd have missed that detail, even if he hadn't pressed his luck with Bethany... Even if he hadn't done it partly to see what might happen. At times, Darian could be like an errant child with a stick, poking a snake until it hissed and struck. He'd know it because of the magnetism she had, like unseen fingers beckoning closer. Images inserted themselves into his brain, of obeisance to her, hands clinging to the length of her tunic, and maybe a temple pressed against her breastbone. Filial.

Not likely.

He had known Elfleda for over a century, and still refused to show that kind of allegiance. Refused it, even when he felt it.

"I had a feeling you might stop by." Self-importantly, like a privileged child, he clasped his hands behind his back and waited, smiling. "It's subtle," he added on, pointing at the undisturbed air around her. "Pythia had a thing for theatrics."

"Oh, I have gone by many a name," the madwoman said in an airy voice, touching a finger to the point of her chin. "But I have always been Atia, even when I was someone else." She regarded the suit the Dealmaker wore with minimal interest, released a small 'hmm' from her throat, continued on past the beer vendor with his wheeled cart. "But you have only recently been Darian, more recently than you care to admit."

'Recently' was relative, of course, given the demon's age, but there was a thing he never spoke of, even to Bethany Richards. For the woman by his side, it was both a lure to pull him closer and a stick to beat him with. He fancied himself so above his brethren that he might need to be reminded that he was not. The humbling lesson he had learned at Elfleda's hands had clearly lost its luster.

"As for my no longer exalted sister," the redhead added, "unlike her I have no need of or interest in theatrics. I will leave the pyrotechnics to the infants. What I am interested in is getting things accomplished. Husband grows weary of babying the likes of these mortals. I was summoned to call a halt to...playtime."

She turned her head to look at him again, looking up to take in the full beauty of that aristocratic, if utterly false, face. "Did you fear for her faithfulness, perhaps?" she asked, the honeyed sweetness of her voice covering up a layer of bile more corrosive than any acid. "Her sexual purity? Hypocritical of you, considering you've already taken your pleasure with the other. Then again, men are quite comfortable with hypocrisy the moment something involves their cocks."

A deliberate beat. "Human men, that is."

Darian smiled. He was oh so familiar with verbal manipulation, because it was his forte. Rarely did he let slip a chance to drive a point deeper, all the way to the painful, bloody core. He rocked on his heels and looked over Atia's head, at the underside of stadium seating. "What I did with Grace was under circumstances quite different. I won't bore you with the obvious contrast... that at the time, I was romantically unattached. I should think the greater distinction here is that when I slept with Grace, it was my choice... Not some supernaturally orchestrated rape. What you've done to Bethany is reminiscent of the seedy tricks of fraternity boys. Little pills dissolving in the bottom of cups."

Here his eyes blinked back to Atia's. He put on a curious expression. "I can't fathom what you have to gain by making an already corrupt Slayer sleep with a Vampire. It hardly seems the stuff of diabolical strategy. Is Leviathan supposed to be titillated by what you've done?" He tipped his head. "I suppose you could be fulfilling a personal fantasy. It's rumored that Leviathan doesn't even have anatomical parts, forget about fingers. How unfortunate for you, the... 'spiritually' fucked."

Darian spared a glance downward. "Remind me to find Elfleda and pass along my thanks. Since I was cleansed, I've found myself a lot more thankful for my human form. Recent, sure, but better late than never."

"'Romantically unattached.' How urbane of you. Also a lie, since the moment the woman comes anywhere near you, you forget your own name. But why quibble?"

Atia took Darian's arm without asking as the two of them continued to walk along the concourse. "As for the blood-drinker, I require something of her. I thought to offer her the easiest bait, to pull her away from the one who made her. Make her more malleable. If I must appeal to her licentious desires for that, then so be it."

There was a silence between them as the sound of the wagering inside intensified, and once it had grown long enough the Corruptress said, "As for my needs, you shouldn't concern yourself, though its flattering that you worry about your mother. As the years pass, I find that mere sexual intercourse is hardly enough to slake my appetite. Fucking loses something if you live long enough." She shook her head at him. "My orgasms come from conquest. Conquest and destruction."

Darian didn't fight the linking of arms. It was no more of a courtesy than he'd extend to Elfleda, and he did still consider it that. His courtesy to her.

The demon listened to Atia champion the superiority of her way. Striding slowly he wore a sympathetic look. "If that's the case, I fear you'll find Las Vegas an unsatisfying lover. If you've come here thinking it will be an easy take, your expectations are too high. Though you might not share Elfleda's methods, you can admit her commitment to the cause. For more than three years, she's been forming relationships with the white hats... milking them for every ounce of corruption they've got. Elfleda didn't seek to stamp them out. She sought to convert them and then use them. She's a puppeteer; she's not a slacker."

In that speech, there was a hint that Darian's feelings about the former Corruptress were complicated. There was healthy dose of loathing, but mixed up in it, begrudging respect. He went on, "Perhaps you'd be wise to save your bragging until you've accomplished something of import. Something more than the average spellcaster could accomplish. Even a human can summon demons."

Insolent slug. "The bloodshed is yet to come," Atia told Darian blandly. "Had I wished to crush them, I could have done so with one hand. Leviathan would rather have cooperation, it is simply less...concerned about how that cooperation comes to pass."

She paused, then waved a hand at nothing. "The ones I have selected are already on their own darkened paths. I have merely...goosed them along a little farther than they've already gone. That includes your Bethany. Once the groundwork for corruption has been laid, there is nothing to do but build upon it. Tend it well, so that it flourishes like a garden. The dirt a human soul is made from is fertile earth indeed, Darian, surely you know that. Do you not offer the fantastic to the undeserving, as long as they meet the terms of your contracts?"

Sound logic for a lunatic, as far as she was concerned. Then again, she was in one of her lucid periods. "But you dance around the reasons for your interference, albeit quite nimbly. Was it only her free will you sought to protect? Or that she might give to someone else what you claim as yours, even if you must lie about it to preserve your image?"

This end of the concourse was abandoned of spectators, and Darian stopped walking. Neither of them truly had any use for privacy. Both were creatures that would do grave harm in the public eye, were it deemed necessary. But if a scene could be avoided, it cut down on interference.

"I don't see why my reasons interest you," Darian said. "I'm not one of your selected drones. Clearly you consider me either a novelty or a threat, or you wouldn't be wasting our time. Let me speak plainly. I am like a man, even if not a man. I've no qualms about admitting that I behave as one, in this regard. I was faced with a choice. I could thwart her sexual intentions towards Grace... twist them into something I could use. Or I could step aside out of some misplaced nobility."

The Dealmaker leaned closer. "I am not a martyr, for you or any other Bride. I take what I want. That includes the Slayer."

Atia exposed her teeth in a smile as she looked up at the Dealmaker, the fact that she was a full head shorter than he was making them look quite mis-matched. Around her, the air trembled with expectation. "Martyrdom," she said. "No, indeed, I would never associate you with such a thing. Elfleda has never spoken of you to me, but I am not unaware of your reputation. Or your penchant for defiance." She touched his chest with a finger, the place where his ribcage came together.

"In fact, I believe it was your defiance, your refusal to give the girl over to my sister that caused your most recent trouble. Reduced to humanity out of an unwillingness to obey." She clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, a tutting sound. Dreadful little boy. The Corruptress hooked her finger into his shirt between two buttons, tugged the fabric away from his torso.

"Let me speak plainly," she said, parroting his words with the faintest hint of mockery. "You are no martyr, but you have created a debt. Stolen something useful to Leviathan. When someone creates a debt with you, do you not demand repayment? Why should I behave differently?" One bare shoulder lifted in a shrug.

"You have altered the path the Slayer will take," she intoned, looking inward for a moment. "Changed what will occur with your actions. If it means so very much to you to defy us by shielding her, regardless of your reasons, perhaps you should care to serve in her stead."

A peculiar thing happened to the Dealmaker's face. Hardness set in around his eyes, their green color dulling down to a steely shade of grey. But his mouth curved into a smile, probably because he had expected such manipulative behavior. "I'm not sure I follow your reasoning, Atia. From where I stand, it looks as if you altered Bethany's path to serve Leviathan's purposes."

He lifted a finger. "Now this may be going out on a limb, but I'm not sure she'd have considered having sex with Grace, had you not planted the seeds. Besides, the Slayer isn't a demon. There's no... belonging to Leviathan, no family connection. If anything, you've got her on loan. How could I have stolen what you never owned?"

He checked his watch and slid his hands into his trouser pockets. "I've got a minute. You can spend it explaining what service you think I owe, what Bethany failed to do that you think I should. Or maybe you'd like to spend it on threats. Please, tell me what'll happen if I don't fall in line." His eyebrows raised expectantly.

Atia was no longer looking inward. She was now looking at Darian, into Darian, as though the finger invading his shirt were a needle she planned to insert into his soul so that she could take it apart to see how the pieces worked. Her lunacy stared out at him as though it were a long-caged animal that had suddenly found the door to its prison ajar, and the corners of her mouth ticked upwards a little further.

"That's a terrible way to speak to your mother, Darin."

Her other hand reached out and snagged his shirt near the collar, the first bunching into fabric near his belly, and she used the material to scale him as though she were a mountain goat, her body climbing his until she could lock her ankles together at the base of his spine. Her sandals were dusty, and they left sandy streaks on the cloth. The tunic rode up to her thighs, and now she was looking down at him, the silent voices of her entourage sounding like cicadas, making the air vibrate.

"You owe what I say you owe." Her stare bore down on his face as though she were looking for a single loose thread anywhere in his being that she could find, something to pluck at until it came loose in her hands. To unravel him, literally.

"Should you like to be Darin again? For all that you may despise your outward humanity, I think you far prefer it to the way you used to look." Pluck, pluck, pluck, invisible fingers reaching past his psychic defenses, looking for a single loose brick. Worming her way under his armor.

If she had wielded that as a weapon two years prior, he wouldn't have cared. Darian had made a deal with Jason Toren, former Wolfram and Hart lawyer, to give him back his demon form, something he had craved for centuries. After all, it hadn't been his choice to be the spitting image of a human; it was the sorcerer Iain's idea, a way to make the Dealmaker more effective. And it was done without his agreement, a memory that still burned him and made him distrust magic. But the deal with Toren went sour.

Now there was Bethany, a reason to be grateful for and even to protect his human form. And even if there hadn't been a Bethany to love, there would've been a Grace to want, a Dyan, an Erato, even a Jill or an Elise to admire.

"You're wrong about the name," he said, grinding the words between his teeth like rocks. "In that form, I had no name. Darin came later." He clenched her ribcage with his fingers, holding onto Atia but not supporting weight. Darian would rather pluck her off his body like a tick. "Your threats won't change anything. This body, this 'outward humanity' isn't an outfit you can peel off."

In that, Darian was correct. The look was an integral part of him. Iain had made sure of it, magically transforming him at the molecular level from one type of creature into another. From purely physical to metaphysical. The deal with Toren wouldn't have worked. This was his 'demon form'.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I want your obedience, you pox-riddled sow," Atia gritted back, and her arms came up to wrap around the Dealmaker's shoulders in a mockery of a lover's embrace. He might not hold her, but she would hold him, to his detriment. "But barring that, I would have your cooperation," she added, latching one hand into his hair. "You take what you want? So be it. So do I."

"Your man on the phone," she said, indicating the pocket the demon had slipped his cell into. "He speaks of another debt, one of your arrangements unpaid for. Give the thieving soul to me and your lover will not need to have the aftereffects of my touch flushed from her soul again. Is that a fair trade, Dealmaker?"

A fair trade. That was laughable.

The muscles of his jaw shifted in time with Darian's grinding teeth. If new 'step-mother' was up on her demonology, then she'd know that breaking a deal with Darian was damaging to both parties. The client who reneged got maimed for their troubles, and Darian lost a substantial amount of metaphysical energy in the process. Deals were his livelihood. He was bound to them. If he couldn't track down Ralph Frazier and force him to pay up... If instead, he turned Ralph over to Atia for her amusement, Darian would doubley feel the blow.

The question was whether it was worth it, just to release Bethany from future obligations. The question was whether she'd want him to. He gave his brain freedom to wander. He imagined what might've been, had he not run into Bethany on the street. The Dealmaker's fingers dug into Atia's sides, at a strength that would've damaged a regular woman.

There was no stopping the present infection. It would run its course through the Slayer. But he could stop Atia from actively seeking her out for round two.

He breathed impatiently. "Fine." He showed her his palm and let the crackling sphere rise above it. Inside was a clear image of Ralph Frazier, Atia's newest toy. "Enjoy yourself."

"Such a good boy." Atia's voice had deepened into a purr, and she gave Darian a powerful squeeze with her thighs. "Such a good son." The redhead tweaked the end of the demon's nose, and then hopped down, doubtlessly leaving him feeling as if he needed an acid bath.

"Isn't it better when we cooperate?" She could feel his irritation as if she were being stroked, and she twirled a few strands of hair around her index finger as she retreated. Time was passing again, and that meant it was time to be on her way. If nothing else, she had to go and collect her prize.

"Do give her my regards, won't you? She seemed quite...grateful for the attention." The Corruptress blew the demon a kiss, then vanished from sight as if she'd never existed. Leaving him alone on the concourse.

The miniature coliseum erupted in a roar as spectators celebrated the night's victor.

Darian turned away from the noise and stripped off his tie. Cold sweat began to wet his clothes. It was a matter of time before punishment began... Ralph Frazier's screams rising in his throat while the Dealmaker's filled with bile.

Prowling

Bethany was still riding high on that wave of pleasure and adrenaline that had come with Atia's touch and that kiss, the very same one that had reached invisible hands deep inside her soul and pulled at the seams, opening the hole wider and farther so that darkness could overwhelm and suffocate it.

She was passing people in the street, senses more attuned to them than they had been before. Everything was suddenly more intoxicating and she ached for every moment, wanting to dominate and possess, taste and devour, push the limits and slide further and faster into the darkness clawing at her.

Her confidence was apparent, the way she turned heads and passed slow smiles at the wandering eyes. Vegas. She could feel its pulse like her own, beating beneath her feet and thrumming through her veins like the blood that kept her alive. Bethany was aimless, with only a vague idea of what she should do; she had never been one to follow anyone else's whim easily, after all.

She touched strangers, invaded their space and didn't care, seeking out the beats of their hearts with her ears and fingers, challenging them to say or do something to tell her no. They never did. Her skin was glowing in the lights of the Vegas night, hair damp with sweat and body oozing a darkness that was part her own but part something else.

It was only when she caught a familiar scent on the breeze that her footsteps stilled and she looked around, closing her eyes and turning her head to follow its movement on the air.

In films, lovers would often be depicted as circling one another while their senses heightened to a fever pitch. They engaged in a dance while pulses raced, swirling the way thoughts could.

Bethany closed her eyes and took in the fragrances of skin and hair and cloth. Her body turned as if on a string, following him because him, she knew.

Darian pivoted around the Slayer as if looking for insight. What difference was there in a body that looked the same, slender like a dancer’s, but postured itself sinuously, sexually, like even the night air caressed her in secret places?

She looked had.

Satisfied. Post-orgasmic. Not satisfied.

His mouth twitched. It could be difficult, when your soul was in question, to decide whether to be jealous or turned on. He supposed it was possible to be both. “Bethany.” He touched the small of her back. “You’ve been taking liberties.”

Bethany's eyes opened and the dark depths regarded his face, sliding over the high cheekbones and running along the strong jaw line that held the aftershave she had tasted with her tongue on more than one occasion. Her hand lifted to his neck, cool nails sliding over the pulse she knew by touch alone before her lips pulled apart to reveal teeth.

"You think so?" She stepped up closer, splaying her fingers and grasping the side of Darian's neck. "And you?" She angled her head, lips mere inches away from Darian's, eyes dark with questions and unreadable emotions. She would have smelt different, herself but not. There was something else there, familiar but different at the same time.

She reached upwards, tangling fingers in his hair and drawing herself closer to him and him closer to her. In truth, Bethany could share her body with countless lovers if she chose to, but it was Darian that held sway over her heart.

He watched her from close range. “Only in my imagination.”

His fingers on her back began to wander higher, counting the vertebrae of her spine. Darian knew her. The looks she could give, before and afterward. This look had a little of both. “Whose fingers do I have to break?” Rules be fucked. They had an open relationship. It didn’t mean he couldn’t stop things from happening twice.

The saunter she had was either the work of Ecstasy in a large dose or some kind of residual spell. Nobody shot off hormones like that, at least no human, and not naturally. The Dealmaker put his mouth on hers. It looked like a kiss, but he was tasting.

And Bethany arched under his touches like a cat, pressing the inches of her back against his questing fingertips. Her lips curled, stomach fluttering at the possessive tone and the low threat. It was nice to feel wanted, to know he still felt for her the way she did for him. Open relationship or not.

It was when he kissed her that she opened, body and soul. Atia was there, on the edge of her tongue and farther. Her corruption festered in the deep, dark places in Bethany, growing and spreading, and it wouldn't be long until Bethany knew no more rhyme and certainly no more reason.

She tangled her arms around his neck and pulled him down farther, drawing him in as deep and close as she could.

Darian probed until he tasted it in the back of her mouth. Something dark and bittersweet like licorice. Magnetic, too, because its source had a place by Leviathan’s side and held sway over demons. He would’ve thought it was Elfleda, if he didn’t know better. Elfleda was out of commission.

Because in many ways he was just a guy, Darian didn’t back off. Sure, it was the equivalent of finding out his girl wasn’t in her right mind, and this could be construed as taking advantage, but ‘right mind’ was relative where the blonde was concerned, and he liked to think her tongue would be down his throat anyway.

On the sidewalk, people commented on the lip-lock as they passed by, whistled, made lewd comments. At least one of them, Darian thought, was a pretty goddamn good suggestion.

He locked his fingers behind her head and slanted her mouth. The tip of his tongue stretched to the roof of her mouth and made one long, slow stroke. He felt the corruption in his toes. He broke off and said, “Looks like somebody’s had a visit from downstairs. I should probably lock you up for the duration. You could be a danger to yourself.” He didn't have any particular concern for others, except maybe himself. By the time this wore off, there could be a lot more fingers to break.

[Thread: Open to Bethany]
**Possible Adult Content (Sexuality)***

Halloween Thread: Fetish Ball

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1242312.html

The Birthright Crew (Convention Panel Thread)

http://www.greatestjournal.com/community/free_form/1236779.html

Drink, Bash, Bitch, Ditch

Danni lounged in one of the booths under the moonlit sky on the Terrace at Pure. She twirled the little straws in her drink idly as she waited for Darick to arrive. She'd had a bit of trouble getting in the door, never a true A-lister, but being a member of the Birthright cast got her through. She nodded to a few people as greetings were offered but mostly just kept to herself.

She was in a mellow mood this evening, a rare event for the raging bitch on set. She rarely thought of anyone but herself and boy did it really burn her ass to be finally shot to stardom by Ed. The shit. She shook her head and fluffed her hair out with a low growl.

At least she had her looks and her voice; at close to 40 if she didn't, she'd be sunk. She played a mid 30 something on the show, but expert makeup artists concealed the signs of aging on her extremely well. Not that there were terribly many to begin with. A few crow's feet around the eyes, a bit of a set of brackets around the mouth. Both could be sexy on the right kind of woman, and she was that kind of woman.

Trouble was, not too many people realized it. They mobbed the younger cast members and the older ones like herself and Di were left in the proverbial dust. Ah well, it definitely wouldn't hurt her reputation to be seen with Darick this evening. Where the hell was he, anyway?

“Off the jacket, Jessica... Get off. Get off.”

A sea of prying fingers... it was the story of his career as of late. Though Darick Delmacher had graduated Harvard and brought home a prestigious award to his fledgling documentary filmmaking company, those days were far removed. Fresh out of ideas and inspiration, the handsome talent first had a breakdown, complete with trip to an outpatient mental clinic. Then he resurfaced as an actor, relying heavily on his looks and snobbish delivery to gain him credibility as Darian on Birthright

Hollywood credibility, that was... Not so much with the scholarly crowd. However, so far as wealth and fame were concerned, there was no shortage of cash and neither did Darick lack for fan girls, a fact that was apparent as he pried the fingernails out of his clothes.

He worked his way to Danni’s side and plopped into a seat. The dramatic flair wasn’t finished there. Darick whipped off his glasses -- purely aesthetic, of course -- and polished the lenses. “Sorry, I got manhandled by some celebutante at the door. You work with Martin Scorsese once, suddenly she thinks you’re Jesus fucking Christ. How are you?”

Danni watched as Darick practically ripped the hands off some girl who'd managed to get through the security at the door and smirked to herself at his tirade as he settled across from her. She pushed the half finished drink in his direction, nothing girly, single malt scotch on the rocks.

She knew the obnoxious little waiter would be along in about half a second to drool on the exceedingly handsome man now occupying her table. "I'm not too bad, not nearly as well mauled as you though," she answered with a faint sneer for the fan girls just barely keeping their distance. The Greek accent she used for the show was absolutely absent, she was from Canada, after all.

Oh, she had her share of rabid fans, but they weren't really the sort to be partying hard in a place such as this. They were more the sort to be putting her name into Google and stocking up on tissues and letters clipped from magazine articles. Goddamned middle aged stalker men. She flicked a wrist to hurry the waiter up and ordered a fresh drink for herself as she lit a California Dreams cigarette. It was bright blue, which amused her to no end.

"So do tell, Darick, what's going on in your rich and famous lifestyle?" It'd been a bit too long since they'd last spent time together and she was hopelessly behind. Between spats with that whore, Jean, and vicious claws and hair tearing with Rachel over her constant pranking, she just had no time to do anything but be a bitch anymore.

The actor took a gulp of Danni’s scotch and made a face. “That tastes like horse piss.” He brought a new pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, which was brown corduroy and worn at the elbows. Tapping into his palm, he went on, “I got a call-back for an Ang Lee project. I don’t think I’m going to take it. He’s so washed up... talk about a one-hit wonder. Can you believe he‘s going for the gay angle again? I can‘t imagine why he thinks I‘d be perfect for it.”

Darick put a cigarette in his mouth and lit up. The taste went down smooth. He crossed his arms and leaned into the seat. After a moment or two, he rubbed his neck, the epitome of a man who could not sit still. “Do you feel a draft? I can’t wait until scarf season.”

He smoked steadily and watched a troupe of socialites at the bar.

Danni had to laugh at the face Darick made at the drink, he made like such a manly man but the finest scotch tasted like horse piss. "To each their own," she toasted him with the fresh glass and smoked as he related the Lee project. She could imagine why he'd be perfect for it. Utterly hot as some roughed out fag doing who knew what.

She blew a few absent smoke rings and watched the people around them as well until he asked if she felt a draft. Then she burst out laughing and pointed over the railing, "Of course there's a draft, we're four stories in the open air!" The Terrace was absolutely huge, all tricked out like a swank garden patio in some very wealthy idiot's back yard but it was on the roof of Caesar's Palace instead.

"We could go get cozy over there in one of those chairs made for two by the fire pit if you're chilled though," came the offer in a slightly amused tone. They were big wicker and rattan nests, very plushly lined with a large pad in the bottom and comfortable pillows to create any kind of support one might desire.
The actor snorted and scratched his nose. “Can you imagine the rumors? Darian and Dyan up to old tricks.” He ordered a Guinness for himself and kept rubbing his neck. In the process he noticed how long his hair was getting. He wouldn’t pretend to understand what was going on with the hairstylists now. Compared with season one standards, the Dealmaker was looking almost grizzled; just two episodes ago, they left him with a five o’clock shadow just to see what the viewers would make of it.

“Let’s move,” he decided. He was grateful she picked the Terrace over the crowd inside; it meant he didn’t have to argue with her. The woman was antagonistic. In fact, she reminded him of Tatum O’Neil. Antagonistic was better than boring, except that it occasionally had them bickering like two bitches.

Darick got up and made himself comfortable in one of the chairs Danni pointed out. He didn’t care if she was joking or not. His beer came and he drank some off the top before deciding he was tired of talking about himself. “You’ve got two choices,” he said, practically snapping the ash off his cigarette. “We can talk shit about somebody on set or you can tell me what’s going on with you and Rachel.”

Danni had to laugh, one hand going up in the air to drop the too long ashes over the edge of the roof and send them swirling into the night below. "Old tricks indeed, wonder what the fans would say." A chuckle followed the rhetoric as she got up and followed him over to the fire pit.

She had a drink in each hand now, the scotch he'd derided as horse piss and the second she'd ordered in case he'd kept it. She settled in beside him after dropping her spent cigarette somewhat clumsily into the fire. Then she finished off the more empty of the glasses and set it on a table close by before she looked over at him, the fire setting amber sparks to dark blue eyes that regarded him with something like surprise.

"Talking shit or discussing my paid make out partner, huh?" The blonde shook her head and set the still mostly full glass alongside the empty one, those suddenly intense eyes taking in everything and everyone around them. She really did not want to wind up in the scandal rags for discussing Rachel. Not that there was much she could say.

"Rachel is a joker, so different from her character. I take it you haven't had her prank a scene on you yet?" She snorted softly, remembering the time Piper had surprised them in the middle of a love scene by bursting out of the fridge of all places! "It gets on my nerves sometimes, creates a hell of a lot more work than is really required to swap spit and pretend to fuck, you know?" They fought about it constantly, but maybe that was because Rachel had flatly turned down the older woman's off screen advance once upon a time.

Darian waved his cigarette at her. “Speak for yourself. Who’s pretending?”

The bottom of his beer was a long way off, so he redoubled his efforts to finish it and get on the road towards a buzz. He was by no means a lightweight, but unlike his character, Darick was still capable of getting drunk within the allotted hour. He went back to the thing about Rachel. The Scottish actress was the reigning princess of the blooper reel on the DVD extras, and a favorite of the convention fans. That was fine by him; the only blooper he featured in was when his clip-on tie flew off his shirt mid-take.

“If she did that to me, I’d be pissed. It’s unprofessional.” He tossed his cigarette on the cement, suddenly feeling very jaded. It was possible to tire of one‘s own personality, a fact that Darick experienced weekly. “Ignore me, I’m jealous. No one’s crashing my scenes. I’d practically pay for it, at this point. Since when did the writing get so stale?”

On a roll with a topic he could actually care about, the former Ivy Leaguer leaned towards Danni and lit into the creative team. “You ever notice what Darian does? He negotiates... over and over and over. Nothing ever happens!” The actor sloshed his beer. “It’s the fucking censorship. They upped the rating on that episode with the Bethany look-a-like, the one he shot, and now his storylines are so squeaky clean, you’d think the network wiped them down with Purell.”

Darick finished his beer and sleeved his mouth. “Maybe I should do the Ang Lee project.”

Danni snorted and took a long drink from her glass as she considered the pretending question. "She's pretending, I wouldn't be.. crew and cameras be damned." She toasted him as he began to drink in earnest and waved a waiter over to order a fresh round for them. "It might be unprofessional, but most of the cast adores her. I heard there's some tape of the Searchlight graveyard from last night, she nearly scared the pants off Piper."

She blonde stroked his arm and let her fingers trace lightly over the back of his hand before withdrawing into her own space again. "I'm sure she'll crash one of yours eventually, she's gotten everyone but me and you, it seems." It helped that most of Danni's scenes were with Rachel.

"Your Purell, my mush. I play a gods be damned vampire in love," she spat and made a face. "Vampires are supposed to be violent and cause trouble and be rampantly sexual! Instead, I do that in reality and my character is a little lamb." She made a harumphing noise, lit a fresh cigarette and swallowed the last of the now watered down scotch just as the waiter came by with their fresh round.

"I know just what you mean, the writers they have on crew these days just have no real head for demonic evil. Purity’s got a decent story going on, what with those shadow things and Elfleda with being kicked out of her spot as the Bride." She drew hard on the tobacco, this one wrapped in baby pink paper, and blew the smoke at a couple of people who were staring and taking pictures with their cell phones.

Without a drink or a smoke to busy the fastidious actor’s hands, he was stuck smoothing back his hair. He looked stressed. “Man... I completely blew off that scene. Did you see the dailies? They wanted Darian to fall all over himself at the chance to screw her drunk. The thing is, they’ve got him built up to be this debonair asshole, but he’s supposed to be arrogant. The way I see it, Darian would love to pound her back to whatever Hell she came from, but wasted? That’s doesn’t even count. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.”

He shielded his eyes from the bright beam of light shooting out of some woman’s camera phone. It wreaked havoc on his glasses lenses. Thankfully the amateur paparazzi got the point and closed down shop.

Paranoia crept up on him. “Do you think I should’ve gone through with it?” Darick asked. “I mean they’ll probably make me shoot it anyway, fucking contract, but I definitely pushed back the schedule.”

Danni handed Darick the fresh drink she'd ordered for him and shook her head slightly. "Stick to your guns, an actor without standards is nothing." She flicked the second spent butt into the fire, only having barely resisted the urge to send it in the direction of the gawkers instead. She sipped from her own fresh glass and leaned a little closer to him to comment quietly, "You could probably demand to write your own stuff and get it pushed through."

She set the glass aside and tugged the ends of his too long hair lightly with a smirk. "At least you've still got your looks, everyone knows I'm just about washed up." Her tone was harsh, even if her expression was not. Without warning, she burst into song, that velvety sandpaper voice, "I'm no Barbie doll, I'm not your baby girl, So I've done ugly things and I have made mistakes, And I am not as pretty as those girls in magazines, I am rotten to my core if they're to be believed, So what if I'm no baby bird hanging upon your every word? Nothing ever smells of roses that rises out of mud..."

The people around them looked on, startled as she let the words trail away into nothing. Some rock song from the mid 90s that had been kicking around in her head, it sort of applied to the studios and the tabloids for her. "They might make you do it, but I bet you could force it to be sober and more of a challenge. You have enough pull to do something like that."

It's a cable network, for crying out loud. Why were they being subjected to exactly what he said, fucking censorship. The television viewers these days were so much more liberal with the things they wanted to see on programming they paid to receive, why not give them what they asked for?

"Maybe you should do the Lee project, who knows? Is the script any good?" An afterthought, for sure, but it'd take his mind off Elfleda and the like. "You'd be hot as a gay guy, one of those that comes from around the corner and shocks the hell out of everyone." A wink as Danni finished her third drink and set the glass aside to twine her fingers together in her lap.

“Yeah, maybe,” Darick said, uncommitted to the idea.

The actor went half-deep into the new Guinness and licked his lips. “Tell you what though, I’ll quit before I write an episode of a serial drama. It’s one thing to act in it; you can blame the writers if its schlock.”

He was too cold on the edge of the terrace, but now by the fire, Darick felt like his corduroy jacket might spontaneously combust from all the heat. He got up and stood instead, a hand in the pocket of his jeans, while he polished off the beer. “Maybe I’ll film a documentary about all the fucking and drugs going on behind the scenes. There’s the real story.”

The doors swung open and gave view to the posh party happening inside Pure. He tipped his head at the terrace rail, seeming to actually consider jumping his way out of there instead. “Too bad I can’t teleport.” He put the glass down. “Try not to kill anyone on the way to your car. The press is out in force. See you.”

Danni watched him with a faint smirk, the cold and the heat and the crowd finally getting to be too much for the star. She stood as well and nodded before giving his shoulder a squeeze. "A documentary would probably sell like hot cakes, Darick." She winked and shook her head as she headed to the steps.

"You be careful too, thanks for coming out tonight." She gave a wave as she stepped onto the crazy twisting steps and started down. Of course, she had to dodge drunken fools all the way down but it wasn't nearly as bad as the line to get into the elevator and descend into the main section of the club as if one were a god.

She made it out the doors and was promptly accosted by a jerk with a video camera shoved in her face. She shoved the camera out of her way with a growl. "Get lost, can't a woman have a few drinks with a pal in peace?" That was what she got for going to the drinking home of the A-list starlets.

Did That Just Happen?

Of all the no-name bars, he had to pick this one.

That’s what Darian was thinking. It seemed an unfortunate turn of fate for a number of reasons. One, his client was late, and if things were going to run late, the Dealmaker’s impatient waiting could at least be done in style and not with peanuts grinding into oblivion underfoot. Two, there was a high-definition sports channel on the widescreen television, a fact he noticed very quickly upon getting there. Darian could’ve done without that, along with the raucous cheering in his ear. When an elbow jostled him in celebration of a touchdown, Darian almost choked the man. In all seriousness.

He was on edge, annoyed to almost pre-Nevada levels. Tardiness from clients wasn’t something he was used to or would tolerate. Apparently he’d been too easygoing lately and word was spreading that Darian could be flexible. Mr. Maloney needed to come up with a very valid excuse before he arrived for their appointment. Something like, “I got hit by a car on the way.”

Darian ordered a bourbon and stared at the high-definition close-up of a linebacker’s backside. Why, why would straight men pay for that kind of clarity?

"Oh-h-h-h...!"

It was a schoolgirl's giggle, flirtatious and full of drunken squiffle. The source of it being pushed against him, one palm spreading across his chest for balance.

"Why, it's lovvvellllly Misssttttter Daaaarian!"

And a girl it was, just not one who would have qualified for being of any legitimate school age. The usual link of spiritual shadows between them was gone, but there was no mistaking who that vision of white and black could be.

Ellfeda... And she was as pissed as a newt.

"Hhhhhave you met my wonderfluu... Wondfluffer... Wondlerfluff... My hhhappy new friend, Misssterrr Darrrina... Dariannn... Mmm, yes, that's your names... Name," she corrected herself, using a point of wavering finger to emphasis her point, "Isn't it, darrrling...?"

Despite the smallish stature of the drunken demoness, ‘Mister Darrina’ was almost bowled over by the collision, and that was a feat considering his height. But the sudden weight slamming into him was only half the surprise, because the woman manhandling him was none other than Elfleda.

Bride of Leviathan. Corruptress of Champions. Emissary to the Darkness.

Yet she smelled (and felt) like a bar fly.

“Yeh-gg-ugh!“ No, not an ancient demon language, but a noise of total astonishment from the Dealmaker. He recoiled and pushed her off, only to give his surroundings a suspicious look, as if searching for a hidden camera. In all the hundreds of years he had known her, there had always been a ‘look and get touched but don’t touch’ policy in place with ‘mother’, and discovering her breasts smashed up against his shoulder was a little like falling hands-first on a stove eye. No matter how tempting it was to cop a long-anticipated feel, there was also a mad scramble to put his hands anywhere but.

He kept her at arm’s length. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He tugged on his coat to straighten up and kept looking around, pretending to be scandalized in case the big L was watching/listening.

Moreover, what the hell was ‘wonder fluff‘?

"Now you'rrre ssspoilinnnnng all my fffffun..." Elfleda replied, pouting as if hurt. "Jusss' like Lithofffan... Livvveathon... Levi... Thingy..."

She went to give him a good-humored nudge, but Elfleda seemed so off-balance and... 'Bendy'... that the gesture transformed into more of a smear, like she was wiping some sort of alcoholic resin from off her fingers and onto his chest.

My, but it was broad, wasn't it? Because the more she wiped, the more she noticed it and ended up adopting a rather bemused smile at his torso. A smile which came to an end, as someone yelled out in a cheer at what was going on with the television, putting the brunette off her pseudo-hypnotic train of thought.

Alone. All alone. Poor Elfleda.

It was enough to move her a little past him and slump down into the nearest chair.

"That stttupid bassstarrrrrd," the drunken Elfleda spoke, words slurring, but the bitterness was clear for all to hear. Those listening, at any rate. "Went off an' left me! Left me!" She repeated, complete with a misguided point of finger at herself, the digit going floppy as soon as it impacted against sternum. "That slefff-'mporrrtant bitttch..."

If that was anything to go by, the entity known as 'Leviathan', amongst many names, seemed not to have a specific gender.

Darian was dumbfounded.

In all his years as a deal-making demon, he had witnessed many a shudder of carnal satisfaction from his clients. After all, not all of the deals he made were for money or job promotions or the like. People wanted sex, drugs, fixes of all different kinds, which meant that he had paid witness to the resolution of many secret desires, all of them ending in that down deep shudder of satisfaction. Generally he looked down his nose on that kind of self-gratification. He had never pegged himself for a shudder-guy.

So it came as quite the disappointment to learn that a simple slap-smear of Elfleda’s palm down his torso could do that kind of physiological damage to him. And yet there he was, reveling in a jolt that shot through him like a current. BAM. Sexual arousal.

She slinked off and he swallowed hard.

But what else could be expected? Even in her drunken state, she was the cherry on top of the hot fudge sundae of Evil, the pinnacle of delectable treats that no demon ever got to lay hands on, despite unrelenting taunts to the contrary.

And there she was. Wasted. Groping. Needy. All things he normally found to be a turn-off in women, and yet somehow, still hot. And apparently single.

Wait... What?

He took a seat and laced his fingers on the table. Darian leaned in incredulously. “Wait a minute. Leviathan... broke up with you? How exactly does that work?”

Elfleda gave an unintentionally comical, "Pffft!" Voicing the sound with a sneer and flick of the wrist, feminine shoulders shrugging, as if that were all the explanation needed.

"Go do this! Go do that! Herrre's you rewwward! Bigg'rrr one in future! Feh!"

Elfleda looked around herself, for no other reason than to express disdain. She did it slowly, seeming to revile her surroundings and the people in it. All of them seemingly having a better time of it than her. All having homes to go back to. All having friends.

Quite whether it was because of her darker abilities or not, she simply took the glass from a passer-by, tipping it steadily back, as she consumed the contents. There was no telling as to whether alcohol legitimately affected her or whether she had simply made the conscious decision to open herself to it, simply for the sake of experience. What mattered was that after a few seconds, she began to forget about the actual 'drinking' part and simply began to blow bubbles in the liquid.

Noticing a pair of eyes upon her, she stopped and looked Darian's way. Her expression was one of a confused frown. Evidently, she thought everything had been explained to a perfectly satisfactory standard. "Oh!" She remarked, remembering, then collapsed forward, right up against him, giggling insanely. She carried on like that for a few seconds more, then settled down, although remained in place.

"They keep ruin'n m'plansss, Daria...Rian... Rhianonononon... All of them!" The latter had her suddenly bolt upright, emphasizing the word with a clear sweep of arm. "I went all fail-y, Darian!"

Upon that, Elfleda burst into hysterical tears, slumping forward to bury her sorrows into his crotch.

"Dariaaaaaaaaaaaaannn!!!" She wailed, amid the sobs.

“Hhheh..uh... ahem!” He jerked underneath her and made a vain attempt to disguise his more guttural reaction with a rough clearing of his throat. On the periphery, Darian’s client came in the door and spotted him. The man made a frantic beeline for the Dealmaker’s side, probably fearing retribution, but was brought up short by Darian’s waving arm.

Go away... Go away, Darian seemed to be gesturing. And why not? From Mr. Maloney‘s vantage point, it looked as if the demon was getting a blow job right there in the open. He gave the demon an enthusiastic double thumbs-up and wandered off towards the bar.

Puzzled, Darian looked down. Yes, that definitely looked suspicious. However, he made no immediate move to correct the assumption. Instead, he tried to work through the difficult answers to whether the dumping and desperation of Elfleda made her, a) less attractive in the grand scheme, b) officially pathetic, c) publicly embarrassing, or d) worthy of taking advantage of for old time’s sake, and since she had certainly done it to him enough times.

Ironic for her to be complaining about getting ordered around and never reaping the promised rewards, wasn’t it?

“There, there,” he said woodenly and patted her on the back.

A light bulb slowly went on above his head. Wait a minute... Yes, this was pathetic. Not only that, but he could use this. Darian patted her back more intentionally. “Yes, you’re right. Rhiannon’s a bitch. She should be dealt with forthwith. Would you like me to kill her?”

"Nooo!" Elfleda protested, raising up in a most undignified manner. "Shhhhhe loooves meee! Shhhe r'llllly doesss! An' we gonna' have the lovvving forever and ever and ever and ever!"

While saying so, Elfleda had clasped both hands to either side of his head. Her pronouncements were intended to be passionately forthright, but the lack of coordination between mind and hands caused her to 'smoosh' up his features, like she was making an impassioned plea to a pile of dough.

"Don't you understand, Darin! Shhh's all 'mportant!" She was also shaking his head in a back and forth nodding motion, synchronizing the motions with every syllable. Before he could successfully protest, however, she flung arms around him, announcing, "You doo 'ndrrrst'nd! You doooo!"

Then she rose, trying to drag him right up with her. "We should dance - ohhh..." For it was then that gravity seemed to get the better of her and she collapsed right into a perched position upon his lap. A little silly look upon her face, like a little girl who had just fallen down into a bed of feathers.

Her very pert bottom now exactly where her face had been, only moments before.

FWASH!

Oh, indeed.

With the arrival of Elfleda’s shapely backside upon his lap, Darian got completely sidetracked from his devilish plans.

He opted instead to rub his hands up and down her sides and then squeeze her hips, imagining exactly what it would be like to lift up a few of those black, fluffy layers of dress and show Leviathan a thing or two about-- “Oh for crying out loud!“

In a moment of pure melodrama, he threw his hands in the air and proclaimed, “I can’t do this! This is completely inane. Who wrote this?” He nudged the brunette off his lap and got up. “I mean, c’monnnn.... I’m supposed to be the Dealmaker! I’m not desperate, I wouldn’t just... rolllllll over and thank my lucky stars.” Turning to the brunette, “I can have any woman I want, right?”

Whirling on a particular face across the room, he ranted on, “And from the looks of the script I read the other day, possibly two at a time!”

From a folding chair in the shadows, a frustrated voice groaned and called out, “CUT!”

Darick Delmacher, Harvard graduate, former documentary film maker turned small-screen actor, flung his arms in the air in a weak ‘V’ as if for victory.

“Thank you. It’s about damn time.”

On a Handshake

Another night, another traffic jam.

The cars in front of the Wynn were stacked bumper to bumper. This time, it wasn’t regular gridlock. A drunk woman had wandered out of the bar and, in some chemically-induced moment of impetuosity, pulled up her blouse to flash the world. It wasn’t an R-rated view. There was a bra. But a horny guy across the street wolf-whistled and made for the approach.

He got picked off by a taxi cab before he reached the other side. So much for dying happy.

Now it was real scene. Hysterical woman in tears. Dead, bloody guy in the road. Ambulance. Cop car. Tourists snapping pictures. Traffic blocked behind it.

Darian was a rubber-necker. Who knew? Maybe she’d need a ticket out of jail before the night was done.

"Damn. He almost made it, too. Gimme my hundred dollars.“ Grace held out her hand, palm upwards, and the other vampire she'd just made the bet with grudgingly handed her the money before taking off. What the hell, right? It was a busy street, so it had been a good enough bet to make. The dude had just moved too slow, that was all.

She watched the cop approach the flasher lady with mild interest. Wondered how SuperBitch was faring in the county lock-up. Had herself a little chuckle before lighting a fresh smoke. Unlife was good.

And getting better, because there was Darian, lurking around the edges of the scene. Grace threw up a hand in a wave, sidled over to the demon's corner of things. "Hi, there, sailor. Smell blood in the water?"

“I do have sharp teeth.” The Dealmaker rocked his heels and looked at Grace with approval. It would seem, from the brief scan he did of their immediate area, that the vampire didn’t have an entourage that included a sire in an ill-fitting leather jacket. That was good news. Making pleasantries with him was task enough without having to watch them do something nauseating, like hold hands.

“What brings you out here? Not planning to stick around for clean-up, I hope?” He pointed at the puddle of blood that crept toward the nearest storm drain. Once he had seen a vampire squatting in such a place with mouth open to catch the red run-off of a drive-by shooting. Not classy.

"I like my dinner still kicking, thanks," Grace said dryly. "And Reuben's not here, if that's who you're scopin' around for. He said he was gonna go off and do some explorin'. I think he imagined the city froze in place in the years since he was here last." She took a drag off her cigarette, blew smoke in the direction of the blood-stained taxi. "Tattletale."

This last was spoken with an odd sort of humor, and the vampire regarded that handsome face with the threat of a smile. "Did you think he was gonna spank me? Not that he doesn't, but it's usually on his terms."

After a pause, because she had that same habit of walking the high-wire that the Dealmaker did, she poked her tongue at the inside of her cheek in a faux thoughtful fashion. "So what brings you out here by your lonesome? Business or somethin' else?"

“Something else,” he said impatiently and waved his fingers to dismiss that branch of the conversation. He wasn’t ready to take off in another direction just yet. Darian pocketed his hands. “Now... spanking. Really. Here I thought you’d be the one with the itchy hand, and it turns out you’re on your knees. Father complex?”

He rushed to cut her off, lest she interrupt before he got done with his verbal play. “No matter, I won’t judge you, Gracie.” The nicknamed used in a pointed way. “We all have our vices.”

His was blonde. He wouldn’t say so.

"Sire's privilege," Grace responded with a certain perverse fondness. "He made me, I figure I can bend over for him once in a while. There's no one like my lovin' man."

She paused, then shrugged. "I don't judge either. Sometimes things get under our skin whether we like it or not. Hook us right through the guts and we can't root 'em out." How *is* Bethany, by the way?

Another squad car arrived, siren screeching, and the vampire put a finger in her ear. Goddamn over-sensitive hearing. She dropped the cigarette to the pavement only half-smoked and put it out with the toe of her shoe. "Want to walk? If we don't move, they're gonna come over here with their stupid questions. I hate cops."

Darian obliged, moving farther up the sidewalk and against the building fronts. The squad car lights threw them into colorful relief, a strobe that lost intensity with distance. “Walking’s fine. But first, you won’t mind if I just..,” he thumbed at a trash can nearby, “...toss my dinner?” His mouth had a hard time forming around the phrase. It tasted sour.

“Lovin’ man. Christ, let’s hope he hasn’t turned you into a country music fanatic.” Darian shook it off, a shoulder hitch that hinted at revulsion.

She was a little more openly amused now, fighting another of those sandpapery chuckles as the two of them put some distance between themselves and the accident. "Don't be a snob, baby," she said, touching the sleeve of his dark jacket briefly. "Man cannot live by Brahms alone."

When the sound of the siren was completely behind them, she regarded the Dealmaker in profile. "So how's life treatin' you, Darian? And did Bethany ever find a replacement? Last I heard, she was still one bouncer down since I quit. Hope she's not havin' trouble with the hirin' process."

Darian didn’t honor the dig with a look. Instead he continued on a nonchalant stroll down the sidewalk. Only his way looked more like an upright battering ram cutting through foot traffic. “You know she’s capable of hiring a bouncer,” he said. “But that’s up to Ralphael lately.”

He didn’t think much of Ralphael, the blonde business manager and right-hand man of Heaven’s Peak, who looked like a catalog model and pissed his shorts a little whenever the demon came into the office.

“Ms. Richards is out of town. Business before pleasure.” It was a quality that he couldn’t fault her for. At least this time, the slayer had prompted him that she’d be out of sight before jetting. The split had been amicable, in so far as Darian hadn’t put her head through a display case. And Bethany, for her part, hadn’t done it to him either, when he suggested they take the word ‘relationship’ a little more loosely while she wasn’t in the area code.

"Oh. Huh. So Ralphie's runnin' things again?" Grace had never particularly cared for Ralphael either, at least not up close. Officious little toad.

The vampire took her cigarette lighter out of her pocket, fiddled with it idly. Better that than to think about Bethany Richards being out of the Las Vegas zip code. "Well, she's a busy lady. Somebody's got to mind the store. You keepin' busy yourself?"

Darian got off step, let her pass, and when he began to walk again, his body was between hers and the street. “As a bee,” he said dryly. “I’ve been thinking about taking my business in a more ambitious direction. Less emphasis on individual clients and one-time deals.”

He side-stepped a newsstand, the inanimate object one of few things he’d go around. “I haven’t decided what kind of business,” he went on and scratched the side of his neck. “I made a new contact within Wolfram and Hart. You never know when you’ll need a financial backer to pull off illegal activities.” He cut a look. “I don’t really see myself in retail.”

The vampire smirked, shook her head. "No. Can't see you doin' infomercials either. Late-night television doesn't have enough style." A brief mental flash, Darian hawking cheap cookware on some random channel. Grace tucked the lighter back out of sight, schooled her face into a serious expression. "Illegal," she said, looking sideways and then up. Fuck, but he was tall.

"I been known to get my hands dirty now and then," she continued, thinking about murder and cops who were in jail. "Got somethin' in mind?"

Darian felt her eyes on him and looked over. Yes. The vampire looked exactly the type to get her hands dirty in the baser ways. There was no stereotypical thrall of Rice-ian seduction in her book of tricks; neither was there a velvet draped bed chamber. Grace liked violent crime. Rough and tumble feedings and gritty places and smoking and ammunition. As much of a reputation as Darian had for being aseptic, he had developed an affinity for the other lifestyle with surprising quickness.

It was like a gentleman’s trip into the Red Light district. Just as long as his tie was on straight before he went home. “I’m sorry, distracted. Did you mean business or..?” He put up a hand. “Wait, you must’ve meant business, what with Reuben in town. Actually I have considered a couple of things.”

He counted off on his fingers. “Drug trafficking, easily discarded for being cliche. Human trafficking, discarded for being territory well-covered. There’s Europe to consider. Artifacts bore me. But there’s a possibility. A local fighting ring that I think could use new management.”

"I went there once," she said. "It was like what bein' in the Roman Coliseum must've been like. Gladiator style. Except no Caesar there to give the thumbs up or down." On the street beyond the demon, an ambulance went zipping past. They must be cleaning up the leftovers the cab hadn't squished.

"There's rumors the current management is connected," the vampire added. "Mafia types. But you never can tell for sure. Seems like if the mob was havin' truck with demons, the law wouldn't be able to bust them for stupid shit like tax evasion." Grace looked at her hands, turned them over to examine the palms.

"So talk to me, baby," she said, making eye contact again. "I'm not on the same page yet, but I'm reading as fast as I can. Do I hear the words 'hostile takeover'?"

Darian stopped under the awning of some dinette that was closed late at night. It afforded a bit of evasion from passing ears, if not eyes. “There’s no mob, but there is a Caesar. He’s called the Overseer,” he said. “A private type, not given to public appearances and remarkably unprotected when he’s away from the Ring. He’s under the impression that he’s mostly anonymous and doesn’t see the point. Fortunately he’s wrong.”

A streetlamp buzzed and went out. Darian rubbed at his jaw. “It’s been suggested that I don’t go back. Under the current rules, one of the fighters has to die to leave the cage. I faked it.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to say he looked really good for a dead man, and then she stifled it. She was too busy listening for snark, anyway. "Mmm. Overseer. Just one guy? Sounds risky. For him, I mean."

Pause. "Contract hit? Car bomb? Maybe somethin' a little messier?" Guns, Grace thought. Guns and knives and jagged shards of glass. Wonder if he's human. Mortals are so breakable. And squishy on the inside. "How not anonymous is he?"

“Cal Petrenko. Former heavyweight, got in the demon know through his wife, who is by the way a half-breed. They hire out their security at the fights, which means they can be bought.” Darian tilted his head. “What’s with the curiosity, Grace? Do you want to help me clear him out of the way, or do you want a piece of the proverbial pie?”

"I'm a curious girl. I thought you knew that already." And she'd been looking for something to do with herself, hadn't she? Something of her own, or at least partly her own. It sounded like it would be risky, if only because someone who could be bought could be bought by either side. Risky and violent, depending on how much security had to be gotten through to get to this guy.

And the separate risk of involving herself more closely with Darian. Yeah, they were friends, and she didn't have many of those, but there was that other thing and it could become a nuisance. There were going to be no more Matthews for her. She'd stand out in the first light of morning before that happened again.

"Sounds like a lot of money," she said, rubbing her own angular jawline. "And it sounds like this guy's not doin' things right anyhow. Maybe a changin' of the guard is what the place needs to spice things up. You lookin' to have someone to help you clean house?"

The question temporarily stumped him. The day was rare when Darian trusted someone enough to make a deal like that... The kind of deal where he wasn’t metaphysically entitled to shove their nose into their brain matter if he got a knife in the back. He had no doubt that Grace was capable of pulling the Brutus routine if she thought it was worth her while. She was a vampire. Soul-free. Guilt-free. His comprehension of how they operated didn’t include much benefit of the doubt.

Then again, Grace was useful as well as shrewd. She probably knew it wouldn’t pay to piss off a convenient ally, and he was at least that.

Darian wondered, if Bethany strolled back into town on those skinny heels, what she would make of his partnership with a vampire he’d had sex with a handful of times. Not that it mattered. Theirs was a relationship on the slippery edge, and Beth’d be a hypocrite to complain considering Toren.

Like she said, business first.

He relaxed his shoulders. “And set up shop. I could be.”

"Mmm." Grace folded her arms across her chest, then unfolded them and pulled out her smokes. She watched Darian's face while she lit up, letting her thoughts wander into the unknown. It did sound like a lot of money. And a chance for some swift and blinding violence, which was never a bad thing.

She wondered how long they could be at closer quarters before something exploded. "All right," she said eventually, smoke escaping from her mouth to disappear into the neon-washed air above her head. "Your proposal sounds reasonable. Depending on what kind of security there is, I can get weapons. Is this a handshake deal, or are we signin' somethin' in blood?"

The notion of signing in blood was over the top, at least so far as he was concerned. Darian lightly snorted. “A handshake, please. By the way, I’d rather buy out their security in advance of the next event than kill them and have to round up our own. If we need financial backing to make that happen, I’ll go to Wolfram and Hart…

“If you help me pull this off, we’ll be fifty-fifty partners. Any disputes we have along the way can be settled in the ring. After we take down their operation, we’ll make the new house rules. Deal?”

He stuck out his hand.

The vampire looked at the Dealmaker's hand, thought about his dangerous (and absent) girlfriend, and the left corner of her mouth ticked upwards as she wrapped her cool fingers around his warmer ones. What the hell, right? If things were going to end up exploding, you might as well light the fuse yourself instead of letting someone else do it.

"Fifty-fifty," she agreed, and when the handshake was over she tucked that hand into the pocket of her jacket. To a casual observer, they couldn't have been more different, but they knew each other well enough to have found a certain kinship. Arrogance, ruthlessness, savagery, dissimilar only on the surface. Together, they were likely to fuck up quite a lot of other people's shit.

And possibly each other's as well, but where was the fun in playing it safe? Immortality got boring without the occasional unknown X factor.

"Sorry I gotta cut this short, but I gotta go grab someone to eat," Grace said, indicating the direction she'd been heading before they'd met. "All that blood was enough to make me hungry." She paused, exhaling more smoke, and her last words before she started to head off were, "If you hear from Bethany, tell her I said hello."

Darian lifted his eyebrow. That was a perfect of example of what he could always count on from Grace: Not only that she would take off, but that she couldn’t resist turning the screw that little bit before doing it.

At least she cut to the chase.

A Meeting of Like Minds

Jill didn’t need a secretary.

Two weeks since she put a shoe in her old secretary’s eye and fired her, and the attorney had never gotten more done. Client meetings, corporate mergers, three murder cases that never even made it to trial; Jill hadn’t felt this good about working for Wolfram & Hart since she first touched down in Las Vegas.

The constant barrage of questions from the press was somewhat irritating – why did everyone with a notepad and a press credential assume Wolfram & Hart had anything to do with a Nevada Congressman accused of running an international child prostitution ring? Okay, some nutjob in Washington might’ve been pedaling 10-year-old boys into the country for all sorts of unmentionable things … so what?

No way would Jill and the firm touch this. Yeah, it was despicable and evil, but … bad for public image, worse for the bottom line.

Burning cigarette in the ash tray, Jill was in the zone, typing furiously at her keyboard, drafting a proposal for a merger between a Chinese pharmaceutical company and one of America’s leading tobacco producers. Normally this sort of thing wasn’t her forte, but with a shortage of clients to keep out of jail, Jill needed something to do.

What better way to stay productive than to help two companies notorious for killing people grow larger and more financially stable?

If walls could talk, the ones cubing Jillian’s office might give her a heads-up now, lest she lose hers.

It had been an ugly incident. Two supernatural entities -- one an angel, one a demon -- got past Wolfram and Hart security and destroyed the so-called sanctity of the building in a reign of gunfire. They stole a sword. Lawyers, paralegals, short-skirted girls answering the phones, and anyone else that got in the way were shot down or removed in other ways. Like being flung off the roof. Or having their heads cut off. The very desk that Jill typed on received a gruesome souvenir from the raid.

Jill hadn’t seemed to care much. In fact, most of those who survived merely saw it as routine housecleaning. A way to skip a few rungs on the corporate ladder. It worked out well. Darian, the demon in the equation, had made a truce with the law firm through Elise Shelby. So this time when he came for a visit, he did so through the front door.

He wandered around. He made certain none of the doors carried the name Jason Toren again. That might’ve called for another ass-kicking. At Jillian’s door he stopped with the hazy memory of having been there before and done something decidedly vicious. He rapped his knuckles.

Finishing up the last sentence on the proposal, Jill clicked on “Save” then “Print” before standing and moving to the all-in-one big-ass machine she had in the back corner. The one that printed her documents, made copies, faxed them to other offices – even if said office was in Quor’toth – and probably made a kickass dry martini at the end of the day.

Jill reminded herself to find out, come time to go home.

The knock on the door startled her a bit, but her pale face bent into a wicked smile before grabbing the piece of paper the printer spit out, walking back to her desk. “It’s open,” she called out as she sat back in her rather lavish leather swivel chair.

One of the finer perks of being a Wolfram & Hart employee.

Darian turned the knob and went in.

“It was last time as well,” he remembered off-handedly. He went far enough inside to shut the door behind him, and then he stood there in his Italian suit, taking silent stock of the immaculate office. There were minimal decorations. Orderly stacks of files at corners on the expensive desk. Right angles. As far as offices went, his probably would’ve looked similar, were he the sort of person to need a job. Or paperwork.

The Dealmaker’s eyes took time getting to Ms. Andersen in her chair. The thing was massive, and it might’ve dwarfed the dark-haired lawyer if she hadn’t so aggressively sat it into submission. He pegged her as a control freak; the kind of woman who owned her surroundings as much as owned herself.

Typical Wolfram and Hart fare.

“You’ve repainted,” he observed, indicating the wall.

“Kinda had to,” she said with an arched brow at this well-dressed newcomer. “Was the only way to get the blood stains to disappear.”

Of all the ways to return to the office … a fucking disembodied head sitting on her desk, blood oozing onto it and the carpet below. Even blood on the walls, for some reason. New carpet, new paint job… new finish on the desk; the only thing from her old office that never left was the chair, which miraculously came away unscathed.

The lawyer reached across her desk, rearranging the faded Baltimore Orioles baseball cap that sat on the edge. The orange bill wasn’t quite facing straight ahead, and seeing as how that was the only memory of her childhood she enjoyed, Jill wanted to make sure it look good.

Giving the man standing in her office a once-over – complete with self-approving nod and a half-smile – Jill decided it was time to drop matters of interior design. “Can I help you?” she asked in a more-pleasant-than-usual tone.

The demon crossed and extended an unusual courtesy. His hand. “I’m Darian. Demon,” he said. “I once had a contract with your firm. I’m more than certain we have a few acquaintances in common.”

He reached inside his coat pocket while he waited. “I trust you weren’t charged for the clean-up. I believe I’d owe you a reimbursement if that were the case.” He removed a card and placed it on the desk. It was a negligible white square, scant on information, one that he didn’t produce often. But he had learned that when in corporate surroundings, it paid to follow the protocol.

Jill shook Darian’s hand, taking the business card and looking over it. “Jillian,” she replied. “Some just call me Jill. Most call me Vicious Bitch.”

He said he was a demon … well, if that were true, he was easily the best-looking demon she’d ever seen. Well, aside from Victoria. Most demons she met were either slimy or scaly or littered with horns – hell, she saw one that had all three of those disgusting traits, so a demon in such a fine-tailored suit and with such exquisite features was … well, a tad surprising.

But in the good way.

“Corporate took care of the clean-up,” she said. “They’re kinda used to it by now, honestly. It’s gotten to the point now where we put ‘clean up employee entrails’ in their job descriptions.”

“As opposed to ‘other duties as assigned’,” he said glibly. “The honesty is admirable. Though I don‘t know a single human who wouldn‘t stoop to mopping entrails if the price were right.” Post handshake, he took the moment to straighten the knot in his tie. It didn’t need it. He seemed to be the apotheosis of immaculate.

Because he wasn‘t on his turf, Darian set about making himself comfortable. He walked the length of the office and checked out her view of the city. “I haven’t been by in a while. I figured it might pay to familiarize myself with new management.” The Dealmaker turned to give her his tight-lipped smile. “Where exactly do you fit into the picture, Ms. Andersen? Are you worth knowing, or should I keep walking?”

Was Jill worth knowing? She didn’t know the answer to that, to be perfectly honest, but she couldn’t help but be intrigued by Darian. How a demon could look so deliciously human was beyond her, and even as she forced the half-smile off her face, the lawyer swiveled in her chair to meet his gaze, arms folded authoritatively across her chest.

“You could keep walking,” she offered idly, “but I guarantee whatever half-ass paralegal’s office you wind up in won’t work nearly as hard to meet your needs, regardless of what they are.”

The young attorney glared out her door, almost as if she were snarling at her co-workers. “Simple schleps,” she added. “Half of them don’t even know what goes on around here.”

“I do.” Uninvited he took a seat across the desk. It was presumptuous but also a sign that he thought she might be worth it. “Quite frankly, I’m not sure I have any needs. At least, in the legal sense,” he amended, and Darian gave her a smile with his straight white teeth.

“Jason Toren,” he rambled on, literally interrupting his own thoughts about the pair of pantyhose-sheathed legs beneath her desk (he wondered if she crossed them or...) and getting right down to brass tax. “We had a deal once and by the way, that’s my specialty. I got him a sword, he owed me a magic trick. It never materialized. I took back the sword.”

He settled back in his chair. The leather creaked. He ticked off more people of interest. “Elise Shelby. I believe she’s the reason I can walk in here without a symphony of sirens overhead. Bethany Richards. Not exactly a law partner but one in business. My ex. Needless to say, I’ve pumped that resource extensively.”

Darian thumbed the corner of his mouth. “What they have in common is a propensity for disappearing.”

Jill nodded, uncrossing her legs under her desk. She jotted every name Darian mentioned, setting the pen to rest on her pad before regarding the admittedly-handsome demon again. “The name rings a bell,” she said. “Toren, I mean. A few others have come and gone in recent years with a beef with him.

“My guess? That’s why he’s gone.” As for Elise … Jill knew the name, but, to the best of her recollection, never met her. Bethany was another name she was familiar with, but again, she never met the person in question. She underlined both names, making a note to look into them at the earliest possible moment.

“So you need them found,” she surmised, trying her damnedest to keep eye contact with Darian.

“Not in the slightest.” Out of nowhere, his hand was twirling a pen. He hadn’t reached for it, and there were no obvious indications of where it had come from or just when he’d started handling it.

“Why waste time.” He became a little more animated. “I don’t like being wrong twice, Jill. What I’m looking for is a new contact within the firm. I don’t want to wait until I need a lawyer to look for one who’s competent enough not to skip town with their dick tucked between their legs whenever the world‘s about to end. Get my drift?”

A nasty grin played across Jill’s face, a dark flare in her eyes as she regarded the demon once more, giving a single nod. “Well, considering the world’s nearly ended twice since I came here,” she began, “and yet that door still has my name on it, I don’t think I’ll be skipping town any time soon.”

From what she could tell in this brief meeting, Darian was a no-nonsense kind of guy. Not one to let details bother him, not one to waste time on superficial instances or something as annoying as the past. In a way, Jill admired that, realizing she could even learn from it.

Especially when it came to her past. There was still the matter of an ex-boyfriend out there she still struggled with from time to time, though the lawyer perfected turning that pain into determination and anger that served her job well.

Her renewed vigor was a godsend – or it would’ve been, if she actually believed in such a concept

Without warning, he rubbed his hands together and broke the serious moment . “Great.“ Then he launched into what sounded like a sales pitch, but without the desperation. “Now here’s what I can offer you. I’m a demon. I’m immortal. Strong. You could put me on par with a vampire. I make metaphysical deals. Let’s say that one of the schelps down the hall -- Mark Campbell, for instance, the one I just saw calling his mother on his lunch break -- Let’s say he manages to set himself up as your competition for a promotion. Obviously you want him out of your way and you have no scruples about how. Maybe you want a piece of dirt on Mark so low, it doesn‘t even exist yet. I might take this hat,”

Darian picked it up by the brim. Oh, he was good at sensing what mattered most.

“and turn it into a secret so foul, even Wolfram and Hart wouldn’t touch him. Or maybe they‘d pull his brain out through his nostrils. Who cares.” He set the hat back down in its place. Brim out.

Jill’s eyes followed the hat into his grasp and then back onto the desk, mesmerized by what he was telling her. Used to be, if she wanted a colleague out the way, she’d just put a hit on them or kill them. But this … it was so much more practical, and it ran much less risk of the firm’s higher-ups eventually taking notice and chastising her.

Because who knew what Wolfram & Hart considered chastising. In many ways, Jill didn’t want to find out.

“And in return,” she said in a soft tone, that dark glint even leaving her eyes, “I provide you with whatever you want or need.”

Jill grabbed the hat, her thumb tracing the brim as she idly ran a finger over the black-and-orange bird embroidered on the front. Her smile grew, slightly seductive in nature. “I think we can work with that.”

Darian watched her fingers on the hat, moving in suggestive ways. “What I want is to take something from you that I consider of equal value to what you get from me. It might be a baseball hat from your childhood. It might be the experience of having your eyes eaten out of their sockets once a week.”

He shrugged. “Jill... it just depends.”

The Dealmaker leaned forward and pinched thumb and forefinger together. “I should tell you one more thing. It takes the steam out of me, but I can cheat.” He rubbed the digits together and when his palm reopened, a sphere balanced above it. It was like watching a projection of her thoughts as a holograph.

And they were not PG-13.

Darian tilted his head to get a better angle. “You’re an interesting woman, Jill. Experimental to say the least.”

The half-grin never left the lawyer’s face as her eyes shifted from the sphere to Darian’s eyes. “Well, you know what they say,” she offered with a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it.”

Jill produced a pack of cigarettes from her purse, pulling one out and lighting it. Taking that long first drag, the attorney laid the pack and lighter on the desk as a silent standing offer to the demon. Unaware if demons cared to smoke, Jill figured it wouldn’t hurt to at least make the offer known.

If nothing else, it might make her seem thoughtful. Well, as thoughtful as necessary to make this a successful partnership. “I should call you interesting as well,” she said between drags of her smoke. “Not every day I come across a demon who’s not … disgusting.”

“You shouldn’t knock that until you’ve tried it, either,” he advised smugly and leaned out of her smoke wreath. “This is a costume. I can’t take it off, but that’s what it is.” Darian laid his hands on the arms of the chair. “Let’s hope no one stumbles across an etching of how I used to look.”

Darian pushed to standing. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

“By all means,” Jill said nonchalantly, giving Darian one more once-over before crossing her legs again, snuffing out her cigarette and going back to the pad on her desk. She read over the names, making mental notes to check them out later in Files & Records. Her hand reached beside her pad, and suddenly, the lawyer’s brow furrowed.

Wait … where was her pen?

Darian clicked the pen open and tossed it back to her.

“It’s been nice meeting you, Ms. Andersen. We‘ll be in touch?”

Jill caught the pen with ease, grinning from ear to ear as she glanced at it. “We will,” she assured, giving Darian a single, professional nod.

Yes, her job was good.