The entire barricaded area of south Manhattan—Southie, as the locals called it—was a high-risk area. If you lived inside the ten-foot-high, heavily fortified barrier, it paid to be on your guard. Attacks in residential areas were rare, but they happened, especially late at night. It was dumb to wander around in dark, abandoned places.

It was even dumber to pass out cold in dark, abandoned places.

Emma woke up with a start, thrashing her arms, sending the cat-sized gray demons crouched around her body scurrying away into the darkness. She shuddered, skin crawling as she swiped at the sticky trails the demons’ tongues had left on her exposed arms.

Ugh. Gross. So gross. But it could have been so much worse. Squat demons were repulsive—hairless beasties that looked like a cross between a naked mole rat and a pug dog—but at least they were largely harmless to humans. One of the larger demon species would have killed and eaten her. Hell, the Squats might have started to nibble—though they preferred to dine on rodents—if she’d stayed out much longer.

Or if they hadn’t already filled their bellies. Blue Eyes lay on his side a few feet away—unconscious, as she’d been a second ago—but his puke puddle was gone.

Blech.

It was no wonder her gang thug had passed out—considering the amount of tequila he’d chugged combined with the drain she’d put on him—but what the hell had happened to her? Why had she fainted? And why was it so dark?

Emma looked up, just barely able to make out the silhouette of the unlit spotlight that usually illuminated the back door against the night sky. It must have blown while she was passed out.

Great, now she was going to have to drag a ladder back here and replace it before closing. She certainly didn’t want any of the Squats coming back and trying to nest in the Dumpsters. No matter how crappy she felt, she had to make sure the demon-deterring light was burning before she headed for home.

Mouth dry and head aching, Emma pushed to her feet, casting one last look at the Death Ministry dude. He was still out, but the Squats were gone. He’d be safe enough while she went inside and grabbed a new lightbulb. She’d have Ginger clue his buddies in to the fact that he was passed out drunk in the back alley and let them decide whether to mess with Blue Eyes or not.

Emma reached for the door—grateful that her arms and legs seemed to be working again—but the handle didn’t budge. Frowning, she pushed down harder, leveraging her weight against it. Still nothing.

“What the hell?” Emma kicked the door. Ginger must have locked the door early.

Ever since Stephen had “disappeared,” Ginger had been more anxious about living in demon-infested New York, so anxious that she’d talked about getting a second job and trying to move to midtown. She’d encouraged Emma to come with her even though they’d been roomies for only a few months, but Emma wanted to stay in Southie.

She was sure there were bad guys outside the barricade, but they might not be as easy to find or to lure into dark, secluded areas where there was no one to observe when her hands started to glow. Being a freak with an aura demon’s hunger had its challenges, and it was easier to get what she needed on the wrong side of the tracks.

Emma kicked the door again—once, twice, three times—then called out for Ginger. “Hey! Come open the door! I’m out back!” She waited for a beat, then kicked the door again. Where the hell was Ginger? Maybe she couldn’t hear her over the music. ...

Wait a second. There wasn’t any music. Emma pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear inside the bar. The metal was thick, but she could usually hear the beat of whatever song was playing and the rumble of voices through the door. But now ... nothing. It was eerily quiet.

Had Ginger closed up already? What time was it?

“Shit,” Emma whispered, patting her pockets. She didn’t have the keys with her, and her purse was still locked in the safe beneath the bar. The bar keys, her house key, the stupid earbud Sam had given her to use instead of her tragically outdated cell phone—they were all locked inside the Demon’s Breath.

Unless Ginger was still here, waiting for her out front. She’d have to run around a long city block to find out, which would be no big deal except ...

“Hey, you,” Emma said, crossing back to the man still passed out on the ground. “You need to wake up.”

Blue Eyes lay as still as a stone, so blasted he wasn’t within the reach of the human voice. She was going to have to try more aggressive measures.

“Come on, wake up.” She toed his wide back with her boot, then nudged him a little harder but barely produced a ripple in his muscled flesh. The guy was enormous. There was no way she’d be able to drag him around to the main street.

Shit! Despite the voice in her head screaming she should leave the murdering, child-beating asshole to be eaten, she knelt down beside him and grabbed his arm.

She might have sucked his life force, but she couldn’t let him be demon food, no matter how many horrible things he’d done. The death she’d helped speed his way would be fairly merciful; being eaten alive by demons would not. She didn’t go in for torture ... even for evil bastards like this one.

“Dude, you need to—” Her words ended in a gasp as she pulled hard on Blue Eyes’ arm and he rolled heavily over onto his back. For a second she thought he was awake, before she realized that those striking, cruel eyes weren’t blinking, but staring sightlessly into the night.

Emma bit her lip and forced back the wave of nausea that threatened as she realized what she’d done. She’d killed him. She must have taken too much. She’d waited too long, let the craving grow too strong, and she’d taken too much of the man’s life. Despite the fact that he was a criminal and that she’d known her actions would bring about his death sooner or later, the moment of understanding still hit her hard. Very hard.

It had been a long, long time since she’d looked into the face of one of her victims and seen the emptiness of a soulless corpse. Not since those first few kills, when she’d been so young and lacked control. Since then, Father Paul had kept her informed of which of their carefully chosen targets had passed, and occasionally she heard about a death secondhand—read an obituary or watched a death reported on the news—but she’d been spared having the consequences of her twisted hunger shoved in her face.

It was horrific, bringing home the wrongness of what she was in a nightmarish way.

“Okay ... okay ...” Trembling, Emma rose, swiping her hands back and forth against her jeans as if she could brush away the lingering taint of death.

But she couldn’t. The man was dead, and there was a damn good chance she would be connected to his murder. No one had seen her leave the bar, but what about Blue Eyes? He might have told his kill buddies that he was going out back to bang the pub manager, for all she knew. Even if he hadn’t, she’d talked to the Death Ministry members just before going outside. She was the only person who’d dared approach them all night. No matter how much tequila they’d had, one of them was going to remember the stupid blond girl who’d warned them to behave.

Come tomorrow morning, or whenever this body was found, she could have four very scary men on her trail. They might never guess that she’d killed the man, but they would suspect she knew something about how old Blue Eyes had bit it. It didn’t matter that an autopsy would prove this man had died of a heart attack; there might not be an autopsy. There would be a Death Ministry-style investigation; she’d be questioned and killed if she didn’t provide answers that satisfied.

Hell, she might be killed anyway. They might kill her just for fun.

The thought made Emma shiver. She turned in a slow circle, searching the darkness for some clue as to what she should do, some way to banish the unfamiliar feeling sliding its cold fingers up her spine. She’d never feared the bigger, nastier people in the world—having a “gift” for sucking the life out of the bad guys made a girl cocky—but now she was starting to fear. Big-time. She might be able to handle one or two members of the Death Ministry, but what if there were more? There were ways to wield the dark craving as a weapon, but she’d never dared try any of the chants she’d read about in the spell book she’d stolen from Father Paul.

The spell book. Shit! She’d left it in her purse as well.

She’d been working on translating the spells in the demon grimoire for months, and the hours between four and six were usually slow on Tuesdays. She’d thought she’d have time to work on the translation at the bar. She hadn’t, and the book had stayed in her purse all night, tucked in with the other valuables.

It was probably locked away right now—safe and sound—but realizing she couldn’t get her hands on it made her even more anxious. The book had taught her almost everything she knew about aura demons and the ways ancient people had controlled them. Without it, she couldn’t have saved her sister’s life five months ago or had hope that she might someday rule the hunger that drove her—there were spells designed to help those altered by the demons gain more control over their marks—but still ... the demon grimoire was ... scary.

But not as scary as a dead body at her feet and not so much as a dollar to her name to call for help.

Not that she had anyone to call. Sam and Jace were on the West Coast on their honeymoon, and Ginger would be useless in a situation like this ... even if Emma trusted her enough to explain how she’d killed this man. But she didn’t trust Ginger that much. The fewer people who knew about her curse, the better.

Which left ... no one to turn to ... except ...

“The mob,” Emma whispered aloud. Uncle Francis knew she “wasn’t quite right.” He didn’t know the true extent of her mark, but he knew she’d been damaged by the aura demons. He’d been there when Emma’s brother had turned into some kind of humanoid monster—the consequence of his own demon mark—and Uncle Francis’s bounty hunters had helped dispose of the bodies after the craziness that went down last spring.

The Italian side of Jace’s family ran Conti Bounty, the biggest bounty-hunting operation in New York City and a convenient cover for Uncle Francis’s illegal activities. The Contis dabbled in a bit of everything typically mob—from extortion to arms dealing to construction—but they drew the line at demon drugs. They left the peddling of demon highs to the Death Ministry, as long as the DM kept their harvest respectable. In the past few months, the gang had killed more demons than usual, leading to increased tension between the two groups. Relations were strained as Uncle Francis tried to work out an agreement before an all-out street war erupted.

The Contis wouldn’t be happy to hear she’d killed a DM member. This was the kind of thing that halted negotiations and ended in bloodshed, even the deaths of innocent people.

Emma’s trembling hands flew to her face, fingers rubbing at the tops of her eyes as if she could scrub away this nightmare, erase her own stupidity. But Blue Eyes was still there when she dropped her arms to her sides. This wasn’t going to go away, and she wasn’t equipped to handle a murder cover-up on her own. She was going to have to make that call to the mob, but maybe she didn’t have to go straight to the top.... Maybe she could find someone a little lower on the totem pole to help her out, someone who might be convinced to keep her mistake to himself.

Andre was far from her favorite Conti, but he was a lawyer, a mob lawyer. Who better to help her figure out how to avoid the long arm of the law and the swift retribution of New York’s deadliest gang?

But first things first. Something had to be done about ... the body.

Swallowing hard, Emma bent down and wedged her hands beneath Blue Eyes’ arms, struggling not to think about how cold he felt, or that she’d had this corpse’s tongue in her mouth earlier in the evening. He was a wretched excuse for a man. It was better for everyone that he was dead—everyone but her.

With a minimum of grunting and groaning, she maneuvered the body over to the twin Dumpsters and shoved it into the shadows between. It was a lousy hiding place but the only one available. There was no way she could drag more than two hundred pounds of deadweight much farther. She was just going to have to pray that no one found Blue Eyes before she found a way to get rid of him. The recycling and garbage truck didn’t come until Friday, and in the meantime, most people would be too afraid to wander around in a dark alley.

The scaremongering inner voice was right. She had to hurry.

Emma ran down the alley, boots thudding softly on the pavement. It took only a few moments to reach the end of the block, but her heart was racing by the time she emerged onto the sidewalk and circled back around to the front of the row of buildings. She felt so thready inside ... weak and loose ... as if the systems in her body were slowly disconnecting.

She shouldn’t feel this way so soon after a feed. Usually, she was high on life for days afterward. But then, she usually didn’t pass out or kill people immediately, either.

Emma slowed to a walk, though there was no reason to worry about attracting attention. There wasn’t a soul on the street. Even the prostitutes who lingered under the streetlights until the last party boy vacated the bars and clubs on the west side of Southie were strangely absent. The utter lack of movement made the avenue seem wider, ominous.

Even before she reached the Demon’s Breath, Emma knew she’d find the windows dark and the red CLOSED sign—the devil’s tail curling out from the D—glowing above the door. It had to be late, really late. She must have been out for nearly an hour.

She crossed her thin arms, fingers digging into the bare flesh, suddenly cold despite the warm summer night. She had to figure out what had gone wrong with Blue Eyes and make sure she never did whatever it was again. She couldn’t afford to lose consciousness when she fed, and she certainly couldn’t afford to collect any more dead bodies.

Emma supposed she should be grateful that Ginger hadn’t thought to look for her out back before she’d closed up and headed for home—if she had, she would have called the cops, and Emma would have had a lot of explaining to do—but she was still angry that her roommate hadn’t made any effort to track her down. Emma made a point of letting people know she could take care of herself, but still, it—

Oh no. The door—it wasn’t locked.

And apparently, the alarm system wasn’t activated, either. No blaring siren cut through the night when Emma pushed on the door. The crackle of neon was the only sound as she stepped inside the musty, sour-smelling bar and searched the shadows for some sign of life.

The pub was deserted, and everything seemed to be fine—all the demon artifacts that made the Demon’s Breath a tourist attraction still hung in their places on the walls, and the bottles sat in orderly lines behind the bar. But still ... this wasn’t right; something bad had to have happened. All critical thoughts of her roomie faded in a wave of panic. Ginger was a little flighty and had a tendency to drink her daily caloric intake, but she wasn’t irresponsible. She never forgot to lock up or arm the alarm.

Emma crept across the room, slipping behind the bar, feeling strangely like an intruder in her own place of business. She’d expected to find some clue as to what had gone wrong during closing, but the glasses were washed and stacked and all the well drinks capped and put away. Ginger had even remembered to put the plastic pour spigots to soak in the sink. The register was locked, and the safe ...

The safe was open. Wide open.

Emma hurried to the end of the bar, crouching down to peer inside the small, square-foot space. It was empty. Shit!

The safe was tiny, just big enough to hold whatever valuables the staff brought with them on a given night. The cash taken in by the Demon’s Breath was deposited directly into a vault deep underground after each transaction and emptied weekly by a pair of armed guards in a secured truck, a common practice for businesses on this side of the barricade. Most criminals would know there was nothing worth stealing inside the safe. Any thief with half a brain would know the demon artifacts on the wall were worth way more than a couple of purses.

Which meant Ginger had probably taken Emma’s purse home with her, leaving Emma with no phone, no keys, no cash, and no spell book.

For a second, the anxiety at being separated from the book returned with a vengeance. Father Paul had been right—the book wasn’t safe in just anyone’s hands. It was a powerful tool and should be locked away in a museum, ensuring that no one could ever use it for evil again.

But then ... Ezra had proven how “safe” museums kept dangerous artifacts. Any teacher or historian with the proper clearance could get his or her hands on occult relics. The fact that the average citizen believed invisible demons with supernatural powers were a bunch of horseshit and that the dinosaur-like demons infesting major cities were the only monsters to fear worked in the bad people’s favor.

The book had been safest with Father Paul ... at least until she’d stolen it and proved once and for all that kids like her couldn’t be trusted. Now it was her cross to bear. At least she had enough restraint to keep from casting any of the spells before she understood what she’d be doing if she chanted the ancient words.

Of course, she could have locked the book away in a safety-deposit box somewhere and truly kept it safe from everyone, even herself. But she hadn’t. And she wouldn’t. She might be strong enough to resist temptation, but she wasn’t strong enough to resist the urge to play with it a little, to dance along the edge of giving in. She wondered whether Ginger would feel the pull of the grimoire, the urge to open it and paw through its contents and discover its secrets. Or was Emma drawn to the book only because she carried the mark of the aura demons? She couldn’t be sure ... but the dark craving was always stronger when she held the grimoire in her hands.

That—more than any of her strong principles—was the true reason she’d never dared to work any of the book’s spells. Anything that made her unnatural hunger worse couldn’t be good news.

“No good news tonight,” Emma muttered to herself as she dug the slim Southie phone book from the end of the bar and switched the phone on the wall to voice-activated mode. “Ginger,” she ordered in a sharp voice.

“Dialing,” a feminine-sounding robotic voice announced. Seconds later Ginger’s phone was ringing—once ... twice ... three times—and then Emma was sent to voice mail.

“Hey, it’s Ginger! I’m probably out and can’t hear my phone ringing over the music. So leave me a message. If you sound sexy, maybe I’ll tell you where the party’s at. Hollah!” Ginger’s message ended in a giggle, a very drunk giggle.

“It’s Emma. I need to talk to you. Call me ... or at least leave my key with Gary at the liquor store so I can get into the apartment. Later,” Emma said, barely managing to keep her tone civil.

Ginger was probably out partying with the stupid frat boys she’d been waiting on half the night. With the barricade closed and only a handful of bars open this late, there was a good chance Emma would be able to find her roomie if she went looking, but she couldn’t waste the time.

There would be opportunities to rip Ginger a new one for taking her purse and leaving the bar door unlocked later. Right now, she had a ticking time bomb wedged between her Dumpsters. She needed to wake up Andre and see whether she could sweet-talk the womanizing bastard into meeting her. The clock on the wall read four fifteen, so it would be only another forty-five minutes until the barricade opened.

Hastily, she flipped through the Southie phone book, looking for Sam’s familiar scrawl. Andre lived in Manhattan proper, but she thought she remembered seeing his number scribbled somewhere in the book, where Sam had jotted it down for her in case she ever needed it.

For her first few months on the job, Emma had felt like a kid with an overprotective parent. Sam was always hovering, trying to make her home-cooked meals, giving her endless lists of people to call if she encountered trouble in the forty-five minutes it took Sam and Jace to grab some dinner. Emma had secretly been relieved when Sam and Jace had announced their intention to take a month-long honeymoon on the West Coast. Finally, she would have some space to breathe. She’d been looking forward to it. She’d never dreamed she’d actually be wishing her control-freak big sis was close enough to come running when she called.

She flipped faster through the book but couldn’t find the number she searched for.

“Andre,” she ordered aloud, taking a chance that Sam or Jace might have programmed his number into the bar’s phone.

“Dialing,” the robotic voice announced again, making Emma release the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

A stroke of luck ... the first she’d had this entire horrible night. Now, if only Andre wasn’t too out of it to answer his phone. Andre wasn’t a big drinker—she’d never seen him have more than a couple of glasses of red wine when she tagged along with Sam and Jace to the Conti Bounty meetings at the family restaurant every Thursday night—but he had other hobbies that kept him up late.

Blond hobbies, brunette hobbies, white hobbies, African-American hobbies—Andre had a healthy appreciation for a wide variety of women. As long as they were model thin, with legs that went on for miles, and pretty enough to earn a living pouting at a camera. He brought a different girl with him every Thursday, leaving her for Sam and Emma to entertain when he went into the back room for the private, criminal portion of the evening.

So far, Emma hadn’t been impressed with any of his arm candy, and even less impressed with Andre himself. Shallow, pretty boys who spent ridiculous amounts of money on designer suits and ten-thousand-dollar watches made her ill.

Still, when Andre’s sleep-scratchy voice picked up on the fourth ring, her relief was so strong that she would have leapt into his arms and hugged the bastard if he’d been standing in front of her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so grateful to hear someone’s voice.

“Andre, it’s Emma,” she said, her voice shaking more than she would have liked. “Sam’s sister. I—”

“I know.” He sounded sharper, all fuzziness banished from his tone. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Uh ... no.” The understatement of the year. “I ... I’ve run into some trouble.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the bar.”

“I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes.”

Emma shook her head, shocked speechless for a moment by the realization that he didn’t even want to know what was wrong. He hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t yelled at her for waking him up late; he’d simply heard that she was in trouble, and that had been enough. It was ... surprising. ...

“But the barricade is closed until—”

“I can get through.” Of course he could; he was the nephew of the most powerful mobster in the city, a man who owned half the guards working the barricade. “Just sit tight and—”

“No. We shouldn’t meet here.” Emma was suddenly hyperaware of the dead body just outside the back door. She didn’t want Andre coming here. It was too close to the scene of her crime. It wouldn’t be right to implicate him in that without his prior knowledge, and this confession wasn’t the kind of thing done over the phone. “I’ll meet you at the coffee shop just off Broadway, near the barricade.”

“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

“Okay. And ... thanks, Andre.”

A moment of silence, and then Andre sighed. “Just be careful on your way over there. Jace will kill me if you get hurt when I’m supposed to be looking out for you.” And then he hung up before Emma could say another word.

Probably for the best. Telling him she didn’t need anyone looking out for her would be dumb. Ninety percent of the time, the words would be true, but tonight ... well, she needed all the help she could get. Even if it came from a chickenshit, asshole lawyer.