Cheekbones Caffrey

Chapter 1: Sympathy for a Demon

Blue Crescent Jazz Club, New Orleans. Sunday, April 2, 2006.

"She bloody well didn't deserve it!" Crowley slammed his glass onto the cocktail table, causing the Scotch to slosh onto the polished mahogany surface.

Jeremy exhaled slowly, stood up, and retrieved a bar towel from the liquor cart. After he mopped up the splash, he silently held out his hand for the cut-glass tumbler.

"Make it three fingers this time," Crowley ordered. It was truly unfortunate that demons couldn't get inebriated. He'd feel better if he were sozzled out of his skull.

"Drasko will report back soon." Jeremy's carefully modulated Oxford English accent was a soothing balm on Crowley's blistered soul. "I should leave to greet the club's patrons. Will you be all right?"

Crowley dismissed him with a careless wave of his hand. The stuffed peacocks in Jeremy's office could be the recipients of his outrage.

Up to two nights ago, Crowley's life in New Orleans was as smooth as the Glencraig he drank. Jeremy Sangford, one of Astrena's pure-blood vampire princes had become a respected figure in the French Quarter scene with his jazz club earning rave reviews. Crowley divided his time between the club and Rana's house of discreet pleasures. The brothel provided a banquet of straight and queer delights for every taste, and Crowley feasted on all of them. His ID fraud business was thriving with Drasko once more managing the vampire hackers. If Crowley were a pessimist, he would have predicted it couldn't last.

Rana's demise made him realize how fond he'd grown of her ... and her bed. Two nights ago Crowley had made a surprise appearance in her bedroom only to find her meatsuit sprawled on the satin sheets, her throat slashed. The demon inside her had disappeared without a trace. Perhaps she'd merely been banished back to Hell. Same difference. She wasn't here.

Most likely hunters had gotten to her, but how? Mortals couldn't usually harm demons. Had hunters acquired an angel blade or some other demon-killing knife? Was the attack on Rana the opening salvo in a new war?

The door to the office opened and Drasko stepped inside. The slim lines of his face looked unusually somber.

"What did you find out?" Crowley demanded.

Drasko sat down beside him on the Victorian settee. "I checked with some of our contacts on the East Coast. Everyone's going into hiding. Demons—your demons—are being slaughtered at an unparalleled rate."

An anvil crashed into Crowley's gut. "Who would dare commit such an outrage? Who was even capable of it? Hunters? The Men of Letters?"

Drasko shook his head. "Even worse. Abaddon's back. The word is she's no longer content with ruling Hell. She's set down a marker on Earth, and her first targets are your associates."

Bollocks. It wasn't supposed to be this way. "Are you sure?" Crowley demanded. "Abaddon hasn't been on Earth since 1958." That was the year she believed she'd wiped out the Men of Letters in the States. He knew better. The Men of Letters had simply gone even further underground, using the cover of the investigative firm Winston-Winslow.

"There's no doubt, sir. Vampires captured one of her demons last night and tortured him for the truth. Abaddon heard whispers that the American branch of the Men of Letters wasn't destroyed after all. We succeeded in ferreting out the truth and she must have as well. Her demon claimed she's come to Earth to finish the job."

"Why is she picking on me?" Crowley asked aggrievedly.

"I'd hoped you could tell me. The demon we captured claimed that Abaddon is going after all those that work for you, and then she's coming after you. Once that's done, she's taking on the Men of Letters." Drasko raked a strand of long hair behind one ear. "We're all going to have to go underground, but that's only a temporary haven. Do you know why she's targeted you?"