Page 6 of Grabbed By the Guard

The monster is at least seven feet tall if I use the positioning of his glowing green eyes as a gauge for his height. His skin is a dark color, maybe brown, maybe red, and the sculpted muscles on his bare chest—coupled with his imposing size—makes it obvious that, whatever he is, he is a guy. A male monster.

His lower half disappears into the shadows, hiding anything below mid-torso. Does he have a forked tail? Cloven hooves? Between the reddish—I’m pretty sure the shade of his skin is closer to rust than anything else—skin and black horns arcing over his head, my brain provides the word ‘devil’.

Or maybe ‘demon’?

He’s a big ass demon. Twice as wide as me, more than a foot-and-a-half taller, he looms on the opposite side of the kitchen table, watching me with those unblinking green eyes.

He opens his mouth. To say something? To roar? Could be, but I get a glimpse of thick fangs, a black mouth, and a claw-tipped hand heading my way as he reaches out—and I don’t scream.

But I do put on my ‘manager’ voice.

Forget the fact that I’m in my bare feet and a slinky red dress the barely covers me from butt to boob. My hands perch on my hips as I give my head a royal shake, my curls bouncing into my face as I tilt my nose up at him.

“I don’t know who you think you are or what you’re doing in Whiskey Rose’s private apartment, but this is unacceptable.” Freeing one hand, treating this giant monster as though he’s as much a nuisance as Three running under my step, looking to scrounge up an extra treat, I shoo at him. “Go. Turn around and wherever you came form, you better go back there.”

Now, did I honestly think that was going to work? No. I’m just buying time, trying to figure out how to get out of this mess. There’s no doubt in my mind that if demons are real and someone somehow found a way to summon one here, it’s because they’re looking for Sierra.

Over my dead body.

Would reaching for my phone be worth it? I have hundreds of contacts in there—everything from entertainment lawyers to PR specialists and the top security firms that money can buy—but what are the odds that I can pull up someone with the experience I need for… what? An exorcism?

If only I had Father Anthony’s number stored in my phone…

I’m going to need something. If my insane hunch is right and I’m dealing with a demon, there’s got to be some kind of guide to sending him back where he came from. Shooing him away like he’s a stray cat obviously didn’t work. He’s still watching me without saying a word—and who’s to say that he has any idea what I am or what I’m saying?

Screw it. Like I said, there isn’t anything I can’t accomplish with a little grit and my phone. I don’t want to get too close to this guy, but with my phone still in my tote, it’s worth inching closer to the bag and grabbing it.

Believe me, I’ll feel a lot more in control if I have my phone?—

“Uxor mi,” rumbles the demon in a notably deep voice. “Aver.”

I freeze. What did he say?

He repeats the first three syllables, then follows it with quite a few more. I give up paying close attention after it becomes clear that I have no clue what he’s saying. That’s odd, too. One of the things that had me signing up for Thr33peat in the first place was the chance to see the world, to learn new cultures and customs… and languages.

I’m not saying I’m fluent in many. Proficient in a couple, yes, and it’s enough to know that nothing he is saying to me is registering at all.

He is speaking, though. There’s an almost dominant tone to his words. Like he’s trying to explain something or tell me something and that he expects me to understand.

To understand and, from the imperious expression on his face, obey.

Fat chance, demon boy.

Okay. I’m sorry. I’m not in the mood for this. I broke the heel on my shoe, discovered the guy I was sleeping with would pretend I was my best friend when he was banging me, and now there is a demon in my kitchen who thinks he can clack his claws together, gesture in front of him, and I’ll listen? Because that’s what he’s doing now. As if realizing he couldn’t understand my English gibberish so I’m probably not fluent in ‘demon’, he’s using universal gestures: snapping his fingers and pointing.

Sure. With fangs like those, does he want me to grab some salt from the counter to season myself up before he takes a bite?

Is that what demons do? Do they eat girls? If he’s hankering for a virgin, he’s out of luck here. With Sierra probably dozing off with Jared in the other room, and me wishing I’d never let Trevor touch me, there aren’t any bashful, blushing virgins in this apartment.

Okay. I’ve lost it. That’s a fair assessment to everything that’s happened to me tonight. I’m thirty-three. I’ve been in show biz for twenty years, give or take. I’ve never done drugs. Barely drink alcohol. I was always discreet with my lovers. Never had a meltdown. Never needed a psychiatrist of my own.

I think I’m due a bit of a breakdown.

My knees buckle, something I’ll privately curse about later. I’d already planned to make another move for my bag, desperate for my phone. Part of me is thinking about looking up symptoms of a stress-induced breakdown. Another part of me is wondering what I’d need to type into the search bar to get instructions on banishing a demon without being put on some kind of a watch list. A tinier part is curious enough to engage my translator app and see if ‘demon that suddenly appeared in my apartment for no logical reason’ is a setting.

The internet is vast. I’m amazed on a daily basis by the knowledge at my fingertips in such a tiny device. Who knows? Is this is really happening, I doubt I’m the first person in history it’s happened to.

And if it’s not happening…

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