Page 23 of Magic of Sins

“Well, here we go then,” he mutters, pushing me toward a bar with the nameDirty Halowritten above the entrance in pink neon lettering.

“Dirty Halo? Seriously?” I comment as we step inside.

A cloud of smoke is blown straight into my face, making me cough.

“I’ve seen countless angels fall in here, little one,” a raspy voice answers me.

Its owner leans against a bar table next to the entrance, a cigar in his hand, the end of which glows red as he pulls on it. He wears a shiny blue tuxedo and his narrow face looks as if it were carved from stone. When he notices Caden, his eyebrows rise.

“Mr. Nox. What an honor! It’s been a while since your last visit. What brings the king of the underworld to us?”

Caden’s arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer.

“Like you just said, Salvatore—I’m here to bring about the downfall of an angel,” he says smoothly.

The men laugh. Salvatore’s gaze slides over me, his dark eyes sparkling greedily. I bet he’s imagining how Caden will go about it—bringing about my downfall.

Furious, I tear myself away from him and head down the stairs that lead into the bar. At least there’s a railing I can cling to. Caden and Salvatore are still laughing, and with every step I take, I grow more anxious. I wanted to seem brave. Determined. Not like an innocent girl you lead into a dimly lit bar to gloat over how self-conscious she feels. I now have to admit to myself that that’s exactly what I am.

But I don’t want to give Caden the satisfaction of admitting itto him. So I strut with my head held high, albeit a little shaky, toward the long wooden bar top.

“One tequila, please,” I say to the bartender, who is rinsing glasses.

He barely lifts his head as he slams the small glass on the wood, fills it with the clear liquid, and places a lemon on the rim. I’m the only one standing at the bar. At the back of the room, a group of young men and women lounge on a brown leather sofa. Next to them, a blonde girl dances to soft jazz music blasting from a speaker. She stretches her hands up to the sky and sways back and forth as if she were someplace else completely.

Some movie is playing on an old television hanging on the wall. Fascinated, I watch the flickering images of a man wearing a white sunhat and orange sunglasses, who has a cigarette in his mouth and stares into the camera with a crazed look. There are no films like this in the West End. Television, film, and the internet have been banned so as not to provide a platform for sin.

One of the men reclining on the sofa points at the screen and shouts, “We can't stop here, this is bat country!”

It must have something to do with the movie, because his friends start yelling and whooping at the TV. Irritated, I turn away.

All right then.

I pick up the glass with the tequila and lemon and inwardly prepare myself for the burning in my throat. I’m about to bring the glass to my lips when someone grabs me by the wrist. I stifle a surprised yelp and make to pull my hand away, but Caden holds on tightly.

“If you’re going to get drunk on tequila, you should do it right, love,” he whispers into my ear.

Mischief sparkles in his gray-blue eyes.

“I know what I’m doing,” I hiss, although now I’m not so sureanymore. After all, this would only be the second time I’m doing this.

First the tequila, then the lemon. That’s how Ava taught me.

Caden signals the bartender with a casual wave to bring him a second tequila. Then he reaches for my free hand and brings it to his lips. His tongue slides over the back of my hand, wet and warm. I’m too startled to resist. I draw in a breath sharply.

“What are you doing?”

Unperturbed by my question, Caden reaches for the saltshaker that’s on the counter and sprinkles a bit of salt over the back of my damp hand. Then he repeats the whole thing with his own hand.

“First the salt, then the tequila, and finally the lemon,” he orders.

I would prefer not to drink anything at all. The tequila was my—admittedly rather pitiful—attempt to gain some control over the situation. Now it tastes like a losing battle. I lick up the salt, down the alcohol, and bite into the lemon. This time, the tartness doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Still, I shudder in disgust.

“Let’s find a table,” Caden suggests after we empty our glasses.

Scowling, I follow him to an alcove where two wide leather armchairs stand in front of a fireplace. The warmth of the glowing fire settles on my already heated cheeks. After we sit down, Caden grabs the drink menu and studies it in detail. I rub my thighs nervously.

“Now what?”

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