Page 42 of Speak of the Devil

Too bad he wasn’t on speaking terms with any of theProject Demon Huntersgang. Then he could have asked them if they’d ever encountered someone like Delia before, a woman who could whisper to ghosts but also somehow detect the residue of a day-old battle with a demon.

But they weren’t speaking. In fact, all of them believed he was safely trapped in Hell, and he certainly wasn’t going to do anything to disabuse them of that notion.

Well, except send a mysterious wedding gift to Rosemary, who might or might not have figured out that he wasn’t quite as caught in the underworld as they believed.

He ate half his sandwich and some of the potato salad, then put the leftovers in the fridge so he could return to the couch and finish his beer.

That imp in the parking garage. Were there more of them hiding in various places around town, just waiting to attack?

Possibly. Or maybe he just had spectacularly bad luck.

If it wasn’t bad luck…if someone had detected his presence here and wasn’t terribly thrilled by it…then he might be in for a whole world of hurt.

That didn’t make much sense, though. While he knew the various casino owners probably weren’t happy about losing several million bucks to him over the past few months, they were mortals. There was no way in the world — or in Hell — they’d be able to guess he was anything except an ordinary man.

Especially since he’d been so careful never to wear his real face — or the same face twice — when he went gambling. He was untraceable…unfindable.

He hoped.

The weather cleared the next day, and Caleb went out, determined to add a few extra hundred grand to his expanding bank accounts. Strictly speaking, that wasn’t necessary, but with the purchase of the house looming — along with all its associated renovation costs — he thought it better to be safe.

That meant taking an Uber instead of driving; he was in no mood to have a repeat of the incident in the parking garage, and figured it would be safer to get dropped off and then call another car when he wanted to head for home.

And although he was careful, he still ended up a hundred grand richer after visiting the first three stops — changing his face between each one, of course — and wondered if he should quit while he was ahead or try his luck one more time.

Since going home to an empty house in the middle of the afternoon didn’t sound very appealing, he decided to go a little off the beaten track and head over to Treasure Island. He hadn’t visited that casino for more than three weeks, and it seemed likeworking the tables there for a bit would be a good idea. After all, it had been almost a month since they’d suffered any big losses at his hands.

On that sunny Tuesday afternoon, the place wasn’t very crowded. Caleb didn’t like that as much, since big crowds gave him many more opportunities to hide. Still, he cleared about twenty-five grand at the blackjack tables before he went into the bathroom so he could switch his appearance once again.

Before, he’d been an older man in his sixties in a blue windbreaker and deck shoes. Now he wore the face of someone much younger, middle twenties at best, a good-looking Hispanic guy wearing a black long-sleeved T-shirt and faded jeans.

Most people probably would have thought his ability to shapeshift in such a way was downright miraculous. But because Caleb had always been able to change his appearance — well, since he was around seven, just old enough to understand his father when Daniel told him he could never do that in front of his mother or any other mortals — he didn’t think it was that big a deal. The gift was one he’d been born with. It certainly wasn’t anything he’d earned, unlike his position as quarterback on the football team, which had been the result of lots of coaching and summers spent working out and tossing a ball around with anyone who would humor him.

He’d wanted to have one thing he thought was truly his.

Unlike winning at poker or craps or roulette, which was accomplished purely by allowing his demonic talents to reach out and push the dice over so they showed a lucky seven, or to have the roulette ball fall on the correct color and number.

Or even subtly influencing a dealer’s hands so they always gave Caleb the exact cards he needed.

Because the guy he was impersonating seemed like the type of man who would play craps, he headed over to that section of the casino floor, snagging a gin and tonic from a passing waitresswho told him he could have it, that the person who’d ordered the drink had left the casino floor before she could deliver it.

His loss.

Gin and tonics weren’t his favorite beverage, but he didn’t care too much about the flavor right now. No, he only wanted some alcohol in his system — not too much, only enough to cushion reality a bit.

This time, he took it easy, losing almost as much as he won, but his winnings accumulated at a steady rate nonetheless. From time to time, the dealer shot him a considering look from under her false eyelashes, but she didn’t say anything.

Why would she? His hands rested on the table in front of him, and it would have been clear to anyone watching that there was no way he could have been influencing the dice.

It would have been impossible to detect the mental nudges he gave them from time to time…well, unless you were another demon.

Only mortals around the craps table this afternoon, though, most of them tourists, mixed in with a few people of retirement age who probably came to hang out at the casinos because it was better than sitting at home and watchingWheel of Fortune,or whatever.

Even though Caleb was only about forty grand ahead, he decided to stop there. Something about the vibe here was getting to him, and he thought it might be better to call it a day and head home.

He thanked the dealer, tipped her generously, and collected his chips, then performed the familiar ritual of trading them in for cash, which went into his messenger bag. The bag was the only thing that might have given him away, but he changed its appearance as well — sometimes it was brown, sometimes black, and sometimes it wasn’t a messenger bag at all, just a plain old backpack.

That was what it looked like today, dark green with worn straps. He hefted it over one shoulder as he pulled out his phone with his free hand, maneuvering so he could summon an Uber to take him home…or rather, to the strip mall not too far from his house that was his usual destination.

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