Page 79 of Sleeping Redemption
The back of my hand lightly smacked Sy’s chest.
“Sy,” I murmured with a nod of my head toward the words written above the bed.
It took a moment before his gaze shifted to where I needed his attention. The only indication that he noticed the writing was the flaring of his nostrils and a rumbling in his chest.
He squeezed his hands into fists at his sides.
“Call Rook.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
The demon underbelly was a place filled with our kind’s most wickedly inclined. It was not for the casual wielder of evil. It was made up of a consortium of places designed for socializing without mortal interference.
Arriving in front of the agreed-upon meeting spot, I stared up at the exterior. It looked part warehouse and part sunken pirate ship with crooked shutters, broken portholes, and what appeared to be an ecosystem of fungi on its exterior.
Summoning my cane from the interior of my sleeve, I used the end of it to push the door open like I was about to stride into an old saloon in the Wild West. Wearing my confidence and my fanciest pair of knickers under my jeans, I entered with purpose in my stride.
I’d like to believe that while I was not all cotton candy and glitter, I was at least minimally tolerated by those who frequented this fine establishment. Trickery from a demon such as myself was no shortcoming in my book. However, there were those who fundamentally disagreed.
Upon my entrance, I found myself in a room coated in several layers of dried blood and entrails. Jovial laughter came from the diverse demonic patrons filling the cramped space. Glasses clinked as various breeds of our kind mingled and shared stories of victory, loss, and general merriment.
Admir, the current patriarch of all wurdulacs, was highly respected around these parts. As such, I could at least count on him to see to it that I didn’t encounter any trouble during my visit.
Wurdulacs, while not rare per se, were a breed that tended to procreate selectively. Unlike how fictional stories in the human world painted the picture of bloodsuckers, this particular brand of toothy individuals preferred to keep their ancestry lines close-knit in familial units. How consanguineous of them.
The mere fact that Admir was willing to assist me in uncovering information to assist with our jumper demon problem was a telltale sign of respect. Of course, I may have promised him a few freebie illusions of lost loved ones in exchange for his underlings to listen to the whispered rumblings of our dark world.
My hazel eyes scanned the crowd, searching for any sign of Admir amongst the hordes of beings here.
The rich tone of a voice bearing a smoothness akin to silk spoke up from behind me, “Look what the hellhounds dragged in, a trickster demon who is his own imaginary friend.”
A smile stretched wide across my face. I turned around with my arms flinging open in a welcoming gesture as my cane carelessly smacked into a goat-headed demon’s horns.
“Addy!” I greeted him by the nickname he despised more than sunlight.
Seeing the disgruntled goat man turning to face me with a bleat and a beady-eyed glare, Admir lifted his hand and waved him off.
“How many times must I tell you that I loathe that name? I am a cultured demon of a prestigious lineage,” he stated wearily.
With a spin of my cane, I tucked it under my arm, and my hand kept a solid grip on it in the event any of the other occupants decided to get rowdy.
“But it suits you so well, my friend,” I smirked knowingly at him.
Admir stepped forward, and we grasped each other’s forearms in a firm greeting. He patted the side of my arm before he motioned to a small table in the corner with a gilded plaque that bore his name in elegant script.
“Let’s talk, shall we?” His tone held nothing but professionalism.
He led me over to the table, where I spun a chair out for myself and straddled it backwards. I stood my cane up next to me, using my powers to maintain its upright position.
I stared at him expectantly, everything inside me on edge as I waited to hear what he had discovered through his grapevine of miscreants.
The aristocratic bloodsucker across from me undid the buttons of his expensive black suit jacket as he sat back in his seat. Maintaining strict control over his facial expressions, he ran a hand down over the dark-as-night goatee surrounding his mouth.
“I wish I had called you here with better news, Rook,” he began. “Regretfully, my sources have informed me that indeed your saliranimum problem is as you suspect. Nicodemus is very much alive, and from what I am hearing, his,” he paused to select his next word carefully, “aspirationsare much larger than rekindling a fondness for your dark-feathered angel.”
Leaning forward, I crossed my arms on top of the back of the chair I was seated on.
“Larger in what regard?” I perked up my pierced brow at him.
