“Something to think about, Peep,” I said, my hand dropping to his leg and still anchoring him as I used my other hand to pull my Smith that I’d shoved down behind the leather cushion we were sitting on before we’d gone hunting. It was a good place to raise it, hidden in the shadows moving up behind his shoulder to bury its muzzle against the base of his spine. “And exactly what is he thinking, Zeke?” Demons didn’t have to talk for us to hear. We only had to get close to one and bring up the subject.

Eli might want to have a conversation that was in our mutual . . . possibly . . . best interests, but no matter how bright another demon was, it wouldn’t be Eligos. Intelligence had nothing to do with sharing information with a bitter enemy who might, in one wildly improbable circumstance, be able to help you. Intelligence could let you see that picture, but only guts or an enormous ego would let you draw it. All demons had ego, but not all of them had the spine to match. Our friend here could, but it didn’t matter if he did or not. I wasn’t relying on chance, not when I could rely on Zeke instead.

Zeke’s focus on the demon went unblinking. Armand—what a name for a demon to appropriate—didn’t care for that. He hissed and bared still-human teeth. We were in public and that mattered to him as much as it did to us. The last thing Hell wanted was for people to not only truly believe in it, but to believe that it wasn’t waiting patiently, that it was actively knocking at your door to do everything it could to drag you down. Heaven wasn’t the only one with recruiters. And if you were too pious and pure, then tearing you apart was a very viable second option. No, Hell didn’t want that getting around any more than the late Colonel Sanders wanted his recipe for extra crispy hitting the Internet.

I put more pressure on the gun, feeling it grate against the bony processes of the demon’s spine. “Keep it together, doll, and it’ll be over soon enough. Then you can get back to filling up your lunch box. But in the future I’d ignore those who ignore you. They probably have a bigger bite than you do.” I kept my gaze flickering from Armand to Zeke as I went on to say, “Getting anything, Kit?”

Zeke’s mouth twisted. “I got it. Now let me kill him. I don’t give a shit if it’s in front of the whole damn casino. He needs to die. For what he’s done . . . he has to die and it has to fucking hurt.”

It was difficult to say what would’ve happened next if Armand hadn’t made his move. Eden House had connections in every branch of the government, local and federal, but they preferred to use their power as subtly as possible. If an operative could make his way out of his own mess, that would be ideal. If not, Eden House would step in and pull some strings. But shooting a demon in front of hundreds of people and trying to pass it off as one of those magic tricks Vegas was so famous for when that perceived “victim” turned into a puddle, there wasn’t much Eden House could or would do for you. Because in this situation you weren’t ridding the world of an unholy predator, you were breaking the rules. And Eden House, much like those Upstairs, didn’t care for having their rules broken.

If they had any idea what Griffin had been and what Zeke had abandoned, they would’ve done their level best to kill them both.

That was why I was reasonably satisfied with the way things turned out. I wasn’t happy the demon escaped a no doubt well-deserved death, but to keep Zeke out of jail for whatever length of time it took to prove that no body equaled no prosecutable crime was worth it. The hissing turned to snarling and the demon slithered from between Zeke and me, went on to flip over the table in one continuous movement of sinuous speed, and was gone onto the casino floor and out into the crowd in a matter of seconds. The movement caught the bartender’s attention in midswipe at the inside of a glass. Then he shrugged. Cirque du Soleil was always in town. It was a commentary on the city that demons were so easily explained away. Or perhaps it was a commentary on the peculiarities of Cirque du Soleil performers. I wasn’t one to rush to judgment.

Flexibility though, that was something to think about. Maybe like Leo I should do some dating of my own. Catch a show and dinner. Killing demons was entertaining, but a girl had to eat.

I hid my gun out of sight, returned to its holster in the small of my back. “Kit?”

Zeke shook his head and finished his beer in several swallows before echoing the bartender’s shrug. “Same as that son of a bitch Eligos told you about. Nine hundred some of the murdering bastards dead. Like any of us are crying over that.”

Griffin shifted almost imperceptibly beside me. Zeke frowned at him. “Don’t do that. Don’t think that. It’s not true, okay? It’s not fucking true.”

“It is true. I don’t remember it, but it’s true.” Griffin pushed away the whiskey because at that moment it had to be too much of a temptation for him.

Zeke kicked me under the table. He’d known Griffin all his human life, but Zeke had never been good with words, not the non-four-letter kind, and now he was wanting me to fix this. Although I’d give it my best, in the end it was only Griffin who could fix himself, but I gave it a shot. “You were born seventeen years ago,” I told him sternly, swiveling to plant a finger in his chest. “You’re a twenty-seven-year-old human being”—with wings, but no need to go into that—“who has never done anything in his entire life that wasn’t for the greater good, and, even better, for the little good.” When it came to the greater good, there were often civilian casualties. That’s why greater was slapped on the description, so that when you cried over a dead neighbor, friend, or family member, you could remember it was for the greater good. Their sacrifice . . . your sacrifice . . . wasn’t in vain. That’s why I cherished the little good. With that, no one worthy of life died. No one was hurt. There was a happy ending and only evil fell.

With a bemused expression, Griffin looked down at my finger denting his chest. “But before that . . .”

“No, no, Griff. There was no before that. Whoever that demon was before, it doesn’t matter. He died when you were born, and when you chose us over Hell, you put a headstone and wreath on his grave. You’re Griffin, no one else, and if Zeke won’t smack you for thinking differently, then I will. Clear?” I asked with one last poke of my finger to his expensive shirt. “Or should I go on?”

“Unless you plan on sticking your entire hand in my chest and pulling out my heart to show me how big and wholesome it is,” he said, “I think I have it.”

“Big, wholesome, and bright and shiny as a parade of Valentine’s hearts. I promise you that. Want a peek at my emotions to know if I’m telling the truth?” I offered. I could drop the shield that protected me against psychic incursions. I rarely did, but for my guys, I made exceptions. And when it came to situations like this, I didn’t think twice.

“No. The offer is enough. That you believe is enough.” He pretended to smooth his shirt. Zeke growled. “And you too,” Griffin added. “I think that would go without saying though.”

“Like you listen to me.” Zeke slid out of the booth. “Did you believe me when I said the house on the corner was a meth lab? No.”

“I did too believe you. I just thought you should let them blow themselves up, not do the job for them.” Griffin exited the other side. “It would’ve happened sooner or later. They didn’t have kids . . . or puppies. There was no hurry.”

“It smelled. It made my eyes water.” Zeke waited for Griffin to pay the bill. He was of the opinion that he provided a public service like a policeman and like a policeman, he deserved food and drink for free. That he didn’t have a badge to prove it was the only flaw in his plan.

Griffin passed over some bills, waved off the change, and walked out with us. “I guess I should be grateful you waited until they were out before you blew up their house.”