Present Day

It was bad enough being in the city—but being here to hunt for demon sign? That was downright ludicrous. At least he wasn't stuck in Times Square, where separating demon sign from human evil and confusion was next to impossible.

As if on cue, a Jim Morrison wannabe strutted down the sidewalk: shirtless, with a devil horn headband perched on greasy long locks, bright red lipstick, and matching leather pants so tight they made Tucker squirm in his seat.

"That has got to be chafing in all the wrong places," he muttered.

The Jim look-alike was harmless, but he reminded Tucker exactly why he hated working in the city—whether Manhattan or Brooklyn. Demons and lost souls mirrored each other here, and it took years of practice to distinguish human suffering from demon trace. Tucker was jaded, knew it, and didn't give a damn.

He watched Jim cross the street and swagger into Mack's bar through the heavy wooden door, propped open with a pair of stanchions. Above the roar of traffic and chatter, Tucker heard Mack's deep voice boom, "No way. Not without a shirt!"

Devil Jim did a poetic 180 and, without missing a beat, flipped Mack off through the glass window.

Tucker snorted—half disgust, half humor. He knew Mack had seen his truck, but the man gave no sign of recognition. They were waiting. Planning.

Two men already sat at the reserved high-top, working through a second pitcher of beer. Four balloons floated above the table, marking the spot for Tucker's surveillance. The guest of honor hadn't arrived. Mack had told him Seraphina Vale was meeting her coworkers at seven for an early 22nd birthday celebration. It was well past 7:30.

But waiting and watching? That was a big part of Tucker's job. He was tired, though—the drive from Nashville had been long. He should've taken one of the agency's newer, fuel-efficient vehicles instead of his '72 Chevy C10. But his gut told him to bring the truck.

And Tucker had learned a long time ago: never question the gut.

A few minutes later, his subject finally appeared—barely keeping pace with her bouncing blonde sidekick. Tucker's eyes sharpened with renewed interest as he caught sight of long, toned legs under a short skirt. Maybe this assignment wouldn't be so bad after all.

The women entered the bar. Long Legs rushed ahead, doling out hugs. Seraphina lagged behind, slower, more measured. Both men rose at her approach. The ginger-haired one kissed her cheek, sliding toward her neck until she laughed and shoved him away. She wiped her skin where his lips had been. Then the much taller man, with long, lush hair of his own, pulled her into a hug—gathering her into a prolonged embraced.

It wasn't just that Tucker disliked displays of affection. The lingering hold made him feel like a pervert watching a private scene.

He wondered if there was something between them. But when they finally separated, they sat opposite each other. Seraphina's back now faced him.

He made a note to ask Mack about the pair and set a five-minute timer on his phone. Flipping open a thin folder, he reviewed the meager notes Nashville had sent:

Patrick Lyme: neck-kisser – not in the notes, but how Tucker would remember him. Social media director and agent.

Dave Morley: hugger. Photographer, videographer, audiobook narrator. Handsome, broad face. Native ancestry suspected, not confirmed.

Lindsey Bloom: blonde sidekick with luscious legs. Best friend and business advisor. Notes ended there.

Tucker decided he might have to dig deeper into Miss Bloom himself.

He glanced up as Mack chilled a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. Two minutes left on the timer. Tucker unclipped Seraphina's photo from the notes. It was too dark for sunlight now, and he didn't dare switch on his interior light, so he used his phone flashlight. The picture showed a pretty girl—shoulder-length brown hair with a shy, slightly crooked smile. Oddly familiar.

He slid the photo back, shoved the folder into his soft briefcase, and stepped out of the truck. The last cup of coffee had been a mistake—he needed a bathroom, and his nerves buzzed. The case had been dumped on him with less than a day's notice. At this point, he was winging it. At least he and Mack had sketched out a plan during the drive.

Refocused, Tucker stretched and locked his truck before crossing the street.

He didn't blend in. The crowd wore khakis and polos, the city's casual office uniform. Tucker wore jeans, a threadbare Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and a battered black leather jacket. Out of place, but two strangers still stopped to compliment the shirt.

Southern manners told him to engage, but the agent in him didn't want small talk. He grunted a "thanks" and moved on, swinging by the bathroom before heading to the bar.

Mack grinned when he saw him. "Nice T-shirt, kid."

"Thanks. Some old fool gave it to me out of his vintage closet."

"Must be a hell of a guy to give up a gem like that."

They both chuckled. Mack had worn the shirt a handful of times before giving it to Tucker nearly ten years ago. Tucker had worn it to threads since.

"Come on," Mack said, nodding toward the high-top. "I'll introduce you to some friends."

He carried the champagne bucket in one hand and four flutes in the other. Tucker followed him to the table.

"Evening, folks," Mack called over the clamor.

He set the bucket down, and Seraphina helped him free the glasses. Tucker stepped closer.

"Fresh meat," Lindsey said, flashing a flirtatious grin.

Seraphina turned to look.

"This is Tucker Grady," Mack said. "A friend of mine." He stepped back, leaving Tucker standing between the two women.

"Tucker," Lindsey said, extending her hand. "I'm Lindsey. These are my friends."

Tucker shook hands with each of them—Lindsey, Dave, Patrick, and finally Seraphina.

"I'm Sera," she said softly.

Recognition rooted itself deeper inside him. It was almost as if he had dreamt of her years before.

"I saw him first," Lindsey teased, sparking laughter.

"That's an unusual ring," Sera noted as Tucker's hand slipped from hers.

The gold veins in the matte black band flared—lighting at her touch, warming his finger. It startled him. He'd never seen it react before. He avoided looking at her or the ring. Had Mack noticed?

"It almost looks like marble," she added, unaware she'd triggered something alchemical.

"Obsidian," Tucker said shortly. He didn't want to discuss it. "I hear it's your birthday?"

"Not until midnight," Lindsey cut in. "Literally midnight—the twelfth chime of the clock."

"Like any good witch," Dave smirked.

Lindsey beamed, proud. "She's a writer. I am too, but not like Sera. She's famous."

Sera shot her a warning glance. Lindsey didn't back down.

"Don't be shy. Not many 22-year-olds get picked up by Netflix for a series."

"Twenty-one," Dave corrected, before downing his beer.

"So," Tucker asked, "is the bubbly for the birthday or the good news?"

"Birthday," Mack said. "Didn't know about the Netflix thing. Congrats, Sera. That's huge."

"Thank you," she said, flushing. "But it's not done. A rep called as I was leaving the office. Wants to meet Monday to discuss."

"Oh, it's happening," Dave said. "It's like you made a pact with the devil this past year." He grinned, but his eyes were sharp.

"Shut up, Dave," Lindsey snapped, slapping his arm. "She's got talent—and guts. Your time will come."

Sera's expression shifted—radiant one second, reflective the next.

Tucker knew her mother had died in a fiery crash a year ago. Was that where her mind went? Or had Dave struck a deeper nerve? He'd seen it before—deals made for success. Souls rarely came out whole.

"Let's pop the cork," Mack said, breaking the tension.

Foam burst with cheers. Glasses filled. Sera smiled, but something behind it seemed... off. Joy dulled beneath memory or pain.

"Why don't you join us?" Lindsey asked, tracing her long nails along Tucker's wrist.

"I don't want to intrude—"

"You're not," Lindsey insisted.

"It's a private celebration," Dave snapped.

Sera's eyes narrowed. "Whatever your problem is, Dave, get over it. You've been sulking for days, and I'm sick of it."

Patrick's jaw dropped. Lindsey hid a smirk.

"Oh, I'm sorry, princess," Dave sneered. "Not all of us live the charmed life."

He slapped the table and stood. He grappled with his jacket hanging on the back of his stool before jamming his arms into the sleeves.

"I'll just go help at the bar," Tucker offered.

"No," Sera said. "Stay. There's a stool open." She glared at Dave.

All 6'6" of him stormed off, then stopped, pulled a wrapped gift from his pocket, and tossed it onto the table. "Before my problem ruins things more."

Sera waited until she knew Dave was gone and raised her glass. "Happy birthday to me."

They clinked.

Patrick drained his in one gulp. "I'll take a beer." Mack headed to the bar.

"So what brings you up here?" Sera asked Tucker. "That accent's not local."

"Helping Mack with some plumbing issues upstairs."

"Yeah, he told me he bought the building. Thirty-two units, four floors of apartments and offices. Big plans. He's now my landlord, not just my favorite bartender."

"You live above?" Tucker asked, surprised. Mack hadn't told him.

"No, just have an office."

"I live there," Patrick said eagerly. "Got in as soon as Mack bought it."

"Lucky Miss Myers died and left a vacancy. I've wondered if you had anything to do with that, Patrick" Lindsey teased. Laughter softened the air.

"Too squeamish for that kind of nonsense," Patrick said, shuddering.

Tucker couldn't help himself. He chuckled at Patrick's overdramatic response

"Some worried about rent hikes," Lindsey added.

"Mack locked leases for three years if tenants pay on time," Patrick said smugly.

"Good man," Tucker agreed. He meant it. Mack's real kindnesses weren't for the faint of heart. He'd saved Tucker's life more than once. Tucker almost wanted to tell Sera the truth—why? He had no idea. It was a compulsion he didn't understand. Besides, some truths weren't for regular people.

But was she regular?

He glanced at his ring. Still warm. Still humming.

There was something about Seraphina Vale. Not just familiarity. Something deeper. She moved through a labyrinth of moods.

Whether it was good or bad—he didn't know. Yet.

But he was here, in this godforsaken city, to find out.