Getting Familiar with Your Demon: That Old Black Magic, Book 4 by Jodi Redford

watering holes.
    He took a left out of his drive and headed into the heart of the city. Tourists and locals jam-packed the streets and sidewalks. The smoky strains of rhythm-and-blues and the dirtier, wailing beat of honky-tonk drifted from the numerous nightspots luring in patrons. Eventually making his way through the congested traffic, he entered the quieter neighborhood near Monterey Square. Lush palms bordered the road, filling the air with the pungency of tropical greens. Here the houses were bigger than life. Refined, elegant reminders of days gone by.
    Up ahead, a long line of cars blocked the street. Safe to say he wasn’t the only one making a fashionably late arrival to the ball. Choosing to forgo the wait at the valet stand, he parked in front of one of the neighboring houses. The tall, Palladian windows were dark. Either the owners were down the street at the party or not at home. Regardless, not much chance they’d bitch about him blocking their drive. And if they did, they could kiss his ass.
    He decided to leave his jacket—along with Cass’s damn checklist—in his GTO. After fetching a couple condoms from the box and stuffing them in his pocket, he slammed the door shut and strode toward party central. He typically wasn’t one for festive hoopla. His stance on large gatherings quadrupled when he neared the Cosgrove mansion and noticed the amount of people milling around outside.
    There was a reason he didn’t do parties. The potential of vast hordes of annoying people in one space were huge. Knowing pretty much everyone here was a Glen and Glinda the Good Witch made him wish Cass had packed along some antacids. He neared the walkway leading to the main house, and several of the folks loitering outside slid him curious looks. When a few of them started to frown, he sped up his pace, bypassing the congested front entrance. He hoofed it toward the narrow lane bisecting the mansion and its smaller carriage house. Illuminated glass lanterns staked along the jasmine-lined path guided the way to the unmanned service door.
    Grateful to have no witnesses to his stealthy entrance, he tried the knob and discovered it was unlocked. He ducked inside the small corridor. Judging from the noise and clatter coming from the adjacent room, he was on the other side of the kitchen. He ambled in the direction of the white double doors in the distance. The ironic symbol of those doors wasn’t something he failed to catch—the innocent purity ready to bar admittance to the evil dark demon. He was half tempted to propel the things open with one fell kick. Show ’em who was boss.
    Unfortunately, it’d probably only make him look like a jackass with a strange grudge against doors. Not to mention it’d draw unwanted attention. Slightly disappointed at the necessity of using the handle, he walked out into a much larger hallway filled with costumed revelers. Chatter was loud and boisterous. No one paid him much mind as he made his way through the throng.
    A dude in servant livery sidestepped a pair of lovebirds locked in an embrace. Sam stole one of the bottles of beer from the guy’s tray before striding in the direction where the majority of partiers seemed to be headed. He took a swallow of the microbrew and walked into the crowded ballroom. The alcohol went down hard as the headache-inducing chorus of Funkytown pounded his eardrums at a decibel easily heard the next county over. His temples throbbing in tempo with the beat, he gaped at the dancers grooving joyously in the middle of the cavernous ballroom. What fresh hell is this?
    Convinced he was walking into his worst nightmare, he took a halting step into the room. For devil’s sake. The things he did in the name of survival. As if the torturous music wasn’t enough to contend with, the overwhelming white energy emanating from those around him felt suffocating. Sticky beads of sweat dotted his forehead and crawled along the nape of his neck.
    Ignoring the consuming