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to cover myself. “Don’t tell her I told you. You know how Shock is about her personal stuff.”
     
“It runs in the family.” Lo gave me a quick squeeze.
     
I refrained from soaking up more relief from my friend. It was bad enough that I was lying to her; I didn’t have to steal her emotions, too. “Sorry,” I muttered reflexively. “It’s been a rough night.”
     
“You can go back upstairs to your sister. I’ll take care of closing.” Lo knew I didn’t like to be pressed when I was upset, so she turned to start cleaning the shelf under the rows of liquor bottles behind the bar.
     
I didn’t want to go back upstairs. I was revved up on the supercharged demon energy I had taken from Petrify. “No, thanks. I should let her rest.”
     
I set off like a golf cart with an eight-cylinder engine, moving faster and burning brighter with power than ever before. I felt like I was high—on top of the world, and whatever I did was right and good.
     
It was probably mistaken for nervous energy as I wiped down tables, picking up some stray glasses and settling the chairs back in place. The bar would be clearing out soon enough. I calculated every move to bring me in contact with the patrons. I touched their arms as I bid them good night, gave them little nudges along with my quips, and was big on leaning into people as I took their order.
     
I didn’t really need to feed, but a surprising number weren’t happy despite their outward cheer. I lingered with them, reasoning that it was better to absorb a little bit of their negative emotions since that offered them some relief. Some customers came back night after night without understanding they came because I made them feel better.
     
Like most demons, I could feed on any emotion. For the dump truck loads of shit I had to absorb, I got to taste only a few drops of ease. But I would do anything to create those precious drops. So rather than an altruist, as too many called me, I was a hypocrite at heart, seeing only the comfort they found with me and not what I took. It was selfish in the extreme. And I could never forget it.
     
That was what made me a demon.
     
All the while, I avoided Savor. He was the only demon, other than Shock, allowed in my bar. I was Vex’s bagman, and Savor was his messenger; Savor’s job was to drop off the discreet envelopes of payola that I passed on to local, state, and sometimes even federal officials. The enormous Prophet’s Arena would never have been built in Brooklyn right on the East River if the church hadn’t paid off the commissioner of the planning and zoning board. His driver still picked up an envelope on the first of every month.
     
Vex’s empire was his religion, the Fellowship of Truth. He’d started it right after World War II, posing as the first and now-dead prophet of a philosophy that was more libertarian than spiritual. The current prophet was Dread, Vex’s firstborn and most loyal demon—they had been working together since the fifth century. Without the draconian personal restrictions that Vex’s older religions had tried to impose on people, the Fellowship was growing at a respectable rate. Believers emphasized personal responsibility over everything else, and judgment by none. The church’s ultimate carrot was the promise of immortality gained through individual perfection. The fact that none of their followers had attained such a state didn’t matter—the promise of it seemed enough to inspire hundreds of thousands to join the Fellowship.
     
I knew the other side of the church, the one that had no qualms about subverting laws and blackmailing people to get whatever Vex wanted.
     
I wasn’t proud of what I did. I hated it. But it was the price I paid for Vex’s protection. After I came to the city and took my job at the Den on C, the demon attacks subsided to a manageable trickle when I gained his support. As the head of his line, he had more power than anyone in the demon world other than