Devil's Bargain
Jazz Callender’s whole life just got turned upside down.Her friend Ben’s been convicted of a crime he didn’t commit and Jazz is determined to clear his name, even if it means enlisting the help of dark forces. Enter James, a stranger with a mysterious offer. If Jazz pledges to work for The Cross Society, a shadowy secret organisation, he’ll help her save Ben.But as she’s thrust into a world of psychic powers and dangerous magic, Jazz isn’t just bargaining for her friend’s freedom. She’s bargaining for her soul too. And how high a price is she willing to pay?"'Thrilling, sexy, and funny! These books are addictive. One of my very favourite vampire series.' – –Richelle Mead, author of the international bestselling Vampire Academy series on Black Dawn (Morganville Vampires)'A first class storyteller' – Charlaine Harris
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Everything mattersâ¦
He came out of the dark, a dull shadow, grey, colourless. Too small a man to be making so much of a difference in the world.
He raised the gun, sighted it on her.
She remembered Simms saying, Everything you do matters.
She couldnât breathe. Her whole body felt numbed, destroyed by the impact in her chestâ¦
Something was very wrong. Everything was going dark.
Everything you doâ¦
Her heart beat, a hard jerk in her chest. She raised her gun. She couldnât feel her arm, couldnât feel anything but disorientation and pain and fear, but then her gun was up and she was looking into his face as his eyes widened.
Everything you do matters.
I know that, she told Simms.
And she fired.
About the Author
RACHEL CAINE was born at the ultra-secure White Sands Missile Rangeâsite of the first atomic bomb testsâand has kept that non-traditional attitude ever since. Sheâs been a professional musician, accountant, accident investigator, web designer and graphic artistâ¦all at the same time. She currently works in corporate public relations and maintains a full schedule of writing, with her successful Weather Warden series from Roc entering its fourth book and nine other novels already in print. Visit her website at www.rachelcaine.com.
For all my kick-ass girls.
You know who you are. Everything you do matters.
Chapter 1
Solâs Tavern was a place for serious drinkers.
It had no elegant decor, no pretty people sipping layered liqueurs. Solâs had a bar, some battered stools, a couple of slovenly waitresses, and a surly guy to pour drinks. There was a dartboard with Osama bin Ladenâs face pasted on it behind the bar, and for a dollar a throw, you could try your luck; the proceeds went into a faded red-white-and-blue jar that promisedâhowever doubtfullyâto go to charity.
But the best thing about Solâs, to Jazz Callender, was that it wasnât a cop bar, and she wasnât likely to run into anyone sheâd ever known.
Jazz pulled up a bar stool and set about her business, which was to get so drunk she couldnât remember where sheâd been. She caught the bartenderâs eye and nodded at the empty spot in front of her. Their conversation consisted of a one-word order from her, a grunt from him, and the exchange of cash. Solâs wasnât the kind of place where you ran a tab, either. Cash on the barrelhead, one drink at a time.
I could get to like this place, she thought. And knew it was a little sad.
As she leaned her elbows on the bar and picked up her Irish whiskey, Jazz scanned the barâs patrons in the mirror. She didnât actually care who was there, but old habits were hard to break, this one harder than most. The faces clicked into her memory, filed for later. A couple of unpleasant-looking truckers with bodybuilding hobbies; a fat guy with a mean face who looked as if he might be trouble after a few dozen drinks. He was drinking alone. There were two faded night-blooming women in low-cut blouses and dyed hair, years etched as if by acid at the corners of their eyes and mouths.
Jazz was still youngâthirty-four was young, wasnât it?âbut she still felt infinitely older than the rest of them. Seen too much, done too muchâ¦she wasnât going to attract a lot of attention, even from the bottom-feeders in here. Especially not dressed in blue jeans, a shapeless gray sweatshirt with an NYU logo, and clunky cop shoes left over from better days. Her hair needed cutting, and it kept falling in her eyes. When she looked across at herself in the mirror she saw a wreck: pale, raccoon-eyed, wheat-blond hair straggling like a mop.
Her eyes still looked green and sharp and haunted.
Sharpâ¦that needed to change. Quickly.
She tossed back her first whiskey, clutched the edge of the bar tight against the burn, and made a silent again gesture at her glass. The bartender made a silent pay me first reply. She slid over a crumpled five, got a full shot glass of forgetfulness and slammed it back, too.
The door opened.
It was gray outside, turning into night, but even the glimmer of streetlights was blocked by the man coming in. Tall, not broad. Her first thought was, trouble, but then it turned ridiculous, because this guy wasnât trouble, he was about to be in trouble. Over six feet and a little on the thin side, all sharp angles, which would have been okay if he hadnât come dressed in some self-consciously tough leather getup that would have looked ridiculous on a Hellâs Angel. He didnât have the face for itâlean and angular, yeah, but with large, gentle brown eyes that scanned the bar skittishly and looked alarmed by what they saw.
His badass-biker leathers were so new they creaked.
Jazz resisted the urge to snort a laugh and repeated her pantomime with the bartender. Behind her, she heard the squeak, squeak, squeak of the new guyâs leather as he walked up, and then he was climbing onto a bar stool next to her.
âLove that new-car smell,â she told the bartender as he poured her a third shot. He gave her a cynical half smile and took her five bucks. The fool did smell like a new carâalso some kind of expensive aftershave that reminded her of cinnamon and butterâ
