She feels it.
Her eyes darken.
Not fear.
Something else.
The same lust I’ve been fighting that climbs my spine with dirty boots.
The song ends.
Neither of us moves for half a breath.
Then clapping starts from the bar, loud and stupid. Cornbread whistles. “Hell yeah, Panty Lady!”
I release Amelia before she can feel trapped.
Then I turn on Cornbread. “You want to die on neutral ground?”
He looks around. “Can you do that?”
Royal’s voice comes from somewhere near the back. “Technically, yes.”
I had not even seen him come in.
Of course not.
Amelia laughs again, breathless, cheeks flushed.
Then she stops.
Her gaze has caught on someone near the entrance.
I turn.
A woman stands just inside the Fire Pit like the room owes her silence. She is in her fifties maybe, neat gray-blonde hair, a high-necked floral dress, sensible shoes, and alittle gold cross at her throat. She has the kind of face that smiles at funerals because grief gives her something to organize. I have seen her around Pearly Gates events. Not one of Crowley’s loudest sheep. Worse. Quiet kind. The kind that brings casseroles and collects secrets while the dish is still warm.
Ruthanne Peck.
Hell.
Her eyes are on Amelia.
Not curious.
Not kind.
Purposeful.
I step closer to Amelia. “You know her?”
Amelia’s hand tightens around mine before she realizes she is still holding it.
“No.”
Ruthanne walks toward us with a gentle smile that makes my palms itch.
“Amelia,” she says, like they are friends from church.