She corrals the other three women away from the elevator and the doors shut.
“Seriously,” I say, getting out from behind Kincaid. “Who are you?”
The amount of smugness radiating off him makes me want to kick him in his stupid face.
I cross my arms over my chest when he doesn’t answer, perfectly aware of how childish the gesture is but not caring. “Fine,” I snap. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know anyway.”
The door pings open and I follow Kincaid out and directly into a shopping area. A Diablim man in a tailored suit wearing an earpiece and tinted sunglasses indoors greets us.
“Mr. Kincaid,” the security man states roughly.
“Sam,” Kincaid says in reply, moving to step past.
“And this is?” the security man inquires, and I think I can see him appraising me from behind the shade of his sunnies.
Kincaid tugs me along behind him and smiles pleasantly at Sam.
No, not pleasantly. That isn’t the right word. It’s not so much a smile as it is him baring his teeth. “She’s with me, Sam,” Kincaid replies pointedly. “Is there a problem?”
Sam straightens. “Not at all, my lord.”
Without another word, Kincaid lets me loose and gestures vaguely to the store surrounding us.
It reminds me of the fancy shops from shows like Sex in the City. Saks and Bergdorf’s. Barney’s. Places where only rich people go to shop. One glance at a price tag on a simple white cropped t-shirt tells me I am not wrong.
It costs three hundred dollars.
Not that I care. It won’t be my own money I’m spending. You know, since I don’t have any. I grab for the simple black t-shirt behind it and start scanning racks farther away for more things that look like they’ll fit.
I grimace as I go, noticing how all the clothes have a certain style to them. They are tight and torn. Leather and lace. I try to grab for items less…provocative but finding simple cotton blends amid all the strange fabrics and designs is only going to ensure I leave with barely anything at all. So, I give up.
It strikes me as I gather shirt after shirt, trying to make my way toward an area that looks like it has jeans, that we are the only people in this store. There isn’t even a shopkeeper.
Now, I’ve been in many stores, but I’ve seen enough of them depicted in movies and books to know that something isn’t quite right with that.
“Five minutes,” Kincaid warns. “I have another errand to run.”
I turn away so he can’t see me roll my eyes at him. It’s then that I decide to give him a real run for his money. I grab everything that looks even slightly like it might fit. Sweaters and jeans. T-shirts and tank tops and shorts. Fistfuls of silk and lace panties from a big pink bin that has a plush satin bow on the side.
Several bras that I’m sure cost more than your average car payment. I can barely carry it all.
A couple pairs of panties tumble down from the heavy mountain of clothes piled between my arms when I turn back to Kincaid and raise a brow.
“Pleased with yourself?” he asks, seemingly bored by my attempt to piss him off.
I frown.
“Time’s up, Na’vazēm.”
Kincaid snaps his fingers and a person materializes next to us. Just fucking appears.
I fall flat on my ass and the pile of clothing scatters to the floor, covering my lap and the carpet in a wide blast radius around me. I bite my lip to keep from whimpering at the bruising ache in my tailbone.
The Diablim that blinked into existence is a short man with a balding head of white hair and small wire-framed round glasses. He could be someone’s grandpa. Until he opens his mouth.
Two rows of needle-like teeth flash in the fluorescent overhead light and I gasp, crawling backward.
“Oh, miss, you’ve dropped your things,” the creature exclaims, his tone kind and lilting with an accent something between British and Scottish. “Here, let me get these packed for you.”
I scrabble to my feet and somehow end up back beside Kincaid. As if he’ll protect me from the creepy old man-thing.
I’m still panting when the needle-toothed Diablim scuttles away with my things in his arms, Kincaid chortling quietly in his wake.
16
Everything I chose fits in three large bags. Kincaid watches me with an amused glimmer in his demonic eyes as I struggle to heft them all the way back through the building and out to the car.
I never saw him pay for them, and when I finally slide into the backseat next to him after stuffing everything in the trunk, I have to wonder if he needed to at all. If my buying half the store to piss him off didn’t even faze him because the shopkeeper wouldn’t dare charge the infamous Kincaid.
Seriously, who the fuck is this Diablim?
The not knowing was really starting to get to me.
“Where are we going?” I inquire as the nameless, faceless, way-too-quiet driver chauffeurs us through another section of abandoned city and to an old shopping block.
Little mom-and-pop stores with shuttered and broken windows dot the street on either side. Shrubs and trees that were likely once manicured to perfection now grow wild, their roots cracking the sidewalks.
“To see a friend, Na’vazēm.”
“I have a name you know,” I snap back at him. “Why do you keep calling me Na’vazēm?”
I’m completely butchering the pronunciation, but I don’t care. “What does that even mean?”
Kincaid eyes me warily, like he tastes something sour on his tongue. I have the presence of mind to know he could lash out at any second, but I am bolder now.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t think he will.
Time will tell if that assumption is as foolish as the rational part of my brain is trying to say it is.
“A name gives a thing power,” he mutters. “And gives you power over a thing.”
Something tickles at the edge of my mind. A series I once watched that got me into a lot of trouble when Ford found out what I was watching. It mentioned something like that.
There was a priest…or something…and he needed to learn the name of the demon possessing this creepy little girl to be able to exorcise it back to Hell.
Was it possible that sort of thing was true?
“Maybe in Hell a name gives a thing power, but last I checked, this is still earth and I’m not some demonic spirit you plan to vanquish.”
Kincaid turns his hot stare on me, his yellow eyes drilling through me, all the way down until my belly flips and my toes go cold.
He makes no reply.
Then he turns away to look out the window again, his jaw set.
Well shit.
“We’re here,” he says as the car pulls up to the curb and we both step out. This time Kincaid doesn’t grab me. He doesn’t curl his fingers around my wrist and hold me close to him.
There’s no need.
The street is abandoned in both directions for as far as I can see. It looks like a cut scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. Like when that guy wakes up in the hospital in 28 Days Later and finds a world devoid of life. All that’s missing are the zombies.
The shops lining the street are rickety, unkept things with shattered windows and soot choked facades.
At least, all of them are except for this one. Kincaid starts toward it and tugs the door open. A bell jingles as he steps inside.