A Devil in the Dark

When casino worker Wren Gillebrand goes missing, there’s no evidence of foul play, but her boss, Lucian Blane, knows just how evil humans can be. He is the Lord of the Underworld, after all. Together with Wren’s friend Vee, Blane sets out to solve the mystery and get his best blackjack dealer back where she belongs.

All Wren tried to do was help a friend, but now her life is in danger. With survival her only goal and uncertain who to trust, she does the only logical thing: she runs. But with a gang of monsters and the devil himself on her tail, there’s only so far a girl can get.

A Devil in the Dark is set in the real world with supernatural elements, aka magical realism. The story features plenty of humour and a morally grey hero, and can be read as a standalone—no cliffhanger!

Available for preorder:

Chapter 1

“Go to hell,” the blonde banshee screeched.

“At times like this, it’s tempting.”

“Don’t you know who I am?”

“Unfortunately.”

The woman with the slightly unfocused eyes and inch-long nails was Taylee M, hawker of diet pills, false eyelashes, and butt-enhancing “wunderwear,” so my assistant reliably informed me. I glanced down out of curiosity as the doorman hustled her out of the VIP area. Well, she wasn’t wearing the wunderwear tonight. One of her stilettos fell off, and the resulting shriek was audible over the thumping bass from the live band downstairs. 

“You’ll pay for this! Your stupid club is boring anyway. The service sucks, and the music’s trashy, and…”

I turned away and surveyed the damage. A waitress was cleaning up the glass Taylee had broken, and the man she’d arrived with was studiously pretending he didn’t know her. A few people were filming the scene, which she’d probably love. No publicity was bad publicity, after all.

“Life’s too short to put up with a hellion like that,” I muttered to a smirking Joseph. 

“You’re immortal.”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

Plus there were plenty of regular humans in the club, and they shouldn’t have to deal with Taylee M either. She’d been obnoxious enough before she began taking drugs, but snorting a line of coke had been the final straw. Or, in her case, the final rolled-up ten-dollar bill. Club Dead had a strict “no drugs” policy, and she’d broken the rules. 

My rules. 

I’d never had this problem in my former home. In Plane Three, my word was law. Plane Five—aka Earth—was full of rebellious souls. Yes, that was one of the reasons I liked it, but as my mother always said, every positive was balanced by a negative. Good and evil, light and dark, yin and yang, orange juice and vodka. Cecily Shepherd and Taylee M.

Cecily was in the VIP area now, sitting with her husband and a young singer she was trying to woo into performing at the charity benefit she was organising. For either starving puppies or sick children—I forgot which. Shep, her husband, kept one eye on the crowd as his wife spoke. Even though he’d left his gun at home, he never stopped being a cop. Six months ago, the sight of him on the mezzanine would have left me twitchy, especially when Taylee M had snorted a line of Colombian finest off the mirrored table. But one of Detective Shepherd’s colleagues had become a friend, and both men understood that I had no tolerance for narcotics. 

“Why didn’t Shep arrest her?” Joseph asked. “Don’t cops have quotas to meet?”

“Cece doesn’t like it when he mixes business with pleasure, and besides, Taylee inhaled the evidence. I’m going back upstairs.”

The main room of the cavernous nightclub had a ceiling that reached for the heavens, and my apartment sprawled above the masses, accessible via my private office suite on the second floor. Outside the office, a balcony spanned the width of the club, giving me a bird’s-eye view of the bar, the tables, and the dance floor. The VIP mezzanine stretched off to my right, bringing our special guests closer to my personal fiefdom, but not close enough to touch. If the VIPs thought they were lording over the peons, they only had to glance up to see that they weren’t quite as high in the pecking order as they might wish.

And thanks to my twenty-twenty vision—being the son of Earth’s overlord did afford me certain advantages—I’d been able to witness Taylee’s indiscretions from the shadows and deal with the problem before she cost the club its licence.

Club Dead had been my first purchase here in Plane Five. Okay, my second—it turned out that Vegas really was hotter than Hell, tar-burning pits and lava craters excepted, and if one was going to spend much time outside in Nevada, shorts were an unfortunate necessity. Joseph had nearly expired in his leather pants. On the whole, being a nightclub owner was satisfactory, but there were rare occasions when I missed my old home. Tonight was one of them.

So, why was I in Plane Five, you ask? An excellent question, and I had my father to thank for that. Several years ago, he’d banished me here to learn my lesson.

“Plane Three isn’t meant to be fun, son,” he’d told me. “Souls are sent there as a punishment.”

“Yesterday’s losing acidball team was far from happy.”

Joseph had come up with that little game. I’d always wanted to try paintball, but for an added challenge, we’d switched out the paint for sulphuric acid from the volcano crater. The winners were the folks with the most skin left when the buzzer sounded.

“Acidball, fire-walking, bungee jumping… This wasn’t what the Celestial Council had in mind when they appointed our family to rule the eighty-sixth realm.”

“Russian roulette bungee jumping,” I corrected. The activity was so much more fun when you didn’t know how long the rope was. Pick the wrong one, and…splat. 

“And the Celestial Council definitely wouldn’t have approved of Genghis Khan and Oliver Cromwell placing bets on the outcome.”

“Don’t forget Cathy.” More formally known as Catherine the Great, but that was such a mouthful. “We’re all for diversity and inclusion here in Plane Three.”

“Diversity and inclusion? Then why was Robespierre sitting on the sidelines?”

“He twisted an ankle.”

“Everyone’s supposed to suffer.” Father sighed. “Son, this isn’t working. I gave you one more chance after the swimming pool incident, but you clearly didn’t take my concerns on board.”

I had; I just disagreed with his approach. Simply punishing everyone led to grumbling and rebellion, while the carrot-and-stick method had better results. The guests who learned to behave in a civilised manner earned privileges, and those determined to remain assholes spent their days breaking big rocks into little rocks in the shadow of Mount Malum.

“Okay, okay. I’ll close down the sportsbook.”

“No, you’re going to take a trip.”

“A trip where? Don’t make me visit Plane Two again—you know I hate playing golf.”

Although that did give me an idea. If we switched out some of the golf balls for, say, bomblets… Par four or bust.

“You’re going to Plane Five. Sin City, to be precise.”

“What the hell…?”

“If you see mortal transgressions for yourself, perhaps you’ll take your job a little more seriously.”

“But…but…who will run Plane Three in my absence?”

“Decima.”

“Decima?” Oh, of course. My older sister had been desperate for a managerial position ever since she returned from backpacking around Alpha Centauri. And Decima had one big advantage over me when it came to running Hell—she was a bitch. Cathy would hate her. “How long are we talking here?”

“Until you learn the error of your ways. You can take Beauregard with you.”

Joseph had been sniggering in the corner, but at my father’s words, his mouth dropped open. 

“What? Why me?”

“Because someone needs to keep an eye on my son.”

Well, it had been eight years and counting. Every six months, my performance was reevaluated by my father’s PA, which was invariably followed by an awkward meeting, a promise to do better, and a muttered, “Why can’t you be more like your older sister?”

But the truth was, I was in no hurry to return to Plane Three. Initially, I’d treated Club Dead as a lab experiment, a microcosm of the human condition to be analysed and studied. A necessary but tedious learning experience. But now it had become home.

I headed for the door marked “Staff Only” and took the stairs that led to my private domain with Joseph at my heels. When we first arrived, he’d hated life in Plane Five, but after he’d stolen a lawyer’s body and gotten his very own bar certificate, he’d stopped whining about our new place of residence.

In my office, I settled behind the desk and reached for the bottle of red I’d opened earlier. Alcohol was officially banned in Plane Three but enjoyed with great relish by my father, at least when my mother wasn’t looking. Go figure. Anyhow, I was fond of a tipple. My second big investment on Earth had been a vineyard. Once a year, I took a vacation in Italy to sample the latest vintage. Spring was a lovely time to visit, but the next few months promised to be busy, so I’d probably go in September or October this time around.

“Drink?”

Joseph took a seat on the leather couch. “Why not?”

But I’d barely poured half a glass when my phone rang. I checked the screen. Barry McKee was calling. McKee managed Tilt, the private casino I’d bought three years ago after Father said I needed to expand my horizons. Actually, it was more of a poker club, although we also offered blackjack and baccarat. But poker was the main thing. The previous owner had been a Mafia boss who’d fallen on hard times, and although the clientele still included a few dubious characters, I’d say the members were ninety percent legit now. 

Tilt catered to serious gamblers, wealthy ones, but not in the same class as the divas who wanted a butler to fawn over them twenty-four-seven. Yes, we’d collect our members from the airport and provide them with a luxury suite, a concierge, and a personal shopper, but if they wanted to swing naked in a chinchilla-fur hammock or have a cheetah dressed in a tuxedo greet them at check-in, let them go to the Strip. 

What they did get was privacy. No bachelor parties, no nosy reporters, and absolute discretion from the staff. Drugs were still verboten, but if a guest wanted female company, we’d arrange it, even though Clark County frowned upon that particular activity. Discretion was the name of the game. Take Sheikh Mahbrouk, who’d flown in today, for example. Since gambling and alcohol were both haram, the Strip was off limits to him. He and several of his friends had been members of Tilt for years.

“Barry? Is there a problem? Did the sheikh bring his falcon again?”

The arrival of the bird had been a surprise to everyone last year, and the sheikh had insisted upon live food. When the assistant concierge had balked at going to Petco to pick up a dozen hamsters, I’d been forced to dispatch Joseph to hunt for rats in the warren of tunnels that ran beneath the city. He hadn’t spoken to me for a week afterward. Hmm… Perhaps the falcon hadn’t been so bad after all?

“The sheikh’s falcon tried to eat his fourth wife’s Maltese terrier, so he left the bird behind. But the sheikh lost a sock. It’s possible the dog ate it, and he’s refusing to play until the sock is found.”

Great planes, the four-legged fiend hadn’t been satisfied with the gourmet dog food they stocked in the kitchen?

“We can’t get him new socks?”

“Apparently, this is his lucky pair. Kressie and the wife”—Kressie was the head concierge—“have taken the mutt to the veterinarian, and every spare person is searching the suite in case it hid the sock somewhere.”

Slowly, I put down my glass of wine. These hiccups were just one more facet of life in Plane Five, and I’d admit to being intrigued as to what the sheikh would do if the sock was indeed in the dog.

“I’ll come over.”

Tilt was located off the Strip, far enough from the gaudiness to ensure one wasn’t tripping over a tourist every five minutes, but close enough to get the full Vegas experience. 

The twelve-storey art deco-style building was tiny compared to the gargantuan casinos the city was known for, but it served its purpose. The first floor housed the restaurant and spa, the second floor was home to the casino itself, and accommodation took up the rest of the space, sixteen suites per floor. Membership fees paid for most of the overheads, plus the house took a rake from every pot. The place turned a comfortable profit, with the added benefit that it allowed me to study earthly sins up close.

The problem?

I quite enjoyed them.

Returning to my former home held little appeal, especially when I considered the inevitable power struggle with Decima.

“Good evening, Melina.”

The hostess in the lobby beamed at me. “Good evening, Mr. Blane. Can I help you with anything?”

“Has the sock been found?”

Her smile slipped away. “Not yet. Most everyone’s up in suite 1204 looking for it.”

I glanced into the restaurant on my way past, relieved to see everything running smoothly. Ditto for the casino. The quiet buzz of activity as I made money and other people lost it never failed to make me smile. 

“Why is Rex dealing tonight?” Joseph nodded toward the three blackjack tables at the far end of the room. Only one was set up tonight since most of the guests were playing poker. “I thought Wren Gillebrand worked Tuesdays?”

Wren was missing? It didn’t surprise me that Joseph had noticed, but it did surprise me that he’d noticed before I did. My gaze usually gravitated toward Wren the moment we set foot on the second floor. Although Joseph did have a teeny crush on Wren’s brother, which was a little tricky because firstly, we hadn’t been able to ascertain whether Kayden was gay or straight or ace or somewhere in between, and secondly, Joseph was a demon. 

But his issues were trivial compared to mine. I very much suspected that the love of my earthly life, my dearly departed Nevaeh, had been reincarnated as a four-year-old child. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. 

And that was also why my gaze was the only thing I’d lay on Wren Gillebrand. Falling for a mortal only led to unbearable heartache. Been there, done that, experienced the agony.

Upstairs in suite 1204, a dozen staff were on their hands and knees, checking underneath furniture and behind the drapes. I spotted Vee Pelletier crawling out from behind the king-sized bed. Until recently, she’d been the best waitress on the VIP floor at Club Dead, but after we spotted her murderous ex climbing out of a limo in front of Circus Circus last month, I’d suggested she might want to work somewhere slightly quieter until we could ascertain why Voltaire was in town.

Over the past few months, Vee had also become a friend, and I headed in her direction. Joseph had stayed behind in the bar.

“How’s the search going?”

Her roll of the eyes told me exactly what she thought of the sheikh and his lucky sock.

“Fifty bucks says it isn’t here. I asked the sheikh to call his staff back home, but they can’t find it either.”

“Where is the sheikh?”

“In suite 1203 with a bottle of forty-year-old single malt and a headache. Barry’s keeping him company.”

“Did you check under the pillows?”

A nod. “Wait!” Vee turned to the room. “Did anyone check inside the pillowcases?”

When no one answered in the affirmative, she moved back to the bed and shook the first of the eight cream satin pillows out of its case. No sock. I grabbed the next pillow and checked it—not there either. 

“What colour is the sock?”

“Lavender with a diamond pattern in yellow. The sheikh put the other one in the safe, but I have a picture.” Vee held up her phone to show me the ugliest sock ever knitted. “Mariah’s scouring the internet in case we can purchase a duplicate pair, but the closest she’s found so far are more argyle pattern than harlequin.”

“Keep trying.”

“We will, but wouldn’t it be weird if we bought a new pair and then he found the old one?”

“Yes, but is that better or worse than having to launder a partially digested sock?”

Barry poked his head around the door. “The sheikh wants to know if there’s any news?”

Vee shook her head, and his shoulders slumped. He stepped back, but before he could leave, I held up a hand.

“Where’s Wren Gillebrand?”

“She didn’t show up today.”

“Did she call in sick?”

“Nope. Kressie tried getting in touch with her, but she didn’t pick up.”

Of all the people with the potential to go AWOL, Wren would have been at the bottom of my list. She’d worked at Tilt for over a year, and she’d never been even a minute late. Do you know how hard it is to hire a good blackjack dealer who shows up on time? Wren’s predecessor had once been an hour late because her pet goat ate her car key. Oh, and it got worse. Since the key only had to be in close proximity to the car for the engine to start, she’d stuffed the goat into the back seat and brought it to work with her. Halfway through her shift, alarms began going off in the parking garage, and the escaped goat damaged six luxury vehicles and shit all over the floor before Joseph managed to catch it.

We needed to get Wren back.

Fast.

“How about yesterday? Was she here?”

“No, but it was her scheduled day off. Vee here offered to swing by Wren’s apartment after her shift, but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I mean, if she goes alone and there’s a problem…”

If there was a problem, then Vee was probably the best person to handle it. Because Vee had a secret. She was a vampire, and as long as she obtained an appropriate amount of sustenance, her strength was far superior to any man’s. Plus if she got shot at, she just regenerated, which was fascinating to watch. But of course, Barry didn’t know that.

What time was it? Almost two a.m. I could head over to Wren’s apartment with Joseph and check out the situation myself. That might earn Joseph brownie points when it came to Kayden, but if Wren had split up with a boyfriend or gotten hormonal or suffered another disaster that involved tears, then Joseph was the wrong person to deal with the issue. And so was I, quite frankly. If I waited another two hours, I could accompany Vee, and Vee could bring tissues.

And in the meantime, we’d all wait with bated breath to see if the fourth Mrs. Mahbrouk’s pet pooch vomited a sock.

I felt in my pocket for the Kansas State Quarter—the one with the error that said “In God we Rust”—that Nevaeh had gifted me for my thirtieth birthday. Or rather, what she thought was my thirtieth birthday. I was actually several thousand years old, but the right moment to explain that had somehow never arisen. Anyhow, she swore the coin was lucky.

Heads, and I’d go to Wren’s place with Joseph; tails, I’d wait for Vee.

The quarter flashed and glinted under the chandelier as I flipped it. What was it to be?

---

CONTENT WARNINGS

       

If you have concerns about any specific triggers, please contact me via the contact form.

---

a Rafflecopter giveaway

If you’d like to hear about my upcoming book news as well as discounts and freebies, why not sign up for my newsletter?

I send out an update every couple of weeks, and I promise never to pass your email address on.

Or if you’d just like to chat, you can find me in the Team Blackwood Facebook group