I pushed his hair back to run a finger over the scar Al had given him. “How do you think? He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re awake.”

From the corner, Al shifted his tune. “So be good, or I’ll rip your fucking head off.”

Nick sat up, shoving me back to a stand. In his hands was an amulet. Al hissed, but I was way ahead of him, snatching up the clock and swinging it by the cord into Nick’s fist.

Swearing, Nick dropped the amulet and I kicked it away. “Don’t touch it, Al!” I warned when the demon went for it, and Al stopped, looking at me indignantly, until a demon-size bubble rose from it. If he’d been anywhere nearer, he would’ve been caught.

“I knew it was a trap, itchy witch,” the demon said, but then a flash of white exploded against the inside of the circle. I felt the bubble go down, leaving a white disk of ash where the carpet had burned away. “But I didn’t know it was a lethal one,” he continued, and I fought the urge to smack the sniveling human. Nick had wanted me in it, not Al.

Nick bolted, and instinct kicked in. Lunging, I grabbed him around the waist, letting go before we hit the floor, then rolled into a stand and smacked a front kick in his middle. His breath whooshed out, and he clutched his stomach. Swell, he was in his underwear. I hated arguing with men in their underwear. “Get up!” I shouted, hoping there was no one upstairs.

“Ohhh, nice one, little grasshopper,” Al said as he rummaged through a crate.

Ignoring Al, I yanked Nick to his feet and shoved him back on the bed, where he hunched over his knees, feet on the floor. “Poor Nicky,” I said as he struggled for air. “Can’t make a bubble ’cause I’ll just shove you into it. Can’t tap a line ‘cause we’re better than you. And your pixy is gone. Don’t you even wonder where he is? Or did you send him to spy on us?”

Nick looked up, ears red and having gotten in only one good breath. “What do you want?” he wheezed. “You want something, bitch, or you wouldn’t be here.” Hunched over, he glared at Al. “Don’t touch that!”

From the edge of my sight, I watched Al raise a multiple-pipe instrument to his lips. It looked old, and with his fingers bare of his usual gloves, he played a few notes, then carelessly tossed it back into the crate. Nick cringed, and I brought his attention back to me with a shove that pushed him into the wall.

“I want you,” I said, answering his question. “Or more specifically, I want your nasty, devious, light-fingered skills. Wanna job?”