Food arrived, thankfully breaking the tension at the table. The young woman who served us placed a plate that looked and smelled like vomit in front of Joe and a very small glass of something white and gelatinous, topped with red goo that resembled viscera. It looked like a murder scene in a cup.

“What in home—Hell’s name are you eating, Mouse?” I asked, gesturing with my free hand to the pathetic excuse for food set in front of her. “I know what you like to eat, and this is not it.”

But Jemma Bliss didn’t answer. She was staring at Ratty-Man. Or more to the point, she was staring at the spot where the young server’s hand rested on his shoulder. Where his palm came up and patted hers, his face tilted up, an apologetic expression on it.

Jemma’s grip turned vice-like, and despite my much larger size and demonic strength, I winced as the bones in my human hand crunched.

The Token pulsed hotly in my pocket, its heat filling me with a searing urge to wrap my fingers around Ratty-Man’s neck and squeeze until his body was relieved of its slimy little head.

“Jemma insists she is ‘gluten intolerant’,” her brother informed me around a mouthful of the puke he was calling food.

Ratty-Man snickered. If only murder was tolerated in the Human Realm …

“I am gluten intolerant,” Jemma muttered mutinously under her breath. I filed those words away for future research.

“So her options are limited,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Now, if you don’t mind, SJ⁠—”

“That’s Simeon to you,” I growled, wishing I could in fact educate him as to my real name. Imagining him wetting his pants when he realised he was dining with the Prince of Hell was more delightful than I could have anticipated.

“Well, Simeon, this is my monthly brunch with my sister, and while it’s admirable that you feel so strongly about her that you’ve hunted her down, I brought her here specifically to talk with Chad. I think she could learn a lot from him and his business here.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, sounding anything but. My thumb found the soft skin of her thigh once more. “But what is she supposed to learn from this place? How to repurpose back alley refuse as furniture, perhaps? How to serve food that resembles dog puke and …” I pointed at the frothy remains of his green drink … “What is that radioactive concoction?”

Jemma snorted, the pad of one of her fingers circling the knuckle of my thumb, where it rested, almost improperly close to sneaking under the hem of her little orange dress.

“That is a green smoothie,” Ratty-Man informed me haughtily. “It detoxes your digestive tract.”

“Ah, so it’s a breakfast laxative then?” I asked pleasantly, inching my thumb under the fabric of her dress. She giggled, her muscles twitching under my caress.