The man looked at the folder open on his desk. “You’ve been declined,” he said distantly, his voice clear over the music thumping around us.

A growl escaped Al, and the skin around his eyes tightened. “There’s been a mistake.”

Looking Al straight in the eyes, the demon said, “Your credit sucks, sir.”

“Ah.” Al poked me in the ribs, making me jump and stick out my chest. “How long have you worked here…Calvin?”

Calvin closed the file. “Long enough to know that Dali is not your personal friend but your parole officer. No table.”

Dali? What did Dali have to do with this? Al was starting to look ticked. True, I didn’t want to be here, but I wanted to be at Al’s little four-room palace even less. “Al, I’m tired,” I said, wrinkling my nose as if I smelled something rank. “This slop will likely give me the runs. Can’t we just go home for a cheese sandwich?”

The host turned his attention to me, sneering. His expression became empty of emotion, and then I gasped when he reached across the desk, grabbed my arm, and yanked me closer. “You’re not a familiar,” he said, his face inches from mine. “You’re that—”

I yelped as I was jerked back, Al having taken my other arm and reclaimed me. “She’s not a that, she’s a whom. Hands off the lady.”

“Hey!” I said, my arms out like I was being crucified. “If you both don’t let go of me, you’re both going to be singing soprano!” Just because I was in heels and carrying a Gucci bag didn’t mean I didn’t know how to use them in new, creative ways.

The two men looked at each other and let go simultaneously. Regaining my balance, I snatched my bag from the floor and tugged my uncomfortable skirt straight. God, this suit made me look like a dullard.

A heavy, balding man in a tux strode from the kitchen looking bothered as he started for us. Eyes fixed on us, he gave a final bit of instruction to one of the waitstaff and continued forward. My eyes widened. I knew this demon. It was Dali, and suddenly the name of the place made sense. Demons could look like anything; why Dali wanted to be an older, over-weight civil servant who ran a restaurant was beyond me.

“You got her?” he said to Al, his bushy white eyebrows bunched as he took me in.

“She’s with me,” Al said as he beamed, taking my arm in warning.

Dali flicked his eyes over me. “And you’re sure she’s…”

Al’s smile grew even wider. “She is.”

I felt like a cow he’d traded a handful of magic beans for. “I’m what?” I asked, and Al inclined his head at me, his expression becoming decidedly—worriedly—fond.

“A demon,” Al said, and Calvin sniffed his disbelief. “We are here to celebrate, and this pile of crap won’t seat us.”

The host stood firm, and Dali looked at the list as if he didn’t care.