Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four Read Online Free PDF Page A

trying to call him again?” Mel
asked.
    I ignored her.
    Jack sniffed. “I never liked him.”
    “I’m sure the feeling was mutual,” from Mel.
She skimmed one hand over her hair. “He was . . . nice.”
    Jack made a disparaging noise. “ Nice isn’t what you mean.”
    She swept up to him. “Sexy. Hunky. So
what?”
    “Mm. He was that,” Jack said. He caught my
gaze and decided to quit while he was ahead.
    I wished they would not talk about Royal in
the past tense.
    Mel twirled to face me. “Anyway, I don’t
understand why you keep calling him. When I was dating, calling was
the guy’s job. A girl never called the guy.”
    The phone clunked in the cradle.
    “Get over it, Tiff. You had a good time,
he’s moved on to greener pastures, that’s all there is to it,” Jack
said with a toss of his head.
    I turned on him, ready to lambaste him, but
couldn’t find the words.

CHAPTER TWO
     
     
    Next morning I drove down Twenty-Second to
find all the parking slots on Royal’s block taken. I should have
expected that at eleven-thirty. Twenty-Second is a favorite for
people taking a quick lunch break from work. I found a spot in the
Clarion Hilton’s parking lot and walked through the brick passage
which separates Chauncy’s Chapeaus and Bits ‘N Pieces, beneath
Mallory’s Bar and Grill. Royal’s apartment is three doors along
from there.
    The gate across the wrought-iron staircase
was locked, so I fished in my jacket pocket for the key ring and
separated the heavy, old-fashioned key to the gate from the others.
Snow had frozen in little ridges on the whorled pattern on the
bottom two steps and the rail felt ice-cold beneath my hand.
Protected by the bricked-in stairwell, the higher steps were
clear.
    Wonderful aromas from the street teased me.
Scones and raspberry butter from the bakery would be good. And
maybe a loaf of cinnamon-swirl bread.
    The oiled lock turned easily. Through the
gate and up more steps, I knocked on Royal’s front door, hoping
against hope he would open it. He’d been away on urgent business,
something so important he had to rush off and didn’t want to
disturb me. He meant to be back by morning, but it took longer than
he estimated.
    Who was I kidding?
    The key ring also held keys to his front
door, the office door, his bedroom door and the door leading from
there to the roof. They were identical, but he’d had them etched. I
put the key marked “F” in the front door lock and turned it, then
pushed the door open.
    I said his name aloud. My voice echoed from
the high ceiling.
    I wiped my boots on the mat before bending
to take them off. Royal does not appreciate mucky footprints on his
polished oak floor.
    He’d shifted his furniture along the room
when we took fourteen feet of it for our office, but apart from
moving the Christmas trees from the east wall to the south wall
behind the couch, the basic arrangement had not changed. The
fat-bellied Buddha smiled at me from across the room. The black
lacquered bar gleamed. The Christmas tree lights were
unplugged.
    Now thirty-six feet long instead of fifty,
the room is still cavernous but voices don’t echo as badly. With
its high ceiling and brick walls, it still reminds me of a
warehouse loft.
    Two big cardboard boxes on which Royal had
written Xmas Decorations in big red letters sat beside the
front door. During our last evening together, he said he’d hang his
decorations the next day, then help me with mine.
    During our last evening together . I
hated the sound of that.
    With the sky overcast, insufficient daylight
came through the two new windows in the west wall, so I flicked the
switch beside the door to turn on the row of lamps which stride
along the ceiling.
    His living space was tidy, nothing out of
place, a few paperbacks neatly stacked on the leather trunk he uses
as a coffee table, blue quilted placemats perfectly positioned on
the glass dining table. I went in the kitchen. No dirty dishes in
the kitchen sink; clean