“Sure thing,” the bartender said, quickly uncapping a bottle of house white and pouring her a glass.

“Let me guess. You’re not a fancy cocktail kind of girl,” Darrak continued, even though she wished he’d just shut up for a moment. The demon hadn’t had much conversation in three centuries so now he was a regular chat factory. It was a good thing he had such a nice voice — deep, warm, and usually filled with wry amusement at the human world he witnessed through Eden’s eyes.

“Not particularly,” she replied, dryly, when the bartender moved farther down the bar and out of earshot. “The little paper umbrellas can be so intimidating.”

“It’s all fun and games till someone pokes their eye out. So you’ve found something you like, and you stick with it.”

“Makes things very simple.”

“But how will you ever know if there’s a drink out there that might be the best thing you’ve ever tasted?”

She shrugged a shoulder. “I’m perfectly content with my white wine.”

“Content,” he repeated, and the one word sounded like a pronouncement on Eden’s boring life. At least, up until she got possessed. Things now were difficult, awkward, and frequently dangerous, but they couldn’t exactly be described as boring.

There was a wall-length mirror behind the bar that allowed her to see both herself and the club behind her. Her gaze didn’t go to her long, bone-straight auburn hair, green eyes lined with smoky liner, or plunging neckline that showed off too much cleavage to be considered remotely modest, but instead to the necklace she wore. The pendant was light gray with darker veins running through it. It looked like a two-inch oval piece of polished marble. She absently ran her fingertips over its cool surface.

“Don’t worry.” The previous amused and mocking edge to Darrak’s voice was gone and replaced by a serious tone. “It’s still practically white.”