I stood there a minute before I realized he didn’t intend to say anything. “I’m here to see Ba-” I caught myself. “I’m here to see Mr. Smith.” That was the name they’d given me, seriously.

The fat guy gestured with a meaty thumb toward a curtained alcove at the back of the store. I gestured back. I don’t think he appreciated it. Without waiting for the limbed bowling ball to decide whether he was offended enough to get up, I slipped past the curtain. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway that led to a closed door. I knocked and heard a muffled, “Come in.” I turned the handle and stepped through.

Inside the cramped room full of battered merchandise set on rickety shelves, a round wooden table sat in an opening near the back. Behind it sat Baalth. His flunkies D’anatello and Poe stood on either side of the door. I winced as Marcus pressed the barrel of his 9mm Browning against my temple.

“Make a move, I dare you,” Marcus growled. His attitude hadn’t improved any since the last time I’d seen him.

I could see his trigger finger quivering. “No, I think I’m good. Thanks.” I stood as rigidly as I could. Even though Marcus’s shot wouldn’t kill me, it sure as hell would hurt more than just my feelings. Disappointed, he pressed harder.

“You’ll have to forgive our rudeness, one can never be sure these days,” Baalth commented, sounding almost sincere.

The grin on his tanned face told a different story, however. Dressed in a high-dollar suit with a fancy tie, Baalth looked every bit the Wall Street financier. Most demons did.

You see, contrary to popular perception, demons and devils don’t have horns and tails and run around wielding pitchforks. Well, maybe farmer demons have pitchforks, but it’s not the norm. We look like humans, as do angels. We were all made in His image, after all. Some of us just pull it off better than others. Take Baalth for instance. His sculptured hair and perfectly trimmed goatee lent him a look of professionalism.