Eve of Sin City by S.J. Day Page B

you.
    Her smile faded as his look of discomfort took on an unmistakable edge. His left biceps twitched, telling her his mark was burning—Heaven’s way of calling Marks into service.
    “Uh-oh,” she said.
    “Shit.” Alec glared at Gadara.
    “As you said”—the archangel shrugged innocently, but grinned like the Cheshire Cat—“the Infernal activity in the area is unusually brisk.”
    Eve gave a playful tug to Alec’s belt loops. She hated it when he went out, knowing that one day he might not make it back to her, but she kept those fears to herself. Knowing she was scared for him would only fuck with his head at a time when he needed to be totally on his game. “You know where to find me when you’re done.”
    He used the mental connection between mentor and Mark to share the vulnerability he had to hide from others. Damn it. I miss you.
    Don’t let me distract you, she admonished.
    Giving a curt nod, he shifted away, disappearing from her grip as if he’d never been there at all. For a moment, Eve envied him. She hadn’t been called out on a hunt since she’d arrived in Las Vegas a month ago. Occasionally, she wondered if Reed—who was her handler—was deliberately keeping her out of service (and therefore, out of harm’s way), but that wasn’t his style. Unlike his brother, he lived for rules. No matter what his feelings for her were, he wouldn’t let them get in the way of his job.
    “You feel restless.” Gadara caught her elbow in a gentle grip. “I assure you, your hiatus is not deliberate.”
    “Don’t get excited,” she muttered. “It doesn’t mean I like this gig. I’m still going to find a way out.”
    Gadara wisely held his tongue, but his dark eyes sparkled with amusement. He led her toward the bank of elevators located down the corridor. An empty car was waiting, since the entire wing was closed for renovation. Within a few short moments, they were exiting onto the lobby floor.
    As the doors slid open, a deluge of sensory input poured into the enclosed space—the merry dinging of slot machines, the putrid odor of rotting souls, and frequent shouts from both joyous and distraught gamblers. Eve wondered how gambling fit into a divine plan, since the income from all of Gadara’s various enterprises funded the activities and living expenses of the Marks under his command. The archangel was effectively serving a 24/7 all-you-can-eat buffet to Infernals; the desperation, avarice, and desolation filling Las Vegas drew them like ants to honey. Basically, the archangel was using demons to help fund the killing of demons. Poetic justice? Or a sick joke? She couldn’t decide.
    “I took the liberty,” Gadara said, “of having a selection of gowns delivered to your suite.”
    Eve’s nose wrinkled. She hated to be indebted to him for anything, especially calculated kindness. On the other hand, she disliked herself for taking her wariness to the extreme and being ungrateful. “Thank you.”
    He nodded.
    “But,” she qualified, “I have some suitable cocktail dresses of my own.”
    “Ballroom dancing in a cocktail dress?”
    “I can’t ballroom dance.” She shrugged at his widened eyes. “It’s not something the average girl learns, you know.”
    “You are not average.”
    As they passed the front desk en route to the elevators that accessed her wing of the property, Eve noticed the proliferation of Elvis impersonators clogging the registration area.
    She whistled. “And that’s not an average number of Elvises. Or is it Elvi?”
    “International Elvis Week,” he explained, pointing to a banner stretching across the casino ceiling.
    “I’d like to see Elvis ballroom dance.”
    “That could be arranged.”
    Eve’s brows rose. “Really?”
    Gadara’s smile was mischievous. “Seven o’clock, Ms. Hollis.”
    Two Marks in black garb approached and flanked him. The personal guards of the archangels were impressive by any estimation; Eve gladly handed Gadara’s care over to