“Dorian Redthorne, my old friend.” Chernikov beamed at him, holding court at the same private-room table they’d shared last time, his usual array of vodka bottles lined up like little soldiers. “My sources tell me you have demon problem.”
“We have a demon problem, Nikolai.” Dorian sat down across from him, taking in the demon’s appearance. Mornings didn’t agree with him; his hair was unkempt, his suit wrinkled. Beneath a thin sheen of sweat, the snake tattoo around his neck looked particularly unpleasant.
“No hocus pocus today?” Chernikov glanced toward the doorway as if he expected Marlys to appear, toting her box of tricks.
“I’m trusting we can both remain civilized this morning. Do not make me regret that decision.”
“I don’t attack my friends, Dorian Redthorne. Do not make me regret
