It was the voice that got Lily’s attention.

Deep and compelling, it was unmistakably female but still intoxicating, even to straight-as-an-arrow Lily. She’d never had occasion to use the word “throaty” in conversation—and, God willing, she never would—but if anyone had asked her to describe the voice, she would have been forced to use it then.

She had to have a look at the kind of woman who sounded like that, which was why she was currently peeking around a display of insanely expensive hand cream, trying not to make a sound and—more importantly—not to knock any of the pricey jars onto the hard, Mexican ceramic-tiled floor.

30 Luxe was the sort of high-end boutique store where the rich and beautiful shopped. Lily, barely getting by and decidedly average-looking, wouldn’t even have been there if she’d been buying something for herself; she didn’t make the kind of money required to be a 30 Luxe patron. But she wanted to get a bridal shower gift for her coworker Brit that would impress everyone at the office—without driving her to bankruptcy—and Miri had insisted this was the perfect place, and there was a large clearance section.

Large clearance section had turned out to be a bit of an exaggeration, which didn’t surprise Lily. If hyperbole were an Olympic event, Miri would gold-medal every year. Lily, on the other hand, couldn’t even tell someone their ugly baby was cute without breaking out in a cold sweat.

But, exaggeration or not, there were at least a few things in her price range. She’d been trying to decide between a sweet-but-slutty peignoir set and a pair of exquisite hand-blown champagne flutes when she first heard the woman speak.

“I’ll just take them all. I hate making decisions, don’t you?”

So there they were: Lily craning her neck to see around the hand cream, Miri pressed up close behind her, watching the woman take off a cranberry-colored stiletto and hand it to the attentive saleswoman.

“Wow,” Miri breathed. “Get a load, huh?”

Wow, indeed. The woman was absolutely stunning—slender but well-endowed, clad in a skin-tight black leather miniskirt and paper-thin white silk blouse that clung to and showcased every robust curve. Her hair was the kind of white-blond that didn’t come in a bottle, and she wore it loose and waist-length; it waved and curved against her face, shoulders, and arms. Even seated, it was obvious she was easily six feet tall. Her eyes were almost on the same level as those of the petite Asian saleswoman, who was her absolute opposite: short and reed-slender, with a silky black bob.

The blonde was older than Lily—she could have been anywhere from forty to a very well-maintained fifty or so—and carried herself with the kind of poise and confidence Lily didn’t even bother to covet, it was so far beyond her.

“Some girls have all the luck,” Miri whispered.

Lily nodded slightly. “They sure do,” she whispered back, eyeing the woman as she pulled on a pair of knee-high leather boots; they were in great shape but not new, so probably what she had worn into the store. She stood, towering over the Asian girl. Shoes and empty shoeboxes littered the floor at her feet. Lily did a quick count: six pairs.

The woman gestured to the pile. “Have them sent to my apartment.”

Lily wished she could have them sent to her apartment instead, particularly those sexy cranberry stilettos. Some days life seemed so unfair. She wasn’t poor, exactly, and neither was Miri. They lived in one of the most expensive places in the world, though, and neither of them had ever walked out of a store—not even a discount store, let alone a place like this—with a half-dozen new pairs of shoes.

And Lily knew she sure as hell didn’t look like that in a miniskirt.

“Where do I sign up?” Miri whispered.

Lily turned to look at Miri over her shoulder; Miri was grinning, but she had an odd gleam in her eye as well. Literally a gleam: a weird, faint light swirled into her eyes and then out again, almost too fast for Lily to see.

But that was ridiculous. Trick of the incredibly posh boutique lighting, no doubt.

“To be her, or to be with her?” Lily asked, snickering. “You look like you might go jump her bones any second.”

Miri shook her head a little as if to clear it, then squinted at the woman. “I don’t swing that way.”

“Apparently the salesgirl does,” Lily said, pointing with her chin at the scene in front of them.

The blonde had a hand on the salesgirl’s shoulder, making a motion that wasn’t quite a massage but wasn’t a casual touch either. Her voice had dropped so Lily could no longer make out her words. The salesgirl was staring up at the woman adoringly, nodding at whatever she was now saying. Then the blonde squeezed the salesgirl’s shoulder a final time and strolled out the door.

The salesgirl stood quietly for a moment, then shook her head much like Miri had a few moments before. After a few seconds, she crouched down to begin slowly boxing up the shoes—so slowly, in fact, that Lily wondered if there was something wrong with her.

Lily tilted her head and elbowed Miri. “Does she look high to you?”

Miri considered, shrugged. “A little floaty, maybe. Weird question.”

“Well, it’s the oddest thing, but … I don’t think that woman paid.”

Miri shrugged again. “I doubt she drugged the help. Probably has an account or something. Once you get to a certain point, you have so much money you don’t even have to carry any money.”

“Yeah, but she didn’t give her a credit card or anything.”

Thinking about credit cards gave Lily a little pang of guilt. She was pretty sure her own credit cards would have wept openly if she’d tried to use them to purchase anything. In fact, she was so close to maxed out on the worst of them that she wasn’t sure the automatic payment that would soon be coming out of her also-weepy bank account would be enough to keep her from going over the limit. She needed to learn some self-control. Or win the lottery.

She made a mental note to stop and pick up a lottery ticket on the way home.

“If you get rich enough,” Miri said, “you don’t even bring your card.”

“Where do I sign up for that?” Lily asked. “Because I’d very much like to be rich as well as hot.”

“Same.”

“What do you suppose it takes to get to that point?”

“Deal with the devil?” Miri suggested.

“Hard work and sacrifice certainly don’t seem to be doing it.” Lily frowned and put the peignoir set back on the rack. She really didn’t know Brit well enough to be buying her lingerie, and the champagne flutes were unbelievably beautiful—not to mention a little cheaper. “I bust my ass at work and I haven’t had a slice of pizza in weeks, but I’m still just regular old under-employed, overweight me.”

“Overweight?” Miri scoffed. “By what, two pounds?”

“More like twenty,” Lily said. “And now I want pizza. Great.”

“What do you say we pay for this crap—you know, with our regular old plebeian debit cards—and get out of here? Finnegan’s has pizza rolls for Tuesday happy hour. I’ll smack your hands away if you have more than three.”

That was Miri in a nutshell. She’d never have suggested forgoing pizza rolls—or any good thing—but she was so sensible about it. Moderation in all things was her motto, and Lily knew she meant it, too. For Miri, it was all about willpower.

Of course, Lily thought, if I had the willpower to stop at three pizza rolls, I wouldn’t need to worry about stopping at three pizza rolls.

Still … pizza rolls.

“It’s a deal,” she said.

* * *

After Finnegan’s—where Lily had a fourth pizza roll, and Miri did indeed smack her hand for it—Miri suggested Club Domino. They had a single drink there, but it was full of older guys on the prowl. Like, really old. The third hand Lily had to remove from her ass belonged to a leathery old guy with enough mileage on him to be her grandfather.

They hit the sidewalk ready for something new, something fun—and found it in the form of a flyer tacked to a telephone pole, spotlit by a nearby streetlamp. It was a garish red, with glossy black lettering slashed across the front, spelling out one word:

ABADDON.

The fine print informed them it was a brand-new club, only four blocks north.

“Hey,” Lily said. “I’m doing a photoshoot there tomorrow.”

Her job with NYC Monthly wasn’t glamorous—the magazine positioned itself as hip and happening, but it was too new to have any real cachet yet—but she did get some cool assignments. For the last six months, she’d been shooting a series on hot new clubs. If she was remembering right, Abaddon had been open for about six weeks; this would be an excellent chance to scope it out before the formal shoot.

“That’s a weird thing to name a club,” Miri said. “Isn’t that the hot chick from Supernatural?”

“I think it’s from the Bible.” Lily’s memory of what it might mean was pretty hazy, though—she’d had three drinks so far, and Sunday school had been an awfully long time ago.

“Everything in Supernatural is from the Bible, Lily. That’s, like, its whole schtick.”

Lily snorted. “I just mean that it means something else. I think it might literally mean Hell. I don’t know; my Mom was crazy for church and stuff, but I haven’t been in more than a decade.”

“Wanna check it out? Maybe the guys there will have more hair on their heads than they have in their noses.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Lily said. “Or, you know, whoever can send us some eye candy.”

They linked arms and, giggling, headed north to find Hell.