Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar Read online

  He was a demon slayer and she was a demonoid. Polar opposites. Oil and vinegar. TNT and a lit match. I got it, she thought, giving the bar an angry swipe with the cloth. Loud and clear. So why the hell can’t he leave me alone?

  It had been nearly a month since she’d last seen him. Twenty-one days, to be exact. Three whole weeks without Mr. Dark and Gloomy, and good riddance. She should have shrugged off his icy disdain by now, forgotten him, and moved on. But his obvious contempt for her and her kind stuck in her craw. She couldn’t stop thinking about him, and that pissed her off.

  Everything about him pissed her off. His forbidding, humorless demeanor and his arrogant, holier-than-thou attitude.

  And now he was back. Not for long, though. She threw down the bar towel. This was her place. She’d kicked him out once, and she’d do it again.

  Hefting a liquor bottle with a metal pour spot in one hand, she stalked over to his table.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  “That depends.” His deep, rough voice grated on her nerves and made her stomach knot. “What have you to offer?”

  “Nothing you’re interested in.”

  His dark gaze raked her up and down, casual and insolent. Beck’s grip tightened on the bottle.

  “You are mistaken,” he said. “You have information about the demon activity in this area, information that I require.”

  “Get your information someplace else, mister.”

  “I am more than willing to recompense you for your trouble.”

  A flat leather pouch appeared in his hand. Opening it, he tossed a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills on the table between them. Beck stared at the pile of greenbacks. It was a lot of money, several thousand dollars at least.

  “There is more where that came from, Rebekah. Much more.”

  Something hot and hurt flared inside her. On top of being lower than dirt, he thought she was for sale. She pushed the feeling aside. It didn’t matter what he thought. She was an idiot for letting the guy get under her skin.

  “The name’s Beck and I don’t need your money.”

  “Your name is not Beck. It is Rebekah Damian.”

  “Who told you my—”

  “You are thirty-one years old,” he continued, as though reciting a series of well-memorized facts. “Although you appear much younger, no doubt due to your demon blood. Your father is Jason Beck Damian, a nice enough fellow, but otherwise a quite unremarkable human. This bar belonged to him—thus the name—until he married and started another family. His wife does not drink and disapproved of her husband running a tavern. At her encouragement, he sold the place.”

  “Encouragement?” Beck made a rude noise. “Brenda nagged his ass until he caved.”

  “At eighteen, you were too young to purchase Beck’s on your own,” Conall said. “So you bought the place with the help of your partner, Tobias James Littleton, and turned it into a bar that caters to your kind. The name you kept.”

  “My goodness, Daddy’s been running his mouth, hasn’t he?” Beck drawled, clamping down on her rising temper. “At his age, you’d think he’d know better than to talk to strangers.”

  “I have supped at his eatery several times in the past few weeks,” Conall said with a shrug. “The name of the place eludes me.”

  “Beck’s Burger Doodle,” Beck ground out.

  “Ah, yes. The Party Burger is a favorite of mine.”

  “Daddy makes a good hamburger. So what?”

  “Your father has told me much about you.” Conall reached across the table and toyed with the salt shaker. The sleeves of his cotton sweater were pushed back, exposing his strong forearms. His shoulders were broad and heavily corded with muscle. He had beautiful hands, strong and bronzed, the hands of a warrior. And not just any old warrior, Beck reminded herself, a demon killer. “He confided, for instance, that he had a three-day dalliance as a young man with a woman named Helené.”

  Her mother? Daddy had told Conall about her mother? Beck stared at him in disbelief.

  “She was a dark-haired beauty like you,” Conall said, lifting his gaze to her face. “He did not know it at the time, but she was demon possessed. Some months later, Helene returned, changed almost beyond recognition from the excesses of the demon. She had a child with her, an infant girl with a strawberry blotch on one shoulder, a birthmark common in the Damian family. That baby was you. She shoved you into your father’s arms and left, never to be seen again.”

  “Daddy told you all this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bullshit. My father never talks about his freak of a daughter. He’s an upstanding citizen now, a member of the Civitan Club, and a good Baptist. What did you do to get him to spill the beans?”

  Conall sat back in his chair. “You think I wrested the information from your parental unit by supernatural force?”

  “Figured that out by yourself, did ya? My, you are the bright one.”

  “You do not like me.”

  “Ding, ding, ding,” Beck said, tapping her forefinger in the air. “Right again, genius.”

  Conall’s black gaze slid from her face to the bottle in her hand. “I see. And what do you mean to do with that flask?”

  “I was thinking of bashing you over the head with it if you don’t leave.”

  His black brows rose. “You wish to hit me? Why?”

  “Mister, the last time you were here, you all but said you think the kith are nothing but vermin to be exterminated, and now you’re back.” She jabbed her finger at him. “Seeing as how I’m kith and you’re a demon hunter, I take your presence as a threat.”

  “Kith? This is the term for your kind?”

  “It’s our term,” Beck said. “For some reason, we like it better than scum-sucking demon spawn.”

  “Are you always so sarcastic?”

  “Only when I’m awake.”

  He regarded her without expression. Nothing unusual about that; the guy had about as much expression as a two-by-four. “You think I came here to kill you.”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “And yet you confront me with nothing but a bottle in your hand, and I a demon slayer.”

  “I can take care of myself,” Beck said. “I’ve been doing it a long time.”

  Conall sprang at her in a blur of movement. The bottle in Beck’s hand clattered to the floor as she was swept up and pinned against the nearest wall by more than six feet of hard-muscled male.

  “You fascinate me,” Conall said. His dark voice was rough. “I cannot decide whether you are brave or foolish. Perhaps both.”

  Beck went still. The heat from his big body and his crisp, woodsy scent surrounded her. He smelled like a little bit of heaven, she’d give him that.

  “Let go of me.” She felt the weight of his stare but kept her gaze fastened on his wide chest. She couldn’t breathe, not with him so close.

  The alpha male jackass ignored her, of course.

  “You smell of jasmine and spices. Sweet and exotic,” he murmured. His warm breath whispered across her skin. Beck began to tremble. “How . . . interesting. I expected the stench of demon to be upon you.”

  His last words hit her like a slap in the face. Anger washed over her, bright and hot, followed by an overwhelming urge to escape. Shifting into a column of water, she flowed from his grasp. It was easy, this close to the river. Water strengthened her powers. It was one reason she hadn’t wanted to sell the bar and move into town.

  The stunned look on Conall’s face as she poured out of his arms was priceless, almost worth the aggravation of being around him.

  Almost.

  She glided across the wooden floor and resumed her former shape, taking care to place the table between them before she re-shifted.

  “Out.” She pointed to the door. Her chest heaved and angry tears burned the back of her eyes. She would not let him see her cry. She refused. “And this time don’t come back.”

  “We must talk.” He stepped around the table. “You re
member Ansgar?”

  She edged away from him. Distance, she needed distance.

  “Yeah, I remember him,” she said. “Big, blond guy. Carries a bow and arrows. Here a couple of weeks ago.” With you, she wanted to add. The night you found out what I am and acted so disgusted. “What about him?”

  “He was attacked and wounded nigh unto death a few days later. He has recovered, but the wound pains him still and has left a scar.”

  “He’s a demon hunter. I’ll bet he has lots of scars.”

  Conall shook his head. “You are wrong. Death comes seldom to the Dalvahni. We heal quickly and we never scar. Do you not see the import of this?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Someone has developed a weapon against the Dalvahni. If this weapon falls into the hands of the djegrali, it could be disastrous. I need your help.”

  “Guess you should’ve thought about that before you made the ‘You don’t stink bad for a demon girl’ crack, you narrow-minded ass.”

  His dark brows rose. “My words were careless and spoken in haste. ’Twas not my intent to anger you.”

  “Mister, just the fact that we’re sucking in air on the same planet pisses me off.”

  “What can I do to make amends?”

  “You can get the hell out of my sight. That would make me feel loads better. Other than that, I can’t think of a thing.”

  Conall moved closer. “That I cannot do, not until I make you see reason.”

  “You can’t make me do anything.”

  To her astonishment, he smiled. “A challenge,” he said. “I like that.”

  A part of her, the female, horny part she generally tried to ignore, sat up and took notice when he smiled, the shameless hussy.

  Oh, no. She would not go there. She’d dry-hump a stump before she had anything to do with that stuck-up, sanctimonious, speciesist SOB.

  To her relief, Toby interrupted them. Nudging the screen door open with his nose, the dog trotted inside. The silver chain around his neck jangled as he shook himself and resumed his human form. Like his doggie self, Toby was restless and energetic and never still for long. He wore his usual attire on his wiry frame: jeans and a faded T-shirt. His gray hair hung in a long braid down his back.

  Toby shot Conall a curious glance. “What’s he doing here? Thought we got shed of him weeks ago.”

  “I thought so, too,” Beck said. Something was wrong. Toby looked alert, excited even. “What’s up?”

  “There’s a dead guy on the landing,” Toby said. “Thought you’d wanna know.”

  Chapter Three

  “What?” Beck hurried for the door. “I was just out there.

  WI didn’t see anything.”

  Fwppt. Conall was in front of her, barring the way. Beck was used to beings with supernatural speed, but this guy was fast.

  “I will deal with this,” he said. “I am no stranger to death.”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.” Beck tried to push past him, but no matter which way she went he blocked her. Frustrated, she shoved her hands against his chest. He was solid muscle and about as pliable as a steam shovel. “Get out of the way.”

  “No. You could be in danger. It could be the work of the djegrali.”

  “Djegrali? You think I’m afraid of demons?” Beck laughed. “Get real. I’m a demon, remember?”

  “You are but half demon.”

  “Same difference,” Beck said. “No good demon but a dead demon. That’s the Dalvahni motto, isn’t it?”

  Conall’s expression hardened. And that was saying something, because the guy had a mug like granite. “The Dal were created to hunt down and capture or destroy rogue demons. That is our purpose.”

  “Peachy,” Beck said. “Bully for you. Me, I’m trying to run a bar, not save the universe. So, excuse me while I go see about the dead guy on my pier.”

  “You are troubled. I offer my sword arm in your defense.”

  “What are you, dense?” Beck said. “I don’t need your help. I don’t want it. Get out.” She turned her back on him. “Toby, you’d better call Sheriff Whitsun. You’ll have to meet him at the end of the road and bring him in. Let’s just hope he doesn’t close us down for the night.”

  “No need for that.” Toby’s mismatched eyes—one purple, the other as golden as topaz—shone with mischief. “It ain’t that kinda dead guy.”

  That stopped Beck in her tracks. She stared at him in confusion. “ ’Scuse me? What other kind of dead guy is there?”

  “That kind,” Toby said, pointing to the door.

  A man shuffled in off the porch. His clothes were soaked and he was barefoot. He looked young, maybe in his early twenties, although looks could be deceiving, especially among supernaturals. He had a pleasant, open face that Beck liked immediately. There was an unhealthy ashy tinge to his brown skin, but otherwise he looked fine. In the crook of one arm, he held a ragged bit of black fur. A pair of copper eyes gleamed at them from a sharp feline face. It was the feral young cat Beck had been trying to coax out of the bushes for days.

  “Hold.” Conall drew his sword. As blades went, the sword wasn’t pretty or fancy. But Beck had seen Conall in action, and knew that he was wicked good. He pointed the business end of the weapon at the newcomer. “State your name and business.”

  The stranger’s brown eyes widened in alarm. “I’m Tommy Henderson,” he said. He had a rich, fluid voice and a distinctive accent. Southern, definitely, but not from around here. “I’m looking for a job. Something temporary.”

  “Have to be real temporary, ’cause he’s dead.” Toby tapped the end of his nose. “Dog snoot. The nose knows.”

  “You can smell me?” An expression of genuine horror flitted across Tommy’s features. “He said the spell would keep me from stinking. I should’ve known that lowdown no-good mofo was lying.”

  “What mofo?” Beck asked.

  “The zombie maker. Damn, I hate this.” Tommy sniffed his damp sleeve. “You got any air freshener, or maybe one of them Stick-Ups handy?”

  Beck stepped back. “You’re a zombie?”

  As part owner of a bar for supernaturals, she’d seen some pretty strange things over the years, but the walking dead was something new and unsettling, even for her.

  Toby grunted. “Told ya he was a stiff.”

  “Don’t be rude, Tobias.” Beck considered Tommy. He didn’t look dangerous. “I never met a zombie before. Gotta say, you’re not what I expected. I thought zombies ate people and went around saying unh uhn. You talk just fine.”

  “Brains,” Toby said, giving Beck a duh look. “Zombies eat brains. Everybody knows that.”

  “I don’t eat brains.” Tommy shuddered. “I’m a vegetarian. I hate this. I wish I was dead.” His face crumpled. “Shit, I am dead. I’m worse than dead. I can’t go home like this. I’ll give my poor mama a heart attack. And Robyn’s gonna be pissed.”

  “Who’s Robyn?” Beck asked.

  “My girlfriend,” Tommy said. He made a face. “Ex-girlfriend, more like it, seeing as how I’m dead.”

  “Maybe Beck can help you,” Toby said. “Jimmy Earl Flynn’s wife caught him messing around and put the whammy on him. The poor sap broke both legs and an arm before Beck removed the curse.”

  “You are an undoer?” Conall gave Beck a look of appraisal. “That is a most useful talent.”

  “It was a simple klutz curse,” she said. “I’ve never tried to unzombie somebody before.”

  “I understand if you don’t wanna help me,” Tommy said. “I ain’t nothing to you. I shoulda stayed at the bottom of the river and let the gators eat me.”

  Damn, Beck thought. Tommy seemed so lost and miserable. She knew what it was like to be different, to be an outcast in her own family. Tommy the zombie couldn’t go home and neither could Beck the demon girl. Daddy had married Brenda, the God-fearing, Bible-thumping Holy Roller, and had a couple of kids, human kids, leaving no place for her in his new life.

  “It’s not tha
t I don’t want to help you,” she said. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “You are wise not to attempt it,” Conall said. “Such a course would be inadvisable and possibly dangerous for someone not well versed in the magical arts.”

  Translation: he didn’t think she could do it. She didn’t think she could do it, either, but that was beside the point.

  “I’ll give it a try,” she said, ignoring Conall’s growl of protest. “But, I’m not promising anything.”

  Closing her eyes, she sought the still, quiet place within her, letting her agitation with Conall the Super Jerk and the unsettling happenings of the morning fall away. When she opened her eyes again, she could see the spell surrounding Tommy in a reddish-brown haze. Lines of power, delicate as the shimmering strands of a spider’s web, writhed inside the nimbus. If she could find one end of the spell, perhaps she could unravel the whole thing. An impossible task, when the tentacles of the enchantment were constantly moving and changing, crossing and entwining with one another like a writhing bed of snakes.

  Maybe if she broke a line of the spell the whole thing would fragment. She gingerly touched one of the humming fibers with the tip of one finger. The spell formed a mouth bristling with teeth and snapped at her.

  “Yeow,” Beck yelped, jumping back. She stuck her bleeding finger in her mouth. “It bit me.”

  “Rebekah, perhaps it would be better if you did not—” Conall began.

  Furious, Beck reached out and grabbed a handful of lines at once. Power shot up her arm and knocked her to the floor. She stared up at the ceiling, dazed, and tried to catch her breath.

  Conall loomed over her. “I warned you, did I not?” he asked, helping her to her feet. “This magic is beyond you.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him and shut it again. He was right, dammit.

  “I can see the spell, Tommy, but I don’t know how to undo it,” she said. “But I’m not giving up. In the meantime, you can stay here until we figure something out.”

  “Inadvisable,” Conall said, drawing her aside. “He is the undead. A creature bound to do his master’s bidding, a sorcerer of great power as you have already discovered. The zombie cannot be trusted.”