The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series

by Deborah Wilde

  “Against surprises?” he asked.

  I screwed my eyes shut, my heart hammering. “Don’t flambé me.”

  Drio dropped his hands.

  I cracked open one eye to see him bring his thumb to the fingers of his right hand, shaking it in what even I recognized as an Italian gesture of frustration. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Your fire powers.”

  He massaged his right temple. “What fire powers?”

  I straightened my T-shirt with a sharp tug. “You know, your anger issues that manifest in some kind of elemental flame deal.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My anger issues? Because I’m Italian, I must be a hothead? Got any other ethnic profiling?”

  “Please. You being Italian has zip to do with it. You raging at me since day one on the other hand?” I spread my hands wide, encouraging him to make the tiny jump from A to B. My empirical evidence presented, I rocked back on my heels.

  Drio glanced skyward with a pained look, as if seeking divine patience. Then he waved his hands at me. “No flames. Though I’d be happy to find some matches. My power?” He zipped across the room and back in a blink.

  “Super speed?”

  “Technically, I flash step. I’m not zipping across the city.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  I wasn’t disappointed; more confused about how this ability fit in to Ari’s theories about personality flaws and power manifestation. I’d have asked but the look on Drio’s face made it clear that he was not in a sharing mood. “How do you kill demons then? Flash stepping is hardly attack magic.”

  Drio looked insulted at the question. “It’s still the same inherent Rasha magic. If a bystander stabs a demon in their kill spot, the demon wouldn’t die. But when a Rasha zaps that place, touches it directly, or funnels his magic through a weapon to hit that same spot?” He brushed his hands together in an “all done” gesture. “My magic works fine. I don’t need fire powers.”

  “Fine. You weren’t going to immolate me. My mistake. What was your point?”

  “I lost it in all your…” He made the international symbol for “blah blah blah” with one hand. “For the record, I don’t agree with you being here. But Rohan said you deserved it since the make-up artist was your idea and you did pretty well last night. Even if your one-on-one leaves something to be desired.”

  Had Rohan said something not in conjunction with the fight to Drio? I shook it off with a “Let’s do this.”

  “We wouldn’t even have to do this if Rohan wasn’t so damn stubborn,” Drio said.

  “Stubborn?” I jabbed his side when he didn’t answer. “About what? The difference of opinion between him and the Brotherhood on how to proceed with the mission?”

  Drio did a double take. “He told you that?” I didn’t even have to fudge the truth about not knowing specific details because Drio was in a mood to rant.

  “It’s a no-brainer,” he said. “Forrest Chang, the director of Hard Knock Strife is a huge Fugue State Five fan. He contacted Rohan to do the theme song.”

  Interesting.

  “That doesn’t mean Rohan would have the chance to buddy up with Samson.”

  “Invite King to sing as a cameo. Get in close to the bastard that way. We’ve tried everyone else in his inner circle. No go.” Frustration tightened the corners of his eyes. “It would be so easy for Rohan to get to know Samson. Who’d question a rock star hanging around a bunch of actors?” He pinched his lips together. “But he refuses to step back into that role.”

  “I think he’s afraid of what he could slip back into becoming.” Given what Rohan had told me, the scars ran deep, evidenced by the fact that he refused to take on something that would move this assignment forward.

  Drio slapped his palm flat against the center of the pad mounted on the wall. “You two have gotten chatty. Why don’t you talk some sense into him?” A red light scanned him as he studied me.

  If I managed that, the Executive would adore me. Desperate as I was to get Ari confirmed, I couldn’t use Rohan like this. It was a million kinds of wrong. “Let’s pursue the make-up artist avenue first,” I said.

  Part of the wall slid away, revealing a smaller room within the larger Vault, its floors and walls made of iron. Drio motioned me through the concealed door. Ignoring my tiny frisson of fear, I stepped inside, the wall sealing shut behind us.

  A beautiful Korean woman sat in the middle of the space, duct-taped to a thick iron chair bolted to the floor. Her eyes bugged out, darting around as she strained against the tape covering her mouth and binding her feet and hands to the arms and legs of the chair.

  She turned a pleading look on me.

  “Oh my God!” I took a step forward to help her but Drio knocked me back with a sigh.

  Flashing over to her side, he did some Vulcan neck pinch thing and she transformed into a sleek white fox with multiple tails. Mostly transformed. Her hands, feet, and face–all the bits touching the tape, stayed human. The overall effect was somewhat disconcerting.

  “Nine,” he said, seeing me count her tails.

  I inched closer. “What is she?”

  “King’s make-up artist, Evelyn. Also a kumiho. A master illusionist usually plying her tricks to seduce men.”

  “But this one puts hers to use on King?”

  “That’s the theory.”

  “How did you know she was a demon?”

  He tugged me forward, shoving my face inches away from her neck. “Smell.”

  This close to her, I accessed my magic just in case, a low level hum under my fingertips, but despite her growling and thrashing, she was bound fast. I sniffed, blinking at the faint smell of strawberries.

  “It’s her natural scent,” Drio said. “She can’t disguise it.”

  I walked around Evelyn, who was struggling against her bindings. “How did you get close enough to smell her?”

  “My natural charm.”

  I poked at a binding. “Duct tape? That holds them?”

  He shrugged. “Specially threaded with iron and salt fibers.”

  “What are you going to do with her?”

  His smile bloomed, both terrifying and sexy. “Have some fun.”

  Evelyn’s tails thumped in syncopated agitation against the floor.

  I glanced at the demon. “Do I need to worry about sexual misconduct?”

  Drio shot me a disgusted look. “I don’t do that,” he replied in a hard voice. “Even to demons.” Just regular torture then.

  “This isn’t about using her to get close,” I said.

  “No. She’s going to share what she knows about King.” He pushed up his sleeves.

  The demon’s eyes flashed red.

  Time to go. I had no desire to watch his methods of fact finding.

  “Pussy,” he snickered, pressing his hand against the scanner mounted inside the small room to open the iron door on this side.

  “You ate your siblings in the womb, didn’t you?” I said, pausing in the doorway.

  Drio licked his lips with relish.

  Riiiight.

  I stepped into the Vault, the wall sliding shut between us. On my way upstairs, I ran into Baruch, coming out of Ms. Clara’s office, clad in black nylon workout pants and a tank top.

  Wonder if they’re tearaway. Bet Ms. Clara knows.

  “Not interested in seeing Drio work?” he asked.

  “I’m skipping today’s session of ‘Creative Sadism with Batshit Crazy.’” I jogged up to my room, finding a note from Rohan ordering me to the library for study time. First, I allotted myself a few minutes to shower off that unpleasant encounter and root through my still-packed clothing for skinny jeans and my navy tunic embroidered with a brilliant dragonfly. Rohan didn’t make an appearance in the library, though he’d set out some books on the long table for me to dive into.

  I tried to study. I took notes and everything, in between glances toward the hallway at every footfall a
nd voice. It’s not that I care if Rohan shows up, I told myself, as I read a particularly gruesome passage about the damage a se’irim could do, it’s just that he should be showing a bit more responsibility in overseeing my studying. What if I have a question about a demon that needs answering?

  The hundreds of books surrounding me mocked me in response.

  Adopting a less formal study position, away from the table and onto a couch, didn’t help me focus. Nor did twisting myself upside down, my head hanging to the floor.

  Screw it.

  Corralling a laptop I found in a cherrywood cabinet, I logged on, seeing what I could find on Samson King, wanting something that would help Drio. Samson’s bio before he hit big–which happened with his first role–was pretty sparse. That gelled if he was a demon, since it would be fake. Out of curiosity, I checked the meaning of his name. I was always curious if a person’s name meaning correlated to them. Like Nava meant “beautiful” so bulls-eye, Mom and Dad.

  Samson meant “sun.” I leaned back against my chair. Sun King. Hang on. Leo had mentioned that King had spent time in France. During a trip with my family to France a few years ago, I’d learned that Louis XIV had called himself the Sun King. He’d been a live large, divine-right conferring narcissist and maybe Samson had modeled himself on this guy. Or, actually picked up few tips from him, since many demons had long life spans.

  I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the page to load in order to get verification for what I was thinking. Here it was. The original Sun King had been a ruthless bastard whose rule had established France as one of the pre-eminent powers in the world. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled together. Since it appeared this sun king had similar aspirations, maybe this tie to Louis would reveal what type of demon Samson was, or offer more specificity on the master plan.

  I leapt out of my seat, sprinting down to the Vault, then back up the stairs with a frustrated growl, since I didn’t have access yet to open the door. Kane did though, and I dragged him with me, insisting that he had to get me to Drio now.

  He let me in to the Vault and I pounded on the wall concealing the iron room until the angriest of all Rasha answered. Purple goo was smeared across Drio’s temple, and his hair was matted with sweat.

  Not wanting Evelyn to hear, I whispered my theory into Drio’s ear.

  The tight expression on his face sent my stomach plummeting into my toes, doubt at my brilliance slithering through me. Then he gave a sharp nod, his eyes glinting dangerously, and returned inside, the wall whooshing shut behind him.

  “Nee?” Ari called out from upstairs.

  I sped up so fast to meet him that I practically got lift off, throwing myself into his arms. Hugging him and the overflowing pile of bedding he carried.

  “This way,” I sang, tugging him up the stairs to my room. “Guess what?” I nattered on about Evelyn and my Samson realizations. “Dump the bedding on the mattress,” I said.

  He stood in the doorway, stock still, clutching the linens.

  “What?” I glanced around in confusion.

  “Your room.”

  “Uh-huh.” I tugged him forward. “You’re not going to get cooties, bro.”

  He flung the sheets down. “This was supposed to be my room. You got my room.”

  “I did?” I screwed up my face in puzzlement. He’d never mentioned he’d be moving in.

  Ari jerked his chin at the painting. “Magritte. That didn’t tip you off?”

  I flinched at the anger threading his voice. Examining the art hadn’t been a top priority in my short time here. Not sure what I could say to make it better, I opted to go with the tried and true. “Sorry.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  I blinked at him.

  “You’re enjoying this. Your training.” He waved a hand at me. “Your little realizations.”

  “My little…?” I unclenched my fists. “I am sorry, Ari. But you know what? I can only apologize so many times. None of this is my fault. I’m doing my best here.” I picked up the fitted sheet, shaking it out to unroll it.

  He snorted.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Doing your best?” he sneered. “You’re loving this. You’re happy.”

  I popped the corner of the sheet onto the mattress with a violent snap. “God knows we can’t have that. There’s only one Katz twin allowed that emotion.”

  “Hey, don’t put your fuck-ups on me,” he retorted.

  “Then don’t put other people’s on me!”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Enjoy your room.” He stalked out.

  “Oh, I will!” I threw my pillow against the far wall with a scream. I stomped across the room to retrieve it for scream two, glancing out the window. Ari and Kane were having some kind of intense conversation at the front of the house. At least Kane had put a shirt on. It rode up as he gestured with sharp, angry jabs.

  Ari was really going for the gold in pissing people off because while Kane was still speaking, my brother slammed into the Prius and drove off. Kane punched one of the front porch pillars.

  Feel your pain, dude. I could clock my passive-aggressive brother for walking out before we’d finished our fight. I threw everything out of my containers looking for my damn phone to call Ari’s cell and hash this out once and for all, before I remembered that Ms. Clara still had it. Great. No phone, and now my room looked like a hurricane had torn through it.

  The frenzy left me exhausted. Heaving a sigh, I bent down to pick up the pillow, my head jerking up at a shout from outside.

  Rohan sprinted up the driveway, favoring one ankle, his shirt torn. No, not just his shirt. His arm was a twisted mass of glistening, ripped open flesh that I could see from the third story.

  The pillow tumbled out of my hand to the floor.

  I threw the window open to find out what had happened.

  The noise made Rohan look up at me. I don’t know if it was my twin sense or something about his stricken expression clear to me even three floors up as his eyes met mine but I knew.

  Something horrible had happened to Ari.

  Chapter 18

  I flew down the front stairs, fear fish-hooking into me. “What–”

  Baruch and Drio, huddled around Rohan, looked up at the sound of my voice. The ensuing gap allowed me a close up look at the inside of Rohan’s right arm. I clapped a hand over my mouth, swallowing hard against the taste of bile. Someone was keening and I had the sneaking suspicion it was me.

  Baruch ripped his shirt off, making a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding.

  “Kane!” Rohan failed to look perturbed at the sight of his tendons spilling out of his skin but he was mightily annoyed at me swaying on my feet.

  Kane leapt off the bottom front stair, his arms coming around me. “Inside.”

  “Where’s Ari?”

  Rohan’s expression softened. “Demons got him. Right outside the gate.”

  Outside the wards. “Asmodeus?”

  He shook his head. “They were trying to get past the wards. I think it was just bad timing on his part and opportunity on theirs.”

  “They think they snatched a Rasha?” Kane asked.

  Rohan’s shrug turned into more of a flinch as Baruch tightened the tourniquet.

  “If even one of you had bothered to help me convince the Brotherhood to confirm Ari’s initiate status…” My voice shook. There was a good chance that he’d have been inducted by now. That he’d have magic at his disposal.

  Rohan limped his way up the stairs, waving off Baruch’s offer of assistance.

  “If the ritual didn’t work, he has no status,” Drio said.

  “I hate you.”

  “Va bene. One thing going right in my day.”

  I lunged for Drio, but Kane strong-armed me inside the house and into a den.

  I vibrated so hard that any more delays in getting me info and I might have combusted. It’s not that I was unsympathetic to Rohan’s giant gaping gash, it’s just
that Rasha had extra-spiffy healing powers and he seemed calm enough as Baruch tossed the bloody wadded up shirt onto a table, replacing it with a fluffy towel that he must have picked up as they came inside.

  “Where’s my brother?” I demanded, brushing off Kane’s attempt to seat me.

  “I don’t know,” Rohan said. “And I didn’t follow because I was busy killing the massive fucker that’d been left on clean up.” It was obvious Rohan had to work to keep his voice steady.

  Drio entered with a sewing kit and a bottle of vodka.

  My butt crashed down onto the chair. Except it wasn’t the chair, it was the coffee table, and my tailbone caught the corner. “Fuck!” The bite of pain in my lower back helped keep me from plummeting into full-on hysteria.

  Drio had passed the bottle to Rohan, who’d taken a swig, but one look at me and Rohan handed me the booze.

  I took a swig or three as well before Drio took it away.

  With a deep inhale, Rohan nodded at Baruch, who removed the towel. It had soaked up so much blood that it made a wet splat when he dropped it on the table next to the bloody shirt.

  That was Drio’s cue to pour the alcohol over the gash.

  Rohan convulsed, the breath audibly leaving his lungs.

  Baruch pinched the flesh to keep the two edges more or less together as Drio opened the lid on the sewing kit. He threaded the needle.

  If I hadn’t needed my stupid sheets, Ari would never have been here in the first place. We would never have fought.

  He would never have been taken.

  I dug the nails of my right arm into my left wrist, welcoming the pain. Welcoming the distraction from my worst nightmare that my brother was in danger. I’d known this was a possibility when Ari joined the Brotherhood as a full hunter, but for it to have played out now in light of what had happened seemed like a needlessly cruel twist of fate.

  Drio patted Rohan’s cheek gently, piercing Rohan’s flesh with the needle, the thread trailing off of it like the end of a comet.

  I tore my eyes away.

  “Who?” Kane’s voice was so low, it was practically a growl. His arms were crossed and his jaw was clenched so hard it could probably cut glass.

  “Sakacha and dremla.” Rohan winced as Drio sewed up the last few stitches.