The Unlikeable Demon Hunter_Sting

by Deborah Wilde

As we passed Samson, my place at Rohan’s side cemented, he acknowledged my play with a slow head tilt.

  I lifted my chin and sailed on.

  Samson’s pick of bar was slick, pretentious, and exclusive. Quelle surprise. I handed off my jacket at the coat check and waltzed inside, Rohan by my side. “Gawd. Too much blue lighting, too many high-gloss surfaces, too many high-gloss people,” I said.

  “And here I had you pegged as such a lover of humanity,” Rohan replied.

  “Thank you for understanding that when I say I don’t like people, I’m not doing it to make polite conversation.”

  “You know that’s not actually considered polite conversation, right?” With a small head shake, he strutted off.

  After taking a moment to imprint the image of his tight ass on my retinas, I headed straight to the bar, ordering a shot of vodka from the pouty androgynous bartender. Instinct told me that if Samson didn’t approach me here I’d played my hand wrong. I pushed down my anxiety, imagining myself as an empty vessel, filling with confidence. When that didn’t work, I knocked back my drink. The booze burned sharp and clear down my throat. I liked it better served cold and smooth, but maybe the bite was for the best.

  “Get you another?” Samson appeared at my side. He could have graced any magazine cover in his fitted chocolate brown shirt that made his blue eyes pop. It left me cold. He crowded me into the bar with his wide-legged stance.

  Your cock doesn’t take up that much room, sugar. I clamped my lips together so I didn’t say that out loud and nodded.

  He got the bartender’s attention, pointing at my drink. “Interesting design you got there.” Said casually but his eyes were sharp on my sunburst. “What’s the story?”

  Alea iacta est. With a mental finger-cross that this roll didn’t come up snake eyes, I kept my expression impassive, pulling my neckline down a bit more as if to better see the entire design for myself. I traced a finger around the rays, letting it linger a moment on my cleavage.

  Samson only had eyes for the design.

  “Ever heard of Louis XIV?” I asked.

  “Wrestler, right?” He laughed at my dismay. “Kidding. I manage to break up my Hollywood lifestyle of hookers and blow with the occasional book.”

  “Phew, because I had no way to politely lead you back from that level of ignorance.”

  “Politely?” He sounded dubious.

  “You got me. You were going to get a shit-ton of scathing.” Samson grinned at me and my knees went weak. Was I really that relieved that I was finally getting through to him?

  “Okay, smartass,” I said, full up on males getting under my skin, “did you know this sunburst was his symbol? Louis was a pioneer in branding.”

  The bartender slid my booze to me. Craving more of Samson’s smile, I wrapped my trembling hands around the drink. No mean feat with a shot glass.

  “Put it on my tab,” Samson said.

  The bartender gave a brusque nod, moving away to help another customer.

  Samson leaned an elbow on the bar. “Let me guess,” he said. “You went to Versailles and realized there just wasn’t enough gilt in modern society.”

  My heart caught in my throat. Guilt, as in, there needed to be more negativity in our world? No, wait, he meant the other gilt. The gold leaf one. Good catch, self. “Obviously. That and wallpaper. Really busy wallpaper.”

  “Preferably covered in self-portraits?”

  “See, you get it.”

  His expression turned pensive. “I’ve been talking to my interior designer about that exact look for my new place. I’m thinking I’d rock portraiture.”

  I laughed, relaxing. “I actually inherited Louis’ innate sense of style, being descended from the guy.”

  “I hate to break it to you,” Samson said, motioning the bartender back over, “but I think Marie Antoinette gets the credit for that.”

  “Fine, if you’re going to be technical about it.” I took a sip of my vodka. “One thing that was definitely all him, and that I can totally get behind, were his ideas on world domination. Pretty ballsy.”

  Samson ordered a scotch for himself. “What’s your definition of world domination? Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition? Or no. You want to act.” He sounded disappointed.

  “Dancer, actually. Total stage whore when it comes to performing.” The longing infusing my voice was real. “But that’s not my plan. I like to think of myself as a taste-maker. People want guidance on what to covet, how to be an early adapter to the newest trend in order to feel cool or relevant, and they want a seal of approval from someone they perceive as infinitely cooler.” I gave him a saucy wink. “That’s me.”

  Samson clinked his glass to mine. “Got it.”

  Bolstered by that small success, I continued. “My job is to show them that I’m the one they want in charge of their tastes and culture.” I shrugged. “I just need a larger platform.”

  A boisterous shout of laughter came from across the bar, interrupting us. Rohan captivated a group with some story while Poppy stood as close to him as she could without Crazy Glue to keep her attached.

  “Looks like my co-star is interested in following your lead,” King said, jerking his chin at Poppy. Co-star? Fuck me. “Unless of course, she’s there by private invitation.”

  I gave a dismissive flap of my hand, refraining from pointing out that he was the one who’d pushed her into Rohan’s path to begin with. “Boys will be boys, and rock stars are definitely boys.” I felt like a traitor to my gender even uttering such inane bullshit.

  Rohan caught my eye at that moment. I winked at him and he grinned back. Poppy went pinchy-faced.

  “Like I said,” I told Samson with a smirk, “show them I’m the one they want in charge of their tastes.”

  “Why Lolita,” Samson gasped, “and here I thought you were such a good girl.”

  “Oh baby, I’m very good. You just don’t know me.” I put my back to him and knocked back my shot.

  Samson pressed up behind me, speaking into my ear. “I stand corrected.”

  I suppressed my shudder at the feel of his hard-on against my spine. Turning to face him, I pushed him back a few steps, tsking him.

  “Maybe Rohan’s not the guy for you,” he said.

  I arched an eyebrow.

  “He turned his back on stardom. I find that kind of extreme behavior boring. So black and white when shades of gray make a much more interesting playground.”

  I willed my racing pulse to slow. Did Samson suspect? Was this a veiled threat against all Rasha or a blatant erotica reference? I got nothing from his expression. Making sure not to let my apprehension show, I shrugged. “I’m not with him for his worldview.”

  “What’s he been up to anyway?” He sipped his scotch, his casual expression at odds with his unwavering gaze. If Rohan hadn’t told me that he figured he was being set up, I’d have been insulted by Samson’s continued interest in Snowflake instead of me. “I know he said he took a break, did some traveling, but he was on top. You don’t walk away from that without a good reason or a scandal.” Samson leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ll take either.”

  His reason had been becoming Rasha. Although, I agreed that Rohan shouldn’t have walked away from making music. I was so glad that even under duress and the fact this was a mission that he was connecting with his creative side again.

  I could have tossed out that Rohan and I didn’t do a lot of talking and I didn’t know his reasons, but there was a weight behind the way Samson waited for my answer. “Fame fucked him up.” If he thought any less of Rohan for it, so be it. Snowflake had nothing to prove.

  All the vodka after the wine with dinner was starting to make me wonky, and this verbal sparring without any solid lead was giving me a headache.

  He tapped his finger twice on the bar. “Well, I only came over to tell you how much I liked your sun.”

  “Thanks.” Pouring myself a glass of water from a carafe, I winked at him. “Shows you have good taste.”


  He ran a hand over himself like a show model. “Obviously. But I also appreciate a good ball of flame.” He unbuttoned his cuff, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo on the inside of his elbow.

  I gripped my water glass, excitement coursing through me. I’d seen Samson’s tattoos. Drio and Rohan had photos of them. They’d studied them trying to connect the designs with any known mythology, demon or otherwise. The designs they’d shown me were pretty generic. But what I was looking at now? A solid black circle sat in the middle of two concentric black rings. The outer ring acted as a frame for the twelve jagged spokes emanating from the center.

  “That’s a sun? It looks like a swastika with too many arms,” I said, because that was true, too. It convinced me further this was a clue. Hitler had been fascinated with the occult and this stylized black sun fit the bill.

  Samson stroked it. “I have no time for Nazis.” He sounded genuinely disgusted, but his phrasing was odd. As if they’d personally done something to offend him. Was Samson tied to both Louis XIV and Hitler? Too much guesswork, not enough hard proof. “Just got it done.”

  I was so focused on committing the design to memory so I could tell Drio and Rohan about it, that I missed what he said next. “Sorry?”

  He held his hand out to me. In his palm was a small red pill with a happy face on it.

  “I don’t take candy from strangers.” I finished my water.

  Samson pressed a hand to his heart with an exaggerated wince. “Strangers? After our chat? Our shared taste in home decorating? You wound me.”

  “Poor baby. I’m not about to take a random pill that allows you to do God knows what to me.”

  He broke it in half and popped one piece in his mouth. “Not to. With.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Right. So I take the red pill and see how far the rabbit hole goes?”

  He shot me a crooked grin. “More MDMA, less Matrix. Let’s see if you’ve got what it takes to intrigue.”

  Ecstasy, huh? Leo and I had done our fair share. I wasn’t crazy about the touchy-feelies it would induce around him, but Rohan had said that some demons might reveal themselves under extreme emotion. The drug was brilliant for lowering inhibitions and creating intense emotional bonds with whoever you did it with. Plus, if I did intrigue, maybe I’d get to spend more time with him one-on-one.

  It sucked that Rasha couldn’t communicate via a psychic hotline. I looked over at Rohan, willing him to sense my dilemma, but he was busy holding court, Poppy’s hand clamped on his arm like a wheel boot on a tire.

  “Go big or go home, kitten.”

  “Don’t call me ‘kitten.’” I swiped the other half and swallowed it.

  11

  “What the fuck did you do?” Rohan hissed into my ear.

  “I told you. Took E.” I fixed my gloss, wishing the drugs were kicking in. “Consider yourself informed.” I looked over to see if Samson had gotten our coats yet, since I’d insisted on going somewhere I could dance.

  Rohan shifted to block my view. “Hotel. Now.”

  “No. We’re connecting. He had this tattoo and–”

  He blinked rapidly at me, his cheeks flushing red. The very shade my brother had dubbed “Nava Red,” in honor of my tendency to bring it out in people. “You took drugs from a suspected demon because of a tattoo? Are you insane?”

  “Too bad you were too busy to monitor my every move.”

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  “Language, Snowflake.” I waggled my head to the catchy tune playing on the speakers. “Don’t wreck all my hard work. You have your role and I have mine.”

  He leveled me with a mocking gold gaze. “You mean swallowing?”

  I threw him a pitying smile. “It’s such an easy option for getting what I want.”

  Drio sidled up beside us, preventing us from coming to blows. Not that I would. Punching was no fun. Swaying my hips was. “Is there a problem?” he said. “Because you two are not playing the agreed upon dynamic.”

  “Rohan’s kvetching over nothing,” I said.

  “Samson gave her ecstasy,” Rohan said. “Or a roofie.” What a drama queen.

  “You know, Ro, E could actually work.” Drio nodded his approval.

  I smirked at Rohan. “I don’t think roofies come with happy faces on them. Besides, Samson took the other half.”

  Rohan gripped the edge of the bar.

  Across the room, Samson held up my jacket, two of his bodyguards hovering silently behind him. I held up a “hang on one sec” finger. “I need–”

  “You need to keep quiet for thirty seconds so I can take that time to convince myself I shouldn’t strangle you,” Rohan bit out. It seemed prudent to do as requested.

  I counted off the time, enjoying the music, then turned to Drio. “I had a breakthrough with Samson. I want to continue pursuing this lead, which I promise to tell you all about tomorrow. But for tonight, will you come with me to this private party? I don’t want to go there alone with him.”

  Rohan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now she speaks sense.”

  “I’m supposed to take the Two Stooges to another club,” Drio said.

  “I’m going with you.” Rohan grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd toward Samson.

  Why did the heat of Rohan’s hand against mine make me giddier than total nudity with other guys? I stroked my thumb over his.

  “Quit it,” he snapped.

  I barely had time to pluck my jacket out of Samson’s hands as we passed. “Rohan’s coming.”

  “Great,” Samson said in a voice that made it clear that despite the smile, this was absolutely not great at all.

  I, however, thought it was seven kinds of fantastic. So much so that I had to share my delight. I enthusiastically waved good-bye to Poppy.

  “Bhenchod,” Rohan muttered and pulled me out of the bar, where a limo awaited us.

  A brick wall of a driver opened the back door, standing rigidly beside it. I immediately dubbed him Brickie. “Cute cap,” I said.

  I’m sure that would have kicked off an enthusiastic fashion exchange except one of the bodyguards hustled me into the backseat where I was pinned between Rohan and Samson, the two of them traveling in chilly silence. Whatever. I was buzzed, happy Eurotrash was playing on the speakers, and the ecstasy was tingling my fingers and toes. I was being taken on an adventure in an incredible city. Yay!

  Even better, Rohan had my back. He wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Big rock star and demon hunter worried about me. I ducked my head so neither of them could see my silly grin. Lovely boy. Under the cover of darkness that the backseat afforded, I slid my left hand over, curling my fingers into the waist of Rohan’s pants.

  He turned his head to look at me. Still totally pissed.

  I blew him a silent kiss. A curious expression crossed his face. Right. But blowing kisses didn’t count, so I blew him another one.

  Rohan shook his head at me and turned away to stare out the window.

  “Kicking in?”

  “What?” I looked at Samson.

  “You’re dancing.”

  So I was. Grooving away where I sat on the plush leather seat. “It’s a good song.” I bopped Samson on the tip of his nose.

  He laughed, catching my finger and biting gently on it. I rubbed my finger against his teeth for a second because it tickled.

  Samson hissed, trailing a finger along my jaw and down my neck.

  Party pooper on the other side didn’t like that. “We’re here.” Rohan opened the door and yanked me out.

  That won him zero points with Brickie and the security trio, since Samson scooted out, hot on our heels, causing the other four to scramble after us like Keystone Cops from those old silent movies that I’d seen in a film studies class during my brief university stint.

  I looked at the nondescript club. More of a warehouse really. Despite the line of sulky beautiful people clamoring to get in, one look at Samson and Rohan now flanking me, and the b
ouncer lowered the rope. I could get used to this.

  Inside the foyer, I handed one of the boys my coat, graciously allowing him to check it. Sashaying down a short hallway, I stepped through a doorway and found myself in a giant black box. Lights pulsed, bass throbbed, and bodies writhed.

  Rohan placed his hands on my hips, forcing me to stand still. Even though he’d come up behind me, I knew it was him. I always knew it was him.

  “Nava,” he said insistently in my ear. “No tapping. Don’t give Samson any actual information about yourself.”

  I froze. Shit. I’d been doing that, hadn’t I? I turned around, meeting his eyes. There was none of the anger I expected to find, just an anxious concern.

  “Just be careful,” he said.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I won’t screw up. Now you have to have fun, okay?” I smiled, seeing Samson headed toward us. Ecstasy or not, I could stick to the role. I could intrigue.

  I swayed my hips, grooving onto the dance floor. They followed like lapdogs, each one making sure the other didn’t get too close. Fine by me. Between their posturing and the music, there was no chance to talk and give myself away by saying something stupid.

  I made sure not to tap at all.

  Eventually, the wusses got tired, drifting off the floor. Not me. No one felt the music as deeply as I did. My heart beat in time to the pulsing lights. I threw my arms high, one with the mass of bodies on the floor, kicking off my shoes and abandoning myself to the music. “Take me higher,” the vocalist sang and I obeyed. Blood became melody, heartbeat turned to downbeat. Lighter and lighter and higher and higher I flew.

  Rohan pressed a bottle of water into my hand, breaking my trance. I put my hand on his shoulder, leaning in close to speak to him. “You take good care of me.” His shoulder felt really nice so I kept rubbing him. Then I drifted that hand down his chest, my other one snaking around his hip, water bottle still hooked between my fingers. I swayed against his body to the music.

  “Nava,” he groaned. His eyes turned that molten lava that was rapidly becoming my favorite color.

  “Ro,” I purred. I tilted my face up to his. “You have the best lips.”