by Lexi George
Turning, he stalked away, though, in truth, he knew not his destination.
To his annoyance, Evan caught up with him.
“Headed for the Sweet Shop?” The demonoid fell in beside Duncan. “I’m hungry. Think I’ll tag along. What’s got you down in the dumps?”
“’Tis not a what, but a who,” Duncan said, processing Evan’s words. “I had hoped . . .” He shook his head. “Alas, ’twas not to be.”
“I know that look.” Evan gave him a knowing smirk. “You’ve got woman trouble. Shorty breaking your balls?”
Duncan stared at him in confusion. “I do not know this Shorty.”
“The chick.” Evan made an impatient gesture. “The one giving you a hard time. Who is she?”
Duncan gave him a frigid look. “She is not a common doxy to have her name bandied on the street.”
“Whew, touchy.” Evan clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s grab a bite to eat, and you can tell me all about it.”
Duncan shook his head. “I have no appetite.”
“Dessert, then. My treat.”
Without quite knowing why, Duncan followed Evan down the street and into the eatery known as the Sweet Shop. The interior of this establishment was furnished with scarred tables and booths and decorated with a hodgepodge of signs bearing words of wisdom like A blind mule ain’t afraid of the dark and A man’s older than his tongue and younger than his teeth.
They were greeted at the front desk by Viola Williams, the toothsome proprietress of the establishment.
“Evening,” she said. “Special tonight’s shrimp and grits. ’Course, we got fried chicken and ribs on the menu, same as always.” She gave Evan a gimlet eye. “But I don’t gotta tell you that. You in here every time the lights are on.”
“What can I say?” Evan gave her a smoldering look. “I like the cook.”
“You a bad boy, that’s what you is.” Viola gave him a playful slap on the arm. “Knew it the first time I seen you, with them come-hither eyes and that sexy mouth. You was skin and bones back then, but you picking up. My cooking obviously agrees with you. Got some meat on you now.” She gave Duncan the once-over. “Ain’t seen you in a while, Duncan. Heard you been busy.” Her brown eyes sparkling with mischief, she added in a conspiratorial tone, “Heard you bought some land from Lucy Hall.”
“Lucy?” Evan perked up at this. “Is she pretty?”
“Pretty old,” Viola said. “Lucy Hall’s looking back at eighty and she’s tight as Dick’s hatband. How’d you get that old sourpuss to sell?”
“I promised to take care of something for her.”
Evan smirked. “I’ll bet.”
Duncan regarded him through narrowed eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“Aw, don’t poker up, Dunky.” Evan gave him an engaging grin. “I’m a shit, and I know it.”
“Reprobate,” Duncan said, unbending. “And the name is Duncan.”
“Lawd, listen to you two. Squabbling like brothers.” Chuckling, Viola led them over to a booth and motioned to a skinny waitress. “Pauline will take good care of you. Y’all enjoy your dinner.”
Pauline glumped up to them. She wore her graying hair in a bun so tight her eyes were slits, and her thin, painted lips were compressed in a rigid line.
“Drinks?” she asked, and clomped off without waiting for an answer.
She returned a moment later with two large glasses of sweet tea, the ubiquitous beverage favored by the locals, and plunked them down.
“Right,” she said, whipping a notepad from her apron pocket. “Whatchoo want?”
“Shrimp and grits,” Evan said. “The dinner portion, not the lunch portion. And I’ll have greens, fried okra, and rutabagas.”
“Cornbread or rolls?” Pauline asked, taking notes.
“Both,” said Evan, “and bring me an order of fried chicken and a bowl of chicken and dumplings. A bowl, not a cup.”
Pauline looked up from her notepad and eyed Evan. “There ain’t but the one of you. Where in tarnation you gon’ put all that?”
Evan patted his stomach. “Right here. I’m a growing boy.”
“Huh.” The rawboned waitress’s head snapped around at a loud noise. “Lands, Jim Bob’s done tumped over his tea again. Man’s like a bull in a china shop. Hold on. I’ll be back.”
Stuffing her order pad back into her apron pocket, she hurried off.
“Didn’t want to say this in front of the norm,” Evan said, “but I had a little episode a few days back. Monstered out. That shit always makes me hungry.”
“You summoned the creature?” Duncan stared at him in consternation. “Has not Conall cautioned you against it?”
“Let you in on a secret, bub. I ain’t Dalvahni, which means I don’t have to do what Conall says.”
“Perhaps you do not, but the question remains. Is it wise? The ogre is unpredictable at best.”
Evan gave Duncan a surly glare. “I didn’t summon anything. Sometimes it happens, okay? Damn witch did a number on me.”
Duncan regarded the demonoid with sympathy. A few months earlier, Evan had run afoul of Cassandra’s mother, Ora Mae, the witch known as the Howling Hag, with disastrous results.
“A most evil ronyon,” Duncan agreed, “but hark and rejoice. The witch is dead.”
“Ding dong.” Evan’s mouth twisted. “Too bad her spells didn’t die with her.”
“I am told her magic faded with her demise. Her once-lush gardens lie moldering and in ruins.”
“That so? Guess I was born under a lucky star.” Evan lapsed into gloomy contemplation of his woes. “Whatever she did to me seems to be permanent.”
“How long were you her prisoner?”
“Two months.” Evan’s scowl deepened at the memory. “Two months of hell locked in a dark shed crawling with spiders and centipedes, and shitting in a bucket.”
Duncan considered Evan’s well-muscled frame. “And yet you seem the picture of health. In fighting form, as it were.”
Evan gave a bitter laugh. “I was half-starved when the Hag caught me. She put something in my food to fatten me up, something magical.” He shook his head. “The old bag planned to eat me. Can you believe that shit? Like those brats in the fairy tale that got lost in the woods.”
“Easily, given the creature’s foul nature.” Whatever humanity Ora Mae had once possessed had been destroyed by the demon inside her. “Fortunately, ’twas a fate you were spared.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t the same.” Evan hunched his shoulders. “You’ve seen . . . you know.”
“Aye,” Duncan admitted.
Evan referred to his other self, a dangerous, ogre-like creature with enormous strength, limited intelligence, and a volatile temper.
“Thanks to the witch and her damn meddling, I’ve got this . . . this thing inside me,” Evan said, his expression brooding, “and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“’Twould behoove you, methinks, to learn to control your temper,” Duncan said. “It seems to me the monster is roused by your ire.”
“Gee, thanks. You’re a big help.”
“I do what I can.”
Pauline spun back up, notepad in hand. “Now,” she said, fixing her beady gaze on Duncan. “What can I get you?”
“No dinner for him. He’s going straight for dessert,” Evan cut in. “What are his choices?”
Pauline gave him a withering look. “Same as they ever was—dessert menu ain’t changed. We got lemon pie, buttermilk pie, coconut pie, chocolate pie, strawberry cake, fudge cake, and ’nanner puddin’.”
“What’s it gonna be, Dunk? The buttermilk pie’s mighty tasty.” Evan’s gaze was taunting. “Or are you man enough to handle a little chocolate?”
It was a challenge. The Dalvahni, strong in might and magic, were impervious to drugs and alcohol, but became pixilated on chocolate. Or so Duncan had been told. He’d never been pixilated, nor had the idea appealed. But today . . . the prospect was pleasing.
He b
rought his hand down on the table. “An excellent notion. Bring me the chocolate pie, a whole one, if you please. Nay, make it two.”
“Two chocolate pies, coming up,” Pauline said, and stomped off to place their orders.
“Dude, I was kidding.” Evan looked alarmed. “You’ll get crunk, and it ain’t gonna be pretty. Demon hunters and chocolate don’t mix.”
“So it is rumored, but I have yet to see the evidence.”
“Yeah? Well, I have. You remember Grim, right? Brother of yours?” Evan motioned. “Big guy with rusty hair and a temper like a constipated grizzly? He got tanked and ended up parking a car on top of a house.”
“I am not Grim. Mayhap chocolate will not affect me.”
“What if it does? Then what? Do you want to get caught with your pants down?”
The demonoid, Duncan realized, referred to chocolate’s intoxica-tive properties and its effect on the Dalvahni. The sensible warrior in him cautioned that Evan was right. Vulnerable equaled weak—a warrior could not fight the djegrali if his wits had gone begging. But Duncan did not feel like being sensible. Cassandra had been with someone else. The knowledge made him desperate, half-mad with jealousy.
Perhaps chocolate would help him forget his troubles, if only for a little while. Erase the tormenting thoughts of Cassandra, her sweet body shuddering with pleasure in the arms of another.
“And just so you know,” Evan said, interrupting his black thoughts, “cars don’t go on top of houses.”
“As I do not possess a motor vehicle, that need not concern you.”
“Have it your way.” Evan sat back in the booth. “But take it from me, no chick’s worth the heartburn.”
“She is.”
Evan shook his head. “That’s your dick talking. Never listen to your dick, man. Dicks are selfish and stupid. No brains in the little head. Nearsighted, too. Only got the one eye, see? Take my advice and shove ’at bad boy back in your pants, and find another babe. They’re all the same in the dark.”
“For me, there is no other.”
“For reals?”
“Of a certainty. A Dalvahni warrior does not love easily, but when he does, it is forever.”
“Twu wuv.” Evan made a face. “Who is she?” He held up his hand at Duncan’s black look. “Don’t bite my head off. We’re not on the street anymore.”
“Cassandra.” Duncan stared down at his clenched fists. “Her name is Cassandra. You know her?”
“You mean Cassie Ferguson? I know of her. Make it my business to know most of the kith and their talents. Safer that way.”
“You do not trust your own kind?”
“I don’t trust anybody. Period. That’s why I’m still alive.”
“Focus on the snake and miss the scorpion,” Duncan murmured.
Evan shook his finger at him. “Pot and kettle, Dunk. If ever there was a suspicious bunch of mofos, it’s you demon hunters.”
“An inaccurate term,” Duncan said. “The Dal do not have mothers. We were created by the god Kehvahn.”
“My point is, you can’t be too careful.”
The bell on the door tinkled, and a curvaceous young woman with dark hair and creamy caramel skin glided in. The damsel approached Viola, who handed her a white box. Money was exchanged, and the young woman sauntered back toward the exit.
“There. That’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about.” Evan watched the woman, his gaze on her swaying hips as she left the eatery. “Name’s Latrisse Jackson.”
“What of her?”
“Can’t figure her out.” Evan’s expression was abstracted. “Know she’s not a norm, but she ain’t kith, either. Don’t know what she is, exactly, and that’s what bugs me.” He tapped his temple. “Knowledge is power, my man.”
Pauline sailed up with a tray of food and set a laden plate in front of Evan, then added a basket of bread and a large bowl of savory dumplings.
“Chocolate pie.” She placed the quivering, froth-covered confections in front of Duncan with a flourish. “Enjoy.”
“For the love of God, don’t do it, man,” Evan begged. “You’ll wind up chasing the moon through a soybean field.”
The seductive scent of the pie wafted up Duncan’s nose and made his mouth water. Eschewing the plate Pauline had left him, he picked up a spoon.
“To the moon,” Duncan said, taking a large bite.
“Demon hunters.” Evan shook his head in disgust. “Like talking to a fence post.”
Chapter Seven
The pie was smooth as slow-churned butter, almost liquid, and the taste . . . ah, gods, ’twas unlike anything of Duncan’s experience. Dark and sweet, with a hint of bitterness, the complexity of the dessert set his brain abuzz with delight and heated his blood with delicious languor. With each bite, the rage and grief tying his guts in knots lessened, and by the time he’d worked his way through the first pie, Duncan was in charity with the world.
Carried away on a tide of goodwill, he studied the demonoid sitting across from him. Conall disliked Evan, but then Conall had never given him a chance. This was unfortunate, Duncan decided. Evan had a way of growing on a person, rather like a corn. Rough. Hard. Painful when pinched or confined, and the devil to be rid of.
Pleased at his own cleverness, Duncan waved his spoon at his companion. “I like chocolate. Know what, Evan? Like you, too. Been watching you.”
Evan finished off his shrimp and grits. Picking up a bottle labeled Pepper Sauce, he dumped some of the contents on his greens. “Do me a favor and never say that again. It’s creepy.”
“Been watching you,” Duncan repeated, ignoring this admonition. “Know what?”
“What, Duncan?”
“Not a bad sort.” Duncan smiled and had the oddest sensation that his lips were sliding off his face. “Not like that Earl Skinner.”
“Gee, thanks. Earl was a total skeeze.”
“Insulted you. Not my intent. Like you better than Earl. Thought you ought to know.” Duncan frowned. “Another reason I like you. Cannot remember why.”
Evan took a bite of his greens, and chewed. “Well, I’m alive, for starters—”
“Alive,” Duncan repeated.
“And Earl’s deader ’n hell. Trust me. I know dead people. I’m a whole lot more fun to talk to.”
“That is it. Smart fellow. Like you, Evan. Like you better than Joby Ray. Better than—”
“Got it,” Evan said, bringing this litany to a halt. “You like me better than the Skinners. Heard you the first time.”
As he floated on an ocean of feel-good, it gradually percolated through Duncan’s euphoria that Evan seemed less than pleased by his approbation.
“Like you better than Zeb Randall,” Duncan offered. “You know Zeb?”
“Werewolf?” Evan forked some of the yellow vegetable on his plate into his mouth. “Don’t know much about him. Don’t want to. Don’t get the whole pack mentality.” He shrugged. “Been on my own since I was a little squirt.”
“Know. Raised by demons. Beck told me.”
“Did she, now?” Evan’s satyr mouth hardened. “Baby sister talks too much.”
Evan and Beck were twins. After he was left for dead as a babe by his demon-possessed mother, Evan’s life had been a special kind of hell until Beck and Conall had slain the demons who’d enslaved him. Knowing this, Duncan made allowances for the demonoid.
“Horrible,” Duncan said. “Tortured you. Sorry for you.”
A dull flush crept up Evan’s cheeks. “Don’t be.”
“Like you.” Duncan scowled. “Not like Zeb.” He slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the dishes and utensils. “Not. Like. Zeb.”
“Jesus, take it easy. I heard you. I’m pretty sure people in the next county heard you. What’s eating you, man?”
Duncan picked up the sugar dispenser and crumpled it like paper, spraying white granules across the table. “Zeb had a . . . a thang with Cassandra.”
Evan pried the crushed canister out
of Duncan’s hand. “No kidding? You like me better than some douche who’s been playing patty-cakes with your girlfriend? Well, I’m moist.”
Confused by this statement, Duncan consulted the Provider.
Douche, the information source informed him, is a liquid concoction used to cleanse the female nether regions. Also an insult used to denote a person who is boorish and/or foolish or ignorant. The term “girlfriend” commonly refers to a female companion with whom one has a regular romantic or sexual relationship. Similar in meaning to the term “lover.”
The Provider was silent a moment, processing. The term “moist” is an informal expression that means sexually aroused.
Duncan shook his head. “Like you, Evan. No desire to couple with you, though.”
“Wha? Who said anything about—” Evan looked up in mid-chew, his eyes widening in comprehension. “Lord, I didn’t mean—hey, I don’t want to boink you, either.”
“Boink?”
“Sex, dude. It means sex.”
“Boink.” Duncan rolled the word around in his mouth. “Like it. Like to boink Cassandra. Like it very much. Wroth with me.”
“From what I hear, Cassie Ferguson’s a class act.”
“Verily.”
“Then word of advice, my man. Don’t ask her to ‘boink.’ Crude. Classy chicks hate that.”
“See? That is why I like you.” Duncan slapped his knee. “Best of good fellows. Like you better than the douche. Better than Earl. Better than Joby Ray. Better than—”
“Good God, don’t start that again.”
“Conall does not like you,” Duncan felt compelled to point out. “Conall says . . . you a rogue. Not to be trusted.”
Evan’s lip curled. “Boo-hoo.”
“Not a good thing.” Duncan was determined to make him understand. “Captain . . . makes a bad enemy.”
“Yeah. I cry myself to sleep about it every night.”
“Conall wrong about you.” Picking up his spoon, Duncan dug into the remaining pie. “Tell him so.”
“Don’t bother. I don’t care what Conall thinks.”
“Wrong about you,” Duncan insisted. “Should know.” He finished the second pie and pushed the empty plate away. “Speak to Grim, too. Grim angry about Dell.”