Demon Hunting with a Sexy Ex

by Lexi George

  “Grim can bite me.” Evan tore into a piece of chicken. “Dell was his bestie until he went googly shit over Sassy, and then Grim ignored him. And I’m a villain for showing the poor sap a good time?”

  “Mish—” Duncan hiccupped. “Mishuse of i-infor-m-mation. Dalvahni resource.”

  “Dell is not a resource. Not anymore. He’s a person, and Grim damn well should know it. He brought him to life.”

  “Grim lonely.” Loyalty compelled Duncan to defend his brother. “Alone . . . long time. Blamed himself... Gryff’s death.”

  Evan finished off the piece of chicken and started on another. “Gryff and Grim are twinsies, right?”

  Duncan nodded, swaying. “Gryff . . . dead. Djegrali.” He made a slashing motion with his hand and nearly fell out of the booth. “Beheaded.”

  “Huh.” There was a speculative gleam in Evan’s eyes. “So Gryff loses his head, and Grim slinks off, feeling sorry for himself. He mopes around for a while, gets bored, and makes the Provider—er—Dell . . .” He paused. “What’s the word I’m looking for? Sentient—that’s it. Grim made the Provider sentient to keep him company.”

  “Sentient.”

  “Aren’t there rules about that kind of thing? I mean, what’s next, a talking toaster?”

  Duncan labored over this. “No,” he said at last. “Grim did nothing for-for”—he hiccupped—“bidden by the Directive.”

  “Well, it ought to be. That shit is wrong.”

  “Not your affair.” Duncan’s tongue felt thick and sluggish, making conversation a chore. “Between Grim and Kehvahn. Dalvahni god, you know.”

  “Whatevs.”

  “Grim is mad because you used Dell to win a fortune. Cheated.”

  “I did not cheat.” Evan took a breath and blew it out. “Not technically. Dell could read the machines. I put money in, and ka-ching. Jackpot. Like shooting fish in a barrel.”

  “Cheated,” Duncan insisted.

  “Have it your way. I cheated. So what? Dell had fun, and I walked away with a cool three mil.” Evan’s sulky mouth twisted. “Vegas was next. Dell and I were gonna own that town. Then Dell had to go and make himself a real boy, the numb nuts.”

  This was true. Dell, not content with being sentient, had taken on fleshly form, the body of a stripling, to be exact, and now resided with Grim and his wife, Sassy. Quite unprecedented.

  “Got money.” Duncan closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the booth. “Not . . . need Dell.”

  “You can never have too much money. Got to think of the future. Take me, for instance. I’ve started a landscape business. Going like gangbusters.” Evan clapped his hands. “Yo, Duncan? How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Duncan peeled his eyelids back and peered at Evan. “Eight fingers. Two Evans.”

  “I knew it. You’re sloshed.”

  “Sloshed.” Duncan chuckled. “Funny.” He went to prop his elbow on the table and missed. “Play now.”

  “Play what?”

  Duncan’s gittern appeared in his lap. He plucked the strings, then launched into song.

  “Lord help us,” said Evan. “Here we go.”

  * * *

  Duncan was tossed upon a stormy sea, the contents of his belly sloshing with each pitch and swell of the waves. A merciless fiend hammered at his head with a mallet and tongs, his mouth and throat were parched, as though he’d gargled with sand, and something extremely foul had crawled into his mouth and died.

  The heated pillow beneath his head rose and fell in rhythm with the steady beat of a galley drum, and an errant breeze teased his locks. The wind’s gentle play was torment. Gods, his hair hurt. How was such a thing possible? Had pixies woven his tresses in some goodwife’s loom whilst he slept?

  He cracked his swollen lids and beheld, to his surprise, not the briny deep, but a lacy canopy of green. Patches of blue shone through the leafy netting. The light was blinding, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his temples thudding. For a moment, he feared his stomach would revolt. If this was what humans called bottle ache, or a close approximation thereof, then he found the human fondness for intoxicants incomprehensible.

  He lifted his lids again and saw that he was in a forest, though he had no notion of how he’d gotten here. The bolster beneath his cheek was decidedly hairy. Gradually, it dawned upon Duncan that the steady thumping in his ear emanated from an enormous heart, not a drum. The owner of the booming heartbeat was asleep. The huge chest, pale as a snowbank, rose and fell, the beast’s black lips fluttering with each exhalation.

  Briefly, Duncan struggled to free himself, but the slightest movement set bells a-ringing in his head and made the snakes in his belly writhe.

  “Sugar,” he said, collapsing back with a groan. “Unhand me, you big ape.”

  At the sound of his voice, the shaggy mattress beneath him started violently, and Duncan went rolling. A furry white hand shot out, retrieving him.

  “Sweet blessed Kehv,” Duncan swore, clutching his clanging head in both hands.

  Sugar grunted in sympathy and gave him an awkward pat. Tucking Duncan in the crook of one large, hairy arm, he settled against the bole of a tree.

  Gradually, Duncan’s stomach stopped heaving, and the throbbing in his head subsided to a dull roar. Dropping his hands, he found the pale brute gazing at him, his vivid blue eyes startling in his white, furry face.

  “Dunk.” Sugar grinned, displaying large, square teeth.

  Duncan stared at him. “How did you—”

  He paused, straining to remember the details of the evening. It was no use. His mind was an empty well, and everything after the pie was a blank. He concentrated, though the exercise made his head throb terribly, and from the depths of the swampy morass of his brain, a fragment of memory floated to the surface.

  You’ll get crunk. Demon hunters and chocolate don’t mix.

  Evan had tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen.

  Duncan met Sugar’s guileless gaze. “Did Evan teach you to call me that?”

  Sugar chortled in delight. “Ebb.” He poked Duncan painfully in the chest with one large, padded finger. “Dunk.”

  “Ow. Yes. Good boy. Now put Dunk down.”

  A mellifluous feminine voice interrupted them. “’Tis passing curious, is it not, sister? What is the Dal about, do you think?”

  “One can never be certain with a Dal,” a second female answered, “but ’twould appear the warrior needs burping.”

  “By the vessel, methinks you have the right of it. The creature is his mother, then?”

  “It seems likely. Regard the tender care she gives her offspring.”

  With a whistle of alarm, Sugar sprang to his feet. The violent movement catapulted Duncan high into an elm tree. Clinging to a bough, he watched the sasquatch melt into the forest.

  “Traitor,” he muttered.

  After a short, fierce battle with his protesting stomach, Duncan looked down. Two Kirvahni huntresses surveyed him with disdain, a tall, haughty female with flawless brown skin and elegant features, and a petite, curvaceous brunette with eyes the color of cornflowers.

  He groaned. The Dalvahni and the Kirvahni had been created by the same god and to the same purpose—to hunt the djegrali—but there, any familial ties ended. The Dal were ferocious warriors, single-minded and unflagging in their zeal to find and extinguish the enemy. The Kir were deadly assassins: pitiless and swift, skilled with the knife and short sword. They were also exacting and cold. Carping. Arrogant. Infuriating. Ill-tempered vipers disguised in comely feminine form.

  The tall Kir tapped her chin in thought. “Not his mother, I think. She is too great a beauty to have whelped such a cub.”

  “He is prodigious ugly,” her companion agreed. “If not his mother, then mayhap his bride?”

  “Perhaps. Rumor has it, the captain of the Dalvahni has taken a demon to wife.” The Kir’s lip curled. “In truth, the Dal will breed with anything.”

  Duncan was sorely tempted to be
lly-spew on the hateful wenches. “Plague take you both,” he said, goaded beyond endurance. “Sugar is not my mother or my wife, and you know it. He is a boggy boon.”

  “Hark, the lummox speaks.” The dark-eyed Kir shook her head. “Alas, ’tis but nonsense.”

  “Boggy boon, sasquatch, bigfoot,” Duncan ground out. “These are myriad terms for Sugar’s kind, as you would know had you stopped tormenting me long enough to consult the Provider.”

  The petite brunette drew herself up. “Have a care, sirrah. My sister and I have spent the better part of the night setting things a-right whilst you snored in the woods with your pet ape.”

  Duncan opened his mouth to retort and shut it again, unease slithering down his spine. The Kirvahni were deft facilitators, dispatched throughout the various dimensions to unravel the worst of magical mishaps associated with the djegrali. By the gods, what had he done?

  A third Kirvahni materialized at the bottom of the tree, and this one Duncan recognized. Tall and lean and fiercely lovely, the huntress was clad in soft brown doeskin. Her ruby red hair swung about her slim hips in a long plait. A bow and quiver were slung over one shoulder, and she held a short sword. Her leggings, boots, and vest fairly bristled with knives and other weaponry.

  “Greetings, sisters.” Taryn’s voice was cool as frost. “What is toward?”

  Chapter Eight

  The dark-eyed Kir leveled an accusatory finger at Duncan. “This Dal is in gross violation of the Directive Against Conspicuousness. He went on a rampage last night in a neighboring hamlet, and ’twas very nearly a disaster.”

  Taryn arched her brows. “Nearly a disaster, Illaria? I collect matters have been rectified?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Then you have done your duty and can be on your way.” When they did not budge, Taryn gave them an enquiring look. “Was there aught else?”

  “’Tis the Dalvahni.” The face of the one called Illaria was tight with fury. “We would have you know what he has done.”

  “If the situation has been dealt with, I do not see that it matters.”

  “It matters to us.” The brunette with the blue eyes fairly trembled with rage.

  “Very well.” Taryn folded her arms. “I am listening.”

  “There were satyrs,” the brunette said. “And centaurs.”

  “And a great snowy beast the Dal claims is a boggy bane,” Illaria added.

  “Boggy boon,” Duncan muttered, though they paid no heed.

  “And hundreds upon hundreds of forest creatures,” Illaria rushed on. “Fox and fowl, deer and rabbits. A bear and a catamount. Dogs and cats by the dozen and . . . oh . . . too many others to name.”

  “A veritable menagerie,” Taryn said, looking bored. “I confess I do not perceive the difficulty.”

  “That was but the beginning.” The brunette added in the tone of one much afflicted, “There was a nibilanth, a vile little imp who sang songs ’twould put a dock whore to the blush.”

  “Indeed?” Taryn said. “Did he, by chance, favor you with a ditty about his bollocks?”

  The brunette’s eyes widened. “Aye. You know him?”

  Taryn nodded. “A foul little scamp. His name is Irilmoskamo-seril.”

  “Please, sister,” the brunette pleaded, looking around. “Speak not his name, lest you summon him.”

  “As you wish. Did Sildhjort accompany the nibilanth?”

  “Yes. The forest god was in human form,” Illaria said. “Silver-skinned, horned, and quite naked. A sylph was with him, and a bevy of human females. They cavorted. ’Twas most shocking.”

  “’Twould be more shocking had they not,” Taryn said. “Was Iril—?” A strangled sound from the brunette stopped her. “Oh, bother. Was the imp drinking?”

  “To excess,” said Illaria. “He turned the fountain in the middle of town into wine. The bear got drunk, and the spirits attracted a large crowd of humans.”

  “And fairies,” the brunette added. “Do not forget the fairies.”

  Taryn held up her hand. “Let me hazard a guess. The fairies got tipsy and kicked up a rumpus. Tiresome, to be sure, but not unduly troublesome.”

  Illaria bristled. “The fairies were not the problem. We had things well in hand until the clurichaun showed up.”

  “A clurichaun?” Taryn clucked in sympathy. “That is unfortunate. Noisome, bitter little beasts, in my experience.”

  “Surly in the extreme,” Illaria said. “This one was riding a dog. The poor benighted creature was fagged unto death, to which the nibilanth took exception. The clurichaun took umbrage at the imp’s remonstrance and—”

  “There was a brawl, I surmise,” Taryn said. “’Tis ever thus with the clurichaun.”

  “’Twas more than a brawl, sister. ’Twas a melee,” the brunette protested. “Windows were broken. Carriages overturned. Streetlamps smashed. Pavers pulled up and tossed about. Buildings defaced.”

  “Disagreeable, to be sure,” Taryn said, “but none of this explains why you are so out-of-reason cross with the Dalvahni.”

  The three females turned as one to stare at Duncan in the tree. He glared back at them, uncomfortably aware that he cut a ridiculous figure but unable to summon the energy to care. His head was a cloth sack filled with burrs, and his stomach was a volcano of acid threatening to erupt.

  “’Twas pandemonium,” Illaria declared. “There were the fae to be dealt with, and Sildhjort had to be persuaded to leave—and you know how gods can be.”

  “And that is not the worst of it,” the brunette said, her color rising. “Scores of humans required adjustment, including a local constable and his men, and there was massive property damage to set aright. In short, it was a debacle.”

  “Was it indeed?” Taryn looked unimpressed. “I feel certain you will eventually reach the point of this tale of woe?”

  Illaria drew herself up. “The point is, sister, while we struggled to remedy matters, that one”—she shot Duncan a withering glare—“sat atop a statue, much as you see him now perched in yon tree, and played a gittern.”

  “The Dalvahni lacks musical facility?”

  “To the contrary, his music is intoxicating,” Illaria said. “The faster he played, the wilder the revelers became, fae, beast, and human alike.”

  “He drove them into a frenzy, sister.” The brunette’s bosom heaved. “But I do not think you fully comprehend the measure of his transgression.”

  “Then, pray, enlighten me,” Taryn said with a weary sigh. “I am about Arta’s business, and time flies.”

  “There was an ogre,” said Illaria. “A great brute with skin like iron and fists like battering rams. Illaria and I scarce escaped with our lives.”

  Taryn stilled. “At last, you interest me. Did you slay this ogre?”

  “Nay.” The brunette pointed to a limp figure on the ground some thirty yards distant. “He lies there.”

  Duncan forced his bleary eyes to focus and saw Evan asleep among the leaves. The demonoid was covered from head to toe with scratches and ugly bruises, and he was naked.

  Taryn laughed. “For shame, sisters. I see no ogre. I see naught but a skinned rabbit. Pray, what has any of this to do with the Dalvahni?”

  “Everything,” Illaria said. “He summoned them.”

  “Summoned whom?”

  “All of them. The centaurs and satyrs. Sildhjort and the imp. The clurichaun. Those insolent fairies and the humans. He summoned them with his infernal strumming. The ogre as well.”

  “Small wonder you are vexed, then,” said Taryn, blinking. “The Dal has certainly been remiss.”

  “Remiss?” Illaria clenched her elegant jaw. “He is a menace. He should be punished.”

  Taryn clasped her on the shoulder. “You are sore and weary, sister, and with good reason. Take Jakka and depart.”

  “But, sister,” Illaria protested. “The Dal—”

  “The Dal is for Conall and Arta to deal with,” Taryn said. “Make your report to the High Huntress. Tr
ust in her wisdom. Then seek your rest. You have earned it.”

  “But—”

  “Now,” Taryn said in a firm voice. “I fear I must insist.”

  With an irritated pop, the Kir dematerialized. Sunk in a misery of self-reproach, Duncan hardly noticed. He had not merely violated the Directive Against Conspicuousness. He’d sundered it.

  Pressing his forehead against the tree trunk, he contemplated diving headfirst out of the elm, and rejected the notion. Melodramatic, to be sure, but futile; his broken neck would but heal in an instant.

  Glumly, he wondered what his punishment would be. A few thousand years on the far side of the Veil to contemplate his failings? It would be lonely there in the silent darkness. Vast, empty space unbreached by hint of starlight. Forced to contemplate his shortcomings. Forbidden the hunt and the company of his brothers.

  Harsh, but bearable. But to be separated from Cassandra for an eternity . . .

  His chest tightened until he could not breathe. To lose all hope of winning her back, that he could not bear. He would run mad.

  “Well, sir, you have caused a stir.” Taryn gazed up at him, hands on hips. “I have a brace of partridges and two fat hares in my pouch. Come down, and we shall break our fast.”

  Duncan groaned. “Speak to me not of food, I beg you. I am unwell.”

  “What is this flummery? The Dal and the Kir are impervious to illness.” She regarded him narrowly. “Have you, perchance, ingested chocolate?”

  “Aye. You have heard of it?”

  “The High Huntress warned us to avoid the substance. Supposedly, it affects the Kir and the Dal much the same way that intoxicants affect humans.” She shrugged. “I confess I find it hard to believe.”

  “Alas, it is all too true.”

  “I see.” Taryn studied him. “Conall did not warn the Dal?”

  “He did.”

  “Then why did you not heed him?”

  Why, indeed? Duncan wondered.

  Because I was jealous and in pain, filled with such fury and longing that I thought I should burn to cinders. Because I wanted to find every male Cassandra has been with and rend them limb from limb.

  He kept his thoughts to himself. The Kirvahni would not understand. She could not. She had never been in love, nor would she be. Taryn was too cold and controlled, too aloof and reserved for the all-consuming conflagration that was love.