Demon Hunting with a Sexy Ex

by Lexi George

  “Did Taryn send you?” Evan said. “Where is she? Did she—” He flushed. “Do you have a message for me?”

  “The High Huntress sent me.” Illaria looked him up and down, her full mouth curling in contempt. “As for my sister, I bring you no tidings. A Kirvahni huntress does not consort with the likes of you.”

  Evan’s flush deepened, and he started to say something.

  “Taryn and Evan are friends,” Cassie said, laying a hand on his arm. “He’s worried about her. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

  Illaria stiffened. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning you don’t have friends.”

  “That is rank untruth. I have friends. Many friends.”

  “Really? Because family doesn’t count.”

  Illaria pressed her lips together. “The body,” she said in a voice of barely suppressed ire. “Where lies it?”

  “His name is Mac Randall, and he’s over there.” Cassie indicated her truck. “In the back. You can’t miss him.”

  That was an understatement. Cassie suppressed a shudder. Poor Mac had been dead more than sixteen hours. He was bound to be ripe.

  Twitching like an angry cat, the Kir spun on her heel and marched toward the Silverado.

  “Not so fast,” Evan said. “I’ve got a few questions for Mr. Werewolf before you beam him up.”

  Illaria halted. “You can speak to the dead?”

  “The High Hoo-ha didn’t tell you? I see dead people, and they see me. And they do whatever I say.”

  “Absurd,” said Illaria. “I do not believe you.”

  “Believe it, sister.” Evan’s expression was bitter. “I’m the frigging Zombie Master, so booyah.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Duncan felt a stab of excitement. Of course. Evan could raise the dead. They would go straight to the source. Ask the dead werewolf about the orb the alpha was seeking. With any luck, discover Toby’s location.

  How could he have forgotten Evan’s peculiar talent? He glanced at Cassandra. The answer was quite easily. He’d had other things on his mind. Delicious things.

  Infuriating things.

  Cassandra’s proposition had thrown him into an agony of awareness. She would be his thrall. He was swive-drunk at the thought of being with her . . . and in a black rage.

  For nigh unto two centuries, he’d grieved for her, feared for her, dreamed of her, craved her with a longing that was close to madness. At last she would be his once more, but in half measure. She offered her sweet, delectable body for the taking, but her heart, her trust, her love? These precious things she withheld.

  It was better than nothing, but not nearly enough. He wanted all of her, not just her body.

  He strode after Evan and Illaria.

  Cassandra hurried after him. “Zombie master?” she said, matching his pace. “Is he serious?”

  The lines of tension around her violet eyes made Duncan’s heart clench. By the sword, she was his strength and his weakness.

  “Yes,” he said. “Rebekah did not tell you?”

  She shook her head. “Beck doesn’t talk about Evan. Not that something like that would come up in conversation anyway. Nice weather, and, oh, hey, did I mention my brother can raise the dead?”

  “Yes, I can see how that would be troublesome.”

  They walked up to the truck and watched Evan climb into the back. Illaria stood nearby, hands on hips, surveying the demonoid with a frown. Unsurprising. The Kir were distrustful and scornful of any but their own.

  Evan waved his hands, and the dead werewolf rose to its feet in a broken dance of stiff limbs. The neck stump had turned greenish-blue in color, and the half-mutated corpse smelled strongly of rotting meat.

  Illaria hissed in surprise. “By the vessel, you did not dissemble. You can raise the dead.”

  “Yeah.” Evan’s tone was dry. “I’m on everyone’s guest list.”

  The wind shifted, carrying the stench their way.

  Cassandra gasped. “Oh, my God, I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Go into the house,” Duncan said. “You do not have to see this.”

  She shook her head. “I’m staying. For Toby.”

  “As you wish.”

  Duncan returned his attention to the truck. Evan was regarding his handiwork with a resigned, sickly expression, and Duncan felt a surge of sympathy for his friend. Evan found the zombie as repulsive as Cassandra—mayhap more so, given his sensitive nose.

  “Head,” Evan said, addressing the corpse in a choked voice.

  The body bent with difficulty and a great creaking and popping of joints, and promptly expelled gas.

  Evan was directly in the line of fire. “Fuck me,” he said, clapping his hand over his nose. The corpse straightened at once, and Evan scrambled back. “Not literally, meat sack. It’s an expression. I meant, find your head.” The dead were bent once more, groping in the bottom of the truck. “That’s right. You’re warm . . . warmer. A little more . . . yep. That’s it.”

  The corpse stood, a wolfish head dangling from one clawed hand. The features were mushy and unrecognizable.

  “Don’t stand there holding it like a goddamn fuzzy purse,” Evan said. “Put it on.”

  The zombie obeyed, plopping the decaying head with its horrible jowls and doggy ears onto his neck.

  Evan jumped to the ground. “I swear. You have to tell them every little thing, especially when they’re not fresh. Brain rot, yah know?” He snapped his fingers, then whistled when the corpse did not respond. “Hey, dog face. Yeah, I’m talking to you. See the big guy?” He jerked his thumb at Duncan. “Answer his questions.” He stalked away from the truck, his face pale and set. “Fire away, Dunk. He’s all yours.”

  Cassandra touched Duncan lightly on the arm. “Ask him about Toby. Maybe he knows where Zeb’s taken him.”

  Duncan nodded and addressed the zombie. “The alpha Zeb is holding a man prisoner. We need to find him. What can you tell us?”

  To Duncan’s shock, the voice that emanated from the decomposed head, though male, was hesitant and far younger than he’d expected.

  “Not much,” the youngling said. “Zeb don’t pay any mind to the younger members of the pack.”

  Duncan regarded the were with a feeling of dread. “How old are you, Mac?”

  “Eighteen, sir. Turn nineteen in December.” He halted, looking at Evan in confusion. “I-I mean . . . I guess I would have. I’m dead, ain’t I?”

  “Yeah.” Evan’s voice was gruff. “You’re dead.” Turning, he told Duncan in a low voice, “Jesus, Dunk. He’s just a kid.”

  “He would have killed Cassandra.” Duncan felt sick. “There was no time to ascertain his age. Certainly, had I known . . . had I guessed his youth . . .”

  Cassandra laid her hand on his arm. The skin of her palm was soft and warm. “You didn’t know. You couldn’t. It was him or me.”

  She was right. The werewolf had been crazed. Another instant, and he would have torn out her throat. Duncan hated what he’d done, but he would do it again.

  And again. Given the choice, he would always choose Cassandra.

  He nodded and cleared his throat. “The place where the alpha may be hiding this prisoner, can you hazard a guess where it might be?”

  “Don’t rightly know, but there’s a cave where he likes to stash things.”

  “Not a big help,” Evan said. “Try to be more specific.”

  “I ain’t been there but once,” Mac said. “It’s near the natural bridge, the one with the arch. There’s a big elm on the hill got struck by lightning.”

  “I know the place,” Duncan said. “I came upon it whilst searching for cramp bark and valerian some moons back. I took shelter there in a thunderstorm. The cave lies less than a league from here, near a meandering stream.”

  “Cramp bark and valerian?” Cassandra murmured, sliding a curious glance at him.

  “Lucy Hall besought my help in treating an ailing mare,” Duncan explained. H
e turned back to the zombie. “The orb. Tell me of it.”

  “Zeb brought it home this past Christmas. Said he was out hunting and saw a falling star. He followed it and found the orb. Zeb was real proud of it. Said it was our totem, that it would bring us luck. Help us whup the Lyalls once and for all. Wipe ’em off the face of the earth.”

  “Why would Zeb want to do that?” Cassandra sounded shocked. “I know there’s no love lost between the packs, but that seems extreme.”

  “Zeb hates the Lyalls. His pa, Frank—he was the alpha before Zeb—and Jerry Lyall got into a fight, years back. It happened before I was born, but everybody says that fight was something to see. Anyways, Jerry killed Frank, and Zeb ain’t never forgot it. He says Jerry cheated, and maybe he’s right. Dunno.” Mac shrugged. “Zeb was wrong about the orb, though. Brought nothing but misery to the pack. Made folks sick.”

  “Then why’d you steal it?” asked Cassandra.

  “Had to. Zeb tried to blame the sickness on Jerry. Claimed the Lyalls had poisoned us, but I knew better. Everybody did, but they was too scared of Zeb to do anything.”

  Cassandra exclaimed softly, “You took the orb to save the pack, didn’t you, Mac?”

  “Yeah. If it was up to me, I’d have left and never come back, but I promised my dad before he died that I’d take care of my mom and Blaze. Couldn’t let my baby sister die.” Mac’s voice grew anguished. “I had to do it, don’t you see? I’m the man now. It was my responsibility.”

  “Oh, Mac,” Cassandra whispered. “You poor thing.”

  Mac didn’t seem to hear her. “So I grabbed the orb and lit out. Didn’t have a plan, really. Thought maybe if I got the orb away from Blaze, she’d get better. I ran. Didn’t know where I was going, just ran.” Mac’s crusty white eyes turned in Cassandra’s direction. “Then I remembered you, Miss Cassie. Remembered folks say you can do magic. Thought . . . maybe you’d know what to do with the orb.” He swayed. “That’s the last thing I remember before things went red.”

  “What does this orb thingy look like?” Cassandra asked.

  “That’s the weird thing,” Mac said. “It’s not much to look at. Round as a snow globe and muddy brown. Got a yellow streak down the middle, like a cat’s eye. Nothing to get excited about, if you ask me, but Zeb thought it was beautiful. Couldn’t stop looking at it.” He shuddered. “It . . . changed him.”

  A memory wriggled to the surface of Duncan’s mind, a dim, unshapen recollection of a striped globe the size of a child’s heart, pulsing with dull, sullen light. “This orb, would you say it has power?”

  “Oh, yeah. Zeb would watch it for hours. Stare at it like a television set. Don’t know how he stood it. Hurts to look at the thing. Like looking into the sun, you know?” The youngling shivered, and his head wobbled on his neck at the slight movement. “And when you touch it, it burns.”

  He held out his clawed hands, now bloated and purple, displaying badly burned palms. The pain, Duncan knew, must have been incredible.

  His chest tightened. “’Twas brave of you, Mac, to take the orb. Your father would be proud.”

  “How you figure? Been banished. Betrayed the alpha. Shamed my family.”

  “Nay, you brought honor to your name. You sacrificed your well-being for others,” Duncan said. “’Twas a great gift.”

  “Think so?” Mac’s bloated lips trembled. “Maybe the pack will stop hating me one day.”

  “I will make certain of it. Where is the orb now?”

  “Huh?”

  “The orb,” Duncan said. “Where is it?”

  “Why ask me? You ought to know.”

  Duncan stared at him in confusion. “I do not understand.”

  “You showed up here late last night with your posse. Drunk as a skunk, partying hard, and singing to beat the band. There was a naked dude with you. He was silver all over, and so bright it hurt to look at him. You took the cover off the truck, and the shiny dude took the orb.”

  “This . . . um . . . shiny dude. Did he perchance have antlers?”

  “Yup, that’s the one.”

  “Sildhjort,” Duncan murmured.

  “That his name?” asked Mac. “What is he, exactly? He’s not a were.”

  “Sildhjort is a god, a forest deity, to be precise.”

  “That explains it,” said Mac. “Knew he was something special. The orb didn’t burn him, see? Course, he didn’t keep it long.” He gave a rheumy chuckle. “Handed it quick-like to the swamp booger.”

  “Swamp booger?” Evan said. “You mean a sasquatch?”

  Mac nodded, nearly dislodging his head. “Yep. Band of bigfoot lives around here. Must be thirty or forty of ’em. Zeb thought they were running off the deer, so he killed a sasquatch last year and kept the pelt. Boogers hated us ever since.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Evan.

  “Doubtless you do not remember,” Duncan told him. “I fear you were not yourself at the time.”

  “You mean I monstered out. Still, you’d think I’d remember meeting Bigfoot.”

  Duncan avoided Illaria’s gaze. “Not necessarily. ’Twould seem I . . . er . . . enchanted you and the other revelers with song.”

  “Say what?”

  The back of Duncan’s neck grew hot. “I am told that I played a gittern and my music summoned a host of magical creatures, including the ogre.”

  “Wow.” Cassandra stared at him in astonishment. “You sing? I had no idea.”

  Illaria folded her arms across her breasts. “His warbling caused no end of trouble. It took my sister and me the better part of a night to set things aright.”

  Evan began to laugh. “Dunk, you’re the freaking Pied Piper.”

  “Nay,” Duncan objected, affronted. “A Dalvahni warrior does not hire himself out for coin, nor does he prey upon children. The Pied Piper was one of the djegrali. I slew him and returned the children to their families.” He scowled at the memory. “A salient detail that fellow Grimm omitted from the tale. I told him as much, but he ignored me. Creative license? Bah.”

  “You slew the—” Evan shook his head. “I’m going to let that one go. Bottom line, you were plowed on chocolate pie. That’s why you don’t remember this Yogurt fellow taking the globe thingy.”

  “Sildhjort. His name is Sildhjort.”

  “So it’s true,” Cassandra said, eyeing Duncan. “Chocolate makes you drunk?”

  “Aye.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eager to change the subject. “To return to the matter at hand, this bigfoot, was he perchance white?”

  “Yup,” Mac said. “Blazing white—never seen a squatch that color. And that wasn’t the only strange thing about him. The orb didn’t seem to bother him none. Tossed that thang around like a ball.”

  “By the sword,” Duncan said. “Sugar has the orb. Let us hope he has not mislaid it.”

  “Sugar?” asked Cassandra. “Who’s Sugar?”

  “The boggy boo—er—sasquatch.”

  “The sasquatch.” Her eyes held laughter. “You named a sasquatch Sugar?”

  “Not I,” said Duncan. “His adopted mother, though she insists she bestowed the appellation on him because of his sweet temperament and not due to his unusual coloring.”

  “Some norm adopted a bigfoot?” Evan shook his head. “This town . . . I swear.”

  “The lady never married and had no children of her own,” Duncan said. “The band rejected Sugar due to his coloring when he was born. They left him in the woods to die.”

  “They banished him, same as the pack did me,” Mac said. “That sucks.”

  “Indeed, Sugar was most fortunate. The lady found him and raised him as her cub.”

  Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, then widened in sudden comprehension. “Lucy Hall. She’s Sugar’s adopted mother, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Duncan said, “but I beg you will keep it secret. Lucy’s greatest fear is that Sugar will be captured by norms or avaricious kith seeking a windfall. Poked and prodded and deprived of his freed
om. . . or worse. His happiness and welfare are her chief concern. She lives in terror and dread lest he fall into the wrong hands.”

  “That’s why she sold you the land,” Cassandra exclaimed. “You promised the old bat you’d take care of Sugar when she’s gone.”

  She was clever, his Cassandra. He should have known she would guess.

  “Yes,” he admitted, “but I cannot agree with your assessment of her character. Lucy is a lonely old woman, but kind.”

  “Kind? She’s mean as a snake. Maybe if she were nicer to folks, she’d have more friends.”

  “She keeps to herself and discourages visitors to protect Sugar,” Duncan said. “She loves him like a child and would do anything for him.”

  Cassandra digested this. “I had no idea. Now I feel terrible. All this time, I thought she was a hateful old biddy.”

  “Love blooms in strange places.”

  “Love?” Illaria laughed. “By the vessel, warrior, you have gone soft.” She turned to Evan. “Release the creature. Other affairs require my attention.” She shot Duncan a sardonic look. “The Dal seldom rest, and trouble follows in their wake.”

  “The Kir require adjustment, too,” Duncan said, irritated.

  “Aye, but seldom. My sisters have not the Dalvahni propensity for chaos.”

  “A moment, huntress,” Duncan said as Evan raised his arm.

  Illaria looked annoyed. “What now?”

  “I would say something to Mac.” Ignoring the putrid smell that poured off the dead werewolf, Duncan strode closer to the truck. “I am responsible for your death.”

  “You are?” There was a startled expression on Mac’s sagging features.

  “Aye. It could not be helped. Still, I regret it. Know this. I will do what I can for your sister. You have my word.”

  “Mom, too?”

  “Your mother as well.”

  Mac stared down at him, his oozing eyes unblinking. “Thanks, man. You’re all right.”

  Evan made a sharp gesture with his hand. Mac’s body collapsed, and the head thudded against the side of the truck.

  “Stand aside,” Illaria said.

  The Kir lifted her arms, and the dead werewolf and its decapitated head floated up and over the ground. A long strip of linen appeared beside the body. The Kir made a twirling motion with her forefinger, and the linen wound itself around the body, starting with Mac’s feet.