“You glamoured it,” I said.
He returned the bottle to his pocket. “You need to be able to get close to Samson without him seeing the true ring. Just make sure he doesn’t touch it. Anyone who does will see through the illusion.”
“Got it. Is there a time limit on the glamour?”
“No. I’ll remove it once you return from Prague.” He picked up his tea, indicating our meeting was at an end. “And Nava?”
I paused at the doorway, half turning back. “Yes?”
“Do as Rohan and Drio command. Show the Brotherhood how well you fit in.”
I had to unclench my teeth to answer him in the affirmative. Playing nice meant accepting the role of groupie that I’d been designated and that power dynamic did not sit well with me. But if the alternative would cause any trouble in terms of seeing Ari become Rasha, what choice did I have?
I had no idea what to do. Betray my principles or betray my brother? Either my gut-level certainty about what was best for my well-being or that of what was best for my twin’s was in jeopardy. I had no idea how to win on both fronts.
I trudged down the hallway, passing airy open rooms with detailed crown molding and gleaming inlaid wood floors. Rohan and Drio were probably stewing in the library waiting for my tardy self to arrive. The faintest hint of furniture polish scented the air, lending a bright note to the decidedly bleak choice I had to make.
Ari had held my hair out of my face the first time I’d thrown up, covered for me when I’d snuck out, and before this Rasha mix-up, never once cut me out of his confidences. I may not have always been the perfect sibling, but I’d lucked into having someone who was always on my side.
Now that the tables had turned, could I really throw Ari to the wolves?
Chapter 3
Lost in thought, I missed most of Drio’s complaint about me taking my sweet time, even though the men were still in the TV room. Though I caught his sneered, “You look… sparkly,” as he waved a hand at the glittery silver letters on my shirt.
“I exude sparkly, thank you very much. But in a deadly way.”
Rohan cocked his head to read my shirt. “Fifty percent seems generous, Lolita. I’d say more thirty/seventy.”
Lolita was the nickname Rohan had bestowed on me the night we met, when he’d learned I wrote self-insert fanfic in my teens about his band. Not him, mind you. Just the rest of them. It hurt Snowflake’s terribly fragile ego that he wasn’t included, and since those boys were a whopping three years older than me, Rohan had chosen the pet name he thought most likely to piss me off.
I clapped my hands over my boobs as if protecting their delicate sensibilities from his cruelty. “I’ll cop to a forty-five, fifty-five spread. And for that insult, you can forget handling these fine representations of womanhood ever again.”
Rohan leaned forward and said, nowhere near soft enough for only me to hear, “Tonight.”
“Will you do it?” Drio asked Rohan in his Italian-accented English.
“Of course not,” I said hotly. “And you’re dead wrong if you don’t think I get a say.”
Drio paused and arched a single elegant eyebrow.
Rohan stifled a laugh. “He means Child’s Play.” The massive rock concert slated to happen in London next month to raise funds for war orphans.
Ah.
Drio kicked my chair like an obnoxious ten-year-old, which was several years higher than his actual emotional age.
“You got invited?” I swayed at the thought of being backstage with all that rock royalty, since I’d be happy to accompany Rohan as his groupie on that jaunt. My mental list of which rock stars I wanted to meet–and screw–was assembled at light speed. A brief fun escape from more serious matters.
Rohan reached out to steady me with one hand. “Never gonna happen.” Spoilsport. “Forrest hoped I’d premiere the theme song there, but it won’t be ready.”
I’d once read in a years-old interview that when Rohan Mitra got inspired the song flowed out of him all at once. He’d race to write the words down and then he’d tap out beats and hum strings to himself until he had a skeleton he could share with the band to build off of. It’d happen in a day, like a spirit being raised from the dead or lightning being channeled from the heavens, something so powerful you had to do it all at once to do it well.
Given the flatness in his eyes, there was more to his refusal to premiere it than its lack of completion. “You don’t want to get back into things at that level, do you?”
He didn’t answer. He’d eschewed the musical spotlight once he’d become Rasha. Fame and his own rock star ego had done a number on him, and when his beloved cousin had needed him, he’d failed to save her from demons. Enter his own inner ones. Or rather, more of his inner demons given the lyrics to some of his songs. To the point that he’d tattooed a heart on his left bicep as a reminder of his failure and of his character shortcomings whilst famous.
The tattoo lay directly in line with where his outline blade snicked out. Every time he used his power, the heart got slashed. Even that metaphor wasn’t enough. Nope, in further penance, he’d stopped singing. Yet, a week ago, Rohan had stepped back into the rock star role for the sake of the mission.
At my request.
I wiped my damp palms on my jeans.
“Selfish bastard,” Drio said. But he didn’t push it. He was fiercely loyal to Rohan, but not out of friendship’s sake alone. It was the kind of loyalty that stemmed from something else, something dark and volatile. I wasn’t sure what the deal between them was yet, because I’d been busy killing demons and saving Ari and stuff, but mark my words, I was going to find out.
“Now that I’m going to Prague, what’s the next step?” I asked. Was there any other way I could help bring down Samson?
“We need hard proof that King is a demon,” Drio began.
“I know. Either catching him in the act of using his demon influence or getting him to reveal his true form. Yes, Drio, I’ve been paying attention at our meetings the past few days.”
He peered at me. “Hard to tell how much functioning intelligence is in there.”
I kicked at his leg but he moved it before I got near and I ended up smacking my toes on the wooden leg of the chair that he now sat on.
“I still think our best bet is to discover Samson’s true name,” Rohan said. “We could use that to force the reveal of his demon self.”
The way Drio’s eyes lit up at that possibility convinced me that method would be incredibly painful for Samson.
“What’s the other way?” I asked, massaging my bruised foot.
Rohan snapped the TV off, taking the pearly white smile of some schmo in a coffee ad with it. “Depending on his demon type, he might revert back to his original form under extreme emotion.”
“Like Josh before he came.” Josh was the first demon I’d ever killed, and boy, finding out his true nature had been a shocker. For him, literally.
Rohan looked at me, his gold eyes sparking with amusement. Damn. Really needed to think before I said the quiet part loud.
Drio mimed jerking off at me. “Feel free to use that technique again.”
“Regret you can’t get close to Samson that way?”
He shrugged and I blinked. What was his deal? Bi or balls-deep dedication to demon killing?
“That won’t be happening.” Rohan’s tone about my up-close-and-personal involvement brooked no argument.
His voice broke me out of the fantasies I was spinning about Drio getting hot and heavy with other Rasha. Like Rohan. Could that be their weird shared history? My clit, Cuntessa de Spluge, throbbed her vote for “please yes.”
“Sure it will. If that’s what it takes.” Drio’s voice was just as hard. He tipped his chair back on to two legs, one foot braced on the arm of the nearest couch. “She’s Rasha. Let her do her job.”
“Actually,” I said, “maybe I could be a member of your entourage without being a groupie.”
Both the men lau
ghed outright.
I planted my hands on my hips. “Is it such a stretch that a straight, breathing female with an iota of a sex drive might not want to be servicing Mr. Rock God on a regular basis?”
Shut up, Nava, because they’re laughing harder and you’re not making your case.
I eyed Drio’s wobbling chair, so tempted to upend him. “I’m sure there are lots of other options that would still allow me to Mata Hari my way into Samson’s life.”
Drio’s feet thudded onto the floor. He pinned me in his gaze, his green eyes hard emeralds. “You’re there for one reason. Bait. Get Samson interested and get him to work his demon mojo on you so we have proof. That’s it. We go with the simplest explanation for your presence and you play that part.” He looked at Rohan as if daring him to disagree.
Rohan gave a tight nod. He pushed his sleeves up, revealing the fat silver bracelet with what looked like a stylized “30” inlaid in onyx. He’d been wearing it ever since he’d gone back into his rock star persona. It was supposed to be some kind of talisman, something he’d received before his first tour. At least according to the Fugue State Five message board I’d researched it on.
“Straightforward is best,” he said. “You don’t reveal yourself. No deaths on this one, okay?”
“Not on my agenda.”
Drio tossed me some photos from the coffee table. Given his leer, this did not bode well. “Coloring, looks, build, you’re what Samson likes. Mold your undercover persona to that.”
Since I needed to go to Prague to meet Dr. Gelman, I pasted a smile on my face and thought “team player.” I studied the photos. Drio was right. I did fit the bill. “Luckily for you, you’ve got just the badass sexpot for the job.”
“Sexpot.” Drio raked a skeptical gaze over my T-shirt and jeans. “Got anything sluttier?”
Electricity sparked out of my eyes. “Not skanky enough for you, am I?”
Rohan tapped the photos. “It’s not us. It’s Samson. He prefers short and tight.”
Drio warmed to the theme. “One of those dresses with the zipper running the length for easy access. Stick with red and black. Thigh-high stiletto boots.”
I waited for them to laugh, because seriously? But they weren’t kidding. Rohan fired his fingers like a gun at Drio. “Good idea. You got some?” he asked me.
“Yeah. Tucked away in my closet. I keep them spruced up for my higher-end street corner jaunts.”
“Expense them to the Brotherhood if you need a pair.” Rohan noted something down, I swear as an excuse not to laugh, because he was biting his lip.
“She’ll have to expense a whole wardrobe if she’s going to get his attention.” Drio looked at me doubtfully. “Try not to speak. It’ll ruin the effect.”
“I’ll dress up real sexy,” I said in a breathy voice. I snapped my fingers. “I know. If I shouldn’t talk, maybe you could provide a penismobile. I could writhe on the hood to a little heavy metal.”
“He’s more a rap–”
“Fuck off, Drio. I know how to get a guy’s attention.”
“Ro is hard up,” he said.
“Hey!” Rohan and I protested at the same time.
Drio shrugged.
“You’ll need a different name,” Rohan said. “Something with the same initials so it’s easy to remember.” He steepled his fingers together. “What about Nicole Kane? Nikki for short?”
Nikki the car-writhing automaton was never going to happen. “Sounds good. I’ll put on my big girl pants and make you proud.”
The guys chuffed up, pleased at my can-do attitude. I followed them to the library, the photos tucked under my arm and my brain whirring at how to make this assignment more palatable.
Drio and Rohan sat down at the long mahogany table that spanned the back wall under the large windows looking out onto the back garden. Usually tidy, the table was currently a hurricane of papers, photos, and file folders. The thick green curtains were drawn open, allowing misty light into the room. At least the rain had let up.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were built into the other three walls, the higher shelves accessed via rolling ladders. The “old boys’ network” decor was evident in the leather club chairs, love seat, and coffee table grouped by the Persian carpets in the reading area.
The room was a librarian’s wet dream, filled with every type of book on demons imaginable. Many of the books sported the same publisher’s imprint of the white letters BD against a black square. If you were going to keep demonic activity a secret, it made sense to have an in-house printer to keep a lid on how information was disseminated.
The library was woefully light on fiction, though. I kept hoping the Brotherhood would spring my own personal Giles on me, but sadly that had not yet come to pass. Buffy had lied big time about the perks of being chosen.
I dropped into a chair. “What’s this?” I pulled a highlighted folder over.
“It rules out all the types of demons that Samson isn’t,” Rohan said. “Either because that demon behavior doesn’t fit his M.O.–”
“Like lust,” I said, flipping the file open to peruse the columns of densely-typed demon species.
“Like lust,” Rohan agreed. “He’s not going to be a bottom feeder, like a vral either, acting on base drives.”
“Too high a level of intelligence,” Drio said.
“He’s a master manipulator,” I agreed. “He can glamour himself to look human as well.” I tapped the folder. “Does this list take that into account?”
Rohan seemed pleased I’d thought of it and even Drio nodded in acknowledgment. “It does.” Rohan looked around the library. “We’re still left with endless possibilities but ruling these types out helps.”
“A lot of things to investigate then.” I ticked the list off my fingers. “Name. Unique or a type.” As in a one-of-a-kind demon or part of a species. “The specifics and timeline of his master plan. Find someone willing to say word one against him.”
“That collective silence is a testament to his abilities,” Drio said. “Evelyn didn’t crack once.”
Evelyn had been Samson’s make-up artist. I’d suggested checking her out since actors spent so much time in make-up and she might have known something. Drio had outed her as a kumiho demon, suspected of using her illusionist abilities to help maintain Samson’s human appearance.
Since Samson was constantly in the public eye, and maintaining glamours took energy, his having someone to assist him had seemed a reasonable assumption. Even though Drio had given himself a lot of leeway to get answers out of her–he didn’t rape demons but he did love his torture–she didn’t succumb to his persuasive ways.
And to think that Mandelbutt had made me undergo a psych eval to determine my suitability as Rasha. The Hebrew word for wicked, “Rasha” more literally meant one who departs from the path and is lost. A reminder from David about how close we hunters were to darkness.
I eyed Drio. Some of us closer than others.
“Any sense that Samson is suspicious of her disappearance?” Rohan asked.
“No.” Drio swung his feet onto the one clear corner of the table. “According to his buddies, he’s pissed that ‘she’s pulled this shit yet again.’” He scanned a page in the file closest to him. “His new make-up artist checks out as human.”
“Hold on.” That wasn’t something you said about an underling you didn’t care lived or died. Maybe Leo was right and we Rasha had to cut the black-and-white thinking out. “What if Evelyn stayed silent because she was in love?”
Drio scoffed at the idea.
“Love is just as powerful as terror,” I told him. “Maybe more so.” Demons did love. Perhaps not as we did but something similar drove them. I’d learned that firsthand when Asmodeus came after me for killing two of his spawn. “‘This shit’ she’s pulling, getting mad at him about something and leaving? That sounds like jilted lover behavior.”
“Do we have any intel on Evelyn and Samson having been partnered up before now?” Roha
n asked Drio. “Based on what little we have on him before he hit big in Hollywood?”
“No. But…” Drio tilted his head, studying me as if trying to recall something. “You had me ask her if Samson had spent time in France.”
“Yeah. In Versailles at the court of Louis XIV.” Louis had called himself the Sun King. Samson meant sun. Sun. King. The similarity was worth pursuing, especially since some demons lived long lives. “Louis wanted to take over the world. Samson could have gotten ideas from him and maybe the location was a clue to Samson’s demon identity.”
“Yeah, but the French.” He pointed at a green folder. “The stapled report.”
I glanced at Rohan who shrugged, but retrieved it from the file.
“Check out the second page,” Drio said.
I leaned over the table for a better look. It was Drio’s findings on his session with Evelyn. The relevant section was a detailed explanation of her possessions, including a locket with a French quote engraved on it that she’d worn around her neck. “On n’aime que ce qu’on ne possède pas tout entier,” Rohan read in a terrible French accent.
I giggled.
“It means–” Rohan looked for the translation.
We love only what we do not wholly possess, I thought.
“‘We only love what we don’t fully possess,’” Drio said. “Could sum up their relationship.”
“We done?” I asked. “I want to go over this list.”
Rohan handed over a printout of my travel details. “I’m on an earlier flight than you two. Your plane lands Thursday morning Prague time, so I want you in the hotel lobby by 2PM. I’ll have Samson there so you can meet him.”
“Got it.” Scooping up the photos and some files, I retired to my room to figure out my plan of attack since the only thing I agreed with them on about me playing groupie was the bait part.
I spent the next couple of hours watching every video online of Samson that I could find. Didn’t matter if it was formal interviews, award-show sound bytes, or party footage, I studied it all to see how he handled himself and who he surrounded himself with.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 31
