The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series

by Deborah Wilde

  Was I going to satisfy my curiosity about her? You bet.

  “We went to school together. I’ve known him since first grade.”

  Thank God, the drinks were here. “Was he a dark-haired charmer on the playground?”

  Lily rolled her eyes. “He was a total brat. Such a tyrant if he didn’t get his way.”

  “Yet he seems so easygoing, now,” I remarked.

  Lily clinked her glass to mine with a wry smile.

  Over the next little while, I learned all kinds of things about Rohan Mitra. His favorite color was green and he preferred savory to sweet. He’d also been a huge D&D nerd. Probably had a constant hard-on getting to actually fight demons in clandestine situations. I finished another drink, the burn helping with Lily’s walk down memory lane.

  Lily swirled her straw around in her second rum and coke. “His middle name is Liam.”

  Rohan Liam Mitra. It had a nice ring to it. “Where did Liam come from?”

  “His dad’s best friend,” she replied, crunching a piece of ice between her even white teeth. “Ro’s godfather.” I couldn’t help wonder with Lily knowing all about his past, and me knowing the secret of him being Rasha, which one of us truly knew him? Or with all his inner demons, if anyone really did?

  I was intrigued to learn that she hadn’t been a big Fugue State Five fan either.

  “Too emo for my tastes,” she admitted. “Though he’d been writing his depressing poetry even when he was young and runty. He had a growth spurt at fourteen and suddenly he was ‘mysterious.’” Her eyes gleamed. “Girls found him quite attractive after that.”

  “‘Quite attractive’ like panties in his locker?”

  She giggled. “There were rumors.”

  Girls throwing themselves at him, what a surprise. That struck a little too close to home. This entire conversation, learning the mysteries of Rohan was a bit too fangirl, a bit too groupie for comfort. I brushed my shredded napkin into a pile.

  Besides, one could only talk about a guy for so long. The conversation veered onto other topics. We discovered that we could both sing the Grease soundtrack by heart. I’d pegged her for good girl Sandy, but her favorite song on it surprisingly, was not “Hopelessly Devoted to You” but “Beauty School Dropout.” Mine unsurprisingly was “There Are Worse Things I Could Do.”

  We bonded over sucking at our respective religions with Lily being a Hindu who never met a hamburger she didn’t like, and me, the Jew, believing bacon was a food group.

  Lily even explained a bit about geophysics and her specific research with lightning. She was sweet, smart, and as much a person of the light as that little girl I’d seen in the street this morning. I liked her.

  She yawned, her hand flying up to her mouth. “Sorry. I should go. Another early morning at the conference tomorrow.”

  I signaled for the bill. “Yeah, I’m going to set.”

  “You act?”

  Constantly. “Me? Ha, no. I’m watching Samson’s chase sequence.”

  Her eyes bugged out of her head. “Samson King?!” She looked at me, envy written all over her face. “I’m hoping to meet him at the wrap party.”

  Of course she was going. “If Rohan can’t wrangle you an intro, what good is he?”

  “Yeah, but it’s not the same as hanging out with him. You are the luckiest girl alive.”

  Oh, those deceptive appearances.

  Even though my contact with Samson today would be limited since he’d be filming, I was still uneasy. I didn’t know if Samson expected me as Lolita, client of interest, or Rasha, public enemy number one.

  While I brushed my teeth, I checked the hotel phone hoping for a message from Dr. Gelman. I even checked my cell though she wouldn’t risk calling it. I’d left her a message last night about turning the demon into a magnet and asking if she had any insights. She understood magic. Maybe she could explain why I’d suddenly acquired a new dimension to my power, one that none of the Rasha had told me to expect. I’d written everything down that I could remember about the fight to deconstruct it with her.

  Even though I’d been pretty insistent about speaking with her, she hadn’t called back. She was probably at the physics conference. A mounting feeling of dread hooked in between my shoulder blades. She’d been so skittish when we met at Café Louvre. I kneaded feeling into my fingertips, pulled on an extra pair of socks. Wormed into a sweater.

  Preoccupied with concerns over her safety, I barely registered Rohan and Lily breakfasting together in the hotel restaurant.

  I used the phone in the lobby to try her but once more it went straight to voice mail, so I left another message asking her to contact me via the reception desk here. I even looked up the conference, calling the contact number on the website and asking if there was any way to page her. There wasn’t, but the person I spoke with informed me that Dr. Gelman was participating on a panel this morning. I thanked the woman for her help, somewhat relieved.

  Pushing any lingering concerns aside, I took the time in the taxi to prep for this next Samson encounter. I had to secure a meeting with him tomorrow at the ritual location Drio had texted, so that he and Rohan could finally, irrefutably determine if Samson was a demon.

  The taxi pulled up to a hive of activity, the driver conferring with some woman in a yellow safety vest directing traffic. All manner of tents and trailers were set up in a giant gravel field. Beyond it was a stretch of winding highway that had been blocked off.

  There was a moment of confusion until the helpful Assistant Director was informed that I’d arrived. She came over to take charge of me, a welcoming smile on her face, a walkie talkie stuck in her waist band, and a massive steaming cup of coffee in the hand not holding a clipboard. A petite blonde force to be reckoned with, she introduced herself as Anya.

  About a half dozen people stopped Anya to inquire about one thing or another as she led me over to a large white tent. “Will I be watching from here?” I asked.

  “No. You’re going to be outside for a while. I thought you might appreciate grabbing something from craft services first.”

  “I get to eat while I’m here?”

  She leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “To your heart’s content.”

  If I’d known that, I’d have visited Samson sooner. I filled one Styrofoam cup up with hot, sweet, milky caffeine and another up with M&M’s from the array of snacks laid out.

  “Are you tap dancing?” she asked.

  I froze, candy halfway to my mouth and guiltily looked down at my feet. I’d been doing paddle rolls. “Yeah.”

  “I tapped. How many years?”

  “Fifteen. You?”

  “Eleven.” We chatted dance for a few minutes. “Forgive me asking,” she said, “but you don’t seem like Samson’s regular type of guest.”

  I refilled my candy cup. “Strange times.”

  Her walkie talkie squawked to life. “Go for channel six,” she said. A stream of instructions in Czech came at her. “Let me take you to video village.”

  We wove past scurrying crew members, including two paint-splattered women working on a flat. Anya assured me that I’d picked the right day to watch them film. “Going out on a high note with the car chase.”

  “Samson’s finished after today?”

  “Shooting, yeah. A couple tiny commitments for the production left. Well, until the film comes out and the press junket begins.”

  Video village turned out to be a grouping of directors’ chairs around several monitors with all kinds of cables snaking out from them. Men and woman stood around the screens discussing everything from camera angles to make-up needs. I recognized Forrest Chang, the director, right away. Not because he was one of the few Asian people, but because he exuded an air of quiet authority, giving due consideration to each question posed to him.

  Anya led me to the chair with Samson’s name on it. “Front row seat,” she said. I thanked her, sorry to see her go. From the curious looks shot my way, I could only imagine how people
assumed I’d managed to get this guest pass.

  Another hour went by. The craft services guy passed out some yummy sandwiches so it wasn’t all bad. At long last, Forrest nodded in satisfaction, his slight smile giving him a boyish air as he watched Samson be led out to the classic hot rod he’d be driving. The actor looked good, dressed in black leather, a helmet tucked under one arm. He tilted his face down for the make-up artist to brush powder across his forehead, but only suffered her ministrations for a minute before stepping back.

  He raised his head, looking directly into the camera. At me?

  I was kinda far away from him, so I wasn’t sure he could see me, but I stood up and waved a gloved hand at him. Onscreen, he grinned. It was all too bizarre. I sat back down, cradling my coffee between my hands.

  Forrest called action and the magic started.

  I was glued to the screens, twitching at every sharp turn of the wheel, every dodge, every crazy maneuver Samson pulled. For someone who wasn’t a stuntman, the boy was crazy good.

  After the seventh take, Forrest decided he’d gotten what he needed and everyone broke out into applause. Since I didn’t want to get in anyone’s way as they dismantled the monitors to move them to another spot, I stayed in my chair.

  Anya eventually came and got me. “He wants to see you.”

  I tossed the dregs of my fourth coffee out and followed her.

  Samson’s trailer was nicer than Leo’s apartment. Bigger too. Two stories with leather furniture, granite counters in the kitchen, and a freaking screening area, he even had his own make-up room so he didn’t have to share oxygen with lesser cast.

  He greeted me clad in a towel, freshly showered. He shook his wet hair, drops of water trailing down his perfect abs. This wasn’t the first time a guy had greeted me this way but it was the first time I felt like I was watching a performance. Disconnected and watching the technical steps involved in “sexy dude” trope play out.

  His towel is going to slip now.

  Sure enough, there it went, an inch further down his hips. Samson caught it at the last second with an unrepentant grin. But there was no heat in his eyes, only cold appraisal, like a deadly snake.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose. Did he know what I was? I raised my eyebrows, taking in the line where the towel met skin. Demon or psycho, he didn’t fool me. I didn’t chalk it up to some higher intelligence on my part or even a Rasha talent for seeing through demon bullshit. We didn’t have that. But I’d had Rohan. I knew what hot and raw and need looked like.

  Samson didn’t want me. This was calculated.

  “You don’t play fair,” I pouted, pretending to buy it.

  “What did you think of the chase?” he asked.

  “You were phenomenal.” Truth.

  “Yeah, I was.” He looked at me with such a cocky grin that I was almost tempted to shoot him down. “I’m going to get dressed,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  By the time I’d taken off my jacket, gloves, and sweater, he’d already returned. He’d only thrown on a pair of jeans, so not a huge wardrobe change. I glanced down at his feet. Bare. Big surprise.

  “You look different,” he commented.

  “It’s the fifty-seven percent more clothing. I get cold easily and didn’t want to freeze.” I sat down, the leather butter soft.

  Samson took a seat next to me, placing his hand on my arm. I looked pointedly between his fingers and his eyes. “You know how many women would kill to be in your position? Show a little gratitude.” He unbuckled his belt.

  That was the moment I decided that the gogota had been some random attack. King didn’t know I was Rasha. This was about one thing and one thing only. Now, what would it take for Samson to think he’d achieved full payback for Evelyn? A revenge fuck? My disappearance? Neither was going to happen.

  “I’m not interested in a quick screw.” I sent a withering glance at his pants, as he popped the top button of his jeans. “You’re not either, so let’s skip the bullshit.”

  Samson sat back, his gaze shrewd. “Negotiations, huh?” I hadn’t meant my words that way but if it got him to back off, I’d take it. “What’s to stop me from a hostile takeover?”

  I smiled sweetly. “I’ll rip your balls off.”

  He smirked but not quickly enough to hide his surprise.

  I pressed on in a husky voice. “That said, I’m open to the possibility of a merger.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  I leaned in close, resting my hand on his upper thigh. “You have that blond, good-looking charm going for you, but Rohan is something else altogether. Bad. Dangerous.” His nostrils flared. “You wouldn’t have offered him a record deal if you weren’t exactly aware of how bright he burns.”

  “I stand to make a lot of money off him,” he replied. “I don’t need to stoop to his left-overs.”

  I blinked away the tears that instantly flooded my eyes fast enough that I’m pretty sure he didn’t see them. “You think I’m a left-over? Give Rohan six months. Babe, you’ll be a vague memory. Everyone knows rock stars trump actors. Especially actors out of the spotlight.”

  The air around us charged with an undercurrent of violence. I braced myself for some show of demonic power. When was the last time anyone had openly mocked him? The danger of claiming to be the center of the universe was being a victim of your own PR.

  Samson stood up, grabbing himself a water from the bar fridge. “Mitra doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  “Don’t believe everything that you see. The other morning? He wanted you to see me leaving his bed. And at the cigar bar, he allowed you to be with me and everyone saw it except you. He likes his power games.” I leaned back against the leather, my arms splayed along the top. “People forget the pecking order. They need reminding.”

  I thought I was being so clever. A guy who’d believed he’d been cuckolded was capable of some pretty ugly behavior. A potential demon who got off on misery on a good day? Let’s just say, I hadn’t thought this through.

  “We can’t have that.”

  I barely processed the menace in Samson’s voice before a bolt of despair ripped through me. It left me cold and bereft, in ravenous pain, desperate to please him.

  “I’m sorry.” I jumped to my feet, my voice reedy and pleading. I couldn’t seem to get enough air into my lungs and my muscles felt locked into place.

  “Better.” He prowled toward me. “You may be right about Mitra. He was drunk that night and from what I saw the other times? Yeah, I think you have some value to him. Some value to me.”

  He slid his arms around my waist. “Give me something.”

  His words warmed me into submission. I hadn’t messed up. Whatever he wanted, I’d give. I ran my hands around to the small of his back. “Anything.”

  Samson’s fingers bit into my hips. “Make him hurt.”

  I didn’t even need to think about how. Rising onto tiptoe, I kissed Samson.

  My fingers tangled in his hair. Nipping, licking, tongues tangling, moans that vibrated through me.

  Say what you will about my issues, they brought me to my senses, blowing away Samson’s hold on me. I pushed against his chest.

  Samson let me go, staring in bafflement.

  Using his demonic compulsion on me, because I had no doubts about his status anymore, wasn’t what had me racing for the door, lightheaded. It wasn’t even thinking a kiss was the one thing that could hurt Rohan. It was the fact that I’d broken my kiss embargo with someone who wasn’t Rohan and wanted to cry over the loss.

  I fumbled for the door handle needing air. Needing to collect myself because, just no. I ran out, my legs giving out on me about ten feet outside the door.

  Anya caught up to me. “Are you all right?” She shot a concerned glance at Samson’s trailer.

  Not in any reality. “Can you get me a taxi?”

  “I’ll get you a driver. Come.” I followed her on shaky legs over to a bearded Teamster who introduced himself as Ja
n and offered to drive me back to the Praha WS.

  I zipped up my coat with clumsy trembling fingers, not able to get away from there fast enough. Only once I was halfway back to the hotel did I realize I’d failed to get the meet-up for tomorrow.

  Chapter 22

  Drio answered my frantic knock on Rohan’s door.

  “I messed up.”

  He pulled me inside. Rohan wasn’t there.

  Drio didn’t say a word, just let me sit down and waited. The story tumbled out of me. “I knew intellectually what Samson was capable of. But I hadn’t truly understood. He made me feel things.”

  My hand shook on the shot of bourbon Drio had given me. Between the bitter ache of my failure, the fading rush of adrenaline, and my brain trying to lockdown replays of my epiphany, it was a miracle my motor skills worked at all. “I had to get out of there and I didn’t get the meeting for tomorrow.”

  “It’s a setback. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “I should have handled the situation better. I know I didn’t have the ritual blade to kill him and I couldn’t use my magic and tip our hand, but I should have–”

  “Screw that.” Drio was furious. Weirdly, not at me, but on my behalf. “We fight evil. That means we do whatever necessary to stay alive and fight another day. A plan is not worth your life. Not worth any part of your body or well-being.” His eyes narrowed at the way the glass shook as I held it in my lap. “You ever feel threatened like that? Go off-book and flambé his dick.”

  I was starting to realize that off-book and me might not be the best pairing. I’d gone off-book contacting Gelman, resulting in my possession of a secret ritual that could get me and my brother killed. I’d gone off-book by creating Lolita, resulting in…

  I shot back the booze.

  “We’re so close,” I said. “I was scared to blow it. If the Brotherhood learned I was responsible for Samson getting away?” I rubbed my temples.

  “We’ve all screwed up.”

  “You get more leeway than I do.”