“Now I’m going to have to visit her.” I shoved him. “And you knew she wouldn’t be around to begin with.”
“Yup.” He slid his phone into his pocket. “Never negotiate without all the facts. You know better.”
“I plead mental distress.”
Over really yummy Belgian waffles, Ari and I combed once more through the victims’ social media profiles, this time looking for any photos or connection to Malik. Our break, odd as it was, came on Jakayla’s feed. The animal rights’ activist and mature student had posted a photo of a painting donated for some charity event that she’d organized. The artist? Malik Irfan.
Further searching led us to his modest website and yes, it was the same person. We scrolled through his online portfolio of vibrant abstract oil paintings. Kinetic and bold, these did not look like the work of evil spawn.
I poured more Jack Daniels maple syrup over my light and crispy Brussels-style waffles. “He is a demon, right?”
Ari frowned at the screen as if trying to make it conform to a logic he understood. “Has to be. There’s no way I psychosomatically exaggerated my reaction to him.” He motioned to our server for more coffee. “He’s got a studio. We can check out if it’s for real or a front. First let’s find out more about the connection with Jakayla.”
“Sounds good.”
The server came round and topped up our coffee mugs.
“So. Stringing Ro and Cole along.” Ari gave me a pointed look and dove into his all-pork sausage. Jew fail.
I kicked him under the table, smiling at the lovely man who kept the caffeine coming in timely fashion. “Any nightmares lately?”
“What did Harper say when you told him he wasn’t welcome in your life anymore?” My brother cut his waffle into squares with surgical precision.
I squirted cream into my mug and ate one of my raggedly sawed-off pieces of waffle. “I haven’t. Rohan and I aren’t dating and Cole is merely a transitional.”
“Rohan hasn’t been in a relationship the entire time he’s been Rasha.”
“You gossipy old woman. Who’d you pump? And why’d you bother? According to you, I’m the Sheriff of Hot Mess Township, relationship-wise.”
“Mayor of Hot Mess Metropolis at least.” Polishing off his last bite, he eyed my plate.
I pushed it closer to him, allowing him access, since he’d gone for the thicker Liege-style waffles. He, in turn, spun his plate so I could get at his hashbrowns. “Spill, already,” I said.
He chewed thoughtfully. “Him not being in a relationship makes sense. Adjusting to hunting full time is big enough, never mind his years of being the guy who could and probably did have anyone he wanted.”
“Works for me.” I spread my arms wide like I was drawing a rainbow. “Be free, little bird.”
“It means there haven’t even been any repeat performances on his part. Not until now.”
I spit out my coffee. “Oh no. Repeat away.”
“So you’re okay with Ro seeing other people?”
“Obviously. Since I’m hardly going to be hypocritical about it.” I stabbed at my waffle.
Ari opened his mouth to argue some more, but at my glare, shrugged.
Stupid twin planting stupid ideas in my brain. I obsessed over this the entire way to the offices of A.L.E.R.T., the animal activist ’zine that Jakayla had co-founded.
The ’zine’s offices were located through a side door in a shabby building upstairs from a pet store and a dubious-looking tanning salon. Landlines rang and volunteers ran around dropping off papers on one of two editors’ desks. The walls were covered in corkboards with dozens of photos thumb tacked to them, from gruesome photos of chicken factories to sun-bleached posters announcing International Bears’ Day.
One of the volunteers, a man in his late thirties who looked like a Burning Man-refugee with his striped cords and low slung leather utility belt, looked up from the desk nearest the doorway, vaping away, which was totally illegal indoors but I doubt this crowd cared. “Can I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “We’d like to speak with someone involved in coordinating the wildlife rescue fundraiser a couple of months back?”
“That’d be Zaph.” He waved us over to a couple of rickety wooden chairs. “Have a seat.”
I thanked him, taking the chair farthest from the burnt popcorn-scented smoke curling around his head.
Zaph, single-monikered and non-binary, as they informed us upon our meeting, had a rangy frame matching their energy, and long dreads.
“How would you describe working with Malik?” Ari asked. He stood by the edge of Zaph’s desk, a wary eye on the tottering pile of folders threatening to topple onto his feet at any moment.
“Very professional.” Zaph spoke in a lilting Jamaican accent, sorting through their desk. “I have no hesitation recommending him as your artist in residence.” Yeah, we’d kind of lied, presenting ourselves as the executive assistants to the chancellor of the local art college, sent to check references and narrow down our list of candidates.
“You met him how?” I asked.
“Through my co-founder, Jakayla Malhotra.” Zaph spun a red file toward us, labeled as the fundraiser in question.
“Had she worked with him before?”
“No. They were in a relationship.”
The Burner volunteer working on his computer at the next desk scowled at Zaph, caught me looking, and strode away, his e-cig clamped between his teeth.
“Impossible,” Ari said.
“Like they hooked up a bunch?” I flipped the folder open. The idea of an incubusy thing in a relationship was too much for me to wrap my head around.
Zaph closed the folder’s cover before I could examine the contents. “What does this have to do with anything?”
“Speaks to conduct,” Ari said. “The college has a strict no-fraternization policy between staff. Even guest instructors.”
“I had no issues with Malik and I’m not going to gossip about a friend’s private life.” Zaph wriggled their desk drawer open and placed the folder inside.
Further entreaties were met with stony silence. Reluctantly we took our leave.
Ari stopped in the restroom, so I waited in the hall for him. Burner guy sat on a bench, head bowed, rolling his e-cig between his fingers. He reminded me of Rohan with his piece of curved bone.
I sat down beside him. “Hi.”
“Hey. Get what you needed?”
“Not really. Zaph was very politic in their choice of words.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Jakayla seemed like a real sweetheart,” I said. “Trying to do some good in this world. Were you close?”
He gave a “kind of” wave with his hand, his shoulders tensing as he hunched inward.
“It’s hard to lose people like that.”
Ari stepped out of the bathroom and I gave the tiniest shake of my head. He stayed at the far end of the corridor checking his phone.
There was no heat in this hallway. I pulled my unlined black trench coat tighter around me, wishing I’d gone for something a bit warmer. “Is there anything you could tell me about Malik?”
The guy sucked in some more e-juice, sorrow aging his features. “Yeah.” He was quiet for a moment. “Malik snowed all of us. Talented artist, real charmer, good looking.” I didn’t begrudge him his bitterness. No one could compete with a demon for charm factor. “But he was a bastard. They’d only been together a couple of weeks and he screwed around on her the entire time. She kept making excuses for him but, well… It was like she was addicted.”
Exactly like.
“What is it with the bad boys?” He jabbed the e-cig at me.
“Pardon?”
“I mean really. Emotionally unavailable, game playing, where’s the appeal?”
“Nice guys have a lot to recommend them.”
He groaned. “You’re not selling it.”
I shrugged. “I’ve had the nicest guy be a bastard when I needed him most and someone
who has that mad, bad, and dangerous vibe be there for me again and again.”
Aw, crap. I dropped my head into my hands.
“Maybe it’s too simplistic to say men are nice or they’re bad boys. Maybe you just gotta judge each one on their individual character,” he said.
I raised my head to glare at him.
“Debate club alum. Sorry.”
I picked up my purse. “Thanks for the help. If it’s any consolation, not only will we not hire Malik, I have a feeling that he’s going to get everything he deserves.”
Burner gave me a sad smile. “Karma is just a fantasy. Guys like Malik arrange their lives exactly as they want them and nothing gets in their way.” He stood up, making his way back to the office, then paused and turned back to me. “If I were you, I’d dump them both and start fresh.”
“Noted.”
“Get anything?” Ari asked when we got outside.
More than I’d bargained for. “Not really.”
The artists’ collective where Malik painted out of was a three-story building adorned with a colorful mural depicting its vibrant Mount Pleasant neighborhood that was loaded with cafés, local designers, antique shops, and a diverse population.
Ari and I entered the small gallery on the ground floor. It featured a selection of work by the artists in the group, from black and white portraiture to landscapes in soft watercolors and video installations.
We stopped to admire a selection of delicate filigree jewelry displayed in a case to one side. I nudged my brother, drawing his attention to an elegant handcrafted ring. “That star pattern really screams ‘this way there be evil,’ huh?”
“It could be deliberately deceptive. All malignant jewelry presents as beautiful.”
“Yeah, they also tend to boast big ass diamonds or something blatantly worth coveting. I doubt that this,” I checked the description, “celebration of Gaia’s bounty is gonna elicit some Faustian bargain.”
“They couldn’t just give us a demon spidey sense.” Ari wandered over to the lone volunteer, engaging him in conversation.
I strolled through the space looking for Malik’s work, finding it in a single large canvas hanging on a far wall, depicting the merest suggestion of a female form. Arms stretched above her, she faced the spectator. A fall of black to denote hair. Facial features dashed off as haphazard circles and smudges that still managed to convey incredible personality. Here was a woman who wouldn’t back down. The artist’s warm regard for her was evident. I checked the title. “Lila: on waking.”
I hoped this Lila wasn’t another victim of his, because, grisly.
Ari rejoined me. “Malik has been a member of this collective for five years now.”
“Quiet guy? Last person in the world they’d peg as a serial killer?”
“Nope. Mr. Personality. The other artists adore him.”
I gestured to the painting. “He’s really talented, too. Is he around?”
Ari nodded. “He’s upstairs in his studio but apparently he’s painting and not to be disturbed. When I phone him I’ll see if I can get a tour. His workspace might yield some insight.”
Tempting as it was to go in with magic a-blazin’, we needed concrete proof of his demon status. Antagonizing him off the bat without it wouldn’t help our cause. There was nothing more to be learned here so we ran back to the car, dodging puddles as the rain pelted down on us.
“This entire case has been so random,” Ari said. “Even when we do get a break? I feel like we go one step forward two steps back. A demon artist? Is that relevant to the deaths? A weird personality quirk? What?”
I turned on the motor so that we could get some heat. “Leo said something interesting to me the night I discovered she was the snitch. She said that all Rasha saw things in terms of black and white and that we’d never navigate the demon world with that attitude. And she’s been right. Asmodeus came after me because I’d killed his kids. Revenge as a demon agenda? Sure. But it was more personal than that. He’d meant to hurt me the way I’d hurt him.” My eyes slid away from my brother.
“What happened to me wasn’t your fault.”
I nodded, grateful he could say that with a straight face. “Anyhow, his actions implied love on his part or as close to that as demons get.”
“What about Samson?”
“His agenda was pretty straightforward, feeding off the envy he so carefully cultivated. But he had this make-up artist Evelyn. She was a kumiho demon and she helped keep his glamour intact. Drio killed her but he never managed to break her.”
“Loyalty.” Ari cupped his hands over the vent to catch the hot air.
“In part. I think she loved him. Samson felt something for her as well because his plans for Rohan were payback for believing Evelyn had left Samson to hook up with Ro.”
Ari shook his head. “Even if we’ve been wrong about only ascribing negative emotions to demons instead of examining their motives through other lenses, it doesn’t change the fact that demons are evil. Doesn’t matter what drives them. In the end, evil is all there is.”
“What about Leo?”
Ari stared out the window. Silent.
“Will you come with me to see her?”
“I’m not ready.”
My heart sank. “We’ve got a situation with a demon artist creating beautiful paintings. Motive does matter, because to understand this demon is to perhaps stop another one in the future. If Malik is the one responsible then we need to figure out his reasons beyond ‘sucks the life out of his victims.’”
“That’s very open-minded of you.”
I shrieked at the words spoken by Malik from our back seat. The demon, because only a demon could have manifested back there, had muted his sex appeal somehow. Sure, he was still dark and luscious, with sparkling black eyes, wearing rumpled, paint-splattered, casual clothes. A look that would have won him the internet. But it was regular sexy, not “take me now” demonic compulsion.
Ari, furious, lunged for him, but Malik eased him back into the passenger seat. “Relax, Rasha. I’m not here to hurt you. If I were, you’d be dead already. Especially since there are few shadows in here for you to draw from.” He chuckled at our twin expressions of stupefaction. “I keep track of who and what is in my city. Now you, petal.” He wagged a finger at me. “You’re really stirring things up.”
I let my magic coat my hands, keeping them below the window so any passersby couldn’t see. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Though sending the Brotherhood into a tizzy is a point in your favor.”
“Who are you?” Ari asked.
“What are you and how can you possibly know all this about us? Because if you are some kind of incubi-offshoot, they aren’t even that high up in the demon hierarchy, never mind privy to Rasha business. No offense,” I said.
“None taken.” Malik slung an arm along the top of the back seat. “Succubi get all the glory whereas incubi are seen as the second-rate gigolos of the demon world. Suffice it to say, I’m not the one you’re looking for. I don’t kill humans.” His lips quirked. “Anymore.”
“Right,” I said. “You’ve discovered a deep love of humanity.” I snapped my fingers. “Or wait. You’re lonely. Looking for companionship. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Malik scratched at a dried patch of yellow paint on his cheek. “Hardly. Don’t ascribe some romantic notion to me.” His gaze turned shrewd. “Love troubles getting you down?”
“Hardly,” I said. “Don’t presume you know me.”
“Back at you,” he said.
“Fact. You drain your partners dry,” Ari said. “It’s how demons with sexual compulsions survive.”
“Rasha have all the answers, don’t they?” Malik smoothed a hand over his shirt. “We’ll discuss exactly what it is you think you know at dinner tonight, Ari. Eight sharp. La Bella Trattoria.”
The roll of his “R’s” in that upper-crust accent sent a small shiver through me.
“Hold your breath,” Ari said.
Malik smiled. “You’ll be there. Besides, you owe me for that little labradorite stunt.” His smile widened, his eyes licking over my brother’s body. “Clever boy.”
I punched off the heat, deeply uncomfortable watching this. Especially since Ari’s eyes darkened, just a fraction, but still.
“You can make it up to me with scintillating conversation. I’ll even pay for the extremely expensive Italian cuisine.” Malik clapped his hands together, the sound sharp as gunfire in the tense car. “All right. Enough lolling about. This painting won’t finish itself.”
Malik hopped out of the car, slamming the door behind him. His gait back to his studio across three lanes of traffic was hands-in-pockets leisurely, even drivers of the big-ass SUVs scrambling to stop for him–presumably recognizing him on some level as the greater threat.
“Why would he bother to protest his innocence?” I said. “Evil reps are oxygen to demons.”
“Do we know Malik is telling the truth and he doesn’t kill humans? I doubt it. No, he’s the most likely culprit. Some twisted sentiment towards humanity evidenced by writing the Arabic word for love on his victims before murdering them.” Ari opened his door. “Come on. We’re going up to his studio and finish our chat in private.” A hard smile slid across his face.
I bounded out of the car. I liked chats that ended in bloodshed. And even better, started that way, too.
We practically collided with Daniel at the front door to the artists’ collective, dressed in his navy police uniform. He jerked back. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re in the mood for some art,” I said.
Ari cocked an eyebrow. “And you?”
Daniel reddened. “No reason.” He stomped off.
My brother watched him leave, a thoughtful look on his face.
“That boy has it bad. Five bucks says he would have told Malik he was just in the neighborhood,” I said. The grown-up version of cutting class to detour three floors up to a crush’s locker. “Is he our next victim?”
Ari broke into a run, giving me my answer.
I looked down at my heeled boots, sighed, and ran after him, cursing that stupid emotion that was just as dangerous as demons. You think we humans would learn.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 77
