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

by Deborah Wilde

  “Question for you. What did Tessa do for a living?” I said.

  “She was a de-clutter and positive energy consultant.”

  I laughed. “No, really.”

  “Really.”

  “Wow. That’s very Californian.”

  “Mock all you want, but Good Vibrations was pretty successful. She had clients consulting her from around the world.”

  Taking flakiness global. Maybe Ari and Kane could do something with the information.

  “I met the head of the Brotherhood,” Raquel said, casually steering me to a quieter corner.

  “My condolences.”

  “Right? What a major dickhole.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “To threaten me into turning over the witches responsible for the attack on his chapter. I told him that my witches weren’t responsible and to go fuck himself. Then I threatened to set his junk on fire if he so much as looked at any of them funny.”

  “I’d have paid good money to see that.”

  “Yeah, he ran like a little prison bitch. One other thing.”

  “That already doesn’t sound good,” I said.

  “When Tessa was found, I called in a favor from a witch in the coroner’s office and asked for an autopsy. Off the record. They were backlogged and I just got the results.”

  My hand tightened on my glass. “And?”

  “Tessa was tortured before she died. It’s not what killed her, that was definitely the dark magic, but she had cracked ribs, broken bones in her hands and feet, and a cracked skull. Someone worked her over a few days before she died. If Sienna knew this somehow?”

  “How? If Tessa had told her, Sienna wouldn’t have waited this long to go ballistic.”

  “I got the call Wednesday morning.”

  The day Sienna attacked. “Shit.”

  “Everything okay?” Rohan slid an arm around me.

  “No,” Raquel said. “I’ll let your girlfriend tell you. I’ve spent too long talking to this nobody.” She swiped my drink, took a sip, and throwing a finger wave over her shoulder, sashayed back into the crowd.

  While it was all well and good that we had Sienna’s motive for the attack, it sucked that Zander had most likely been part of the torture, as evidenced by the scratches on his hand that he wouldn’t explain.

  Rohan’s foul mood over that soured further as our primary mission was turning out to be a bust. The evening was winding down with no sign of Tia. There were a number of performances, including one by the pop star, and one from this middle-aged soft rock artist whose saxophone use resulted in evil and insidious ear worms. I wished he’d been a demon, but alas. Needless to say, Dad adored his stuff. I recorded the two songs he performed and emailed the video to my father, before going into the designated green room with Rohan.

  He and Zack would be closing out the night with a song they’d written together years ago and recorded as a one-off track.

  “You’re a rock god.” I slipped off my heels, sitting on a lumpy sofa.

  In front of the mirror, Rohan closed one eye, applying his eyeliner with a steady hand. “Which you knew.”

  “Knowing and experiencing are two different things. Those fans outside were crazy. Let’s do something really bold to get Tia’s attention.”

  “Like what?” He turned from the mirror and struck a pouty model pose. “Whaddya think?”

  Ro had changed out of his tux into an outfit he’d told me was called a sherwani. Made of soft velvet with a stiff collar, this long, olive green jacket shot through with gold thread had a militaristic feel with its row of buttons down to the knee. He wore the traditional garment over a camouflage tank and olive green skinny jeans rolled carelessly up at the ankle, his bare feet stuffed into burgundy leather runners. His gold eyes popped against the eyeliner and he’d gelled his hair into bedhead spikes.

  I beckoned him close with the crook of a finger. “This may be the sexiest I’ve ever seen you.”

  He scrunched up his face. “Are you exoticizing me?”

  “I believe I am, yes. However, in the interests of fair play, I can break out the shtetl garb and headscarf should you wish to fulfill some Jewess roleplay fantasy.” I batted my lashes at him. “I know how much you like roleplaying, baby.”

  “Not with you dressed like your grandmother. I’m good.”

  “Please. Bubbe only wore Chanel.”

  Rohan cocked his head. “How do you feel about Chanel? One of those tweed mini suit things?”

  “You wanna play naughty student and sexy teacher, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t until two seconds ago, but now I’m thinking I could get behind the idea.” He prowled toward me.

  My heart kicked up. “The door isn’t locked.”

  His grin turned wicked as he straddled me. “I know.”

  Rohan sucked on my neck.

  Knock. Knock.

  “The door,” I mewled, my chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

  “Whoever it is could just walk in.” His lips vibrated against the pulse in my throat.

  “That would be bad.”

  Another knock. More insistent.

  “Rohan?” Zack said.

  Rohan untied my halter top, the silky fabric slipping down to my waist. He set his mouth to one breast. “Hmm-mmmm.”

  I clutched his shoulders and moaned.

  “Five minutes, Rohan. Don’t make me come in there and see something we’ll all regret.”

  “Nothing to see. All good,” I called out in a shaky voice.

  Zack laughed. “Right.” He walked away, his footsteps growing fainter.

  Ro canted his hips, pressing his hard-on into me. “Five minutes works for me.”

  I ground up against him. “Ooh, fast sex. Can we make it shitty and dry, too?”

  “Ask nicely and I’ll give you the entire regret trifecta.”

  My laugh turned into another moan as Ro kneaded my breasts. “Do you have a condom?”

  “We covered this,” he said.

  “We covered the ‘nobody cheated’ part. I’m not having you splooge my dress. Really don’t need to be the stain seen ’round the world.”

  “Grr.” He slid off me.

  “About my bold idea?” I retied my halter straps, resigned to being sexually frustrated for the next little while.

  He twisted the cap off a water bottle. “Yeah?”

  “How do you feel about getting married?”

  Rohan choked on the water.

  “Snagging you as my boyfriend and being a dick about it isn’t enough. Make me the luckiest girl in the world, Snowflake.”

  “Tonight? For the mission?”

  “Yes. After your number. Publicly declare your love. Tell the world you can’t live without me.”

  I didn’t show the slight thrill I got at that idea, because this was about work.

  “I’ve done a lot for the Brotherhood, but standing up in front of everyone with a fake proposal? Are you kidding?” His hands tightened on the bottle, sending water cascading up over the lip. He swore, wiped his hand on his pants, and slammed the bottle onto the counter.

  “It’s a groupie’s ultimate coup. Don’t you want to stop this demon?”

  “Yes. By tracking her down, not taking something that means everything and reducing it to nothing for an assignment.” He poured himself a shot of bourbon. “How could you be so angry about going public for this assignment and then suggest this?”

  “That was the Nava who assumed we had the luxury of time. We hadn’t found Sienna in a month and look how that escalated. What if it takes us that long to find Tia? Are you willing to live with the collateral damage because we didn’t try everything? Because I can’t.”

  And I might not have that long.

  He slugged the booze back, shaking his head, his jaw tight.

  “It’s just another act,” I said. “Another performance. You’re a performer. A good one.”

  “A good one because my performances come from a place of tru
th, not an utter fucking lie. Do you hear yourself? This is totally mercenary. It’s something Lilith would do.”

  “No, it’s not.” I forced a smile. “There are a lot of things to worry about when it comes to Lilith affecting me. This isn’t one of them. Trust me, Ro. Please?”

  He finally gave me the barest nod.

  “You won’t be sorry. It’s a brilliant idea.”

  Chapter 17

  It was a terrible idea.

  Their performance was incredible. I had a front row seat at one of the linen-covered bistro tables by the low stage. While Zack played a mournful tune on a baby grand, Ro sat on the piano bench, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, keeping time with his foot. His voice was raw and soulful, singing a ballad of a young man seeing the pain and suffering in the world and realizing all his privilege.

  The music swept over the audience like waves over sand, a shared journey that held us spellbound. The melody changed from a minor key to a major one, the lyrics reflecting a hope not usually found in Ro’s older emo writings.

  He gave a small secret smile, gaze trained on the crowd, before launching into the final chorus. His voice rose in a rich velvety crescendo around the bold chords, and the audience turned toward the two of them like flowers to the sun.

  The final notes crashed over us, the song over with a suddenness that left the audience bereft. There was a second of silence and the room erupted in applause.

  Rohan blinked back from whatever blissed out place he’d been in while singing, grinned, and nudged Zack’s shoulder. They stood up and bowed.

  Zack took the mic to thank everyone for coming and speak a bit more about the charity and how people could donate or, even better, get involved. He conferred quietly with Rohan, then handed the microphone over.

  “I’d like to echo Zack’s thanks for coming out and supporting this worthwhile cause. The song you heard tonight was written shortly after we learned about this incredible organization, and any sense of optimism is all due to them. It’s really important for us to remember how lucky we are. I’ve experienced fame and fortune.” He gestured to Zack standing off to the side of the low stage. “I have long-standing friendships with men that are like brothers to me.”

  Zack patted his heart and pointed at Ro.

  “And now I’ve found the woman who makes me the best version of myself. The one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Nava?” He dropped down to one knee and the crowd gasped. “Will you marry me?”

  He pulled out the fake diamond ring we’d borrowed off Raquel.

  A spotlight swung onto me.

  I’d had it all planned. I’d practiced a quick “who, me?” look of surprise in the mirror back in the green room and how to squeeze out a few tears.

  So much for best intentions. I stood there frozen, his words leaving a metallic taste in my mouth. I wanted so badly to go back and smack the me of a half hour ago upside the head. I didn’t want to hear a proposal and see that sweet, goofy, besotted smile, knowing it was all an act.

  Rohan and I had had a lot of firsts together; I didn’t want this to be one of them. Not like this.

  “You’ve overwhelmed her, Mitra.” Raquel pinched my hip. “Don’t blow it,” she hissed.

  I have no idea how I made it on stage, wishing for once that all eyes weren’t on me. I uttered some Hallmark platitude about how happy I was, convincing everyone my breathy acceptance and wide smile were real.

  Everyone except Rohan. I was close enough to see his small furrow of concern.

  Close enough to see it wiped away in favor of his own blinding smile and cold eyes.

  I bit the inside of my cheek so I wouldn’t cry. I was sacrificing the one thing I meant to cherish and protect in order to nail a demon.

  Except, I wasn’t doing that either because I was going to lose my cool and blow it. And wouldn’t that just be ironic? I’d strong-armed Rohan into this stupid plan and if I couldn’t cut through my mounting hysteria, the sobs I was barely biting back would give our charade away.

  I cast about inside myself for a wisp, a boost. There was nothing. The box was as still and impenetrable as ever, except for that pinprick of light. I worked on the hole until I’d turned it from a pinprick into a hairline fracture.

  Dark threads floated out and I tied them to my magic.

  My smile grew brighter. I stood up straighter and held out my hand. Every inch the queen awaiting her due.

  Rohan slid the rock onto my finger and once more the room erupted in applause. He dipped me and kissed me. It was void of any emotion or chemistry but from the wolf-whistles, the audience bought it.

  Rohan and I were nothing if not consummate performers.

  I endured the steady stream of well-wishers as long as I could; those beady-eyed scavengers were practically salivating at the rumor currency they’d accrued being here at ground zero. Even though we liked to pretend we were secure in our finery and first-class lives, we were all the same kind of liar as Los Angeles itself: glamorous until you went too far past the studios and saw the rundown parts desperate for cash and glory.

  We were all starfuckers in the end.

  The need to flee with Rohan and fix this overwhelmed me, but I stood my ground. This farce had to count for something, but no demon approached us.

  Hollowed out, yet not numb enough to endure another second, I shot Rohan a manic look, that I was drowning and needed out. The only people I said goodbye to were Raquel and Zack.

  Ro gave some instructions to the driver then bundled me into the limo where we spent the ride in silence, both of us staring at the ring. I’d pulled it off, twisting it this way and that between my thumb and forefinger.

  He grabbed it and flung it. It bounced off the leather seat and rolled to the ground. “Ask me to go through with the wedding and we’re done.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “It’s not how I want us. I messed up.”

  Rohan swore and slid over to me. He brushed the pad of his thumb under my lashes.

  I ghosted my hands up his biceps, raking his locks back before laying my palm on his cheek. My restraint was a living breathing thing. “Can I…?”

  He nodded. Barely a movement.

  I brushed my lips against his. “I’m sorry.”

  Our kiss was slow, exploring, unraveling us only to rebuild us with an increasingly frenetic tempo. I shifted against him and his breathing picked up, his hands flexing on my ribcage before his fingers bit into me as he hauled me into his lap.

  I nipped at his lower lip; our tongues tangled in a dirty, reckless kiss. Rohan groaned and pressed me back against the leather seat, his kiss almost bruising.

  A honking horn and voices yelling out on the street cut through my haze of desire.

  I pulled back, trying to catch my breath. Rohan ran his thumb over his lip, all hard muscle, messy hair, and swollen lips.

  The limo was parked at a curb on a quiet street.

  Rohan helped me straighten my clothes. “Come on. You need Corn Man.”

  It was after midnight in a deserted neighborhood and that sounded more like a threat than a treat, but, leaving the sapphire necklace on the seat and the ring on the floor, I scrambled out of the limo. I stopped short at the smell of roasted corn and the line-up of people twisting through the darkened parking lot behind a discount store waiting their turn at the tiny cart staffed by an older man and his son.

  Rohan joined the end of the queue.

  “Where are we?” I asked.

  “East L.A. Lincoln Heights. Corn Man makes the best elotes ever.” He rose onto tiptoe as if counting how many people were ahead of us. “He’s here till about 2AM but if he runs out of corn, that’s it. Too bad. So sad.”

  A car slowed down as it drove past, the driver hanging out the window and yelling “The wait is worth it!” before zooming off into the night.

  The customers were of all ages and all ethnicities, dressed in everything from the two girls in pjs wrapped in a huge purple blanket, to us in our evening finery. Rohan
was still in his sherwani.

  Ro was recognized in stages: a muttered debate in Spanish and English from the two couples behind us on whether or not it was him, the decision that it was, the person anointed to get confirmation.

  “Hey man, you Rohan Mitra?”

  “Yeah.”

  The skinny speaker nodded. “Cool. I hated your shit. So depressing.” He punched Ro in the arm. “Lighten up, homie.”

  “Yeah, Ro,” I said. “Lighten up.”

  The next hour and a half was spent sharing beer and chatting with this group about our chances of getting to the front before the corn ran out and the best foods to eat when you were plastered. That turned into them prompting me for weird Canadian words when I mentioned being drunk on a mickey of vodka and learned that Americans had no clue what that flask-like bottle was.

  It was a weirdly carnival atmosphere.

  The closer we got to the front, the tenser I got, more and more determined that I had to have my elote. I didn’t even know what it was, but damn, it smelled good and the people walking away with their orders looked like they’d won the Super Bowl. I’m not saying I would have busted out my magic if it got me to the food, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t have.

  My feet were throbbing and I was huddled into Ro for warmth when we finally, mercifully reached the front.

  “Bowl or cob?” the older man asked.

  Ro looked at my dress. “Bowl.”

  The man scooped a bunch of corn from a water-filled blue cooler into a styrofoam bowl. His movements were economical, an ease born of repetition: the dollop of mayo, the heavy sprinkle of cheese, the squirt of lime juice, the dusting of chili powder.

  Ro bought corn for the couples behind us as well: the last four cobs. Our new friends cheered, while a collective groan went up from the rest of the line.

  We got into the limo. Rohan had also bought a bowl for the driver.

  The elote was sweet, spicy goodness that I fell on like a starved wolf, humming in joy between bites. Rohan wasn’t eating with any more dignity. We basically ignored each other until all had been licked clean.

  I patted my belly and refastened the sapphire around my neck. “You told the driver to come here when we first got into the limo. When you were still mad.”