Predator

by Liz Meldon

  “Now look here, you dimwitted fuck,” Alaric growled at the customer before him, arms crossed and scowl deepening. “Your card’s been declined, so sort it out.” When the perfectly round, alarmingly thick demon started to sputter back in protest, Alaric pointed a menacing finger at him. “Don’t you deal with debts? Aren’t you a fucking collector? Get it together and pay your bill.”

  Severus held back a chuckle, always a fan of his friend’s crusty barman persona. The portly demon, so plump that it was a miracle the stool could even hold his body weight, didn’t seem quite as enthused by the schtick. As soon as Alaric disappeared down the line to attend to the other patrons, Severus heard him grumble, “Fucking half-breed scum. Should’ve put him in the ground with his bitch human mother.”

  Protecting Alaric from the prejudices of the demon world came almost second nature to Severus at this point. Twelve years of unwavering friendship would do that to you.

  So, glaring, he clamped a hand down on the back of the collector demon’s bulbous head—then slammed it onto the bartop. The demon went down with a shriek; clearly he’d been so focused on staring daggers at Alaric that he hadn’t seen Severus coming. His trio of shot glasses shattered into his face on impact. Severus got a full view of the gory aftermath when he dragged the demon back by the collar of his shirt, then, with some effort given his enormous size, wrenched him off the stool.

  It was a wonder the whole building didn’t quake when the creature landed in a heap at Severus’s feet, dark red blood spilling down his puffy cheeks and bits of glass sticking out of his skin, eyes bloodshot.

  “Why you—”

  Severus was off his own stool in an instant, his movements practically nimble compared to the oaf on the floor, and as a hush descended over the rest of the bar, he planted a foot on the demon’s chest.

  “Don’t you start,” he growled. In his peripherals, he could already see Dartanious and his bouncer crew moving in. “Or would you like to repeat that little comment for everyone to hear? You know how Verrier adores when people reminisce about the greatest love of his life—and the son she bore him.”

  All the color drained from the demon’s face, save for the blood still trickling down it. Hybrids may have been just as lowly as incubi and their ilk, but Alaric was the son of a prince of Hell. It didn’t matter that Verrier had decided to spend his retirement on Earth, running a bar and a restaurant, his finger on the pulse of the city’s various demon mob families—and their violent squabbles. Anyone with a lick of sense feared his wrath.

  “Apologize to my friend,” he ordered, gesturing to Alaric. The man needn’t announce his presence for Severus to know he was there. He could feel him, hovering, brow furrowed and jaw clenched.

  “Just leave it,” his friend murmured, and Severus glanced back, surprised.

  “Alaric—”

  “Get him out of here,” Alaric ordered, his voice stronger this time, firmer as he snapped down at the wounded demon. In an instant Dartanious and his boys swarmed, swathed in black leather and a cloud of malice. Once they had the stout demon upright, blood staining the white button-down that barely concealed his protruding midsection, he heard Alaric add, “You are henceforth banned from the Inferno. See that he never sets foot in here again.”

  Pleased, Severus settled back on his barstool as they dragged the shrieking demon toward the door. A cluster of the witch waitresses followed, their eyes black and their hands pulsing red. Just before they tossed the guy out into the street, the witches pounced, and the demon’s screams intensified. Everyone, Severus included, strained to get a better look, delighting in the torment, a few cheering when the bouncers and waitresses stepped back to reveal the ugly branding across that sweaty, bloody forehead. The mark would fade from sight in a day or two, but it would always be visible in the underworld—and it would bar the demon entrance to any of Verrier’s establishments.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” Alaric muttered. Severus smirked as Dartanious booted the demon out the main door.

  “Why not? He deserved it for what he said about your mother, about you.”

  “Half the demons in this bar share his opinion,” Alaric said as conversations resumed, the unobtrusive music tinkling from the overhead speakers getting a little louder once more. Severus downed his glass of whiskey in a single shot, then refilled it.

  “Well, they’ve got the brains to keep their ridiculous opinions to themselves, I suppose.” He’d do the same to anyone who bad-mouthed Alaric, whether they were an easy target or not. While he lacked physical strength, given his was dependent on how often he stole from humans, Severus always had the element of surprise on his side. No one ever thought to keep an eye on the leech.

  “Lucky Father wasn’t here. He detests brawling in his bar.”

  “Unless it’s for a worthy cause,” Severus countered, then raised his glass and toasted Alaric. “Cheers, mate.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Cheers.” Alaric grabbed the bottle before Severus had a chance to cap it, taking a quick swig and setting it down heavily. “Now, try not to make any of the other customers bleed. We’re swamped tonight.”

  Severus held up his hands innocently. “I’m just here to drink.”

  “Only because Moira’s gone home, right?”

  His eyes narrowed when Alaric shot a knowing grin over his shoulder. In no mood to argue about her again, Severus contented himself with his drink, and for the next hour watched in a contemplative silence as his friend served patrons and managed the bar. Although the crowd swelled around midnight, most demons preferred the trio of gorgeous ladies manning the main bar to Alaric. Severus couldn’t blame them—one was wearing nothing but nipple pasties and a barely-there miniskirt—and he was pleased that after twelve he could finally have his friend to himself for a bit.

  “So, how was your hunt tonight?” Alaric asked as he poured himself another glass of whiskey and clinked it against Severus’s. “Any news to report?”

  “She’s strong. Bent her bike wheel in half when she kicked it.”

  “But you knew that already.”

  He nodded. She’d been able to shove him away more than once the first night they met. It was as if she didn’t know her own strength, which struck him as odd.

  “I still think you’re just bitter,” Alaric mused after a sip of whiskey, face momentarily puckered before he set his glass aside. “You couldn’t get her off, and it’s a blow to your escort ego. Makes perfect sense to me.”

  “You weren’t there. You don’t know what she…” Severus huffed, glaring at the bartop. “It’s not that.”

  When it came to his job, Severus didn’t really have an ego. As an incubus, he cared very deeply about his sexual prowess, as it was a part of him—ingrained in his spirit. However, human women were easy to charm, even easier to make come. It wasn’t about ego—it was about using the skills he was born with, skills that he had all but mastered by now.

  “Then what is it? Why are you so obsessive?”

  “I’m not obsessive.”

  “You haven’t seen a client in days because you’ve been following her,” Alaric said, sounding rather pleased with himself. “You know it’s true. You’re becoming obsessed. It isn’t healthy.”

  “She made me…” He exhaled sharply, then downed the rest of his whiskey. Rather than going for a ninth refill, he flipped the glass upside down and nudged it aside. “She could influence me, whether she was aware of it or not. I’m curious. I’d also like to know what she is, and I suspect you would too if someone could control your inner demon.”

  Alaric snorted. “If I’ve got an inner demon, the bastard isn’t exactly one for making himself known. I doubt even a pretty girl could change that.”

  “Either way, I can’t read her energy and I don’t like it. I need to know.” While Alaric’s father had infinite connections in the demon underbelly of Farrow’s Hollow, Severus wasn’t quite so fortunate. No one would be willing to help an incubus—not for free, anyway. He had more than e
nough money to pay for intel, but it was the principle of the matter; Severus had no intention of giving any thieving, overcharging demons a penny. This was a mystery he could solve on his own; it would just take time.

  “Maybe she’s a hybrid,” Alaric offered before shooting back the rest of his drink. He shuddered, his tolerance for large quantities of straight alcohol pathetically low for working at a bar, and Severus ignored the temptation to poke fun at him—just this once.

  “I couldn’t get a whiff of demon off her—”

  “But you always say you can’t really read my energy either,” his friend said with a shrug, fussing about behind the bar. “What is it you once told me? I’m like a, er, void of nothingness?”

  Severus bit back a smile. Demons, angels, witches, vampires, shifters, elves, fae—they all gave off a certain vibration specific to their species. Humans gave next to no vibration, no pulse of supernatural energy surrounding them. Hybrids tended to be the same.

  Hmm. He’d discounted the theory back at the hotel because he couldn’t sense a demon side to her, but perhaps that had been his error.

  “Perhaps she is a hybrid.”

  “You could always ask her,” Alaric mused, his gaze drifting down the bar as a few new arrivals took their seats. “Or just carry on with your little game of admiring from afar.”

  “I’m not admiring.”

  “Right. Of course not. This is all very clinical. Scientific, even.” He strolled away with a dramatic nod and a thumbs-up, leaving an annoyed Severus behind to see to the new drink orders.

  Rather than sitting there to stew about it, Severus slid off the stool, then dug a fifty out of his wallet and set it behind the bar. Although he would never tip his roommate, as per Alaric’s request, he knew all the staff pooled and split tips at the end of the night. Since he didn’t, in fact, pay for all the booze he drank at the Inferno, he usually left something behind. Considering the trouble he’d caused, despite defending Alaric’s honour, he added a second fifty to the first. He caught Alaric’s eye briefly, pointing down to the cash, and then drifted into the crowd. Despite the place being jam-packed with demons, not a single one was worth his conversational prowess—nor would any stoop so low as to engage in conversation with an incubus, anyway.

  So, he sent Alaric a text that he was headed for home, and slipped out the main door. This time, Dartanious had nothing to say, and he wondered if he’d earned himself a modicum of respect by knocking that demon flat on his ass.

  Out in the breezy night air, just as he paused to light another cigarette, a sob washed over him. He lifted his gaze curiously. Down the alley, by the edge of the sidewalk, stood Diriel, a demon of no real significance in Hell who had somehow built a reputation for himself in Farrow’s Hollow. The woman cowering before him, distinctly human, appeared more than a little drunk, needing his support to stand upright. Sensing an opportunity, Severus strolled toward them, tucking the unlit cigarette behind his ear and feigning concern.

  “Miss, are you all right?”

  “Fuck off, leech—”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, Diriel,” he crooned, swooping in on the redheaded woman, her teal dress hiked up to the tops of her thighs, her ankles wobbling in her high heels. “You seem distressed.”

  Diriel puffed his chest out, the dozens of silver chains with pearl-laden crosses hanging from his neck rustling about over his Armani suit. “She’s fine. Fuck. Off.”

  “I just want to go home,” the woman wailed, and it was then that Severus noticed how deeply Diriel’s nails dug into the soft flesh of her arm. He tsked, shooting the demon a chastising look.

  “Verrier prefers you keep your human drama inside the bar, Diriel.”

  The raven-haired demon scowled, the whites of his eyes overtaken by black. “If I have to tell you one more time—”

  “Fortunately for you, I’m here to ensure no one tells him you were harassing a human on his property, in public,” he said, smiling as he grasped Diriel’s thin, bony wrist and wrenched his hand off the woman. “You ought to thank me.”

  Before the demon could get another word in, threat or otherwise, Severus steered the wobbly woman to the sidewalk. With a huge line still waiting to get into the human side of the Inferno to the right and patrons leaving Rose’s Corner to the left, Diriel had no choice but to remain in the shadows of the alley, fuming.

  The handling of humans varied from demon to demon. Most saw them as a lesser species and treated them as such. Severus preferred using them to having any sort of opinion about them, though he had many regular clients he genuinely enjoyed spending time with. While the former prince of Hell appeared neutral toward humanity, Verrier’s dislike for drama of any kind on his property was notorious. No brawls. No squabbling. No murder. Especially where humans could see. Keep it civil. Take it somewhere else.

  “Now, let’s put you in a taxi, shall we?” Severus touched as much as of the woman’s skin as he could. Alaric had been right: he’d been so wrapped up in Moira these last few days that he hadn’t even bothered scheduling any clients, and he could certainly use a boost. His hands rubbed up and down her arms under the guise of warming her. His thumb brushed away her tears, as if to comfort her. And he held onto her hand and elbow when he lowered her into a cab, smiling kindly at her garbled thanks.

  After slamming the door shut, he stepped back onto the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, suddenly a bit buzzed himself. That was always the way with drunk humans.

  Poor thing was in for a hell of a hangover tomorrow. Grinning, he retrieved the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it. A quick glance over his shoulder told him Diriel had fucked off—likely back inside the bar to find a new victim for the night. As renowned as Verrier was for his policies on public order and demon civility, Diriel had an equally well-known reputation for carnage and torture. Not that most demons didn’t, but if the rumors were true, Diriel could win awards for his creativity, and he had a penchant for pretty, young humans. Women, mostly, but Severus had heard the demon became less picky as the evening dragged on.

  Still, the fact that he’d made the night just a touch more annoying for a prick like Diriel—well, that just made him warm and fuzzy all over. Smirking, Severus took a long drag from his cigarette, then headed for his and Alaric’s home up the street, humming as he went.

  Chapter Four

  As Moira glanced at the heavily tinted exterior of the natural science building, the only piece of non-gothic architecture on campus, she was certain she could finally put a name to the face.

  Russ Tanner—dreamy escort and stalker extraordinaire—had been following her, on and off, for the last week. She was sure of it. Although she had never seen his face straight on, she had caught enough glimpses by now to finally make a positive identification.

  After all, he had an impossible face to forget. Those shadowy eyes and kissable lips, that royal nose and gritty facial hair. Cheekbones models lusted after. He’d towered over her on that night, and the man she had pinned as Russ was pretty tall too. Well-built. The kind of man who made her stomach lurch and her heart race—and her sex tingle with interest.

  He wore some variation of hat during the day, and always kept his distance, but she was sure of it. As she stared at him in the reflection of the nat-sci building’s dark grey windows, Moira was certain. Dressed in a pair of fitted light-wash jeans, a faded purple tee, a grey hoodie, unzipped, and a red hat, he had been following her between classes this morning. Not only that, but he had sat in on her thirty-person Issues in Postcolonial Gendered Art seminar; not exactly subtle, given he had never attended a session before and half the class had been absent anyway—which also wasn’t surprising, given the grad club hosted booze-filled ragers every Thursday night, and this was an eight AM seminar on a Friday morning.

  From there, he had been a permanent fixture in her usual routine, always in the corner of her eye, always following, tracking, prowling at a safe distance. She couldn’t imagine why; in her hurry to get the hell out of th
at eerily quiet hotel room, she’d left the money behind. As if she’d had the nerve to stand there and argue—or ask for change, given he hadn’t met the requirements she’d set out before their appointment. That night had been intense—more so than she’d expected—but it had eventually dissolved into a puddle of suck, just like all her sexual encounters had in the past, when she got too deep inside her own head.

  It couldn’t have been the first time a client left unsatisfied. Sex was personal. Intimate. Unique to the individual. He might have been stunning, but there was no way Russ could please everyone. It just wasn’t possible.

  So, why the fuck was he following her?

  She lingered in front of the reflective building, ignoring the throng of first-year science kids chattering noisily as they swarmed around her and up the steps, then pretended to check her phone. Moira stood there as innocently as possible, tapping at the screen—all the while studying his lurking figure under her heavily mascara’d eyelashes. As soon as she’d stopped strolling around the FHU campus, so had he, and she rolled her eyes when he too dug out his phone, mirroring her almost exactly.

  “Fucker,” she muttered, then tucked her phone inside her bag and took off toward the Hills. Sure enough, a casual glance over her shoulder confirmed that he had resumed tracking her. Sometimes she lost him in the crowd; noon at FHU meant most classes had paused for lunch. The food court was about to get swamped. Given the warmish spring weather and relatively dry week Farrow’s Hollow had experienced, most would be taking their midday meal on the grass or at a picnic bench within the university’s very own Central Park.

  She wasn’t under the impression she could lose him. That sensation of being closely watched had plagued her since last week, and now that she’d identified the source, Moira had a feeling Russ wasn’t someone you could shake. More likely—he needed to be confronted. She couldn’t go to the police because that would shed light on their shady beginnings, but as Moira darted down the three steps separating the Hills from concrete and glass buildings behind her, she assumed he wouldn’t want much attention brought on him either.