by Lexi George
“I do not recall.” Taryn’s tone was dry. “I was otherwise occupied.”
“You mean . . . Oh.” Sassy flushed. “Is it true you recorded my . . . um . . . episode?”
“Yes,” Taryn said. “Our ability allows us to reconstruct things with precision.”
Slipping the knife into the strap on her thigh, the huntress raised her hand and a shining polka dot appeared.
Mose tossed his empty cup aside and scampered up the bed like a drunken monkey. “Oh, this is good. I’ve watched it a dozen times, but it never gets old.”
The Dalmatian got up and trotted over to watch. Good grief, she was on supernatural YouTube.
The dot thinned and widened, and a scene from the interior of the Sweet Shop came into focus. As Sassy watched in horror, the Sassy in the video morphed into a winged creature and attacked the dessert cabinet.
“Shiitake mushrooms,” she yelped. “I am a purple whatzit. And I ate a million calories.”
“Yep,” Mose said. “That noise like a volcano about to erupt? That’s you.”
The purple whatzit opened its mouth, belching with enough force to rattle the tin ceiling.
Sassy shrank against the headboard. “That never came out of my mouth.”
“A beaut, wasn’t it?” Mose straightened his crooked hat. “Wait. It gets better. Here comes the finish.”
The dark fairy barfed out a mountain of fluffy white foam that covered the restaurant and everyone in it in meringue.
When the film ended, Sassy was speechless.
“Some show, huh?” Mose opened his grimy fist and dropped three fat berries in Sassy’s lap. “Eat. Sildhjort says.”
Sassy poked at the berries. They looked like a cross between a blueberry and a blackberry. “Will they make the purple whatzit go away forever?”
“Of course not. The purple whatzit is you.”
“Don’t be silly, Mose. That was the fairy potion, not me.”
Mose’s ugly face softened. “You were years overdue for a meltdown, Puss. No one can keep everyone happy all the time. I’m surprised you didn’t blow sooner.”
“But I like making people happy.”
“You don’t know what you like. You’re repressed. That’s why you blasted nasty today.”
“I’m not repressed. I’m bubbly and vivacious and—and sassy.”
He hopped off the bed, reeling on unsteady feet. “Fine, have it your way. But don’t come crying to me when somebody gets hurt because you’re in denial.”
He began to fade around the edges.
“Wait,” Sassy cried. “If the berries aren’t for the purple whatzit, what are they for?”
“Sugar poisoning,” Mose said. “You overdosed. Big time. Eat the wellberries. They’ll make you feel better. Or stay in bed a month. Up to you.”
He vanished.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Evan zoomed down the highway in Daddy Joel’s convertible. The late afternoon air was heavy with the scent of approaching rain. The top was down, the wind was in his hair, and the Maserati was a damn fine machine.
He’d jacked dozens of cars for his god demons, but nothing this classy. Expensive cars got noticed, and he and the ’rents had lived under the radar, changing locations and identities to stay a step ahead of the law.
Demons went through bodies like Kleenex. It had been Evan’s job to bring them fresh skins. He took the smack back if he failed. He learned early on and fast to anticipate their needs. Demons are high maintenance, so it was a full-time job. Not enough time to eat or sleep—too busy. Motion was the key to survival. Moving, always moving. Don’t stay still. Don’t think. Don’t feel.
Keep moving. Run fast enough and nothing sticks.
He kept running after Hagilth and Elgdrek were dead. Been on the hamster wheel so long he didn’t know how to get off.
Then the witch caught him and threw him in the shed, and that’s when he’d run headlong into himself. Physical abuse Evan could handle. The prospect of being stuffed and roasted by the witch made his nut sack shrivel, but the weeks of up close and personal with the inside of his head had nearly driven him bonkers.
Hello, Evan Beck: panderer; goon; carjacker; kidnapper; robber; burglar; and drug dealer. Like that guy? Then you’re gonna love Evan Beck, murderer.
The streets where he and the god demons had lived were mean and dirty, and he’d killed to survive. Pervs, mostly, who assumed a skinny kid was an easy mark.
Wrong.
Those deaths didn’t eat at him. The poor suckers he’d lured with the promise of money, drugs, or a good time? The ones he’d knocked unconscious and dragged there by force?
Those deaths bothered him plenty. Though, technically, he didn’t kill them.
Nah, he served them up like cold cuts.
Would have been kinder to do the deed himself. Death by demon was not a pretty sight.
The bright spot in his world of suckage? Demonoids can’t be possessed, thank you Lord Jesus.
He’d witnessed the change more times than he could count, and he never got used to it. The demons would leak out of their old, wasted bodies, stringy, amorphous wisps of horror eager for new shells and good times in someone else’s crib. The poor norms Evan had snagged invariably screamed and begged for mercy.
Too late. Demons didn’t do mercy. They poured into their new vessels and took root like cancer.
Bye-bye norms; welcome to hell.
What was left of the used carcasses—not much by the time the demons were done with them—puddled on the floor like overcooked cheese. The smell, the god-awful smell of rotting scorched flesh permeated everything around. It clung to Evan’s clothes, the furniture, even the goddamn walls.
After thirty-one years of living with the djegrali, demon stink was perma-blasted to the inside of Evan’s nose.
Possession sucked ass. It was downhill from there for the norms. Demons partied like rock stars. By the time the new bodies were worn out—six months, maybe a year—there was nothing left. A demon trapped in a human at the moment of death died, so Hagilth and Elgdrek were always on the lookout to trade up.
No help for the norm there, either. If the demon vacated a unit early for a spiffier model, the abandoned body didn’t last long. Too weakened and used up.
Sometimes Evan envied the norms. Death was not an option for him. He belonged to the masters. He could do them no harm, nor himself. If he ever doubted it, all he had to do was look down. The details of the ironclad contract were carved into his flesh.
He was well and truly screwed. So Evan danced to their tune. Like the poor S.O.B.s he brought to the sacrificial altar, he had no choice.
It was a dirty job, but he didn’t lose sleep over it. Most of the time. He trafficked in a certain class of norm: greedy; violent; looking for fast cash or a quick fix.
Not all, though. Some happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Those were the deaths that had haunted him in the witch’s shed, the victims’ images playing in a continuous loop. Awake or zonked out on the witch’s dope, he saw them.
Until Sassy came along. She was a Pollyanna, the spoiled, sheltered daughter of a rich bitch and her even richer husband. She’d never known evil, terror, or want. He should have hated her on sight. Far from it. Funny, sunny little Sassy Peterson had gotten under his skin in an instant. The anger and bitterness faded when she was around.
She was unadulterated joy in a world jammed bunghole to earlobes with ugly.
Or so he’d thought.
Evan rubbed his chest, the pressure building inside him. He should have known it was too good to be true. Sassy seemed uncomplicated, but she had layers. The freaky scene at the restaurant had racked him in the nuts. She was an emotional nuclear reactor. What if she went vampire-fairy-badass on the air in front of millions of faithful viewers?
The sponsors would hit cancel on The Sassy Sunshine Show so fast it would make your head spin. The golden ring he’d grabbed turned out to be brass. Typical ro
tten luck.
God, he was pissed. He’d been on simmer since the shed. He had to keep a lid on. Didn’t want to hulk out again.
Damn that witch. When he got his hands on her . . .
He inhaled. Don’t think about the witch. Think about the Lollipop. So what if there was a surprise hidden inside that candy-coated shell? He’d make it work. Sassy was sheltered and pampered, and that equaled easy to control. A shopping splurge once in a while and she’d be happy.
Happy Sassy he liked. Happy Sassy had dollar signs written all over her luscious little body. Evan had plans for Happy Sassy.
Scary Sassy would roll your ass in powdered sugar and eat you.
A sign on the grassy berm indicated a sharp bend ahead. The car rounded the curve in the road like it was on rails. The 444-horsepower engine under the hood was seriously kickass. Zero to sixty in five seconds—closest to flying he could remember—packaged in a hot, tight little body. The interior of the car screamed money. Hand-crafted Italian leather seats hugged his ass like a favorite pair of jeans. Integrated headrests. Elegant wood trim on the dash and door panels. A Bose sound system that was creamy on the ears.
Too bad the “repairs” Grim had made when he’d fished the sports car out of the drink had changed the car—and not for the better. The Maserati, like most things Hannah, was hinky. Damn demon hunters could screw up a wet dream.
Turning off the patched asphalt, Evan guided the car along the wooded drive to the house. A van marked Behr Telephone sat on the pavement. Arms crossed on his muscled chest, Grim watched the repairman through narrowed eyes, like he expected the guy to break out in demon any moment.
Mea tooted her horn in greeting and made for the three-car garage like a horse headed to the barn.
Evan applied pressure to the brakes. The car kept going.
“Stop.” He rammed his foot into the pedal. “Sassy says.”
The Maserati skidded to a halt with an angry growl, and Evan got out. The driver’s door slammed shut of its own accord.
Evan jumped clear and booted the car in the back tire. “Bitch.”
Mea farted exhaust fumes in his face and spun off.
Coughing, Evan turned to find the workman watching him, open mouthed. Evan sauntered up to the norm, whose badge identified him as Steve.
“Remote control.” Evan gave the norm a bland smile. “European technology. Still has a few glitches.”
The guy relaxed. “The more bells and whistles a car has, the more can go wrong. I’m a Ford man, m’self.”
“You’re a regular philosopher, Steve. Phone working?”
“Uh yep.” The man clipped a two-way radio onto his belt. “Somebody cut the line. I fixed ’er.”
“You’re the man, Steve.”
Grim strode up. “My thanks.” A flat pouch appeared in his hand. “Allow me to recompense you for your trouble.”
The man blinked. “Whoa, what the—”
“Steve will put it on the monthly bill.” Evan clapped the guy on the back. “Won’t you, Steve?”
“Sure.” The man climbed into his vehicle. He stuck his head out the window, his confused gaze on Grim. “Say, how’d you—?”
“Stay cool, Steve.” Evan gave the guy a thumbs-up. “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”
The repairman left.
“Jesus, dude. You can’t pull that shit around norms,” Evan said. “It freaks them the hell out.”
“You are right. I violated the Directive against Conspicuousness. My thoughts are disordered by Sassy’s illness.”
“She ate a freaking bakery and puked. She’ll live.”
Grim fixed him with a glare that would slice through a steel girder. “How can you be certain?”
“She’s a demonoid. We heal fast.”
“Sassy is but a fraction demon.”
“That’s like saying someone’s a little bit pregnant. Take it easy, man. You’re wound too tight.”
Grim took a deep breath and blew it out. “If what you say is true, then I am glad Sassy is a demonoid.”
Evan surveyed the big warrior. The poor guy was in bad shape. The Big ’Un had really slipped his chain over the Lollipop.
“Your wallet looks a little thin.” Evan’s words surprised him. “You low on cash?”
Grim looked blank. “Cash? I fear I do not—”
“Cabbage. Cheddar. Greenbacks. Moolah.”
“You refer to currency? I am without funds at the moment.” Grim frowned. “A circumstance I should have considered before I offered to pay that human. If you had not intervened—”
Evan grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket. “Busted, huh?” Spare him another lecture on the Dalvahni Directive. “Been there, done that.”
He opened his billfold and shoved a Benjamin at Grim. “Here ya go. You can pay me back later.”
Grim turned the bill over, examining it. “This is paper.”
“What else, genius?”
“Coin of some sort. Gold or silver have value in most realms.”
“Those spend. Paper’s lighter.” Evan shrugged. “Debit cards are handy. I prefer cash.”
There was something comforting about a pocket full of bills, something substantial. Money was his security blanket. He might not be able to read for shit, but he was a whiz at numbers.
Numbers were dependable. Numbers didn’t change.
Grim slid the bill inside the flat leather purse and shut it. The pouch vibrated and bulged. When he reopened the wallet a moment later, it was stuffed with hundred dollar bills.
He took a benny out and handed it to Evan. “You have my thanks.”
Evan curled his fist around the money. His stash had come hard. Years of ugly deeds and hiding dough from his masters—a little here, a little there—in the unlikely event he gained his freedom. The game had kept him sharp, but it had been a dangerous one. If Hagilth and Elgdrek had caught him skimming from the till, they’d have peeled him like a grape.
Despite the risk, or maybe because of it, Evan added to his nest egg until he had money in half a dozen banks. It was a small act of defiance. His way of giving the ’rents and the universe the finger for dealing him such a crappy hand.
Grim? He stuck a hundred in his magical pouch and presto chango. He was loaded. Demon hunters—Evan hated the sonsabitches.
He shoved the money back into his wallet. “What the hell did you do to the car?”
“I removed it from the brook. Is something amiss?”
“Aw no, it’s peachy. It ain’t a car no more, that’s all. It’s freaking alive.”
“Explain.”
Evan poked Grim in the chest. A dicey move—the guy was built like a front-end loader, but Evan was too cheesed to care. Part of him hoped he’d hulk out. He’d love to beat some demon hunter ass. He’d start with Grim and move on to Conall. Pound that pompous jerk in the dirt.
“You worried about your stupid Directive?” Evan said. “Let’s start with the car. When I came out of the Sweet Shop the Maserati was sitting in traffic. Like the damn thing knew Sassy had gone and was trying to follow her home.”
Grim’s don’t-screw-with-me vibe intensified. “You will show respect when you speak of the Directive.”
Evan was feeling reckless. He was ready for a throw-down.
He poked Grim again. “There were norms everywhere and the car was running—without a driver. I had the keys in my hand. You picking up what I’m putting down? I’m talking magical car. How’s that for conspicuous?”
Grim looked troubled. “I see your point.”
“And Mea goes where Mea wants. Know what I had to do to get your woo-woo mobile to make a pit stop?”
“No.”
“Had to say ‘Sassy says.’” Evan scowled. “Sassy says stop at the bank. Sassy says stop at the Pig for groceries.” He threw his hands in the air. “I’m negotiating with a car, for Christ’s sake.”
Grim looked momentarily nonplussed.
His face cleared. “You bought comestibles?
Excellent. Sassy will be hungry when she wakes.”
“For God’s sake, stop worrying about the princess for a millisecond and listen. The car belongs to Daddy Joel. It’s going to be con-freaking-spicuous it’s not the same ride when he gets it back.”
“I confess, I had not thought of that,” Grim admitted. “What do you suggest?”
“Your problem, Mr. Weasley, not mine. You enchanted the damn thing. I suggest you figure it out before Conall discovers what you’ve done and rips you a new one.”
Grim groaned. “Conall—by the sword. I was to deliver you to him today. I have failed to comply with a direct order.”
“Conall can kiss my ass. I’m not a package to be delivered.”
As though summoned, Captain Asswipe materialized on a rush of arctic air. Evan hated the cold. Growing up, he’d frozen his nuts off until he got old enough to steal some threads.
“Brother.” Conall gave Grim a nod of greeting.
Evan got nada because he was the incredible, invisible demonoid.
“The hour grows late.” Conall arched a black brow at Grim. “I grew concerned when you did not report to me.”
“My apologies, Captain. Much has happened this day.”
“I heard there was an incident in town this morning. Is Sassy recovered?”
“She is currently abed. One of the Kirvahni is with her, a huntress named Taryn.”
“What brings a Kir to Hannah?”
“She desires a word with you. She is most insistent.”
“Such is their nature.” Conall glanced at Evan, his black eyes hard. “Rebekah bids you greeting. In spite of your treachery, her tender heart is filled with concern for you.”
Rebekah Damian Dalvahni was about as tender as a water buffalo. She’d single-handedly killed Elgdrek and sucked Hagilth out of a teenage girl’s body. Then she’d trapped the wraith in a bottle of hot sauce.
Turns out demons are allergic to hot sauce, a fun little fact his twin discovered.
Every time Evan got near Beck, his tenderhearted sister shook the container. The hot sauce scalded Hagilth. Since Evan was bound to the demon, it scalded him, too.
That shit burned.
Another warrior appeared. Another sonsabitching Dalvahni. What was this, a demon hunter convention?
