Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar

by Lexi George

  Conall wasn’t kidding when he’d said the fairies liked Evie Douglass. The little glow worms had been everywhere, flitting around the flower arrangements, in the stained-glass windows and on the altar, sliding down the silk ribbons at the end of the freshly polished, high-backed wooden pews, and hovering around the happy couples standing at the front of the church. Judging from the comments of the people around her, most folks had no idea the fae were among them. They thought they were flower petals tossed by the attendants.

  People see what they want to see. The vast majority of the people in the church probably had no idea that the guy playing the pipe organ was a ghost. Nope, not a clue, and that was a good thing. In Beck’s experience, most norms wanted nothing to do with the supernatural. They’d rather put their fingers in their ears and say la la la, and pretend it didn’t exist.

  Take her dad, for instance. He sure lived in denial. Live in a town where the weird factor is off the charts? Ignore. Shape-shifter ex-partner? Ignore, ignore.

  Half-demon daughter? Ignore, ignore, ignore.

  Beck yanked at the hem of her dress, a slinky above-the-knee garment of midnight blue jersey with a daring scoop back. Fairy magic, she thought darkly, giving the garment another tug. The dress didn’t belong to her and neither did the shoes she wore, a pair of glittery sapphire sling-backs with matching bows and four-inch heels that put her over six feet. Totally impractical and probably cost a couple hundred bucks to boot. If she was going to spend that kind of cash on footwear she’d buy something useful. Boots to muck around the bar in maybe, or a pair of sturdy hiking sandals to wear in the woods and along the river—not a pair of girly slut pumps.

  She sneaked another admiring peek at her daintily shod feet. The shoes might not be sensible, but she had to admit they were the bomb diggity. Like something a fairy cobbler would come up with, shiny and sparkly. They’d been waiting on the end of her bed along with the dress. Her memory was patchy because of the fairy dust, but she remembered that much . . . as well as her squeal of delight when she’d seen them.

  Princess shoes, she remembered shrieking like a five-year-old girl, followed by a lot of undignified jumping up and down on her part. Her cheeks burned at the memory. Who knew she was such a girl? She’d never been into froufrou shit, never had the chance. Her dad had treated her like one of the guys growing up. She’d never been to prom or a high school dance. Never been on a date . . . unless you counted a hurried, fumbling grope in the woods with a passing shape-shifter when she was nineteen. Which she so did not.

  The bar was all she knew, all she’d ever known. She’d been serving drinks before she was ten, running the office and ordering supplies for her dad by the age of thirteen. She knew how to talk down a mean drunk and break up a fight. But she didn’t know how to mingle with townies, and she sure as hell didn’t know how to make small talk at a wedding.

  She looked around. The fellowship hall of the Episcopal church was narrow and long with arched windows along both sides and gleaming wooden floors. Candles glowed softly in the windowsills amid glossy bunches of magnolia leaves and white ribbons. At the far end of the room in front of three windows, two enormous wedding cakes commanded center stage. Additional cloth-covered tables flanked the wedding cakes, groaning under the weight of silver trays laden with a mouthwatering array of hors d’oeuvres, and a champagne fountain sparkled in one corner. Beck didn’t recognize half the fancy food on the platters. It was a far cry from bar food; that was for sure. Not a chili cheese dog or a chicken wang in sight.

  The noise level in the crowded room was incredible. Guests swirled around the loaded tables in impatient eddies, eager for the happy couples to appear. Beck caught snatches of conversations as people brushed by. The subject of football reigned supreme, followed by talk of the wedding and the food.

  Beck hung back near the door that led into the church garden, uncomfortably aware that she did not belong here.

  She caught several curious stares directed her way and wondered if she was overdressed. She’d been to exactly one other wedding in her life, and that was her dad’s, a simple ceremony at a country church with a preacher and a few friends. Not a formal society affair like this.

  Although she’d never lived in the city limits or gone to school in Hannah, she recognized a lot of the guests from the “What’s Going On In Town?” section of the local paper. Folks with money and comfortable, predictable lives; steeped in a sense of belonging and an unshakeable knowledge of who they were and their place in the scheme of things.

  She, on the other hand, ran a bar on the river for demonoids. She had plenty of society, just not the elegant kind.

  Beck took another quick look around. The fairies ignored her and swarmed around the wedding cakes in an ecstasy of anticipation. Fairies obviously liked sugar. Now would be a good time to try to sneak out, while the little stink bugs were distracted.

  Pasting a wide smile on her face for the benefit of anyone who might be looking, Beck edged closer to the exit. The fairies were trilling a song in their thin, little voices. “A Rhapsody to Wedding Cake,” most likely, Beck surmised. It was only a guess, because she didn’t speak fairy. The norms, of course, were clueless.

  The door was only a few feet away. She’d make a run for it, and hope like hell Silverbell didn’t catch her and gobsmack her with fairy dust again. She’d sat through the ceremony. She’d be damned if she’d stick around for the rest of this nauseating crap.

  She scooted around a group of guests, keeping her smile in place. Almost there.

  “You look lovely,” a deep voice said, stopping her in her tracks.

  Beck whirled around and almost fell off her princess shoes. It was Conall, looking all bad boy and delicious in a perfectly tailored dark suit and a blazing white dress shirt, open at the neck. She’d never seen him in daylight or in a well-lit room, for that matter. Until now, that is, and it was something of a shock to her system.

  Something of a shock? Try 9.0 on the Richter scale.

  The Dalvahni demon hunter pain-in-her-ass was a total babe.

  Chapter Five

  He wasn’t wearing a tie. No surprise there. Somehow, demon hunters and neckties didn’t go together.

  Swords, mayhem, and evisceration, yeah. Neckties . . . not so much.

  His ragged dark hair gleamed in the light, and his eyes were black as midnight—blacker, like the space between the stars.

  Where did he get off being so handsome? It made her mad. He made her mad. How had she missed something so obvious? The lighting in Beck’s was dim, but not that dim. Conall Dalvahni was smoking hot and she’d blanked it out, had done a mental la la la like a stupid norm. Obviously, her daddy wasn’t the only one in denial.

  She glanced around. The other females in the room weren’t near as slow on the uptake. Old and young alike, they watched Conall through slanted lids in a predatory, hungry way, like they wanted to gobble him up. For some reason, that annoyed her, too.

  “Who cuts your hair?” she demanded irritably.

  Conall’s brows rose. “I do.”

  “Huh. What do you use, a weed whacker?”

  “No, I cut it with my knife. What is a ‘weed whacker’?”

  “Never mind. It was a joke.”

  “Ah. Levity. The Dalvahni are not adept at this form of communication.”

  “No kidding. I never would have guessed.”

  Beck tapped her foot, surveying him with a scowl. An air of solitude surrounded him like a cloak. He looked dark and dangerous and unapproachable. Beck recognized it for what it was—a shield to keep people at bay. She was pretty good at the old shield thing herself. Don’t get close and you won’t get hurt. You won’t get left.

  “Ansgar and Brand have long hair,” she said at last. “How come yours is short?”

  “As captain, I must distinguish myself.”

  “You mean you want to stand out?”

  “I do not mean to imply that I consider myself superior to my fellow warriors. Far from it.
It is my honor to serve them, but . . .” He hesitated. Looking down, he adjusted the sleeves of his jacket. “I am different. I am their commander.”

  “I get it,” she said. “You’re the boss and you cut your hair short to remind them of it.”

  “You are perceptive. It serves as a reminder to me as well.” He straightened his broad shoulders. “My men rely on me, as do those they protect.”

  “Save the universe and the brotherhood. Wow, you’re a regular boy scout, aren’t you?” He looked puzzled and she waved her hand in dismissal. “Never mind. Like I said, I get it. The bad haircut sets you apart.”

  “My hair displeases you? It is a matter easily remedied. It grows quickly.”

  Beck felt her cheeks grow hot. “It’s your hair. Wear it any way you like.”

  “But I want to please you.”

  He wanted to please her? The thought flustered her, and then she remembered. He wanted information.

  She stiffened. “Back to that, are we? I told you I’m not interested in working with you.” She glanced up as the current of people around her swelled toward the door on a ripple of oohs and ahs. The bridal parties had entered the fellowship hall, leaving her and Conall alone at the back of the room. She lowered her voice, nonetheless. “Why should I help you or your precious Dalvahni? I’m half demon. That makes us enemies. For all I know, the kith are next on your hit list.”

  “And if I promise you that is not the case?”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “Meaning?”

  He sighed. “You are a most suspicious female. Meaning that I have only just discovered the existence of your kind and I have no plans to exterminate them without further study.”

  “Yeah, for now, but that could change in a heartbeat.”

  “Mine is not a hasty nature, Rebekah. I give you my word I have no scheme at present to kill the kith, nor will I do so without good reason. You are safe.”

  She lifted her chin. “I’m not worried about me. I can take care—”

  “—of yourself,” he said. “So you keep saying. But what if you are wrong?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “What if you cannot take care of yourself or those you care about?” He held up his hand as she opened her mouth to retort. “Hear me out. I mean to imply no threat. There is an expression, ‘the twelfth of never.’ Humans use it to indicate that something is unlikely, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We have a similar saying among the Dalvahni. We say that will happen at Han-nah-a-lah. That is, the end of all things.”

  “Han-nah-a-lah?” The meaning of the strange word sank in. “Whoa, you mean Hannah, Alabama? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I do not know, but I will tell you this. For years beyond counting, the scales have been tipped in favor of the Dalvahni. Our powers are great. We are extremely resilient and almost impossible to kill. But I fear the demons may have found a weapon to use against us. Who will stand against the djegrali if the Dal are undone? What will become of this world and all the other worlds that depend on us if the demons are allowed to run unchecked?”

  Latrisse’s ravaged face rose before Beck. The kith were resistant to demon possession, but humans didn’t stand a chance. Her dad and Brenda, and their kids . . . all the other norms in Hannah would be taken. Hell, the entire human population would be infected by the soul-sucking bastards, and she and the rest of the kith would be left to live among the ruins.

  Some of the kith would be all right with that, but not her. There were plenty of norms she liked just fine. Ed Landrum, the mechanic who worked on her truck . . . Johnny Harvey, the good-natured meat man down at the Piggly Wiggly with his broad hands and ready smile, and Myrtle Glenn down at the drug store, to name a few. They might be norms, but they were nice folks.

  Her dad was a decent guy in his own way, hardworking and faithful to his wife, always cracking a joke with his customers. Good to his employees and his children, the human ones, at any rate.

  To be fair, he’d never mistreated her, either. Just shrugged her off like a shirt he’d outgrown and moved on, starting another life without her. Plenty of men did that. Started new families and left the old ones. She and her dad didn’t have the best relationship, but that didn’t mean she wanted him dead or possessed. The same went for Brenda and the rug rats.

  Besides, she reasoned, if the demons took over the kith would be in danger, too. Maybe not in danger of possession, but she knew from experience that a demon-possessed human on the rampage could tear hell off the hinges. Living on a planet infested with them would be a nightmare. They’d be killing each other and killing the kith. Civilization would come to a screeching, screaming, bloody halt, and planet Earth would become one big reeking charnel house. Talk about your horror movies.

  “All right, you got my attention,” Beck said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep your eyes and your ears open,” Conall said. “Send out feelers among the kith. See if you can discover any rumblings about this so-called weapon.”

  “Done.”

  “And I want you to give me a job.”

  “What? Are you crazy? I can’t hire you.”

  “I will gladly offer you recompense.”

  “What is it with you trying to pay me off? Get it through your thick skull that I’m not for sale.”

  “I apologize. ’Twas not mine intent to besmirch your honor. I offered to pay you because you would be granting me a boon. Working at the bar will give me the opportunity to gain people’s trust and gather information, to winnow rumor from fact.”

  She shook her head. “It would never work. We’d be at each other’s throats within five minutes.”

  “I would not be at your throat. You would be my employer. You would be able to tell me what to do and I would have to do it.”

  “Tempting, but the answer’s still no.”

  “You hired the zombie.”

  “That’s different. Tommy’s in trouble. He doesn’t have any place else to go.”

  “I am in trouble,” Conall said. “The fate of my brothers and your world may well hang in the balance, and you would turn me away whilst offering aid to the undead.”

  Something flickered in his dark eyes. Outrage, maybe? Nah, surely not. She couldn’t hurt his feelings . . . could she?

  She glanced at him through her lashes. Maybe it was the bad haircut, but he seemed somehow a little less perfect and invulnerable. Or maybe she was a big old pushover.

  So what if she did hurt his feelings. She didn’t care.

  Did she? She examined her feelings, pushing aside her natural dislike of him.

  Oh, crap, she did. Damn. She did not need this.

  “Hang around the bar,” Beck suggested, desperate for an alternative. “Buy a few drinks. Mingle with folks. You’ll accomplish the same thing.”

  “No. As a patron, I would stand out. If I work for you, I will go unnoticed.”

  Blend in? Beck gazed at him in exasperation. In what reality? He was big. He was brooding, and he was gorgeous. On top of that, he exuded menace. The guy walked around with a big MESS WITH ME AND I’LL KICK YOUR ASS sign blinking nonstop over his head, for God’s sake.

  “What sort of job did you have in mind?” she heard herself say. She rubbed her aching temples. First the zombie and now Mr. Grumpy Pants. “What can you do? I mean, besides kill things.”

  “I am good with horses and a fair blacksmith,” he said. “And I know something of dragons.”

  Dragons? Was he for real? Somehow, she managed to keep a straight face.

  “Don’t get many of those,” she said. Actually, they didn’t get any. Shape-shifters, mostly—the kith were fond of shifting—and the occasional werewolf. Oh, yeah, and fairies as of today, Beck thought sourly, recalling Silverbell and her pesky little posse of gnats, but no dragons. “I was thinking of something a little bit more useful.”

  “Dragon lore can be extremely useful,” Conall said stiffly. “As you would know
, had you ever been on the wrong end of one.” He frowned and added, “Though, in truth, there is no good end.”

  “Lucky for me, that hasn’t been a problem. But, you never can tell. Good to know who to call in case of a dragonish event.”

  Conall moved closer, his dark gaze intense. Beck forgot about her headache. She forgot to breathe. It was like a force field, all that intensity, buffeting her in waves. Man, this guy was good and twice as dangerous when he turned on the charm. If she were smart, she’d get as far away from him as possible, for her own peace of mind, if nothing else. She certainly wouldn’t hire him. He’d be under her feet like a 225-pound Chihuahua.

  “Give me a chance,” he said. “Set me a task. I am a very fast learner. You will see.”

  His deep husky voice made her stomach go squishy. The last of her resolve crumbled.

  “Okay,” she said. So much for being smart. “But no sticking the customers with that sword of yours. Makes ’em cranky.”

  “If you insist.”

  His lips curved, ever so slightly. Was he amused? Nah, he didn’t have a sense of humor.

  “And you have to get along with the other employees.” She gave him a hard look. The blood was starting to pump back into her oxygen-deprived brain, and she already regretted her impulsive decision to hire him. “I’ve got my hands full keeping Hank happy. I don’t have the time or the energy to referee the rest of you.”

  “I will be the most affable of fellows.”

  “And you have to be nice to Tommy.”

  Beck waited, feeling pleased with herself. The zombie would be a deal breaker.

  Conall shrugged. “I will not harry the creature without reason. You have my word.”

  Her last hope shriveled on the vine. “Okay, you can start on Monday.”

  “I will start at once.”

  “At once?” He was overbearing, opinionated, and full of himself. He’d be ordering her around and driving her batshit in less than a week. “You don’t mean like now?”