Demons Undone: The Sons of Gulielmus Series

by Holley Trent

  “The mojo bags are part of the spell that’ll extend the protective barrier.” Claude tossed one into the air and caught it. “Don’t make the guy run you off before I get all the components in place. I don’t care if this guy’s the love of your life the way the Ivy League Incubus here claims, because if you leave his house before I finish doing my job, you’re going to get snatched. Papa is going to send his scouts out to hunt you the same way he does us when we fall off his telepathic grid.”

  “You’re exaggerating. Don’t scare her,” Charles said.

  Claude shrugged. “Fine.” He mumbled something in the French patois Julia had already become so familiar with after only a few days of knowing him. He walked toward the pink flag on a pine tree that marked the property line.

  Charles put his hand against her back and gave her a little nudge to start her walking. “The fact this guy is supposed to be yours makes this easier, okay? There aren’t so many people who’d take in one of Pop’s kids, even unmarked ones. Trouble tends to follow us. If he’d been any other man, we’d have to find someplace else to hide you. We looked. There’s nowhere else.”

  She swallowed, and straightened her spine. The least she could do was be brave, right? She didn’t have it as bad as Charles and Claude. They were marked, and Gulielmus could summon them or transport right to them depending on who was where. They placated him everyday. Made excuses. Told lies. They’d done good work for him for more than a century each, and had tainted the souls of innumerable women for Hell. But, recently, they’d quit. Gulielmus just didn’t know it yet.

  “Well, what’s his name, this love of my life and temporary warden?” she asked.

  Now, it was Charles’s turn to shrug. “Fuck if I know.”

  She stumbled, but his strong arm kept her upright.

  Great. “So, I can never leave?” she asked both brothers when she and Charles approached the driveway.

  She didn’t want to go from one jail straight to another. She’d left the compound because she didn’t want to be some old man’s fifth wife and mother to a brood of indistinct, glassy-eyed, towheaded children who looked exactly like her sisters’ kids and her cousins’ kids. She wanted to be some man’s one and only, and to have children because she was that in love—not because she had a quota to fill. Her quasi-cupid demon brother had sworn she could have that with this stranger he was hiding her with, but how could she?

  She was meant to be a succubus.

  Claude rested one of his large hands on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Hey. You’ll be fine, chéri. The folks at the compound aren’t going to come this far chasing after you, so you’re safe on that front. Now, just worry about … the other thing. You just need to hide out for a little while. I’m working on some charms for you, but you’ve got to give me some time. Lost half of my stash when I exorcised John. It’s going to take a while to erect the protective wards, and I’m low on supplies. I don’t think twelve bags are going to be enough. Charles underestimated the acreage.”

  She sighed. “Right. Just a little while.”

  In the meantime, she needed for some guy to fall head over heels in love with her … or at least tolerate her enough to not punt her from his woo-woo magical property.

  “Guess I better get on with it and go meet him.”

  “You’re not marching to the gallows, Julia,” Charles said. “You’ll love him. I swear it.”

  Sighing, she took her bag from Charles and with a final wave, started up the wooded path. “You’ll love him. I swear it,” was exactly what her stepfather had said about that geriatric windbag she was supposed to be assigned to. She really hoped she wasn’t stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

  #

  Groupie, scouter, or proselytizer—it couldn’t be anyone else at Calvin Wolff’s front door. His driveway was barely visible from the road, and the house was so far beyond the entrance that most folks gave up and turned around before they got to the clearing.

  That’s exactly the way he wanted it.

  The reason he’d purchased these ten acres of prime Blue Ridge real estate was so that people would leave him the hell alone. Folks had to be really ambitious to track him down and make that pilgrimage up to the house.

  He knew what his autograph was worth. His agent reminded him of it all the time. He hadn’t given out too many of them in the five years he’d played professional baseball, and now that he was more or less retired, the drive to get a piece of him hadn’t diminished at all. He was too damned interesting.

  Most of the time, he just queued up the security camera, which fed right into a handy-dandy app on his iPad, screened his visitors, and didn’t bother answering the door.

  He expected he’d do the same this time.

  He zoomed repeatedly on the blonde creature on his doorstep.

  “What the hell?” He panned the side camera up, and then down. Her hairstyle would have been perfect for a cast member of Real Housewives on the Prairie. Pretty sure he’d seen Laura Ingalls Wilder wearing braids coiled around her head like that.

  He didn’t even look at her face, but angled the camera down to her plain white blouse—with feminine, rounded collars, naturally—and a floral-print skirt that practically touched the wooden slats of the porch floor.

  “What the fresh hell?” he repeated as she depressed the doorbell button again.

  This didn’t look like any baseball groupie he’d ever seen before, but hell—maybe they were resorting to new tactics now.

  Her shoulders slumped, and she dropped something from one.

  It was a bag of some sort.

  When she took a step back, she moved into the center camera’s range, and he finally cleared the focus on her face.

  “Goddamn.”

  He crossed his arms, leaned back in his leather desk chair, and whistled low.

  “What’s she selling? Tupperware? Bibles, probably.”

  He’d need a Bible to purge himself of the lascivious thoughts threading through his mind at the moment. Maybe they could play a little game. She could borrow his favorite sweatshirt and pretend to be Little Red Riding Hood. He could be the Big Bad Wolff, and when he caught her, she’d tell him all about his big things.

  The last time he’d seen a woman who looked like that was …

  Well, actually, he’d never seen a woman who looked like that. Before he’d entered his self-prescribed seclusion, the women he tended to consort with were the kinds who didn’t have tan lines, and not because they avoided the sun. This one had probably never seen the inside of a tanning bed, or much else for that matter. Those delicate lobes of hers weren’t even pierced. Her eyebrows had probably never seen a pair of tweezers, but she was pretty for it. The brows suited her large, thick-lashed eyes and balanced the luscious lips she kept pulling into her teeth’s clamp. He bet those lips were pink as dogwood flowers, but he couldn’t tell from the black and white image. He should have spent the extra money on the color cameras. She leaned forward and rang the bell once more.

  Persistent. They always were, though. They always thought if they’d done the work of finding the place, they’d give their best effort at getting inside, sometimes illegally. That’s why he kept a shotgun loaded and cocked behind his front door. Hadn’t had to use it yet, but he’d grown up in the sticks, so if he had to shoot, he knew how, and would. He had other ways of scaring people, though. He’d just prefer not resorting to them.

  She disappeared from the cameras’ views for a moment, and when she stood again, she had the bag strap on her shoulder and her face had taken on a pall of dejection.

  “It’s not that big of a deal, honey. It’s just a li’l ol’ autograph.”

  Worth at least five hundred bucks, depending on what he scribbled it on. He’d been asked to sign some pretty remarkable things, some of which couldn’t actually be commodified. That one time with the twins had been fun.

  The woman turned, walked to the steps, and sat, easing the bag onto her lap.

  She wa
s going to wait it out.

  “Okay, definitely not a proselytizer.”

  She leaned her head against the stair rail as lightning flashed through the sky and rain began to patter against his tin roof.

  February rain. Cold and miserable.

  She must have certainly felt it, because she stood and backed toward the door, still clutching that bag against her chest.

  “Okay, probably not a groupie.”

  Groupies didn’t particularly like getting their hair wet.

  And why wasn’t she wearing a coat? With those thin clothes on, she’d catch her death from cold.

  “All right. You win.” He put his iPad to sleep and rested it on his desk. For a moment, he just sat there. Thinking. Wondering.

  It occurred to him, suddenly, that maybe she was from the temp agency. The last time he’d talked to them, they hadn’t found him any new candidates for his live-in assistant position. He had specific needs, and they were tough to meet.

  Maybe they’d found someone, but judging from the sight of her, she didn’t look like she could operate a computer, much less make day-to-day decisions for him regarding his personal affairs. She was lovely, though.

  Hadn’t he asked for someone plain?

  Oh well. Might as well let her off the hook.

  Chapter Two

  Calvin stood and strode out of the office and through the den, pausing at the front door.

  He didn’t like dealing with strangers. There were too many unpredictable variables and he often had a difficult time reading social cues. He hadn’t always been that way. He used to be really damn charming, but then … things had happened.

  Allowing himself one bolstering breath, he unlocked the deadbolt and turned the knob.

  “Can I help you, honey?”

  She turned and opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She swallowed and shifted her weight, and her bright blue eyes went wide.

  Bright blue. Blue as the Caribbean he hadn’t seen in three years, and they made her face seem warm in spite of the fair hair. She was awe-inspiring. Standing in front of her, he felt the way he always did as a kid when looking at big Renaissance paintings of angels or spectacular stained glass. That smattering of freckles across her cheeks counterbalanced her ethereal looks with a touch of down-to-Earthiness. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and imagined being on the receiving end of an ice water IV, because every single one of his Y-chromosomes stood up to salute. He was so hot all of a sudden; she could probably touch him and leave a dent. She was a broiler, and he was a stick of store-brand margarine.

  Jesus, keep me near the cross.

  He closed his eyes, swallowed with great difficulty, and tried again. “Would you happen to be from the agency?”

  “The agency?” Her voice was lusty and low, and woke up his nuts in four tiny syllables. He hadn’t expected her to sound like that.

  Shit, what next? Would she open that bag and take out rope, a whip, and a blindfold?

  Actually, that wouldn’t be so bad. He might actually like that. It’d be better than her just lying there like a lump. That’s what all the rest did. That’s what they thought the Wolff wanted.

  He pulled the bottom of his undershirt up and wiped his sweaty forehead. “The employment agency,” he said in a strained voice. He let the shirt fall in time to see her furrowing that pretty brow.

  “Oh. Do you need help?” Her eyes widened. “Did your stomach just growl? It was loud.”

  Nope. He rolled his tense shoulders and took several long, deep breaths. There. That was better. “That’s usually why people contract agencies, so, yes.” He smiled at her, and for once, it was genuine. He couldn’t tell if she was a ditz or if she was just that kind of person who liked to double- and triple-check things so she didn’t make an ass of herself. Either way, her consideration was endearing. Sweet, even. He didn’t have enough sweet in his life.

  “Then I’ll help you.” She slipped by him, brushing his side as she passed and he drew in a long whiff of her essence.

  Plain old clean, no perfume. Maybe that wasn’t a costume after all.

  He shrugged, shut the door, and followed her through the corridor. He stopped when she halted at the living room entryway.

  She scanned the room at her left, around to the large open kitchen in front of them, and then the dining room he never used at the right.

  She set her duffel bag—olive canvas that seemed incongruous in the possession of such a soft woman—onto the floor beside the console table and turned to face him. “What do you need help with?” She loosened the buttons at her cuffs and rolled up her starched sleeves.

  “Oh, you’re serious.” He laughed, and put up his hands. “Hold on. We need to do a bit of an interview first. You might not want to work for me. Folks say I’m difficult.”

  He growled at people, for fuck’s sake.

  “Are you?” she asked.

  “I made you ring three times, so what do you think?”

  She cocked her head to the side a bit. “I think you’re probably careful.”

  “I think you’re smart.” He rested his hand on her back and nudged her toward the kitchen. As soon as he touched her, he wanted to skim his fingers lower, and wrap his arm around her trim waist, but that would have been entirely inappropriate. Too proprietary, even though for some reason she felt like she was his.

  Well, he knew the reason.

  There was a reason he’d asked for plain. He’d just have to get through the next fifteen minutes without acting on that base impulse, or else the interview would devolve very quickly into a trial by fire.

  This woman shouldn’t be affecting him so much. She wasn’t his type. He must have been desperate. His mother said that’d happen—if he kept himself away from people.

  He pulled out one of the frou-frou upholstered chairs his designer-slash-mother had picked out, and she sat gracefully into it, crossed her legs at the ankles, and folded her hands on her lap.

  Manners. Nice.

  “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got water, orange juice, Cheerwine, real wine, beer, and about forty-seven coffee pod flavors courtesy of my mama.” He grimaced. His mama had her own damned house. He’d bought it. She still insisted on marking her territory in his. “What’s your poison?”

  “Um.” She rolled her eyes up to him and blinked. “I’ll have what you’re having, I suppose.”

  “It’s 11:00 a.m. Good girls aren’t supposed to get knackered before noon.”

  Very slowly, red bloomed across her face and down her neck, and he grinned all the while, loving the spectacle. Making a woman blush nowadays was getting harder and harder. They were all so jaded, but this one didn’t seem to have those issues.

  He liked making her blush. Knowing he could breach her walls gave him a thrill, but he’d have to be careful. He wasn’t cruel, after all.

  “I’m just playing with you. Coffee? It’s cold out.”

  “I’ve never had it, but I’ll try it.”

  His smile snapped in. She’d said what now?

  “You’ve never had coffee? Where’d you grow up, Utah?”

  The red came back, and she cast her gaze to the floor. “Close.”

  Oh boy. This really wasn’t going to work. He was the kind of man who stayed up until 3:00 a.m., watching Van Damme movies wearing only his boxer briefs and sucking down a case of Natty Light, and she didn’t even drink coffee?

  “Well, don’t let me corrupt you.”

  She looked up and gave him the tiniest smile, but for the way it made him feel, it may as well have been a French kiss. It put a squeeze on his heart he’d never felt before.

  He swallowed, and took a couple of steps back. He could get addicted to that smile.

  “I’d like to try it. My brothers were trying to talk me into it, and I think they’ve worn me down enough now.”

  “In that case, I’ve got just the thing.” He opened the cabinet over the coffee maker, glad to have the distraction from her remarkable face,
and plucked out a chocolate hazelnut coffee pod and popped it into the machine. He never drank those fussy flavors but his mama insisted on buying ‘em anyway, and Swiss Miss here would probably appreciate it. “So, what’s your name? That’s a good place to start this interview.”

  “Julia. Julia Tate.”

  “Nice to meet you, Julia. I am, obviously, Calvin Wolff.” He bumped the coffeemaker lid closed and pressed the power button.

  “Calvin.” She said the name as if it were foreign to her—as if she didn’t know it. Didn’t she?

  “What kind of information did the agency give you about me before they sent you out here? Long drive from Asheville.”

  “None.”

  Fuckers. Oughtta really fire them this time.

  “Do you know anything about me at all?”

  She gave her head a slight shake, and he turned to the cabinet again, this time pulling out a mug. He set it beneath the dispenser and pushed a few buttons and the stream of hot coffee poured down.

  Maybe it was good she didn’t know anything about him. Most people knew too much of the wrong stuff.

  “Okay.” He leaned his butt against the counter and crossed his arms. “Stop me if you’ve heard any of this already. I pitched pro baseball for five years. Led my team to four consecutive World Series games, and we won the last two of those. I quit while I was at my peak. Immediately after I retired, I walked away from a small plane crash with only minor bruises, and now people think I’m some kind of magical golden boy.”

  “Are you?”

  He set the coffee mug onto the table and nudged the sugar container toward her.

  “Magic? No, I don’t have any of that. Wish I did, sometimes.” He paused in front of the refrigerator, and rested one hand on the handle. If there were magic in play, he wouldn’t have been born cursed. That’s what it was. A curse. His parents called it genetics, but he’d always called a spade a spade. He was a born werewolf. What was so fucking magical about that? He couldn’t go out in public without snapping at people, thinking they were all out to steal his kibble. And he had to defend his territory, right? Didn’t matter if it was just a corner table at Starbucks. He liked that table. It was his.