Getting Familiar with Your Demon: That Old Black Magic, Book 4 (2 page)

He narrowed his eyes. “If I tell you, will you leave?”

“Mmm, possibly.”

He was desperate enough to take his chances. Five minutes later he’d laid out the gory details of his new unglorified status as Pricilla’s familiar. Cass and Nikki were suitably horrified and sympathetic, but they made no move toward packing their belongings so they could hustle their asses out of his home.

Weary defeat sat heavier than a one-ton boulder in his gut. Shit, he was never going to get rid of them. What was it with females and their incessant desire to make his life a living hell? “I’m going to take a shower.” He shot Nikki a warning stare. “Your ass is grass if my TV isn’t on that wall when I come back out here.”

Nikki only rolled her eyes. His teeth in danger of being ground to dust, he staggered into his bedroom. He was gratified to see it looked exactly the same as he’d left it. He’d half expected to find it redecorated in hot pink and fuchsia, with giant stuffed teddy bears or fucking fluffy purple bunnies strewn on his bed.

Damn women.

He shrugged from his grungy shirt, his bruised and battered muscles screaming a fit. Grimacing, he dropped the filthy garment and started toward the bathroom. He managed two steps across the carpet before his gaze landed on the dresser. Or more to the point, the second drawer down. The one that held the sum total of his life’s greatest achievement. And ultimate downfall.

No matter how hard he struggled to resist the calling, his feet still edged him in the direction of the dresser. He yanked open the drawer and stared at the specially commissioned Smith & Wesson revolver resting on a stack of neatly folded T-shirts.

Lucy.

Some males named their cars or boats. He named his gun. Fingers cramping slightly, he reached for the revolver. His palm absorbed the familiar coldness of the steel. It’d been six months since he’d held Lucy. He’d never gone that long without having her close by. Hell, she’d practically been an extension of his hand for seventy-eight years.

His thumb brushed the smooth wood grain of the handle, relearning its texture. How many damn souls had he confiscated with Lucy’s aid? Too fucking many to count. Most hadn’t meant a damn thing to him, just casualties to his profession. The only one that’d cracked through his dispassionate shell had been Nettie. Oh yeah, taking out that bitch had been sweeter than sweet.

Although he knew the dual barrels were empty, he spun the cylinders open, each hollow click of the revolving chambers increasing the tension in his gut. He still vividly recalled the day the demon council handed him Lucy and he officially received the branding on his back to seal his status. That simplistic tattoo was a pale shadow of the design he wore now—the end result of a drunken whim many moons ago, before his life really went down the shitter. He’d been stupid to think his rebellious decision to cover up the old tat with one of his own doing somehow made him the wielder of his own future. Owner of his own damn body.

What a fucking crock that was. Nothing would change the fact he’d signed over all rights when he’d followed the long-standing Gorasola tradition of becoming soul collectors. The hell of it was that he
had
been happy in the beginning. As was required of all demon soul collectors, he’d found a voodoo priestess to sanction his status in return for his services as her familiar. Lucinda Delacroix had more than fit the bill, and he’d actually liked her. Enough to even name his damn gun after her, for some asinine, sentimental reason. That was back when he’d been less jaded and cynical. Back before Lucinda’s devil spawn, Nettie, poisoned her mother so she could inherit all of Lucinda’s worldly goods—including Sam. The forty-eight years that followed with Nettie as his mistress were a slow spiral into the endless shit that became his existence, culminating with his present circumstance.

Growling, he slammed the chambers back in place on his revolver and tossed Lucy into the drawer before ramming it shut. First chance he got, he was renaming his damn gun. Chuck, Frank, Melvin. He didn’t give a rat’s ass, as long as it was anything other than another female. He’d learned his lesson dealing with that particular gender. Damn women were nothing but bad news. It certainly didn’t take another six months on execution row to convince him of that sad reality.

Weariness dragging at his limbs, he stripped off the remainder of his clothes and climbed into the shower stall. Hot water pounded his battered body, and he groaned as the heat temporarily banished his aches. Too bad all the other bullshit foisted on him today couldn’t be so easily swirled down the drain.

After cranking off the water, he snagged a towel, dried off and changed into clean jeans and a black T-shirt. He headed into the hallway, fully intending to grab a cold brew from the fridge, but the sound of Nikki and Cass arguing in the kitchen stalled him short. A tidal wave of irritation welled inside him. What was the world coming to that he couldn’t get drunk in the peace and quiet of his own home? Clenching his jaw with enough force to cause a painful spasm, he returned to his room and dug his wallet out of the nightstand drawer. A quick check verified that none of his money was missing. Damn good thing too, because with the mood he was in, there might have been bloodshed if Nikki or Cassidy had absconded with his cash.

After tucking his billfold in his back pocket, he teleported to the rear alley of his favorite watering hole, Champions. The only ones around to witness his sudden appearance were the family of stray cats scrounging in the dumpsters, and they seemed more interested in the discarded scraps than they were in him. He rounded the side of the building and stepped through the entrance. Grungy heavy metal pounded from the jukebox, providing a welcome respite to his ears after the months of crappy disco music he’d endured. He edged through the sea of patrons and slowed to a stop when he spotted Ian and Jasper Quint sitting at the bar.

A sharp spike of frustration slammed him between the shoulder blades. Of all the fucking nights to run into the two biggest pain-in-the-ass demon hunters known to mankind. To make matters worse, the last time he’d crossed paths with the brothers, Jasper managed to stab Sam in the shoulder. The flesh wound hadn’t been anything too serious, but it still chapped Sam’s ass that Jasper got the better of him.

Any other night, he’d love the opportunity to even the score with the Quint brothers and prove once and for all that it’d take a lot more than fancy footwork and a damn KA-BAR blade to take a Gorasola down.

Sam’s gaze tracked to the unmistakable outline of the knife strapped beneath the leg of Jasper’s jeans. Rather than give in to the urge to bid adieu to the bar and the two hunters who’d given him endless grief throughout the years, Sam hesitated, his words from earlier spinning in his head with taunting clarity.
For devil’s sake, would someone damn well kill me already?

Sam continued to stare at Jasper’s and Ian’s profiles until a cold, grim purpose spread through his chest.
Well shit.
Who said there was only one way to skin a cat?

Or kill a demon.

Chapter Two

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, Marabella Blanchard applied an extra spritz of Chanel to her plumped cleavage. If the ridiculously overpriced sultry scent didn’t do the trick, hopefully Trent Higgins would appreciate the overtime her Wonderbra was putting in.

Gnawing her lip, she rearranged the girls until she was reasonably sure they wouldn’t pop out of the scooped neckline of her cashmere sweater. She hated having to resort to dressing like an upper-class call girl, but desperate measures were called for. She was sick of men insisting they didn’t want to take advantage of her because she was too sweet and innocent. Being the only twenty-five-year-old virgin in Savannah was getting old, damn it. Come hell or high water, she was getting laid tonight.

After one last inspection in the ladies’ room mirror, she tucked the tiny perfume atomizer into the zippered compartment of her purse and exited into the crowded, noisy bar area of Champions. She headed toward her booth, her steps slowing when she spied Trent’s empty seat. A familiar sense of defeat washed over her.
Great. Another one bites the dust.

Yeah, she probably shouldn’t jump to the conclusion he’d ditched her, but after a multitude of her previous dates doing precisely that, she was prepared for the worst.

Despite all those past assurances that her innocence was the problem, she knew the real truth. She was cursed. Initially she’d assumed the eccentric psychic who cornered her at a birthday party a few weeks ago and shared that crazy theory was a certified whackadoodle. Not that Marabella didn’t believe in curses. But ones that warded off
sex
? Yeah, definitely nutty. But after the tenth case of a guy hitting the high road when things started to get hot and heavy, she’d reluctantly admitted the psychic might be on to something.

Now here she was—five additional failed dates later and no closer to losing her virginity. If that didn’t make a believer out of her, nothing would.

She couldn’t deny it anymore—she was well and truly cursed to become a spinster virgin. Maybe she should just accept her sad fate and adopt fifteen cats. Start knitting them sweaters and jaunty little hats they’d grumpily comply with wearing while they secretly plotted to kill her in her sleep.

The pathetic thought doing nothing to bolster the plummeting state of her mood, she trudged to the booth and slumped into her seat. Her gaze landed on the crisp twenty-dollar bill soaking up a ring of condensation near Trent’s unfinished beer. Well, at least
this
jerk hadn’t skipped out on her before paying the tab. Grumbling, she reached for her Cosmopolitan and took a fortifying sip. She immediately choked on the swallow as an unexpected wave of dark, intense energy wafted across her. She shivered, a colony of goose bumps dotting her skin.

There weren’t many times she’d encountered this kind of energy, but she knew well enough what was responsible for it. Trying not to draw attention to her actions, she carefully scooted closer to the edge of the bench seat and peered at the patrons congregated around the bar.

Where are you…?

An enormous guy wearing a navy-blue tracksuit shuffled out of Marabella’s vision, and her attention fell on the tall, sexy and decidedly dangerous individual striding toward the bank of stools adjacent to her. A harsh breath lodged in her esophagus. With his carelessly tousled midnight-black hair and strong, beard-stubbled jaw, the stranger was the living definition of bad boy. The fact he was a demon only made his off-the-charts sex appeal that much more alluring to any unsuspecting female.

Fortunately,
she
was more than aware of what he was, which made her reaction to him incredibly disturbing. Jerking her focus from his sinfully gorgeous features, she squeezed her thighs together, desperately willing away the hot, decadent arousal beating deep in her core. She sucked in a shaky inhalation.
What the hell is wrong with me?

She’d been attracted to her fair share of men before, but none of them came close to inspiring the same breathless excitement as the too-scrumptious-for-words demon standing across from her. If she pressed a hand between her legs, she was half terrified she’d find out just how dripping wet she truly was. For
him
.

Lusting after a demon—it was the pinnacle of wrongness. The cardinal sin topping all others.

She struggled against the overwhelming urge to peek at the demon before finally giving up the battle. Mr. Tall, Dark and Deadly stopped beside a scruffy-looking dude wearing denim coveralls and a battered baseball cap. The man took one look at the demon and quickly vacated his spot. Apparently used to strangers giving up seats to him, the demon straddled the stool and snapped his fingers at the stressed-out bartender.

Marabella tried not to notice the intriguing flex of muscles beneath the demon’s snug black T-shirt as he leaned toward the bar, but failed miserably. When she imagined sliding her hands beneath the cotton to feel the sinuous ripple of those muscles for herself, she grasped the delicate stem of her martini glass and slammed two large gulps of her Cosmo. The fruity alcohol provoked an unladylike sputter from her, but at least she had something else to concentrate on other than her traitorous attraction to the demon.

I should absolutely get out of here before I do something stupid.
Her mind was on the right track. Too bad her body refused to obey. She plunked her glass down with trembling fingers and fumbled for her purse. As she lifted it toward her lap, her attention locked on the two men farther down the bar who were staring at the demon with bloodlust glinting in their narrowed eyes.

Oh. Shit.

Ian and Jasper Quint. Although she wasn’t personally acquainted with the infamous hunters, she knew of their reputation. She shifted her scrutiny to the demon. He didn’t seem to be aware of the menacing interest he’d garnered from the Quint brothers. Sick dread pooled in the pit of her stomach. It made no sense why she should be fearful for the demon’s life. For all intents and purposes, they were on opposing teams. While she didn’t exactly condone Jasper’s and Ian’s methods, she should still applaud their quest to rid the world of dark, evil forces.

Only right now, the idea of them doing harm to Mr. Buff and Brooding didn’t sit well on her.

Her escalating anxiety continuing to fester, she watched the demon slug down a huge mug of beer before ordering another. Within the space of five minutes the demon chugged through four more rounds. If he was on a mission to tie one on, he was well underway. She’d long since abandoned her own drink. Her gut had enough to deal with, thanks to the uneasy queasiness sloshing around in there.

Didn’t the demon realize the prime target he was making of himself?

A perky young waitress bounced up to Marabella’s booth, momentarily blocking the view of the bar. “Would you like another drink?”

Smothering a frustrated groan, Marabella lifted her gaze to the girl’s cajoling expression. “No, thank you.”