Chapter Nine
Gryff. The familiar pain seared Grim. His hand went to the medallion at his throat. Closing his eyes, he saw again the blood-laced water and his brother’s mutilated body sweeping over the falls.
Grim had scoured the river for days, searching for some sign of Gryff. He found nothing but the necklace.
My fault. Gryff’s death is on my head.
It was a familiar litany, one Grim had repeated countless times over the centuries.
Soft sobbing penetrated his fog of grief and self-loathing. When he opened his eyes, his bleary gaze went to the woebegone figure on the floor.
Grim leaped to his feet. “Sassy? You are hurt?”
The floor pitched and rolled beneath his feet. He grabbed the back of a chair for support. What ailed him? His legs were as wobbly as a new colt’s.
“Sad.” The hitch in Sassy’s voice tore Grim’s heart. “Make it stop. I don’t like it.”
Stumbling across the room, Grim scooped her into his arms, no easy feat when the room swam around him. He sat down in a chair and settled Sassy in his lap.
“Do not be frightened,” he said. “It will pass. I am certain of it.”
Sassy blinked up at him, tears coursing down her cheeks. “H-how do you know?”
Unable to resist, Grim caught a sparkling droplet with the pad of his thumb. “Logic. You are bound to run out of water sooner or later.”
Sassy hiccupped in surprise and chuckled, and, like that, the storm was over.
“Thank God.” Evan shoved a napkin at her. “Don’t cry, Lollipop. I don’t like it.”
She blew her nose. “I don’t, either. I must look awful. Is my nose red?”
Grim tilted her chin and peered at her. “Yes. Both of them.”
“Both?”
“Some strange witchery is afoot,” Grim said. “I see two of everything.”
“You’re sloshed,” Evan said. “You two had a party without me.”
Sloshed? Grim’s befuddled brain tried to process the strange term and failed. It was hard to think with Sassy’s flowery scent invading his senses.
Sloshed is an informal term used to indicate the state of inebriety. The Provider’s dry voice filled Grim’s head. Humans use an astonishing variety of words to describe the condition. My personal favorite is “worshipping the porcelain goddess,” a rather amusing description of vomiting, involuntary spasms that allow humans to eject matter from the stomach when they imbibe too much alcohol.
“There must be some mistake.” Grim shook his head. He regretted it at once, for the room spun. “The Dal do not know sickness, nor are we affected by drugs or alcohol. And what of Sassy? She is under the same spell.”
“Sugar,” Sassy murmured, resting her head on Grim’s shoulder. “Fairies.”
With a drowsy sigh, she relaxed against him and went to sleep.
Grim stilled. A surge of lust hit him, hard and fierce. Sassy smelled delightful, a dizzying combination of summer roses and female. Curling tendrils of her hair lifted to caress his jaw, like flowers reaching for the sun.
I am her sword and shield. The vow rose unbidden in his mind. Here and now I vow to protect her, from anyone or anything that threatens her.
An admirable sentiment, I am sure, the Provider said, but hardly necessary. She leaves tomorrow, and you return to the hunt. That is good, is it not?
Yes, of course.
Then why the hollow ache in his chest?
“Brother, have you perchance ingested a thing called chocolate?” Conall asked.
Evan waved the empty syrup container in the air. “Muh duh. He slugged down a jug in one sitting.”
“That explains it,” Conall said. “The Dal are susceptible to chocolate. Fortunately, the effects do not last long due to our accelerated healing abilities.”
“Maybe, but he’s gonna have a mother of a hangover.” Evan threw his head back and laughed. “Demon hunters can’t handle their chocolate. That’s frigging priceless.”
Conall gave him a cold look. “You will keep this information to yourself, if you value your health.”
Evan stiffened. “Is that a threat?”
“No. It is a promise.”
“Whatever.”
Evan stomped over to Grim. “Give her to me. I’ll put Sassy to bed.”
“No.”
“Don’t be an ass. You’re loaded. You’ll drop her.”
“I will not drop her.”
Evan made an exasperated gesture.
“Do something with him,” he said to Conall. “Tell the big galoot she’s safer with me.”
“As Rebekah was safe with you?” Conall’s voice was soft and deadly. “I think not.”
Evan shot him a look of dislike. “You think I wanted to hurt her? I had no choice.”
“There is always a choice.”
“Fuck you,” Evan said. “You don’t know dick about it.”
He stalked from the kitchen and slammed the front door behind him.
Evan paused at the top of the porch steps, his old companion rage surging through his veins like acid. Survive or die; those had been his choices. He learned the hard way early on to look out for Numero Uno.
No one else would, for damn sure.
His muscles shifted and burned. Skin stretched. Bones and sinews expanded. Damn, he was hulking out again. He examined his hands. They were already twice their normal size, the nails lengthening into black claws. He’d better slow his roll or the monster would bust loose. The change had been hell, both ways.
Like he didn’t have enough to deal with without shifting into a no-brain goon with the temper of a pissed-off rhino.
Damn that witch. He would fix her for doing this to him. Home skillet was done taking shit off people.
He leaped off the porch and sprinted around the house, taking care to keep inside the shimmering spell line. Didn’t want to fry his ass; demon hunter magic was powerful stuff. Besides, he wasn’t leaving Sassy. She was some kind of special. He’d known it the minute he laid eyes on her. She was a supercharged antidepressant in a very shapely package. Feel-good and well-being poured off her. She was the smell of fresh-baked cookies, pound cake, and homemade bread. She was the holidays and celebrations he’d never had; the proms and homecoming dances he didn’t attend; the pep rallies and ballgames he’d missed out on.
Being around Sassy was a special kind of high, the melting sugary goodness of a hot glazed doughnut combined with the breathless excitement of love’s first kiss. Mary Poppins and the Blue Fairy were a couple of loser skank hos compared to the Lollipop. Sassy made him forget the things he’d done. The things that had been done to him. She made him forget what he was: death dealer; petty criminal and con man; former slave and torture victim.
He’d been raised by a couple of demons. Hagilth and Elgdrek were their names. Real sweethearts. Not.
The demons had found him in a flophouse, a baby abandoned by his demon-possessed mother. His demon blood had kept him alive through the years of captivity, healing him over and over again to take the abuse dished out by the fiends. Ward and June Cleaver his demon parents were not.
Evan had given up hope of release. He was Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, reliving the same shitty butthole of a day umpteen times.
Then the unexpected happened, and Hagilth and Elgdrek got vaporized. Evan was free. No more pain or terror. No more shame and self-loathing.
Then reality had smacked him upside the ass. He had no skills—unless you counted the kind that get you in trouble with the law—no trade, and no formal education. Hell, he could barely read and write.
He had family in Hannah: a norm father he hardly knew, a norm stepmother who looked at him like she expected him to break out in VD or serial killer—or both—at any moment. Two prepubescent norm half siblings he had no interest in.
Oh, yeah, and Beck, his long-lost sister. His twin, the reason he’d come to Hannah. But, instead of welcoming him with open arms, Beck had married a demon hunter.
And not any old demon hunter; Rebecca Damian didn’t do anything by half. Hell no. She married Conall the Almighty, the holier-than-thou, pain-in-the-ass captain of the frigging Dalvahni.
So much for the family reunion. He was on his own; nothing new about that.
He’d drifted around for a while before landing back in Hannah. There was something about this pisspot little town that pulled him in. He’d settled into a crappy trailer in a scuzzy part of town. Maintained a low profile. Kept under the radar of the two d’s: demons and Dalvahni. He’d snuck out of hiding for his sister’s wedding. Watched the ceremony from across the river. Uninvited and unnoticed, a starving kid with his face pressed against a bakery window.
The witch had caught him, unsuspecting and unawares. She’d pulled a Granny Good Witch on him. Stuffed him with scones and hot tea that had been mickeyed, and threw him in the shed to fatten him up.
The witch’s talent was growing things. Something she’d put in his chow had changed him, turning him into God knows what.
Add that to the laundry list of things he had to be cheesed about.
Evan picked up the pace to outrun the rage. His life had been one long everlasting gobstopper of suckage until Sassy dropped into his lap. Her gift for feel-good was priceless, a gold mine, and she was running around clueless. What a fucking waste. The sheer unfairness of it made him want to spit nails and shit bullets. If he had a gift like that, nothing would stop him. Life for old Evan had been one supersized shit sandwich served up on maggoty bread.
It was about time the universe tossed him something besides a kidney punch and a kick in the teeth. Sassy Peterson was his golden ticket. Everyone could use a little Sassy picker-upper. He and Sassy would open an office and take in patients, adding satellites as their business grew.
Nah—that was chickenshit thinking. Television was the way to go; a reality show like that psychic chick from Long Island. The Sassy Sunshine Show had a nice ring to it. They’d be nationwide. There’d be endorsement deals and product lines. The possibilities were endless.
He did two more laps around the house and stopped to catch his breath. The exercise had helped, but anger and the monster rode him hard, pushing at his skin and cramping his organs until he thought he would burst out of his skin. He threw his head back and breathed deeply to tamp down the rage. The night sky was studded with stars. In the river, a fish splashed. The forest formed a dark curtain around the house, insulating them from the rest of the world.
It would be easy with someone like Sassy to forget the big ugly that waited beyond the fringe of trees, but it was there, a hungry gator eager to chomp you in the ass.
He ought to know. He had the bite marks to prove it.
A malformed shape shambled out of the trees and onto the manicured lawn. The witch’s body was bent and her arms dragged the ground. Her skin sagged, a flesh suit several times too large for her bony frame.
“Goddamn, you’re ugly, bitch,” Evan said. “Who’d you piss off to rate a kisser like that?”
“I’m the one you need to worry about pissing off, pretty boy.” The witch’s voice was a sandpaper rasp. “Hand over the girl and we’ll let bygones be bygones.”
“I don’t think so, not after what you’ve done.”
“You are such a little whiner. I’ve had it rough. Life is so unfair.” The witch hawked up a loogie the size of a baseball and let it fly. “Grow a set. Your sister has bigger balls than you.”
Anger burned inside Evan. It had been banked there, smoldering below the surface for years with no release, not with Hagilth and Elgdrek ever ready with a smackdown.
Dear old Momsie and Popsie were dead. Halle-freaking-lujah. The bindings were broken. The fury Evan had suppressed his entire life bubbled inside him, a hot, rising magma of resentment and hate.
“What did you feed me?”
“Put a little formula of mine in your food and water—something that makes things grow.” The witch lifted her crooked shoulders. “You should thank me. You needed fattening up.”
“You try that shit on a demonoid before?”
“Come to think of it, no. You were my first.”
“Epic mistake, ass mug.”
Evan flipped the cap on his rage and let it spew.