Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb (40 page)

S
he was wiping down the bar when she saw
him
, sitting in his usual spot at a table in the corner, surrounded by shadows. Shadows that he brought with him, Beck thought with a surge of annoyance. Conall Dalvahni carried his own black hole of gloom wherever he went. With his dark hair and eyes, and his brooding expression, he was the freaking Grim Reaper, if Death were a demon hunter.

Beck couldn't stand the guy, and the feeling was mutual. So why was he back? He'd made it clear he thought she was pond scum, an insult to decent, right-thinking creatures everywhere.

He was a demon slayer and she was a demonoid. Polar opposites. Oil and vinegar. TNT and a lit match.

It had been nearly a month since she'd last seen him. Twenty-one days, to be exact; three whole weeks without Mr. Dark and Gloomy, and good riddance. She should have shrugged off his icy disdain by now, forgotten about him and moved on. But his obvious contempt for her had stuck in her craw. She couldn't stop thinking about him, and that pissed her off.

Everything about him pissed her off. His forbidding, humorless demeanor and his arrogant, holier-than-thou attitude.

And now he was back. Not for long, though. This was her place. She'd kicked him out once and she'd do it again.

Hefting a liquor bottle with a metal pour spout in one hand, she stalked over to his table.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“That depends.” His deep, rough voice grated on her nerves and made her stomach knot. “What have you to offer?”

“Nothing you're interested in.”

His dark gaze raked her up and down, casual and insolent. Infuriating. Beck's grip tightened on the bottle.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “You have information about the demon activity in this area, information that I require.”

“Get your information someplace else, mister.”

“I am more than willing to recompense you for your trouble.”

A flat leather pouch appeared in his hand. Opening it, he tossed a thick wad of hundred dollar bills on the table between them. Beck stared at the pile of bills. It was a lot of money, several thousand dollars at least.

“There is more where that came from, Rebekah.”

Something hot and hurt flared inside her. On top of being lower than dirt, he thought she was for sale. She pushed the feeling aside. It didn't matter what he thought. She was an idiot for letting the guy get under her skin.

“The name's Beck and I don't need your money.”

“Your name is not Beck. It is Rebekah Damian.”

“Who told you my—”

“You are thirty-one years old,” he continued, as though reciting a series of memorized facts. “Although you appear much younger, no doubt due to the demon blood flowing in your veins. Your father is Jason Beck Damian, a nice enough fellow, but otherwise a quite unremarkable human. This bar belonged to him—thus the name—until he married and started another family. His wife does not drink and disapproved of her husband running a tavern. At her encouragement, he sold the place.”

“Encouragement?” Beck made a rude noise. “Brenda nagged his ass until he caved.”

“At eighteen, you were too young to purchase Beck's on your own,” Conall said. “So you bought the place with the help of your partner, Tobias James Littleton, and turned it into a bar that caters to your kind. The name you kept.”

“My goodness, Daddy's been running his mouth, hasn't he?” Beck drawled. She clamped down on her rising temper. “At his age, you'd think he'd know better than to talk to strangers.”

“I have supped at his eatery several times in the past few weeks,” Conall said with a shrug. “The name of the place eludes me.”

“Beck's Burger Doodle,” Beck ground out.

“Ah, yes. The Party Burger is a favorite of mine.”

“Daddy makes a good hamburger. So what?”

“Your father has told me much about you.” Conall reached across the table and toyed with the salt shaker. The sleeves of his Henley sweater were pushed back, exposing his strong forearms. His shoulders were broad and heavily corded with muscle. He had beautiful hands, strong and bronzed; the hands of a warrior. And not just any old warrior, Beck reminded herself; a demon killer. “He confided, for instance, that he had a three-day dalliance as a young man with a woman named Helene.”

Her mother? Daddy had told Conall about her
mother
? Beck stared at him in disbelief.

“She was a dark-haired beauty like you,” Conall said, his gaze on her face. “He did not know it at the time, but she was demon possessed. Some months later, Helene returned, changed almost beyond recognition from the excesses of the demon. She had a child with her, an infant girl with a strawberry blotch on one shoulder, a birthmark common in the Damian family. That baby was you. She shoved you into your father's arms and left, never to be seen again.”

“Daddy told you all this?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit. My father never talks about his freak of a daughter. He's an upstanding citizen now, a member of the Civitan Club and a good Baptist. What did you do to get him to spill the beans, put the whammy on him?”

“Whammy?” Conall sat back in his chair. “You think I wrested the information from your parental unit by supernatural force?”

“Figured that out by yourself, did ya? My, you are the bright one.”

“You do not like me.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Beck said, tapping her forefinger in the air. “Right again.”

Conall's black gaze slid from her face to the bottle in her hand. “I see. And what do you plan to do with that flask?”

“I was thinking of bashing you over the head with it if you don't leave.”

His black brows rose. “You wish to hit me? Why?”

“Mister, the last time you were here, you all but said you think the kith are nothing but vermin to be exterminated, and now you're back. Seeing as how I'm kith and you're a demon hunter, I take your presence here as a threat.”

“Kith? This is the term for your kind?”

“It's
our
term,” Beck said. “For some reason, we like it better than scum-sucking demon spawn.”

“Are you always so sarcastic?”

“Only when I'm awake.”

He regarded her without expression. Nothing unusual about that; the guy had about as much expression as a two-by-four. “You think I came here to kill you.”

“It crossed my mind.”

“And yet you confront me with nothing but a bottle in your hand, and I a demon slayer.”

“I can take care of myself,” Beck said. “I've been doing it a long time.”

Conall sprang at her in a blur of movement. The bottle in Beck's hand clattered to the floor as she was swept up and pinned against the nearest wall by more than six feet of hard-muscled male.

“You fascinate me,” Conall said. His voice was dark and rough. “I cannot decide whether you are brave or foolish. Perhaps both.”

Beck went still. The heat from his big body and his crisp, woodsy scent surrounded her. He smelled like a little bit of heaven, she'd give him that.

“Let go of me.” She felt the weight of his stare, but kept her gaze fastened on his wide chest. He was too close. He was too big, too everything.

The alpha male jackass ignored her and bent closer. The air froze in her lungs.

“You smell of jasmine and spices. Sweet and exotic,” he murmured. His warm breath whispered across her skin. To Beck's horror and chagrin, she began to tremble. “How . . . interesting. I expected the stench of demon to be upon you.”

His last words hit her like a slap in the face. Anger washed over her, bright and hot, followed by an overwhelming urge to escape. Shifting into a column of water, she flowed from his grasp. It was easy, this close to the river. Water strengthened her powers. It was one reason she hadn't wanted to sell the bar and move into town.

The stunned look on Conall's face as she poured out of his arms was priceless, almost worth the aggravation of being around him.

Almost.

She glided across the wooden floor and resumed her former shape, taking care to place the table between them before she reshifted.

“Out.” She pointed to the door. Her chest heaved and angry tears burned the back of her eyes. She would not let him see her cry. She refused. “And this time don't come back.”