Jodi Redford - Getting Familiar with Your Demon

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.

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.