Demon Hunting With a Dixie Deb

Book 4: Demon Hunting

by Lexi George

Genres: Humor & Satire; Action & Adventure Romance; Fantasy Romance; Paranormal Romance; Shifters

Synopsis

Deep South legends. Deep fried curses. Deep dish revenge . . . This Debutante Is Having A Ball! Way down south in the land of cotton, one belle's plans are soon forgotten--when Sassy Peterson drives her Maserati off the road to avoid a deer and lands smack-dab in the proverbial creek without a paddle. The Alabama heiress should have known something weird was going on when she saw the deer's ginormous fangs. Hello, Predator Bambi! But nothing can prepare her for the leather-clad, muscle-bound, golden-eyed sex god who rescues her. Who wears leather in May? That's just the first of many questions Sassy has when her savior reveals he's a demon hunter named Grim. Also: Why would a troop of fairies want to give her magical powers and rainbow hair? Why would a style-challenged beast called the Howling Hag want to hunt her down? Most importantly, what's a nice debutante like Sassy doing in a place like this anyway? Besides feeling Grim . . . Praise for Demon Hunting in Dixie "A demonically wicked good time."--Angie Fox "A not-to-be-missed Southern-fried, bawdy, hilarious romp." --Beverly Barton, New York Times bestselling author "A genuinely funny new voice in paranormal romance."-- Publishers Weekly

Release date: May 24, 2016

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 376

Sample

Monday afternoon

Maseratis don’t float.

Sassy’s stepfather had given her a list of dos and don’ts as long as her arm before handing her the keys to his gleaming blue convertible. That salient little fact he’d failed to mention.

The front end tilted and the car sank into the creek faster than Sassy could say mani-pedi. Water poured into the open cabin, sweeping her purse and cell phone away and enveloping her in an icy, gasp-inducing wash. It was early May in Alabama. Temperatures were in the low eighties, but the water was freezing.

The automobile settled to the streambed with a gentle bump. The late afternoon sun was shining, the water clear and full of sparkles. Pebbles swirled in the current on the sandy floor. A school of minnows darted past the submerged vehicle.

Maseratis definitely do not float.

It was a serious design flaw Sassy planned to take up with the manufacturer. The Maserati was a high-end automobile. It ought to float. It should come equipped with little wings and flotation devices and toodle across the surface of the water like a Jesus bug, saving its driver a great deal of discomfort and inconvenience.

Not to mention the ruination of a perfectly good silk dress and a pair of laser-cut Sergio Rossi sandals.

A complaint to the manufacturer was in order, as well as a tube of waterproof mascara. Sassy had the horrible suspicion her makeup had run.

First things first. She’d climb out of the creek. Then she’d figure out where she was.

Two hours earlier, she’d sailed out of Fairhope headed for Hannah, a trek of maybe fifty miles. Her GPS had directed her off Highway 31 and down a series of twisting two-lane roads. By the time she realized the device had malfunctioned, she was lost in the wilds of Behr County.

Sassy hadn’t been worried. It was a beautiful day. The gas tank was three-quarters full, and she was behind the wheel of a very expensive Italian sports car. The Maserati handled like a dream. It hugged the curves and hammered up and down the wooded hills, the responsive, aggressive engine under the hood purring like a satiated tiger.

Top down, sound system blaring, Sassy had rounded a curve. A pony truss bridge lay dead ahead, metal railings bleeding rust in the afternoon sunshine. The narrow, winding road and the bridge set against a verdant backdrop of trees made a postcard picture. Sassy was admiring the bucolic simplicity of the scene when a deer bounded out of the woods and in front of the car, a big ugly deer with gooey black eyes and teeth like knives. Sassy was no Nature Gal, but she knew deer didn’t have fangs and claws. Deer are herbivores, for goodness’ sake. She swerved to avoid Predator Bambi, ran off the road, and that’s how she’d landed in the creek.

A broken branch danced across the hood of the submerged car in a flurry of green leaves. Don’t panic, Sassy thought, holding her breath. Keep calm. Unfasten your seat belt and climb out. You’re charity chair of the Fairhope chapter of the Lala Lavender League. Die and Brandi Chambliss will assume your mantle of leadership.

Energized by the dreadful thought, Sassy fumbled for the seat belt latch and pushed. Nothing happened. The mechanism was jammed. Her heart rate shot into overdrive. She was going to drown. When they pulled her body from the sunken car her sleek golden tresses would be sodden and lank, her makeup smeared. Her flirty little sundress with the pleated skirt would cling to her like Press’n Seal.

She wasn’t wearing a thong.

She would have visible panty lines.

Sassy yanked the shoulder harness over her head. She was trying to wiggle free of the lap belt when a large, masculine hand closed around the restraint. The sturdy fabric snapped like an overcooked spaghetti noodle, and Sassy was lifted, dripping, from the car.

She was slung across a brawny shoulder. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Wheezing for breath, she shoved her streaming hair out of her face. She caught a glimpse of a broad, muscular back and the best-looking butt she’d ever beheld—right side up or upside down.

The stranger turned and waded for shore. Locomotion did fascinating things for that marvelous rump. His worn leather britches clung to him like a second skin, outlining the ripple and bulge of muscle as he moved.

Leather in May? Goodness, leather was so last season. The poor man would get a rash.

Her thoughts scattered as she started to slide. To her shock, a large, masculine hand cupped her rear end. Sassy yelped in surprise at the intimate contact. The back of her dress had ridden up, exposing her bottom. The warmth of his palm through her lacy panties was a red-hot brand.

Sassy drummed her fists against his broad back. “Put me down.”

He paused a few feet from the embankment. The water swirled around his powerful legs.

“A precipitous notion.” His deep voice sent a little zing of awareness through her. “Perhaps you should—”

“I said put me down. Now.”

The man’s massive shoulders lifted in a shrug. “If you insist.”

He tossed her into the creek.

The frigid water closed around Sassy once more.

Of all the bad-mannered, ungentlemanly—

Sputtering in outrage, she scrambled to her feet. Her four-inch spike heels sank into the sand. The water hit her below the waist, plastering her dress to her shivering body. The current was strong. She lost her balance and went down on one knee. She struggled upright on the spindly shoes.

He grabbed her arm to steady her. She repaid the act of courtesy with a glare.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said. “When I said put me down, I meant on the road.”

“Then you should have said so. Humans are woefully inexact.”

Ignoring her protests, he lifted her in his arms and carried her up the kudzu-choked embankment. He plunked her down in the middle of the bridge, returning her outraged regard without expression. At five foot two, Sassy was used to looking up at people, but, jeez, he was a big guy, a lean, hard giant of a man. His long hair was a rich reddish brown, the color of cinnamon. He wore some kind of metal-studded leather vest over a muslin shirt. The damp fabric clung to his pectorals and bulging deltoids. The dark swirl of his chest hair was visible through the thin cloth. A necklace of braided silver with an iridescent medallion hung from his muscular neck.

Her gaze moved to his face. She searched for a flaw. There were none. Cheesy Pete, the guy was a looker: eyes like beaten gold, chiseled jaw, and a stern, unsmiling mouth.

Contacts. The thought drifted through Sassy’s befuddled brain. He must wear contacts. No one has eyes that color.

“Next time you wish to be placed upon the road, say so,” he said with more than a hint of disapproval. “Clarity is the heart of useful discourse. Unless you enjoy being difficult?”

“Me? Any sensible person—any gentleman—would know what I meant.”

“I am not a gentleman—”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am Dalvahni.”

“What’s that, some kind of religion?”

“No. We hunt demons.”

Lord a-mercy, he was nuts—gorgeous, but nuts. Sassy took a hasty step back and almost fell off her shoes. “Demons? My, that does sound important. Don’t let me keep you.”

His russet brows drew together in a frown. “Your shoes are frivolous. You should wear something more practical.”

He wasn’t looking at her shoes. He was looking at her legs. Sassy was accustomed to masculine admiration. As a rule, she enjoyed it, but this man’s attention made her insides flutter. Why, it was almost as if she were nervous.

Sassy discarded the ridiculous notion. Why, she’d been wrapping males around her little finger since she was in diapers. Charm was her super power. Everyone said so.

She gave him one of her signature sunny smiles and held out her hand. “I’m afraid we got off on the wrong foot. Thank you for saving my life. I’m Sarah Elizabeth Peterson, but everybody calls me Sassy. And you are?”

He turned on his heel and walked away without a word.

“Rude.” Sassy propped her hands on her hips. “Rude, rude, rude.”

He kept going.

“Wait,” she cried. “Come back.”

“Abide here until my return,” he said without slowing his stride.

He took a running leap over the side of the bridge and disappeared. Sassy blinked. People didn’t vanish. She must have hit her head when she wrecked the car.

Bunny rabbits, the car. Sassy tottered to the side of the bridge on her kicky little sandals and peered over the railing into the water. Her stomach did a queasy flip-flop. Daddy Joel’s prized convertible sat at the bottom of the creek like an abandoned toy in a swimming pool.

As she gazed in dismay at the sunken convertible, her brain registered a curious anomaly. High heels make their own kind of music, a syncopated tapping rhythm Sassy loved. But she hadn’t tapped. She’d clomped. She glanced down at her feet and shrieked. She was wearing boots. Not stylish booties with stiletto heels or ruffle-front knee boots or even leather platforms.

She was wearing thick leather boots with multigrip soles and sturdy laces, boots without an ounce of smexy.

That dirty rotten shoenapper had stolen her shoes and left her in a pair of hiking boots. Never mind how he’d done it. She’d think about that later. She’d report him to the police, but she didn’t know his name.

A low, shuddering howl jerked her thoughts from retribution. The eerie sound hung in the air. There weren’t wolves in Alabama . . . were there? No. Sassy was almost sure of it.

She straightened and looked around. Her skin prickled with unease. Dusk had fallen. It would be dark soon. Nothing stirred in the trees. No rustling birds or whirring insects; no delusional male cover model running around in Rom-con clothes. Silence, but for the burbling music of the creek. She was stranded and alone in the woods.

A second howl sundered the unnatural silence. No, not alone. Something was out here with her, something bad.

Heart pounding, Sassy eased away from the rail and peered in the direction of the howl. Oaks, maples, and hickories shaded the road, their wind-shivered limbs entwined in dread. From beyond the curve, she heard a hungry grunt.

Whatever it was, it was coming this way.

“Get off the road.”

Sassy squeaked and whirled around. A man stood on the bridge. Slim and pale, he was dressed in slacks and a crisply starched shirt, his attire better suited for drinks at the club or a board meeting than a stroll in the woods. Blond hair dipped across his white brow. Sassy stared at him, puzzled. He seemed vaguely familiar.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Where’d you come from?”

“She’s coming.” His drawl was cultured and polished, like the rest of him. “Get off the road. Hide.”

He disappeared.

“Why do people keep doing that?” Sassy wailed.

A horrible snarl brought her up short. She’s coming. Get off the road. Hide.

Sassy scrambled down the embankment. In her haste, she caught the toe of her boot on a root and tumbled down the slope. She rolled to a stop facedown in a deep patch of kudzu. She smelled water and dirt, and crushed plants. A stinkbug inspected a broad green leaf near her nose before taking off in a whirr of wings.

Bruised and shaken, Sassy lifted her head and peeked through the thick foliage. A squat, misshapen thing stood above her on the bridge. Wisps of dingy hair clung to the creature’s exposed skull and dripped in greasy clumps past her narrow shoulders. The woman—if woman she was—was old and bent, and hideously ugly with a nose like a rotten cucumber and sagging skin the color of putty. A coarse shift covered her stooped, twisted body. Long, wrinkled arms brushed the ground. Filthy yellow claws tipped her bony hands.

The nightmare raised her ugly head and took a lingering sniff. Sassy caught a horrifying glimpse of sharp, pointy teeth.

She held her breath and thanked her lucky stars the dress she wore matched her leafy green shelter. The hag snuffled the spot on the bridge where Sassy had stood, then loped away with startling swiftness.

Sassy huddled in the undergrowth. Evening deepened around her, but she was too terrified to move. Greep, greep, greep, the bugs in the underbrush called. Mehhh, a tree frog burped. She should climb out and start walking. Stick to the road. Sooner or later, the road would lead her to civilization, a house or a country store.

But that thing was on the road.

Okay, so she’d cut through the woods, but what if she got lost? She navigated the largest mall without a misstep, but her shopping GPS was worthless out here.

She had to do something. She couldn’t hide in the kudzu forever.

Gathering her courage, she pushed the vines aside and sat up. Leaves rustled and a Dalmatian trotted out of the woods. The dog looked up at her from the foot of the embankment. He cocked his ears and woofed as if to say Whatchoo doing up there, you big silly?

She had a guide. Sassy scrambled to her feet.

“Here, boy, come to Sassy,” she called. “There’s a good dog.”

The dog turned and trotted a few paces in to the woods. Pausing, he looked back at her and barked again.

“I’m coming. Wait for me.”

Sassy waded out of the thick vegetation, her natural optimism reasserting itself. Everything would be fine. She’d follow the nice doggie home and call a wrecker.

She stepped under the trees and halted. A light shone in the woods to the left, a beacon in the gathering darkness. Picking her way carefully through ankle-deep fallen leaves and stepping over rotted logs, she hurried after the dog and came upon a trail.

“What a clever fellow you are.” Sassy crouched to pet the Dalmatian. He danced out of reach. Tilting her head, she considered him. “Why so shy?”

The dog wagged his tail and pranced into the underbrush.

“Hey, come back,” Sassy cried in alarm. “Don’t leave me.”

The slim blond man appeared without warning. His lavender eyes shone in the gloom. Sassy yelped and sat down hard on the trail, legs sprawled in a most unladylike fashion.

“Good gracious grandma,” she said. “Don’t do that. You scared the stuffing out of me.”

The man threw his head back and laughed. “You sound like your mother.”

Sassy gaped at him, her thoughts spinning backward. It was a rainy afternoon and she was four years old. She was playing dress-up in her mother’s closet. Behind a pile of shoes, she’d unearthed a wooden box. Inside were a handkerchief, the papery thin petals of a pressed wildflower, and a photograph of her mother with a man. A lean, handsome man Sassy did not recognize; a man who was not her stepfather. In the photograph, the stranger had his head thrown back. He was laughing at something. Her mother’s adoring gaze was fixed on him. She looked so lovely, so young, happy, and carefree that Sassy almost didn’t recognize her.

Who was this man and why did Mama never smile at her or Daddy Joel like that? Sassy had wondered. Donning a pair of her mother’s satin evening pumps, Sassy clomped downstairs in search of answers. She’d found her mother seated at her mahogany desk in the library addressing invitations to the upcoming New Year’s gala. Eleanor’s short dark hair was perfectly coiffed, her trim figure displayed to advantage in a pair of black wool slacks and a cream-colored cashmere sweater.

Sassy had toddled across the Persian rug in the too-big heels. “Mama, who’s this man?”

Mama plucked the snapshot from Sassy’s fat little fingers. “Where did you get this, Sarah Elizabeth?”

Sarah Elizabeth? Sassy quailed. She was Mama’s Sassy Bug. Mama never called her Sarah Elizabeth unless she was in trouble. She regarded her mother anxiously. Were those tears in Mama’s eyes? She was a bad girl to make her mama cry.

“Upstairs in the closet.” Sassy swallowed the lump in her throat. “W-who is he?”

“Your father.”

Mama’s voice was cool and distant, and her face looked stiff and funny. Her expression frightened Sassy.

Opening a little compartment in the desk, Mama placed the photograph inside and shut the drawer with a snap.

“Play somewhere else.” Mama returned her attention to her invitations. “Mother is busy.”

Sassy did not ask her mother about The Man again. Talking about The Man made Mama sad. Sassy hated when Mama was sad.

Still, Sassy had learned a few things about her father through the years. His name was William Blake Peterson Jr., and he was a concert pianist.

Or, rather, he had been; Junior Peterson was dead. He’d died before Sassy was born.

Which meant Sassy was talking to a ghost.

Grim materialized in the shelter of the woods and looked back. His fingers sought and found the chain he wore around his neck; all that remained of his brother Gryff. Absently, he traced the smooth edges of the medallion, his gaze on the female on the bridge. She was wet and bedraggled, a delicious little package wrapped in damp green silk. A curious longing swept over him, and he had the sudden urge to retrace his steps and peel the clinging dress from her body. Unwrap her like some long-awaited, much anticipated treat.

The impulse unsettled him. She unsettled him, had done so from the instant he’d plucked her from the water. The compulsion had grown with each passing moment in her presence, culminating in his unwise and precipitous departure.

She had seen him disappear. He was seldom careless. Her memory would have to be adjusted.

Eyes wide, hair streaming across her shoulders and breasts in a sleek, wet curtain, she stared over the edge of the bridge in confusion. An uneasy sensation bloomed in Grim’s chest, an aberrant response he found puzzling.

By the gods, what was it about the chit that affected him? She was pretty enough, he supposed, though not a true beauty. Her face was more heart shaped than oval, her jaw too square; mouth a trifle too wide. She was disheveled, her pale cheeks smeared with the substance she’d used to darken her lashes. Any number of thralls in the House of Perpetual Bliss boasted greater charms. Yet there was something about her, a lightness that seeped into the cold, dark corners of his soul, warming him.

He had been cold for a very long time.

The thought startled him. What strange humor was this? How long had it been since his last session with a thrall?

Too long, judging by his maudlin descent into sentiment.

The woman on the bridge made a sound of dismay. The sound pulled Grim closer, as though he were tethered. He halted with an effort. By the sword, the minx was a winsome snare. She tempted him from his appointed task. He should have left her at the bottom of the stream with her metal carriage.

He turned his back on her and drew his sword. Slipping deeper into the thick stand of trees, he searched for signs of his quarry. He would capture or destroy the demon he had trailed from another world to this. He would return for the female and deliver her to safety.

Then he would leave and seek the enemy elsewhere.

The woods were quiet. Damp gouges marred the leaves of the forest floor. Broken branches and claw marks on tree trunks marked the beast’s passage. The demon deer had moved swiftly, leaving terror and the stench of decay in its wake.

A trickle of unease drew his mind back to the human female. What if she left the road in his absence and was lost?

He shook the troublesome thought away. He had tracked the djegrali through flood and fire, over mountains and valleys, through deserts and across boiling seas. If the foolish woman wandered, he would find her.

The demon’s tracks ended in a shallow, leaf-choked vale. Grim knelt to inspect the prints. His senses quickened. He was close; the thing’s presence hung in a suffocating pall over the woods. The demon had gone to ground or was hiding in the trees. Opening his senses, Grim located a small, furry mammal beneath a shrub. The creature resembled a Parquinian marsh devil, without the barbed stingers and acid glands. The animal seemed harmless, but best to make sure.

Out of long habit and caution, he accessed his information source. Opossum, the Provider intoned in Grim’s head, a nocturnal earth scavenger. The size of a small cat, the opossum, or “possum,” as it is informally known, is recognizable by its distinctive pink pointed nose, black ears, and long, almost hairless tail. The tail is most often used for grasping. Gentle and placid, the creature is known to carry its young in a pouch, much like the scaled jumping mouse of Althion.

Grim stifled a twinge of annoyance. Each world contained disparate flora and fauna, and its own dangers. The Provider was an invaluable tool, particularly to Grim, who hunted alone, eschewing the comforts of the Great Hall and the companionship and camaraderie of his brother warriors. For many years, the Provider had been his sole companion. Grim had long since grown accustomed to the Provider’s prosaic droning. Today, though, Grim found the Provider irritating.

It is because of the human female, the Provider said, reading his thoughts. You desire her. You are anxious to return to her side.

“You are mistaken,” Grim said. “The Dal do not couple with mortal species, particularly humans.”

So I thought as well. Of late, however, there have been a number of peculiar lapses among the Dalvahni. I have monitored the situation with interest. But I digress. The opossum has the interesting ability to—

Growing impatient, Grim merged with the possum without waiting for the Provider to finish. The opossum’s vision was poor, its sense of smell keen. Moss and lichen, the musty scent of rotting leaves and wood, damp soil and the clean, fresh smell of pine needles and new growth; these things and more Grim knew the instant he became one with the little animal.

The possum’s heart stuttered in alarm. The fiend was close. Too close, Grim realized belatedly.

—enter an involuntary, comatose-like state of shock when threatened and unable to flee, a state humans sometimes refer to as “playing possum,” the Provider concluded as the possum keeled over in fright.

The world went dark. Pain snapped Grim’s link with the Provider and the inert animal. Blood filled his mouth. He was drowning in it. He was on his back pinned beneath the weight of the demon deer. The fiend ripped at him with fangs and claws. Grim fumbled for the knife at his thigh and found it. He closed his hand around the leather hilt and drove the blade into the monster’s belly. The demon deer shrieked and dissolved in a smelly puddle. The gummy pool turned to powder and blew away.

Grim dropped the knife and let his eyes drift shut. He was coated in demon stench and his throat and chest were torn and bleeding.

It is no more than you deserve, he chided himself. Remember the pain, and let it be a reminder to you. This is what comes of distraction. A Dalvahni warrior does not lose focus. A Dalvahni warrior is patient and methodical. A Dalvahni warrior is relentless as the tide, as cold and remorseless as a distant star. A Dalvahni warrior does not act on whim or in haste, like a foolish human.

The throbbing of his wounds was fading. Soon he would be as before, save for the ruination of his garments and the residual stink of demon. A bath and a change of clothes would remedy both. The bruise to his pride, however, would linger. His preoccupation with the female had made him careless. The knowledge stung more sharply than the pull of his rapidly healing flesh. Such a thing had not happened to him before.

Thank Kehv no one had witnessed his folly.

“A curious ploy, brother, albeit effective,” a deep voice said, “but surely there is a more efficient . . . and less painful way to trap the djegrali than offering oneself as a meal?”

Grim opened his eyes. A Dalvahni warrior gazed down at him without expression.

So much for his dignity.

He got to his feet.

“Well met, Duncan.” Grim retrieved his sword from the ground and slid it back in the scabbard. “What brings you here?”

“I came in search of cramp bark and valerian to treat an ailing mare. I sensed the fiend’s presence and sought to dispatch it.” Amusement twinkled in Duncan’s light brown eyes. “But you had done the deed with aplomb.”

Grim shifted in discomfort. He found Duncan’s propensity for mirth irksome. The Dal were known for many things, but humor was not among them.

“I have been trailing the creature for some time,” he said. “The hunt led me here.”

Duncan’s expression sharpened. “You followed it through a portal?”

“How else?”

“Where?”

“Not far from here. There is a yellow covered wagon, large with many windows. It lies abandoned and rusting in a field overgrown. Know you it?”

“I cannot be certain, but the wagon you describe could be a school bus, a conveyance the locals use to carry their children to and from a place of learning. Abandoned, you say?”

Grim nodded. “Yes, and other artifacts besides. The field seems to be a repository for discarded items.”

“It sounds like a junkyard.” Duncan appeared troubled. “Conall will wish to hear your account at once. He thought he had closed the portal to Hannah.”

“Hannah is the name of this place?”

“Yes. The Provider should have told you as much.”

Grim shrugged. “In truth, I did not ask. One place is much as another.”

“Hannah, you will find, is unique.”

“As you say,” Grim said without interest. He had long since stopped keeping track of the places duty took him. He seldom tarried in one place. His purpose was to hunt and kill the djegrali.

He surveyed the other warrior, taking note of his fitted tunic and sturdy trousers. “You have assimilated. The hunting in this realm is good?”

He wears something called a tee shirt, a woven tube of fabric without side seams, boasting either short or long sleeves, the Provider said without being asked. His breeches are called jeans, fashioned from a tough material known as cotton twill, also called denim. Like tee shirts, jeans are favored by males and females alike in this clime. Interestingly enough—

Grim gritted his teeth and clamped down on the unsolicited flow of internal chatter. By the gods, his sustained solitude had allowed the Provider too much license.

“The hunting here is excellent,” Duncan said. “And you? The last I heard, you were in the mountains of Zinarr. Your absence was noted at the wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“Conall’s. He married this past moon.”

Grim stared at him, thunderstruck. “Some trick of the djegrali has disordered your mind. The Dal do not marry.”

“That is no longer the case.”

Grim made a sound of disgust and turned his back on the other warrior. Faster than thought, Duncan darted in front of him.

“There is a sign at the outskirts of this town.” Duncan’s expression was strangely intent. “A metal placard that reads ‘Hannah, Ala.’ Han-nah-a-lah. Think on it, Grimford.”

“The end of all things?” Grim shouldered past him. “I have no time for your jests.”

“It is no jest,” Duncan called after him. “Report to Conall, brother. Perhaps he can convince you.”

Grim stalked into the woods. “Dalvahni warriors conjugating? Duncan is unhinged. He should be removed from duty. That I will report to Conall, rest assured.”

Duncan’s account is accurate, the Provider said in his placid way. Brand was the first of your brothers to marry, followed by Rafe and Ansgar. Conall is the most recent Dalvahni warrior to take a bride.

Grim paused beneath a towering hickory. “To what end? If this is some deep scheme to outwit the djegrali, I do not fathom it.”

Demons have naught to do with it. Your brothers are in love.

“Love is a human emotion. The Dalvahni are impervious.”

Not long ago I would have agreed, but this “love” is a peculiar affliction. It strikes without warning and knows no barriers.

“Ridiculous,” Grim said. “Stop speaking in riddles and enlighten me. I would know more of this place.”

Magic runs deep in Hannah. Some strange and terrible property here attracts the supernatural, including the djegrali and the Dalvahni.

Grim growled. “Tread lightly, old friend. One does not speak of the Dal and the enemy in the same breath.”

This same quality has made it possible for the djegrali to propagate. The Provider ignored Grim’s censure and continued. A new species has arisen here, the offspring of demon-possessed mortals. They are called demonoids.

Shock coursed through Grim, sweeping aside his irritation. “Half human and half demon? Abomination. They must be eradicated at once. I will offer my sword arm to the task.”

Conall will not allow it.

“He wishes to destroy them himself?”

He considered it, but thought better of it. Conall, you see, has taken a demonoid to wife.

Grim’s mind reeled. Conall, the leader of the Dalvahni, married to a child of the enemy?

“You are misinformed,” he said. “Such a thing cannot be.”

They have signed their names in the Great Book. Kehvahn himself approved the match.

Kehvahn, the god who created the Dalvahni to track down rogue demons, had given his blessing to a match between demon hunter and demon spawn?

“Madness.” Grim shook his head in disbelief. “What of the Directive?”

Nothing in the Directive prohibits the Dalvahni from marrying. None of you have been so inclined before. The Provider’s voice grew sly. Perhaps you will be the next to succumb. You are curiously affected by a certain female.

“Nonsense. I have been too long absent from the House of Pleasure. That is all.”

As you say.

The Provider’s smug tone irked Grim. He