Blood Frost (The Half-Demon Rogue Trilogy Book 2) Page 9

  I had been one of the lucky. Until now.

  I ground to a halt near the cheese plates, panting hard.

  “You don’t look so good,” Ziva said, finally catching up to me. She patted at my brow with my pocket square. I cursed at her, and she stopped. “You’re no fun, man. Terrible vibe right now.”

  “Fun?”

  “You need to calm down before you blow our cover.”

  “You brought me to a benefit for demon hunters.” I clawed at my tightening collar to no avail. My opinion of Gunnar’s tailor was declining by the second. If I didn’t loosen the top button soon, I was liable to just rip the whole thing off and plunge naked through one of the seamless two-story glass windows. “That’s like bringing a minnow to a fucking shark convention.”

  “I didn’t take you for a pussy, Kalos.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Ziva grabbed hold of my throat gently and popped the button loose. Her fingers slid sensually away from my clammy neck, leaving a tingly sensation. I grinned weakly. Her charm wasn’t completely au natural. There was a little magic behind it.

  “Hey, you,” I said, my head slightly foggy.

  “Pull it together,” Ziva said sharply. “We’re working.” Then her breezy smile returned, but the brief mood had been irreversibly shattered by the weight of reality. I glanced again at the window. With a running leap, my momentum would carry me through easily—

  “Hello,” a man said, approaching from our left. “I do not believe we’ve been introduced.”

  I averted my gaze from the window and turned to look at our new companion. His mask covered the entirety of his face. The design didn’t appear to channel any specific creature for inspiration—it was simply multi-colored and kaleidoscopic. Gray eyes peered out from behind shadowy slits.

  “We’re, uh—“ I began, but Ziva’s nails dug deeply into my arm, straight through the thick Italian fabric. She burst forward, thrusting herself between the two of us.

  “The Randolphs,” she said. “Mandy and Dwight.”

  Guess we had multiple personalities tonight.

  He reached down and kissed her hand delicately—well, mimed the gesture, at least. They both laughed, while I repressed the urgent desire to cave his head in. It wasn’t jealousy. The theater of this ridiculous production was starting to grate.

  “I do not believe I’ve heard of you. Have you come far?”

  “We know the Cloverfields,” Ziva said. “Sandra and Maxwell.”

  “Fine hunters in their own right,” the man said with a sage nod.

  “And you are?”

  “My goodness, my manners have escaped me,” the man said, bowing deeply. “Dylan Redmond. Much of the work you see on stage is by my own hand.”

  “Including the centerpiece.”

  “Yes, if I may be so prideful to claim it as my own.”

  “Nonsense.” Ziva tapped him playfully on the shoulder. “And you do the shrinking yourself? The detailing is exquisite.”

  “Yes,” Dylan replied, clasping his hands together proudly. “I learned the art from a now extinct tribe who lived in the depths of the Amazon.”

  “Incredible,” Ziva said, her voice growing breathless. “I would love to get a sneak preview before the auction.”

  “Alas, that is not possible,” Dylan said, shaking his head, the mask’s colors swirling about in a psychedelic blur. “And you, Mr. Randolph? Did you donate anything to the proceedings?”

  “I’m considering a sizable surprise donation,” I said through gritted teeth. “Something that will really wow the established members.”

  “Honey,” Ziva said, clearing her throat and blushing deeply. “He gets so competitive. I think he’s a little jealous, Mr. Redmond.”

  “Dylan,” he replied. His head swiveled, revealing a buzzed head, as someone across the room called his name. “I’m afraid someone else would like a word. It has been a pleasure. And don’t forget about your generosity, Mr. Randolph.”

  “You can count on it.”

  Dylan Redmond bowed deeply, and then disappeared into the growing throng of people. Apparently there was quite an underground cadre of demon hunters that I had missed. Equally apparent was the fact they were not very good at their jobs, considering I walked freely amongst them.

  “Play nice,” Ziva said, once our head demon hunter had vanished from earshot. “Don’t draw attention to yourself.”

  I glowered, staring at her red streaked punk-rock hair, but bit my tongue. Instead I said, “There’s no way to steal the damn thing. There’s literally a spotlight shining right on it.”

  “I’m just the one who got you in the door, Kalos,” Ziva said with a shrug, plucking a glass of champagne off a nearby waiter’s tray. She downed it in a single sip that was somehow aggressive and dainty all at once. “I’m going to have a good time either way.”

  She reached for another, but I blocked her hand. “Okay, drunky. I want to know what your game is here.”

  “I told you. Find the Talon of Frost.”

  “I don’t see the Talon of Frost lying around,” I said, jabbing my thumb at her in accusatory fashion. The crowd began to murmur loudly. “Just a bunch of demon hunting artifacts and gear. And I don’t know why you even give a shit.”

  “You’re a real wet blanket. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “I’ve been told worse,” I said, curling my lip into a semi-snarl. The crowd buzz grew around us like a cocoon of static. “I’ll figure out a way to grab that monstrosity on stage if you tell me what your game is.”

  I tapped my foot and waited.

  A bright smile flashed across her face. She wasn’t even looking at me now. “Oh, this is fun.”

  “It sucks, actually, but let’s focus.”

  She pointed across the room. “I think they like us.”

  I followed her finger. Next to the stage, on a large screen, both of our faces—live, and in full high definition—were blown up for the entire crowd. Mine looked dumb and confused, Ziva’s like she was ready to kiss babies and make a run for political office.

  Somewhere, a microphone clicked on and a throat cleared.

  “Give it up, ladies and gentlemen, for my new client.” There was a light spattering of applause. “He might not have been invited, but there is good news.”

  A long pause ensued, during which the collective oxygen seemed to be sucked out of the room.

  “Mr. Aeon and his little friend are experts on the wares at hand.” Tina Chen tapped the small microphone clipped to her dress twice, encouraging more applause. A pathway parted around us, leading directly to the stage. “Don’t be shy. This is why I helped free you, Mr. Aeon.”

  Ziva dragged me forward, toward the stairs. Felt more like I was heading to the executioner’s guillotine. Once we had climbed up on the stage, Tina Chen’s microphone clicked off.

  Unaided by amplification, her voice was still loud enough to send shivers down my spine.

  “Because sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.”

  17

  Ziva and I stood awkwardly on the stage, beneath the sharp glare of the auctioneer’s lights, awaiting the inevitable. I was starting to have my doubts that this group of so-called demon hunters could take me down, even if I had left my trusty .45 out in the car. Plenty of creatures had tried their best in the past and failed. But I didn’t doubt one thing: it’d be the very definition of a Pyrrhic victory.

  The hail of bullets didn’t come. Of course, none of them probably knew I was a demon besides Tina Chen. Yet.

  I leaned over and adjusted a lock Ziva’s red hair to whisper in her ear. “I know you don’t do plans, but what does the demon head do, exactly?”

  She continued smiling—even waving at the crowd. “Nothing.” Her lips barely moved.

  “What do you mean, nothing?”

  �
��It looked like it would be fun to steal,” Ziva said with a shrug, moving her head away. She continued the futile public relations battle with the crowd. Even if she revealed that she was a valley nymph, I don’t think they’d be welcoming her with open arms. Mortals—like The Order of the Marksmen—who were aware of the supernatural and possessed a hatred of some aspect of it tended to hate the whole package.

  Demons might be on top of these people’s kill list, but nymphs couldn’t be that far behind. Hell, on a slow day, they’d settle for a nymph.

  I stared out at the throng of attendees, all clad in their evening best, faces hidden behind their masks. A man dressed in a kaleidoscopic one weaved through, heading toward the exit. Guess Dylan Redmond wasn’t enjoying the show. Now I understood the necessity of the masks: it was a secret and paranoid organization. I wondered just how thrilled they’d all be to learn that a demon had infiltrated their esteemed ranks so easily.

  And accidentally, too. Without even a plan.

  I had a sneaking suspicion that a certain butler would be looking for work.

  The spotlight swung away from the stage, granting us a reprieve from its hot glare. It followed Tina Chen’s descent down the narrow stairs. She wore a flowing black gown and satin elbow gloves. Her hair remained the same as the day before, still stylish and striking.

  The light trailed behind her slightly as she made her way through the parting crowd. One of the men in the crowd—a fellow wearing an awful lion mask—offered his hand to help her on stage. She batted it away, as if it were radioactive.

  By the time she joined us on stage, I was sweating profusely, skin abuzz. Ziva, for her part, was totally unperturbed. Must’ve been nice never to plan ahead. I was already seeing entrails hanging from the chandelier in our immediate future.

  “Now,” Tina Chen said, flicking her lapel mic back on. “Another warm introduction for our guests of honor. A Mr. Kalos Aeon and—his plus one.”

  Hesitant clapping echoed across the room for a few seconds. It wasn’t particularly enthused, but then, everyone was curious about the reason for this little interruption.

  Including me.

  “Is he the new auctioneer?” someone called from the back, a little drunkenly. Nervous giggles rippled through the crowd.

  “Silence,” Tina Chen said, venom dripping from her icy voice. A funereal quiet spread across the ballroom, any mirth gone. “That’s much better. Mr. Aeon is a—he’s an expert on demon culture, and I have asked him here tonight to assist us with our little problem.”

  “He’s an outsider,” another joker called out. “You can’t be serious.”

  Tina Chen sighed, her eyes narrowing as she focused on me. I couldn’t tell if I was the main problem, or trying to lead an organization of sacrificial lambs was what weighed on her so heavily. If most of these fools met a baby Fae, they were liable to lose a couple limbs. Demons? Please.

  She took hold of my shoulder and said, “Kalos Aeon, as Countess, I now pronounce you a member of the Demon Jägers. Do you agree to forever uphold our bylaws and mandates?”

  “I don’t make promises I can’t keep.”

  Her tanned face flushed red. “Mr. Aeon, this is a ceremony.”

  I glanced at the expectant crowd, who were all of a sudden very engaged in the outcome of this strange interlude. Apparently outsiders did not find themselves on the precipice of joining the inner circle of the esteemed Demon Jägers, only to hesitate.

  “Ceremony or no, I don’t agree to things I don’t believe in.”

  Ziva burst over, the lapel mic crackling as she ran into Tina. “I agree.”

  “No one was asking you,” Tina said hotly, backing away from my companion. “But very well, the girl can join if Mr. Aeon agrees.”

  “I’m not agreeing to your bylaws.”

  “Mr. Aeon, this is really just a formality.” A slight surge of fear flashed through her hawk-like brown eyes. If word got out she was working with a bonafide demon—not just a demon expert—her status amongst her little group would be forfeit. They might even turn their angry pitchforks on her, and skewer that body she maintained like a temple.

  “If he’s a demon expert,” the peanut gallery called out, “what do we need him for? We’re all demon experts.”

  “Yeah,” a woman cried. “I vote nay on his inclusion.”

  “Nay!”

  “Get off the stage.”

  A chorus of boos rained down. Panic spread across Tina Chen’s normally ice-cold features. It wasn’t a good look for her. She’d cultivated the hard-ass, no-nonsense, chip-on-my-damn-shoulder lady lawyer persona for years. A little crack in the armor, and all the insecurities and personal skeletons poured out.

  The cacophony grew in the echo chamber, buzzing around my ears like unwanted static. An angry sensation began to burn in my chest. Ziva shot me a glance, although there wasn’t fear in her eyes. It was excitement about what might come next.

  “If you let me finish,” Tina yelled into the mic, the speakers screeching with feedback as she strained to be heard, “you would know that—”

  Someone’s shoe came flying across the room, the shiny patent leather toe hitting me right in the chest. It clinked against the Remkah Talisman and toppled to the floor.

  I couldn’t suppress it any longer. Dealing with this new influx of essence I’d downed to square off against Athena the Goddess Killer had been a tricky process. My eyes glowed nearly white hot, and a collective whoa erupted from the crowd.

  Then I whispered, just for kicks, “Firus ignitus,” and looked straight at the chandelier. In my mind’s eye, I shaped the biggest, most concentrated fireball I could muster. The energy from the room flowed through me, rushing toward the sky.

  The roof to Tina Chen’s suburban mansion blew straight off as a fireball hurtled upwards, leaving the great chandelier dandling from nothing at all. The hunk of expensive metal hurtled toward the shrieking crowd. The masked ensemble scrambled and fought one another to escape the quickly accelerating metal missile.

  At the last moment, staring out at the crowd, I whispered, “Statueus holdus.” The great ball of half-melted slag stopped in mid-air only inches above the crowd’s head. Molten liquid dripped down, sizzling as it hit the black granite floors.

  I snatched the microphone off Tina’s evening gown and spoke directly into it. “Party’s over. Time for you to go home.”

  A stampede of high heels and tuxedo shoes rushed through the double French doors, vacating the large room in under sixty seconds. I dropped the mic and stamped it out beneath my heel, sending a crackle of feedback across the speakers.

  “Now that you know your house meets fire code,” I said, my glowing gaze focused on Tina, “maybe you want to explain why I got out of jail.”

  Her focus was elsewhere. “W-what about the chandelier?”

  I glanced over at the suspended lighting fixture. “I think it’s ruined.”

  I snapped my fingers, and the entire thing crumpled into a puddle of twisted bronze and gold. Then I offered my hand to Tina, as if requesting a dance.

  She took it with great trepidation.

  “It’s time for a little chat,” I said. “About wendigos. And cures for man-made plagues.”

  18

  The three of us gathered in the kitchen, since the ball room now smelled like a blacksmith’s forge. All trace of the old Tina Chen—lethal attorney and courtroom killer—had vanished. Between snuffles, Tina managed to sit down and gather herself on a barstool. It was a far sight from the determined woman who had browbeaten Detective Scott into releasing me.

  I got her a glass of water and set it down on the marble countertop.

  “You’re nicer than I expected,” she said, barely able to drink. The glass almost toppled out of her hands. I propped it up and helped her. Water dribbled down her chin. Frustrated, she placed the glass down and threw off her ev
ening gloves. “Since they would’ve killed you.”

  “I don’t think anyone’s coming back to try,” I said, glancing at Ziva. “Right?”

  “That was awesome, man,” Ziva said. “You gotta teach me that. Boom.”

  “I’ll put it on the list,” I said wearily, turning my attention back to Tina. “What was that about the cure being worse than the disease?”

  “You must hate me. Oh God, you’re going to kill me. Just like, just like…” Whatever she was trying to communicate was devoured by wracking sobs. A small shard of annoyance poked at my gut, but I kept cool. Finally, after much blubbering, she dried her eyes. “It’s all over.”

  “Yes, the legendary Demon Jägers have been disbanded, and their Countess overthrown. And an old friend of mine is trying to separate my heart from my body. A rough day for all parties in the room.”

  “I had a great day,” Ziva said with a shrug.

  “That’s excellent,” I said. “Then let the record show that it was just a bad day for the amateur demon slayers and me.”

  “You don’t have to be so dismissive.” Tina smoothed out her dress and picked her manicured nails. “Some of us are competent hunters.”

  I gave her a hard look.

  “Okay, one. Mr. Redmond. I saw you two having a conversation.”

  “Absolutely charming fellow,” I said. “Responsible for the auction’s piece-de-resistance, apparently. But who can trust anyone’s word these days?”

  Tina bristled with annoyance. “Mr. Redmond is a real-life demon hunter.”

  “Jäger, Ms. Chen. Use the proper title.” Tina swallowed hard and shut her mouth, before she retorted with something that would piss off a demon. I saw that as an opportunity to drive the stake in deeper. “Very clever name. Hunters wasn’t exotic enough for you?”