Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar Read Free

left, and Beck set the empty martini glass in the sink. She was wiping down the bar when she saw him, sitting in his usual spot at a table in the corner, surrounded by shadows. Shadows he brought, Beck thought with a surge of annoyance. Conall Dalvahni carried his own black hole of gloom with him 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? The last time she’d seen him, 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. I got it, she thought, giving the bar an angry swipe with the cloth. Loud and clear. So why the hell can’t he leave me alone?
    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 him, and moved on. But his obvious contempt for her and her kind 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. She threw down the bar towel. This was her place. She’d kicked him out once, and she’d do it again.
    Hefting a liquor bottle with a metal pour spot 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. 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 greenbacks. It was a lot of money, several thousand dollars at least.
    “There is more where that came from, Rebekah. Much more.”
    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 well-memorized facts. “Although you appear much younger, no doubt due to your demon blood. 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, clamping 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