Lost in thought, I missed most of Drio’s complaint about me taking my sweet time, even though the men were still in the TV room. Though I caught his sneered, “You look… sparkly,” as he waved a hand at the glittery silver letters on my shirt.

“I exude sparkly, thank you very much. But in a deadly way.”

Rohan cocked his head to read my shirt. “Fifty percent seems generous, Lolita. I’d say more thirty/seventy.”

Lolita was the nickname Rohan had bestowed on me the night we met, when he’d learned I wrote self-insert fanfic in my teens about his band. Not him, mind you. Just the rest of them. It hurt Snowflake’s terribly fragile ego that he wasn’t included, and since those boys were a whopping three years older than me, Rohan had chosen the pet name he thought most likely to piss me off.

I clapped my hands over my boobs as if protecting their delicate sensibilities from his cruelty. “I’ll cop to a forty-five, fifty-five spread. And for that insult, you can forget handling these fine representations of womanhood ever again.”

Rohan leaned forward and said, nowhere near soft enough for only me to hear, “Tonight.”

“Will you do it?” Drio asked Rohan in his Italian-accented English.

“Of course not,” I said hotly. “And you’re dead wrong if you don’t think I get a say.”

Drio paused and arched a single elegant eyebrow.

Rohan stifled a laugh. “He means Child’s Play.” The massive rock concert slated to happen in London next month to raise funds for war orphans.

Ah.

Drio kicked my chair like an obnoxious ten-year-old, which was several years higher than his actual emotional age.

“You got invited?” I swayed at the thought of being backstage with all that rock royalty, since I’d be happy to accompany Rohan as his groupie on that jaunt. My mental list of which rock stars I wanted to meet–and screw–was assembled at light speed. A brief fun escape from more serious matters.

Rohan reached out to steady me with one hand. “Never gonna happen.” Spoilsport. “Forrest hoped I’d premiere the theme song there, but it won’t be ready.”

I’d once read in a years-old interview that when Rohan Mitra got inspired the song flowed out of him all at once. He’d race to write the words down and then he’d tap out beats and hum strings to himself until he had a skeleton he could share with the band to build off of. It’d happen in a day, like a spirit being raised from the dead or lightning being channeled from the heavens, something so powerful you had to do it all at once to do it well.

Given the flatness in his eyes, there was more to his refusal to premiere it than its lack of completion. “You don’t want to get back into things at that level, do you?”

He didn’t answer. He’d eschewed the musical spotlight once he’d become Rasha. Fame and his own rock star ego had done a number on him, and when his beloved cousin had needed him, he’d failed to save her from demons. Enter his own inner ones. Or rather, more of his inner demons given the lyrics to some of his songs. To the point that he’d tattooed a heart on his left bicep as a reminder of his failure and of his character shortcomings whilst famous.

The tattoo lay directly in line with where his outline blade snicked out. Every time he used his power, the heart got slashed. Even that metaphor wasn’t enough. Nope, in further penance, he’d stopped singing. Yet, a week ago, Rohan had stepped back into the rock star role for the sake of the mission.

At my request.

I wiped my damp palms on my jeans.

“Selfish bastard,” Drio said. But he didn’t push it. He was fiercely loyal to Rohan, but not out of friendship’s sake alone. It was the kind of loyalty that stemmed from something else, something dark and volatile. I wasn’t sure what the deal between them was yet, because I’d been busy killing demons and saving Ari and stuff, but mark my words, I was going to find out.

“Now that I’m going to Prague, what’s the next step?” I asked. Was there any other way I could help bring down Samson?

“We need hard proof that King is a demon,” Drio began.

“I know. Either catching him in the act of using his demon influence or getting him to reveal his true form. Yes, Drio, I’ve been paying attention at our meetings the past few days.”

He peered at me. “Hard to tell how much functioning intelligence is in there.”

I kicked at his leg but he moved it before I got near and I ended up smacking my toes on the wooden leg of the chair that he now sat on.

“I still think our best bet is to discover Samson’s true name,” Rohan said. “We could use that to force the reveal of his demon self.”

The way Drio’s eyes lit up at that possibility convinced me that method would be incredibly painful for Samson.

“What’s the other way?” I asked, massaging my bruised foot.

Rohan snapped the TV off, taking the pearly white smile of some schmo in a coffee ad with it. “Depending on his demon type, he might revert back to his original form under extreme emotion.”

“Like Josh before he came.” Josh was the first demon I’d ever killed, and boy, finding out his true nature had been a shocker. For him, literally.

Rohan looked at me, his gold eyes sparking with amusement. Damn. Really needed to think before I said the quiet part loud.

Drio mimed jerking off at me. “Feel free to use that technique again.”

“Regret you can’t get close to Samson that way?”

He shrugged and I blinked. What was his deal? Bi or balls-deep dedication to demon killing?

“That won’t be happening.” Rohan’s tone about my up-close-and-personal involvement brooked no argument.

His voice broke me out of the fantasies I was spinning about Drio getting hot and heavy with other Rasha. Like Rohan. Could that be their weird shared history? My clit, Cuntessa de Spluge, throbbed her vote for “please yes.”

“Sure it will. If that’s what it takes.” Drio’s voice was just as hard. He tipped his chair back on to two legs, one foot braced on the arm of the nearest couch. “She’s Rasha. Let her do her job.”

“Actually,” I said, “maybe I could be a member of your entourage without being a groupie.”

Both the men laughed outright.

I planted my hands on my hips. “Is it such a stretch that a straight, breathing female with an iota of a sex drive might not want to be servicing Mr. Rock God on a regular basis?”

Shut up, Nava, because they’re laughing harder and you’re not making your case.

I eyed Drio’s wobbling chair, so tempted to upend him. “I’m sure there are lots of other options that would still allow me to Mata Hari my way into Samson’s life.”

Drio’s feet thudded onto the floor. He pinned me in his gaze, his green eyes hard emeralds. “You’re there for one reason. Bait. Get Samson interested and get him to work his demon mojo on you so we have proof. That’s it. We go with the simplest explanation for your presence and you play that part.” He looked at Rohan as if daring him to disagree.

Rohan gave a tight nod. He pushed his sleeves up, revealing the fat silver bracelet with what looked like a stylized “30” inlaid in onyx. He’d been wearing it ever since he’d gone back into his rock star persona. It was supposed to be some kind of talisman, something he’d received before his first tour. At least according to the Fugue State Five message board I’d researched it on.

“Straightforward is best,” he said. “You don’t reveal yourself. No deaths on this one, okay?”

“Not on my agenda.”

Drio tossed me some photos from the coffee table. Given his leer, this did not bode well. “Coloring, looks, build, you’re what Samson likes. Mold your undercover persona to that.”

Since I needed to go to Prague to meet Dr. Gelman, I pasted a smile on my face and thought “team player.” I studied the photos. Drio was right. I did fit the bill. “Luckily for you, you’ve got just the badass sexpot for the job.”

“Sexpot.” Drio raked a skeptical gaze over my T-shirt and jeans. “Got anything sluttier?”

Electricity sparked out of my eyes. “Not skanky enough for you, am I?”

Rohan tapped the photos. “It’s not us. It’s Samson. He prefers short and tight.”

Drio warmed to the theme. “One of those dresses with the zipper running the length for easy access. Stick with red and black. Thigh-high stiletto boots.”

I waited for them to laugh, because seriously? But they weren’t kidding. Rohan fired his fingers like a gun at Drio. “Good idea. You got some?” he asked me.

“Yeah. Tucked away in my closet. I keep them spruced up for my higher-end street corner jaunts.”

“Expense them to the Brotherhood if you need a pair.” Rohan noted something down, I swear as an excuse not to laugh, because he was biting his lip.

“She’ll have to expense a whole wardrobe if she’s going to get his attention.” Drio looked at me doubtfully. “Try not to speak. It’ll ruin the effect.”

“I’ll dress up real sexy,” I said in a breathy voice. I snapped my fingers. “I know. If I shouldn’t talk, maybe you could provide a penismobile. I could writhe on the hood to a little heavy metal.”

“He’s more a rap–”

“Fuck off, Drio. I know how to get a guy’s attention.”

“Ro is hard up,” he said.

“Hey!” Rohan and I protested at the same time.

Drio shrugged.

“You’ll need a different name,” Rohan said. “Something with the same initials so it’s easy to remember.” He steepled his fingers together. “What about Nicole Kane? Nikki for short?”

Nikki the car-writhing automaton was never going to happen. “Sounds good. I’ll put on my big girl pants and make you proud.”

The guys chuffed up, pleased at my can-do attitude. I followed them to the library, the photos tucked under my arm and my brain whirring at how to make this assignment more palatable.

Drio and Rohan sat down at the long mahogany table that spanned the back wall under the large windows looking out onto the back garden. Usually tidy, the table was currently a hurricane of papers, photos, and file folders. The thick green curtains were drawn open, allowing misty light into the room. At least the rain had let up.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were built into the other three walls, the higher shelves accessed via rolling ladders. The “old boys’ network” decor was evident in the leather club chairs, love seat, and coffee table grouped by the Persian carpets in the reading area.

The room was a librarian’s wet dream, filled with every type of book on demons imaginable. Many of the books sported the same publisher’s imprint of the white letters BD against a black square. If you were going to keep demonic activity a secret, it made sense to have an in-house printer to keep a lid on how information was disseminated.

The library was woefully light on fiction, though. I kept hoping the Brotherhood would spring my own personal Giles on me, but sadly that had not yet come to pass. Buffy had lied big time about the perks of being chosen.

I dropped into a chair. “What’s this?” I pulled a highlighted folder over.

“It rules out all the types of demons that Samson isn’t,” Rohan said. “Either because that demon behavior doesn’t fit his M.O.–”

“Like lust,” I said, flipping the file open to peruse the columns of densely-typed demon species.

“Like lust,” Rohan agreed. “He’s not going to be a bottom feeder, like a vral either, acting on base drives.”

“Too high a level of intelligence,” Drio said.

“He’s a master manipulator,” I agreed. “He can glamour himself to look human as well.” I tapped the folder. “Does this list take that into account?”

Rohan seemed pleased I’d thought of it and even Drio nodded in acknowledgment. “It does.” Rohan looked around the library. “We’re still left with endless possibilities but ruling these types out helps.”

“A lot of things to investigate then.” I ticked the list off my fingers. “Name. Unique or a type.” As in a one-of-a-kind demon or part of a species. “The specifics and timeline of his master plan. Find someone willing to say word one against him.”

“That collective silence is a testament to his abilities,” Drio said. “Evelyn didn’t crack once.”

Evelyn had been Samson’s make-up artist. I’d suggested checking her out since actors spent so much time in make-up and she might have known something. Drio had outed her as a kumiho demon, suspected of using her illusionist abilities to help maintain Samson’s human appearance.

Since Samson was constantly in the public eye, and maintaining glamours took energy, his having someone to assist him had seemed a reasonable assumption. Even though Drio had given himself a lot of leeway to get answers out of her–he didn’t rape demons but he did love his torture–she didn’t succumb to his persuasive ways.

And to think that Mandelbutt had made me undergo a psych eval to determine my suitability as Rasha. The Hebrew word for wicked, “Rasha” more literally meant one who departs from the path and is lost. A reminder from David about how close we hunters were to darkness.

I eyed Drio. Some of us closer than others.

“Any sense that Samson is suspicious of her disappearance?” Rohan asked.

“No.” Drio swung his feet onto the one clear corner of the table. “According to his buddies, he’s pissed that ‘she’s pulled this shit yet again.’” He scanned a page in the file closest to him. “His new make-up artist checks out as human.”

“Hold on.” That wasn’t something you said about an underling you didn’t care lived or died. Maybe Leo was right and we Rasha had to cut the black-and-white thinking out. “What if Evelyn stayed silent because she was in love?”

Drio scoffed at the idea.

“Love is just as powerful as terror,” I told him. “Maybe more so.” Demons did love. Perhaps not as we did but something similar drove them. I’d learned that firsthand when Asmodeus came after me for killing two of his spawn. “‘This shit’ she’s pulling, getting mad at him about something and leaving? That sounds like jilted lover behavior.”

“Do we have any intel on Evelyn and Samson having been partnered up before now?” Rohan asked Drio. “Based on what little we have on him before he hit big in Hollywood?”

“No. But…” Drio tilted his head, studying me as if trying to recall something. “You had me ask her if Samson had spent time in France.”

“Yeah. In Versailles at the court of Louis XIV.” Louis had called himself the Sun King. Samson meant sun. Sun. King. The similarity was worth pursuing, especially since some demons lived long lives. “Louis wanted to take over the world. Samson could have gotten ideas from him and maybe the location was a clue to Samson’s demon identity.”

“Yeah, but the French.” He pointed at a green folder. “The stapled report.”

I glanced at Rohan who shrugged, but retrieved it from the file.

“Check out the second page,” Drio said.

I leaned over the table for a better look. It was Drio’s findings on his session with Evelyn. The relevant section was a detailed explanation of her possessions, including a locket with a French quote engraved on it that she’d worn around her neck. “On n’aime que ce qu’on ne possède pas tout entier,” Rohan read in a terrible French accent.

I giggled.

“It means–” Rohan looked for the translation.

We love only what we do not wholly possess, I thought.

“‘We only love what we don’t fully possess,’” Drio said. “Could sum up their relationship.”

“We done?” I asked. “I want to go over this list.”

Rohan handed over a printout of my travel details. “I’m on an earlier flight than you two. Your plane lands Thursday morning Prague time, so I want you in the hotel lobby by 2PM. I’ll have Samson there so you can meet him.”

“Got it.” Scooping up the photos and some files, I retired to my room to figure out my plan of attack since the only thing I agreed with them on about me playing groupie was the bait part.

I spent the next couple of hours watching every video online of Samson that I could find. Didn’t matter if it was formal interviews, award-show sound bytes, or party footage, I studied it all to see how he handled himself and who he surrounded himself with.

I rearranged the pillows behind my back, sitting against my headboard with my legs stretched out, computer on my lap, scrolling through red carpet snaps and Instagram pics.

Drio had reached out to Samson’s posse long before Rohan agreed to do the theme song but they’d rebuffed all attempts to buddy up until learning of Drio’s own entourage pedigree, prompting Drio to dub them starfuckers. He could handle them just fine. It was the women that Samson kept company with who were of interest to me. I flipped between windows at the various stills frozen there.

Two things were abundantly clear. One, he was not picking his companions for their scintillating conversation, since he didn’t seem to let his dates speak. Every single one of them, from famous swimsuit models to porn stars, always clad in short, tight dresses, mutely let themselves be led around.

This led to the second revelation which was they all possessed a status that I lacked. Drio could tart me up all he wanted, but D-list strumpet wasn’t going to cut it. Sadly, there was no way to fabricate any kind of fame for me. Not at this late date.

I’d have to catch Samson’s interest another way.

It brought me back to that quote on Evelyn’s locket. After Googling it, I learned it was attributed to Marcel Proust, which didn’t help any. But the idea kept looping back through my head like a song on repeat. We love only what we do not wholly possess.

Samson worked in envy the way Michelangelo worked in marble. Was it possible to catch his interest through my utter disinterest? Not to make him love me, but to want me? Want to impress me? Physical type aside, he seemed to go for women who didn’t present any type of challenge. Hot arm-candy. Not to dismiss the intelligence of his dates, but chances were, when these women were with Samson, they kept pithy insights and witty repartee to a minimum. They knew their role, lesser lights revolving around Samson’s bright sun.

Only he was allowed to be the center of the universe with everyone–dates, posse, and general public–being pulled into his gravitational orbit. I expected overt evil from a demon, but Samson wasn’t forcing anyone to buy into what he was selling or do his bidding. Merely presenting himself as the de facto pinnacle to aspire to, then exploiting our all-too-mortal weaknesses for his own gain.

I pulled my blanket around my shoulders.

Right or wrong, people worshipped celebrities and would do anything to be like them. Knowing this, Samson was letting us do all the heavy lifting. Simply giving us a final nudge into the misery necessary to achieve whatever his big picture goal was. Shades of gray brilliance.

Though whether that made him a demon or a psychopath remained to be seen.

I stared at his grinning mug on my laptop. “If you’re getting everything you ever wanted, Samson, then how do I make you want me? How do I become your own personal challenge to conquer?”

Evelyn had been sexy. She’d been flat-out beautiful. Smart too, I’d bet. She had a Proust quote around her neck, not a pop lyric. Had her intelligence been a turn-off? That would rule out the sexy librarian look. I searched online but couldn’t find any photos of the two of them together to determine body language.

My stomach growled, interrupting my investigation. I stretched out my neck and shoulders deciding this was as good a time as any to take a break and headed downstairs into the kitchen to make dinner. Buttered toast and a glass of juice coming right up.

I drummed my fingers on the dark granite countertop waiting for the toast to pop. When it did, I flipped each piece over to examine them, before turning them back over once more.

“Whatever are you doing?” Rohan pulled a bag of pre-cut veggies out of the industrial-sized, stainless steel fridge in the wall of white cabinets.

“Checking for the right-side-up,” I said.

“On bread?”

I flipped the piece over for him in show-and-tell fashion. “When you slice bread, that results in a right-side-up and wrong-side-up. Like wood grains. It’s important to butter the toast on the correct side.”

“Or what? Solar eclipse? Tides out of whack?”

“General fuckery ensues. You can’t be eating upside-down bread, Snowflake.” I munched on my toast, watching as he chopped up garlic and ginger then fried them up in a pan. “How come you don’t just use your own blades to cut the stuff?”

“Because my blades are weapons, not cutlery.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sorry.” My stomach growled again. “That smells good.”

Rohan pulled out a bunch of dried spices from a cupboard. “It’ll taste good, too.”

He handled the chopping knife with ease and I drank in his relaxed stance with just a frisson of danger in how fast he used the blade. Stubble scruffed along his jaw, and the shadows on his face shifted as he took a sip of wine. It was a good look for him. The look of a guy cooking his date dinner. Satisfying her before he satisfied her.

I dropped my toast on the plate, its taste suddenly lacking. Picking up the wine bottle, I grabbed an empty juice glass and sloshed the liquid in.

Rohan closed his eyes briefly in pain.

“Do we have any photos of Evelyn and Samson together?” The spicy wine hit my palette and went down real smooth. All righty. Liquid dinner it was.

“Yeah. In the red folder in the library. Why?”

“Evelyn possessed a different beauty than the women Samson surrounded himself with, but she’d also been a part of his life for longer than anyone else we could find. I want to know if her feelings were reciprocated, let alone if my love theory is even correct.”

“What we have won’t help you. They’re mostly set photos documenting them working together.”

“Damn. Still, I’ll check them out.” I poured more wine. “Drio might have a point about not talking. Or rather, not appearing too smart in front of Samson.”

“That’s a safe assumption.” Rohan plated the veggies, going back to the fridge for one final item.

“Cilantro? It doesn’t need it,” I said through a forkful of stir fry.

Rohan lunged for me, wrestling the fork away. “Make your own dinner.”

“But yours is so–” I squealed. “No tickling!” Of course that just amped him up further. Silly boy didn’t realize that I’d had years of practice suppressing my laughter in such situations, thanks to Ari’s merciless tickle torture. Half-bent over, I bit down on my lip, grateful that Rohan attacked from behind and couldn’t see my strained expression. “Doesn’t even affect me.”

“You’re a dirty liar,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my neck.

I dropped the square ceramic plate on the counter. “More a dirty exaggerator.” I tried–and failed–to suppress the shiver that racked my body at the touch of his lips under my ear. I turned in his arms, smoothing the pulse beating in his throat with my finger. Feeling the smooth, soft patch right under the rasp of his jaw-line stubble, like a secret that only I knew. “Wanna really exert yourself over me?”

He pressed his forehead against mine. “I have to go to the studio. Put in some song time.”

“It’s okay.” I patted his cheek as he released me. “Will you be working late?”

“Probably.” His regret was genuine.

I picked up my wine, heading for the library and the photos of Evelyn when Rohan pressed the plate of stir fry into my hands. “Eat, Lolita.”

I smiled, then gasped. Lolita. That was it. I raced off with my food, the pieces of my plan falling into place.