Demon Hunting with a Sexy Ex by Lexi George (8)

The dark-eyed Kir leveled an accusatory finger at Duncan. “This Dal is in gross violation of the Directive Against Conspicuousness. He went on a rampage last night in a neighboring hamlet, and ’twas very nearly a disaster.”

Taryn arched her brows. “Nearly a disaster, Illaria? I collect matters have been rectified?”

“Certainly.”

“Then you have done your duty and can be on your way.” When they did not budge, Taryn gave them an enquiring look. “Was there aught else?”

“’Tis the Dalvahni.” The face of the one called Illaria was tight with fury. “We would have you know what he has done.”

“If the situation has been dealt with, I do not see that it matters.”

“It matters to us.” The brunette with the blue eyes fairly trembled with rage.

“Very well.” Taryn folded her arms. “I am listening.”

“There were satyrs,” the brunette said. “And centaurs.”

“And a great snowy beast the Dal claims is a boggy bane,” Illaria added.

“Boggy boon,” Duncan muttered, though they paid no heed.

“And hundreds upon hundreds of forest creatures,” Illaria rushed on. “Fox and fowl, deer and rabbits. A bear and a catamount. Dogs and cats by the dozen and . . . oh . . . too many others to name.”

“A veritable menagerie,” Taryn said, looking bored. “I confess I do not perceive the difficulty.”

“That was but the beginning.” The brunette added in the tone of one much afflicted, “There was a nibilanth, a vile little imp who sang songs ’twould put a dock whore to the blush.”

“Indeed?” Taryn said. “Did he, by chance, favor you with a ditty about his bollocks?”

The brunette’s eyes widened. “Aye. You know him?”

Taryn nodded. “A foul little scamp. His name is Irilmoskamo-seril.”

“Please, sister,” the brunette pleaded, looking around. “Speak not his name, lest you summon him.”

“As you wish. Did Sildhjort accompany the nibilanth?”

“Yes. The forest god was in human form,” Illaria said. “Silver-skinned, horned, and quite naked. A sylph was with him, and a bevy of human females. They cavorted. ’Twas most shocking.”

“’Twould be more shocking had they not,” Taryn said. “Was Iril—?” A strangled sound from the brunette stopped her. “Oh, bother. Was the imp drinking?”

“To excess,” said Illaria. “He turned the fountain in the middle of town into wine. The bear got drunk, and the spirits attracted a large crowd of humans.”

“And fairies,” the brunette added. “Do not forget the fairies.”

Taryn held up her hand. “Let me hazard a guess. The fairies got tipsy and kicked up a rumpus. Tiresome, to be sure, but not unduly troublesome.”

Illaria bristled. “The fairies were not the problem. We had things well in hand until the clurichaun showed up.”

“A clurichaun?” Taryn clucked in sympathy. “That is unfortunate. Noisome, bitter little beasts, in my experience.”

“Surly in the extreme,” Illaria said. “This one was riding a dog. The poor benighted creature was fagged unto death, to which the nibilanth took exception. The clurichaun took umbrage at the imp’s remonstrance and—”

“There was a brawl, I surmise,” Taryn said. “’Tis ever thus with the clurichaun.”

“’Twas more than a brawl, sister. ’Twas a melee,” the brunette protested. “Windows were broken. Carriages overturned. Streetlamps smashed. Pavers pulled up and tossed about. Buildings defaced.”

“Disagreeable, to be sure,” Taryn said, “but none of this explains why you are so out-of-reason cross with the Dalvahni.”

The three females turned as one to stare at Duncan in the tree. He glared back at them, uncomfortably aware that he cut a ridiculous figure but unable to summon the energy to care. His head was a cloth sack filled with burrs, and his stomach was a volcano of acid threatening to erupt.

“’Twas pandemonium,” Illaria declared. “There were the fae to be dealt with, and Sildhjort had to be persuaded to leave—and you know how gods can be.”

“And that is not the worst of it,” the brunette said, her color rising. “Scores of humans required adjustment, including a local constable and his men, and there was massive property damage to set aright. In short, it was a debacle.”

“Was it indeed?” Taryn looked unimpressed. “I feel certain you will eventually reach the point of this tale of woe?”

Illaria drew herself up. “The point is, sister, while we struggled to remedy matters, that one”—she shot Duncan a withering glare—“sat atop a statue, much as you see him now perched in yon tree, and played a gittern.”

“The Dalvahni lacks musical facility?”

“To the contrary, his music is intoxicating,” Illaria said. “The faster he played, the wilder the revelers became, fae, beast, and human alike.”

“He drove them into a frenzy, sister.” The brunette’s bosom heaved. “But I do not think you fully comprehend the measure of his transgression.”

“Then, pray, enlighten me,” Taryn said with a weary sigh. “I am about Arta’s business, and time flies.”

“There was an ogre,” said Illaria. “A great brute with skin like iron and fists like battering rams. Illaria and I scarce escaped with our lives.”

Taryn stilled. “At last, you interest me. Did you slay this ogre?”

“Nay.” The brunette pointed to a limp figure on the ground some thirty yards distant. “He lies there.”

Duncan forced his bleary eyes to focus and saw Evan asleep among the leaves. The demonoid was covered from head to toe with scratches and ugly bruises, and he was naked.

Taryn laughed. “For shame, sisters. I see no ogre. I see naught but a skinned rabbit. Pray, what has any of this to do with the Dalvahni?”

“Everything,” Illaria said. “He summoned them.”

“Summoned whom?”

“All of them. The centaurs and satyrs. Sildhjort and the imp. The clurichaun. Those insolent fairies and the humans. He summoned them with his infernal strumming. The ogre as well.”

“Small wonder you are vexed, then,” said Taryn, blinking. “The Dal has certainly been remiss.”

“Remiss?” Illaria clenched her elegant jaw. “He is a menace. He should be punished.”

Taryn clasped her on the shoulder. “You are sore and weary, sister, and with good reason. Take Jakka and depart.”

“But, sister,” Illaria protested. “The Dal—”

“The Dal is for Conall and Arta to deal with,” Taryn said. “Make your report to the High Huntress. Trust in her wisdom. Then seek your rest. You have earned it.”

“But—”

“Now,” Taryn said in a firm voice. “I fear I must insist.”

With an irritated pop, the Kir dematerialized. Sunk in a misery of self-reproach, Duncan hardly noticed. He had not merely violated the Directive Against Conspicuousness. He’d sundered it.

Pressing his forehead against the tree trunk, he contemplated diving headfirst out of the elm, and rejected the notion. Melodramatic, to be sure, but futile; his broken neck would but heal in an instant.

Glumly, he wondered what his punishment would be. A few thousand years on the far side of the Veil to contemplate his failings? It would be lonely there in the silent darkness. Vast, empty space unbreached by hint of starlight. Forced to contemplate his shortcomings. Forbidden the hunt and the company of his brothers.

Harsh, but bearable. But to be separated from Cassandra for an eternity . . .

His chest tightened until he could not breathe. To lose all hope of winning her back, that he could not bear. He would run mad.

“Well, sir, you have caused a stir.” Taryn gazed up at him, hands on hips. “I have a brace of partridges and two fat hares in my pouch. Come down, and we shall break our fast.”

Duncan groaned. “Speak to me not of food, I beg you. I am unwell.”

“What is this flummery? The Dal and the Kir are impervious to illness.” She regarded him narrowly. “Have you, perchance, ingested chocolate?”

“Aye. You have heard of it?”

“The High Huntress warned us to avoid the substance. Supposedly, it affects the Kir and the Dal much the same way that intoxicants affect humans.” She shrugged. “I confess I find it hard to believe.”

“Alas, it is all too true.”

“I see.” Taryn studied him. “Conall did not warn the Dal?”

“He did.”

“Then why did you not heed him?”

Why, indeed? Duncan wondered.

He kept his thoughts to himself. The Kirvahni would not understand. She could not. She had never been in love, nor would she be. Taryn was too cold and controlled, too aloof and reserved for the all-consuming conflagration that was love.

Before meeting Cassandra, he had been the same, emotionless and detached. Dead inside.

Love had cracked him open and left him vulnerable. Because of Cassandra, he knew yearning and grief, terror and worry, but also laughter, tenderness, and joy.

Laughter, Duncan had found during the long years of separation from Cassandra, kept the darkness and despair at bay, but his newly acquired feelings had set him apart from his brothers, who found his propensity for levity perplexing. Duncan did not care. Cassandra had brought him to life. He would not return to his former self, even if he could.

He noticed the Kir’s quizzing gaze, and shrugged. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

“My sisters are seriously displeased. I fear they will denounce you to Arta. Perhaps even take their complaints to Kehvahn.”

“In truth, they have reason.”

He was too woozy to dematerialize, so he climbed down to join her, moving slowly from branch to branch. Gods, he was weak and dizzy. No more chocolate, he vowed. He was halfway to the ground when a bough snapped, and he fell. He landed on a protruding root. Staring at the sky peeking through the branches, he wondered if he’d broken his back.

Taryn bent over him. “Tell me, was it your aim to fly? If so, you failed. Try flapping next time. In my observation, that is how the birds do it.”

Duncan opened his mouth to retort and stopped. Something was dreadfully wrong with his belly. He staggered to his feet and pushed past the startled Kir. Stumbling behind the elm, he expelled the contents of his stomach. He straightened, wiping his streaming eyes, and found the Kir watching him.

“You vomited,” she said with detached calm.

“Your perspicacity is a marvel.”

“You are a redoubtable warrior, dedicated to duty and the hunt. Your behavior is aberrant.” She frowned. “I would have the truth. Did that devil Evan trick you into ingesting chocolate?”

“Oddly enough, the . . . er . . . devil did his best to dissuade me. I would not listen.”

“You astonish me. What is it like?”

“To be drunk? Not unpleasant. A sort of untethered euphoria.”

Taryn’s gaze widened. “Untethered? I confess, the notion holds no appeal. To lose control seems to me of all things most disagreeable.”

“The consequences are certainly not enjoyable.”

“In truth? You did not enjoy hacking up your entrails?”

What was this? Did the Kir have a sense of humor? Perhaps not so cold, after all.

“Definitely not,” he said. “What brings you to Hannah, huntress?”

“The rogue. I have tracked him across the mountains of Ardoth and through the Durngarian mire. The trail led me here.”

At her words, Duncan’s malaise was forgotten in an instant. “The rogue is here?”

Taryn nodded.

A few moons past, the Dal had received the shocking tidings that a Dalvahni warrior had betrayed his vows, forsaking his brothers and his duty to consort with the enemy. Taryn—not one of the Dal—had been ordered to bring the traitor in. The knowledge galled, though Duncan did not doubt that Taryn was up to the task. She was an excellent tracker, tireless and determined, lethal with all manner of weapons. She would find the traitor and dispatch him with ruthless economy.

Still, it rankled. Sacred vows had been broken, the brotherhood betrayed. The brotherhood, not the sisterhood. A Dalvahni warrior should have been named the rogue’s executioner, not a Kirvahni huntress.

“Conall deemed it for the best,” Taryn said, guessing his thoughts. “’Tis no easy thing to kill a friend.”

“You will do it.”

She shrugged. “I am Kirvahni. The rogue is not my friend. Come. Let us wake our sleeping ogre.”

Striding over to Evan, Taryn nudged him with her foot. “Arise, slug-a-bed. The night has run its course, and morning wanes.”

Evan grunted and turned over.

“Observe, he does not heed,” Taryn mused aloud. “What is to be done, I wonder? Ah, I have it.”

Removing the water pouch from her belt, she dashed the contents in Evan’s face. He leapt to his feet, cursing and thrashing.

Wiping the water from his eyes, he scowled at her. “Red? What the hell?”

“Cover yourself, sirrah,” she said, giving him a cool look. “Your shortcomings are exposed.”

“Cover myself with what, Tundra Twat?” Evan spread his arms wide. “Look around. I ain’t got no clothes.”

“Hmm,” Taryn said. “I perceive your difficulty. Allow me to be of assistance.”

Such was the melting sweetness of Taryn’s tone that the hair stood up on the nape of Duncan’s neck, and he took a hasty step back.

She gestured, and—ping—Evan was dressed, though not in the modern mode. He wore a motley velvet coat with fringed tails and breeches. One leg of his breeches was black, the other red. Velvet slippers with curling toes and a multitude of tiny bells adorned his feet, and a large pair of donkey ears sprouted from the floppy felt hat on his head.

Evan looked down at his ridiculous garb. “Not funny, Red. So. Not. Funny.”

“You think not?” Taryn tilted her head, considering him. “I, for one, find it highly diverting.”

Ping. The donkey hat was replaced by an enormous flowered bonnet. Ping, ping. The bonnet became a wide-brimmed shepherdess hat festooned with high plumes and virulent pink ribbons.

“Stop it,” Evan said, glowering at her. “That shit is rude.”

“Indeed? I find your vulgar language excessively rude, and I tell you to your face that I will not tolerate—”

She broke off and stilled, listening. Sensing her disquiet, Duncan opened his mind and was flooded by a sense of evil . . . and something else, a jarring impression of bleak emptiness. Something stirred within the void, something grotesque and unrecognizable, something better left to slumber.

“It is the rogue,” Taryn said. “He is on the move, and he brings the djegrali with him.”

Duncan stared at her in shock. The sick and mindless creature he’d sensed was the betrayer? What perversion of body and spirit could have twisted a Dalvahni warrior in such a manner? The thought was unsettling. The Dalvahni were unassailable . . . were they not?

“You are certain?” Duncan asked.

“Aye. I have tracked him for months and recognize his aura.”

Duncan could well believe it. Having encountered that warped presence but once, he would not forget it.

The rogue did not live among them, as Conall feared, playing a double role as spy and traitor. Of this, Duncan was certain. The rogue’s very wrongness would betray him.

“What is he about?” Duncan asked.

“One can but guess.”

A sudden and chilling premonition gripped Duncan. Cassandra was in peril. He felt it in his bones.

Terror cleared the worst of the chocolate haze from his mind. He should not have left her defenseless, hieing himself off to bury his sorrows in demon chocolate. Despicable.

It was irrational, he told himself, this unreasoning fear for Cassandra’s safety. Still, he could not shake the notion that she was in trouble.

“I must away,” Duncan said, chilled to the bone.

He reached for the cottage on the river and dematerialized without waiting to see if the huntress followed.