“It’s you!” I spluttered out before breaking out into a smile. The Hot Shy Blonde from apartment 36. My eyes widened as horror sunk into my skin. My neighbor was a Demon Hunter?
I'd kill Dermot Dirk that next time I saw him.
Mr 36 gave a muted smile as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. He said nothing.
Hugo Sinclair.
Frankie’s memories whispered. I finally had a name to put to a face.
I started to cut my chicken, the movements harsh as I struggled with the dry piece of meat.
“I see Gary hasn’t gotten over his grudge,” Hugo said softly, gesturing to my chicken. “You just got out of the hospital, and he still feels the need to punish you for refusing to go out with him.”
I smiled tightly through a bite of my food. I said nothing.
Hugo's eyes dropped, fixing on his plate. I got the impression that he didn’t make eye contact often.
“I'm grounded for two weeks,” I muttered uselessly, trying to make conversation. “Davenport told me that he didn’t want me on the field.”
Which was just as well, because I couldn’t handle a gun to save my life. Even if Frankie could, muscle memory only went so far.
“I bet that pissed you off?” He guessed with a smile in his voice.
“You bet,” I said. “I don’t handle being bored well.” Which was true enough.
“You should listen to Warren. He's worried.” Hugo suggested. “We've all got to be on guard until we find out what took out your team.” He reached out and patted my shoulder once before snatching his hand back as if he wished that he could take the small act of kindness back.
It was strange to witness grief and compassion in an abstract way. To receive sympathy for something that had happened to my host, but not to me.
Hugo glanced up for just a second. Our eyes met through the short curtain of his dark blonde hair. His irises flared pale ice blue.
I jerked back in surprise, but recovered quickly. “You’re an incubus!” I hissed under my breath, glancing furtively to make sure I hadn’t been overheard.
Hugo Sinclair's brow quirked in confusion.
“Are you okay, Frankie?” He whispered. “I think you should lie down.”
I jerked out of my chair. The legs squeaked harshly against the linoleum. I smiled shakily. “You’re right. I need some fresh air.” I bused my tray as quickly as possible and rushed out of the mess hall. Resisting the urge to glance over my shoulder as I went.
The Demon Hunters had an Incubus?!
I raised a trembling hand and scrubbed it over my face as I rested my back against the pebbled cement wall of the building.
I wasn't sure if I could handle whatever it was that Dermot Dirk wanted from me.
It was only a matter of time before I slipped up. Did Hugo know that something was wrong? Had my excuses worked?
Being in peril at the same time as being around hot men was terrible for my health.
I was a horn dog at the best of times. Putting me in a difficult situation and then presenting a bunch of man-candy was just asking for something to go wrong.
Warren Davenport with his dark eyes and severe scowl. Sgt Hart, with his growly voice and all of those delicious muscles. And Hugo Sinclair?! A bona fide sex Demon.
I sank to my butt. Tilting my head back and raising my eyes to the sky.
I was in trouble.
Chapter 3
Drudes were nightmare demons by definition. I could feed on people’s subconscious terrors with little effort, but creating that fear? That took power—I hated to leak. It was a sign of weakness.
Imagine everyone in a hundred-yard radius suddenly experiencing horrific day time hallucinations at the same time, and you can kind of understand my problem.
I needed to find a way to de-stress stat. Tequila and porn would help.
Where could I find both of those things on a pseudo-army base? I sat up, fists clenched with my new mission to find alcohol, and then masturbate into a coma.
My back was ramrod straight as I left the Mess Hall and walked through the compound like I was meant to be there. I paused briefly, self-conscious, as I wondered if I was walking like Frankie.
Could people tell that I wasn’t her?
I groaned. The sound was a hairball in my throat. It was so much easier when I didn’t care. When my life wasn’t on the line.
Someone cleared their throat behind me. Davenport. I sniffed and tilted my chin as I turned to face him.
“Yes?” I asked hotly.
His lips were pressed together in a tight line as he frowned at me. Despite that, I saw a twinkle in his eye. I amused him.
“If you’re done eating, I can show you to your room, Corporal Gardiner.”
I blinked slowly. “Does it have a mini-fridge?”
Davenport sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. He muttered to himself before he strode towards one of the buildings on the edge of the clearing.
“Seriously, though. I need strong alcohol. Preferably tequila. And does my room have pay-per-view? Or, like, the internet?” I wheezed as I struggled to keep up.
Frankie’s body was still healing, and I could front all I liked. I wasn’t at optimum captivity. Whatever had put the woman in a coma was a doozie. Even my demonic healing was taking its time.
Davenport slowed his steps to allow me to catch up. He kept pace as we walked along the trail.
“Why do you need alcohol and television?” He asked, dryly.
“Because. Reasons.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He ignored my very valid excuse and opened the door to one of the dormitories. He waited for me to pass before he followed closely behind.
Loud grunts and harsh slaps led me to pick up my pace in excitement. I hoped that it was what I thought it was.
“Last time I had an orgy, it was interrupted,” I told Davenport gleefully. Bouncing on my heels as I followed the sound.
Davenport's look shot daggers. If his glare was a blade, I would be bleeding out.
“This is the dojo.” He said pointedly as we rounded the corner.
I deflated. The exciting sounds had been two Hunters training. Bare Knuckle fighting. Krav Maga. I recognized the Israeli defensive fighting style.
Warren Davenport glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Francesca Gardiner was not the type of woman to attend an orgy. I would advise you to remain silent if you cannot think of something appropriate to say.” He advised.
I snorted. “Me? Silent?” I waved a hand, dismissing the motion. “And how did you know that she didn’t go to the occasional orgy? It’s not something that someone tends to mention to their commanding officer.”
“You just did.” Davenport pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I smirked cheekily. “You’re not my commanding officer.” I reminded him as I tilted my chin to a long corridor off the side of a wall filled with various weapons. “Is my room over there?”
“Yes.” He said through gritted teeth.
“Coolio.”
Davenport's expression was glacial. I held up my palms in surrender.
“I'll be cool. Chill.”
He was silent. His eyes said it all. I tended to get casual and overly familiar when I was in danger. Like one of those supervillains that starts to describe their evil plot when they should just be killing the superhero.
I wondered what my evil villain name would be.
Nightmare Girl?
The Super Drude?
Davenport cleared his throat to get my attention. I shrugged, unrepentant, and followed him as he led me down the corridor to one of the suites at the end.
There was a sensor pad to the left of the ivory painted steel door.