Page 3 of Last Minion Standing
“Jezzie. I need the computer,” I shouted, bringing my notes with me into the living room where she sat hunched over our laptop. Okay, her laptop, but we shared the apartment, so didn’t that make her stuff my stuff? In my mind, it did. Of course, it didn’t always work in the other direction, but Jezzie didn’t seem to mind, most of the time anyway.
“Who are we looking for?” she asked, looking up. For those who’ve never met Jezzie, and trust me when I say you don’t actually want to, she’s a tiny thing. She barely comes up to my chin, with straight blonde hair, baby blue eyes, and the nastiest right hook your face ever met. Just ask the last demon who called her sweet thing. He’d drunk from a straw for weeks.
I gave her the name of the mother who’d sold her life and soul. “How many kids did she have?”
Jezzie did her magic, which involved hacking into databases that went beyond those the human government and police kept. Hell kept very thorough records of everyone. And yeah, that includes you. Don’t think he’s not watching your every move.
“Got it. She had one daughter who died at nineteen. They found her body mutilated. Another daughter lived and got married, but died of an aneurysm in her thirties.”
“Did the living daughter have any kids before she croaked?” I was pretty sure I knew the answer already.
“Yes, one, a girl who is now twenty-one.”
Bingo. “I need her location, please.” And knowing the bureaucracy in Hell, it would be nearby because, even though they never gave me the answer, they always made sure to give soul retrieval missions to nearby bounty hunters.
I don’t know if she Googled it, hacked it, or used arcane methods, but Jezzie found out where one Alice Smith, granddaughter to the mother who’d sold her soul, would be working tonight.
And just my luck, she was a bartender in a downtown dance club. It looked like I might get to go dancing—code speak for getting lucky—after all.
But first I had to find the perfect outfit for Lady Kickass. Okay, still not the right name, but I hadn’t given up hope.
Chapter Three
I paid the cab driver and stepped out onto the pavement across the street from the club where Alice worked. I stood in the shadows and surveyed the area, thinking. In or out? Where would Albert strike?
A long line of young, hot twenty-somethings stood in line waiting for the bouncer to give them the go-ahead to enter. Albert, with his looks, would never make it past the gorilla—I would, of course—but if Albert couldn’t enter the club, where would he lurk in wait? His previous method of operation always had him attacking near the victim’s place of work, hitting them when their shifts ended and they were headed home. Since I knew this, logic dictated I check the alley behind the club, which usually boasted an employee entrance. Dark and with less witnesses, it was a perfect spot for those wishing to indulge in nefarious activities, my favorite kind.
In this day and age, though, even the back doors were guarded against the unwanted, not a label that applied to me—humble I am not. Another gorilla of a bouncer leaned against the brick wall beside the employee entrance, smoking. If I’d wanted in, I would have just walked up to him and dazzled him with my presence, but I didn’t want to go inside or be noticed. Besides, he wasn’t my type. I liked big and muscled guys, but judging by his package, he lacked the heavy equipment needed for true satisfaction.
Not my fault I had specific needs. As a half-demon, I’d inherited some neat powers. I wasn’t just gorgeous, awesome, and super sexy—not to mention completely shameless—I also had the ability to either be noticed or not, totally handy for the times when the situation called for a stakeout. But as a half-demon and daughter to a demon of lust, my sexual appetite went beyond voracious. I just thanked my lucky stars I’d inherited enough human to skip the succubus gene. The thought of draining a guy’s soul while screwing him was a little too freaky, even for me.
Calling on my demonic abilities, I blended into the shadows and made my way to the gray metal doors that marked the back exit of the club. The thug in the black T-shirt didn’t even look in my direction. Hidden, I performed the most boring aspect of my job. I waited.
Damn, I hated this part. The vibrations of the music blasting from the club thrummed through my body, calling me like a tempting siren—a male one, of course. It took a lot of willpower to keep my feet still, but I was on the job, so, hard as I found it, I bit my lip and persevered. I know, martyr material. Too bad the name Saint already belonged to someone. I could have really done something cool with that as my superhero name. A nun’s habit with slits up the thigh and...
I left off imagining ways to sluttify a sister’s holy dress when I heard the soft scuff of someone sneaking up the alley. The big brute at the rear door had just gone inside, and right on cue, out from the shadows, scuttled Albert, my escapee from Hell.
With my target in sight, I dropped my do-not-notice-me glamour—when I was young I used to like imagining I was part Jedi—and cranked up the look-at-me one on high. I strutted with swishing hips towards my target, my curvy frame undulating hypnotically. As expected, his eyes locked onto me, riveted by my sensuous motion. It would take a stronger soul than his to ignore my feminine attributes. I tried not to shudder when he licked his lips. His stay in Hell really hadn’t agreed with him. I would describe his appearance, but trust me when I say you’d prefer to keep your cookies in your belly.
A few steps more, all that separated us, and I’d touch him. Then wham, I’d invoke the magic I got with the job. The spell would create a target-specific portal that would send Albert back to Hell where he belonged. Once he was in lockup, screaming his apologies for daring to flout the system, I’d collect the bounty for his capture. Some shoes I’d placed on layaway—because my cards were maxed out—were counting on this bonus.
At least that was the plan until he appeared. He dropped down from the night sky, an agile hunk of male who made my jaw drop for several reasons. One, he wore only a pair of indecently low-slung jeans, with no shirt and no shoes. I mean who came to a fight barefoot?
This simple fact distracted me and turned on my lust, which, in turn, annoyed me. Wasn’t there an unwritten rule somewhere that stated, like most restaurants, shirts and shoes must be worn to a fight? If not, I’d start a lobby for one because the amount of naked—mmm, muscled—torso displayed was waaaaay too distracting for poor little me, who obviously hadn’t received a good shag in a while.
The second thing that rendered me speechless—a state my dad would have found amusing—was the fact that Mr. Hunky bestowed upon me a masculine grin—a naughty one meant to make me cream my panties—and said in a velvety baritone, “Run along, sweetheart. I’ve got this.”
Me, one of Hell’s most successful bounty hunters, dismissed with a smile and a wave of his hand. His treatment made me want to tear his pants off and ride him like a cowgirl—I mean, he’d called me sweetheart, how hot was that?—while, at the same time, made me see red.
I’m gonna wipe the smirk off his face. Then I’m gonna kiss him. Then...
Caught in so many conflicting emotions, I’m afraid I didn’t react quickly enough, and he took matters into his own hands. Did I mention they were huge? He turned and gave me his back, which, I’ll admit, was almost as sexy as his front and would have only been improved with a set of nail marks—mine, of course. With an animalistic grace that would have put most predators to shame, Mr. Creams-Panties approached my target and engaged him in a slugfest.
What a show. I totally needed a fan or, even better, a really cold ice pack for my crotch. Heat suffused me as I watched Mr. Cream dance around a dazed-looking Albert. I’d forgotten all about the bounty in my fascination with watching him move. In that moment, I was just like a man, lust making all the blood in my brain rush to other places, and I think I might have drooled.
The hunk used no weapon, unlike the scuzzball Albert, who wielded a serrated knife, a dangerous fact that did not daunt my shoeless hero in the least. His fists flashed and connected with solid thumps. The escaped soul reeled beneath the force of his blows, but no matter how well my hero acquitted himself, he couldn’t win. Souls couldn’t die.
Sucking in my stomach—scrawny I was not—I strutted over to interfere and send the wandering one back to Hades. I looked forward to collecting my reward for a job well done, and as a treat for Mr. Cream being hot, I’d bestow some of my pleasure on the treasure hidden in his pants.