Page 40 of Demon Hunter

Oh yeah. Apparently I was also too damn tired to even remember that, which is a damn shame. I turn my head to look at Dylan, who’s stopped coughing and re-learned the art of breathing. “Shame we were too dumb to hook up then. I have a ton of locker room fantasies.”

“Gross,” Ian complains, but Dylan just kisses me.

“Next time we’re at the compound, we’ll sneak into the locker room after hours,” he promises, and I fall a tiny bit more in love with him.

“What? No!” Ian complains. “Iusethat locker room. I don’t want to be wondering if my brother and his boyfriend fucked on the bench I need to sit on.”

“Now we have another reason to do it,” I tell my boyfriend, and he laughs.

“Do you want coffee, Ian? Marc?”

“Yes. Please. Coffee,” Ian begs. “Though if I have to think about you and Matty doing stuff, tequila would be better.”

“Coffee would be acceptable. Thank you.” Marc adds the last two words as an afterthought, and I elbow Ian.

“Teaching him manners?”

“I have manners,” the man—demon—himself informs me. “Far better than yours, I assure you.”

That’s probably true, since I’m barely housebroken. Gabe tried, but Ian and Connor were a bad influence on me.

“You can sit down, you know. You won’t catch anything from the furniture.” He’s still standing in the middle of the room where they first appeared.

“I never thought I would. I was just… appreciating this room. I’ve never seen this… style of décor before.”

Beside me, Ian coughs, but he’s totally trying to cover a laugh. Dylan, who’s coming back in from the kitchen with a mug in each hand, just snorts. “You mean thrift store and Ikea chic? I don’t really do décor, Marc.”

“That explains a great deal about that coffee table. Thank you,” he adds as he takes one of the mugs.

We all look at the coffee table. The clear Perspex top is scuffed and scarred and marred with many ring stains from people not using coasters, but I think Marc’s probably more focused on the fact that the orange plastic base is shaped like an elephant. Unfortunately, time and many owners have left their mark, and the trunk, ears, and tail are long gone, leaving jagged plastic edges where they used to be.

It’s unique.

And ugly as fuck. At one point, it must have been in direct sunlight, because the front half is more faded than the back, giving it a weird two-tone effect. But it serves its purpose, and I never have to worry that I’m going to damage it. By now, anything I do to it would just… well, I can’t say “add character,” because it has none. But it wouldn’t do any harm.

“That’s actually the only family heirloom in the place,” Dylan says with a straight face. “You don’t like my antique table that’s been passed down from my great-grandfather?”

Marc slowly turns to look at him. “Indeed. And yet, it goes so well with all the other… vintage furnishings.”

We all crack up, because Dylan’s stuff is so shitty, it can’t even be called vintage. It’s just old. “You’re no fun to tease,” he complains, handing the other mug to Ian. “But if you want, I’ll give you a budget and you can redesign this room.”

It’s Ian’s turn to choke on his coffee, and I stare at Dylan with my mouth open. “What?”

He shrugs. “What? It’s a great idea. We’ve been slacking off on Operation: Friendship lately. We need to keep working on making him more relatable.”

“And you think him redecorating your house is going to do that?” Ian asks incredulously.

Marc, on the other hand, has his lips pursed as he surveys the room. “What kind of budget? Do I need to… shop?”

“I’ll work it out and let you know, and yes, you need to shop,” Dylan insists. “You can’t demon magic furniture for me.” We both shudder in unison. It’s kind of weird, since Marc demon healed me and demon teleported Dyl, but the thought of sitting—or fucking—on a sofa that he demon magicked into existence is… yeah, no way.

“I will consider it,” Marc declares. “I need to see the budget first, and do a full assessment.”

I look around. Couch, chair, coffee table, rug, TV. The TV is good—Dyl doesn’t skimp on electronics. I may not be a fancy décor or style person, but I figure it can’t be too hard to go to an upmarket furniture store and point to one of their living room settings. Isn’t that why they pay people to do that shit in the showrooms? “Assessment of what?”

Marc just looks at me like he scraped me off his shoe, and I figure I really don’t care that much anyway.

“I’ll work on that budget,” Dylan promises. “And then we’ll get some pics and video of you and me shopping and getting everything set up. Ian, too.” He glances over at me. “Not you, not unless we put some makeup on you to make you look bruised.”

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