Supernatural Selection #3
After decades of unrequited love, this kangaroo will jump at the chance for a date. Any date.
Lovelorn kangaroo shifter Hamish Mulherne, drummer for the mega-hit rock band Hunter’s Moon, waited years for the band’s jaguar shifter bassist to notice him. Instead, she’s just gotten married and is in a thriving poly relationship. How is Hamish supposed to compete with that? But with everyone else in the band mated and revoltingly happy, he needs somebody. Since he can’t expect true love to strike twice, he signs up with Supernatural Selection. Because what the hell.
When Zeke Oz was placed at Supernatural Selection through the Sheol work-release program, he thought he was the luckiest demon alive. But when he seems responsible for several massive matchmaking errors, he’s put on notice: find the perfect match for Hamish, or get booted back to Sheol for good. The only catch? He has to do it without the agency’s matchmaking spells, and Hamish simply will not engage.
But Zeke starts to believe that the reason all of Hamish’s dates fizzle is because nobody in the database is good enough for him. And Hamish realizes that his perfect match might be the cute demon who’s trying so hard to make him happy.
Chapter One
With every step down the dim corridor toward the rehearsal studio, Hamish’s stomach knotted tighter. Gods, I hate this.
He used to be so chuffed for every rehearsal, for every concert, even for the miles on the road when Hunter’s Moon couldn’t cut through Faerie to their next gig. Because every minute was one more he could spend with her. Any minute might be the one when Tiff finally paused between one bass progression and the next, and glanced back at Hamish with love instead of annoyance.
Now? All those moments he used to cherish were nothing but torture, because Tiff was glancing with love, all right—at her wife. Or her boyfriend. Or both at once.
Bollocks.
But when he peeked in the studio door, the room was empty except for a tall, dark-haired fae stretched out on the studio’s ratty orange sofa—and he wasn’t even part of the band.
Hamish heaved a relieved sigh and sauntered into the room. “Oi, Niall. You looked better after you got pulled out of hell.”
Niall McTierney, the band leader’s boyfriend, didn’t even flinch at Hamish’s greeting. “It wasn’t hell. It was the underworld. In Govannon’s forge, to be exact. There’s a difference.”
Hamish tossed his backpack behind his drum kit. “Govannon’s forge. Hades’s joint beyond the Styx. Sheol. All of ’em sound like hell to me, so why muck about with different names?”
Niall didn’t bother to open his eyes. “Try visiting each of them, and you won’t ask that question. From what I’ve been told, compared to Sheol, the forge is a bloody picnic, and Hades’s gloomy court is a four-star resort.”
“Remind me to stay out of all of ’em.” Hamish grabbed his drumsticks off the snare, then sat on the sofa arm, nudging Niall’s legs out of the way so he could plant his feet on the threadbare cushion. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You asked about underworld names. I answered.”
“The question was implied. Why—” Hamish started to beat a double paradiddle against the sofa back “—do you look like shite?”
“Working on a case. It’s kicking my arse. Now stop pounding on the furniture so I can sleep.”
Niall’s command was ridiculous, so Hamish ignored it. “A rehearsal studio’s the wrong place for a nap, mate. Doesn’t your brother”—he added the sole of Niall’s boot into the beat—“the Faerie Kiiinnng have a spare room in that bloody great Keep of his? For that matter, what’s wrong with your own house?”
“I’d like nothing better than my own house, but I haven’t been home in thirty-six hours, and I’ve got approximately fifty-eight minutes before I have to meet an informant. I thought I’d use at least a few of those minutes to kiss my boyfriend before you lot start rehearsal. Unfortunately—” he cracked an eyelid and peered up at Hamish “—he’s late. And so is everybody else. Except you.” He closed his eyes again. “Imagine my joy.”
“You know you love me. Who else would you get to go bungee jumping or cliff diving with you?” Hamish switched to a nine-stroke roll. “PI business is booming, eh?”
Niall grunted.
“Last I checked, you had a business partner. Isn’t Mal pulling his weight, or does he look like five miles of bad road too?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Grimacing, Niall shifted his shoulders as if he were trying to find a more comfortable spot on the sofa. Pointless, mate. You ought to know that by now. “I told him I’d handle this one so he can get ready for his wedding.”
Hamish missed a beat. Weddings. Gah! He gathered his sticks in one hand and forced a smirk that he hoped looked superior and not constipated. “Did you volunteer, or did Mal’s fiancé threaten to put a druid curse on you if you made him work leading up to the ceremony?”
“It was my idea. But there might have been a druid curse looming on the horizon.” Niall groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “If I’d known how much paperwork was involved in being a PI, I’d have turned the job down flat.”
“Nah. You’d have taken it. When it comes to duty to the supernatural community, you’re a goner. And Mal’s just as bad or worse. Crusaders, the both of you.” Hamish flipped a stick in the air. “Seeing you like this makes me glad I’m a care-for-nobody.”
Niall snorted. “You care, all right. You just pretend otherwise.”
Hamish fumbled the next stick toss, and it clattered to the floor. Not talking about that. Not now. Not ever. He retrieved his fallen stick, then got up and set the pair of them back on the snare on his way to the mini-fridge. “I thought you had that human photographer working for you? What’s his name? Matt? Isn’t he pulling his weight?”
“He’s tied up on surveillance for this case, but he couldn’t handle the paperwork anyway. He doesn’t have the clearance.”
“Then hire some bloody office help.” Hamish grabbed a couple of waters out of the fridge. “Or is the supe council so stingy you can’t afford it?”
“The council pays just fine, not that either of us need it. But Mal has unrealistic expectations of what office help should be. If he can’t find someone who meets his sky-high standards, he says he’d rather go without.”
“Easy for him to say.” He dropped one bottle on Niall’s belly, causing Niall to flinch—although he caught the bottle before it rolled onto the floor. “He’s off gallivanting with his fiancé.”
Niall pushed himself up and swung his feet to the floor. “If it was me getting married, I’d want the same.” He cracked open the water and downed half of it in one go.
“Speaking of that . . . why aren’t you and Gareth getting married? Isn’t waiting two hundred years long enough?”
“I’m waiting for the right moment.” Niall leaned his head against the sofa back, holding the water bottle upright on his belly. “Somehow, when the band is still touring and I’m barely conscious half the time and chasing an impossible target the rest, the ideal moment hasn’t exactly presented itself. Besides”—he closed his bloodshot eyes—“I wouldn’t want to steal the spotlight from Bryce and Mal, and neither would Gareth. When you spent two hundred years being a dick to your brothers, you’ve got a lot of arrears to make up.”
When Niall had first shown up again after a couple centuries of being MIA, Hamish hadn’t trusted him. What kind of idiot bloke would abandon the love of his life—who actually loved him back—and do a runner? If Tiff had ever given Hamish the least hint that she was interested, he’d have been her slave for life.
He still was, worse luck. But at least he and Niall were mates now.
“Hmmm. Seems to me you need a break. How about we head out after rehearsal and do some bungee jumping?”
“Are you mental? It’s February.” He peered at Hamish through slitted lids. “Not that you’d know by your outfit.”
Hamish waved the comment away. “Shifters run hot. Come on, Niall. It’s winter in Portland, but you’re fae. You can gate us through Faerie in the twinkling of a kelpie’s eye and we could be in midsummer in Cairns.”
“You do realize,” Niall said, tapping one finger against his water bottle in a non-rhythm that set Hamish’s teeth on edge, “that someday Gareth is going to find out about those trips and he’ll go ballistic on our asses?”
Hamish shrugged and took a swig of his own water. “You were tied up in hell for a couple centuries. Can you blame him for wanting you to be safe?”
Niall cocked an eyebrow at him. “It’s not me he’s worried about, boyo. He knows I do that daredevil shite. He just doesn’t know I do it with you.”
“Me? Why would it matter whether I—”
“Aside from the fact that you’re his friend, and have had his back in some of his worst times—” Niall winced “—including ones that I caused myself, you’re the drummer in his band. It’d be a little hard for Hunter’s Moon to hit their tour stops if your arms—or other bits—were broken.”
Hamish’s fist tightened on the water. “My other bits are nobody’s business.” Literally. Nobody was interested in his other bits, least of all the person he really wanted to be interested in them. “They could fall off from atrophy and nobody would care.”
Niall scrunched his face. “I’m not talking about those bits, you wanker. I mean your legs, your head, your back. Although . . .” He tossed his empty water bottle into the recycling bin. “Maybe we should talk about them.”
“How about we don’t?” Hamish put a little don’t-fuck-with-me into his tone while he ditched his water and grabbed his drumsticks off the snare. “Gotta warm up.”
He should have known Niall wouldn’t listen. The mad bloke had spent two hundred years resisting torture to keep Gareth safe. He knew how to persist, damn it.
“She’s worried about you, you know.”
“Tiff? Yeah. So worried she can’t help but glow with bleeding happiness. Do you know how weird that is? She’s always been nearly as surly as Gareth was gloomy.”
“Trust me. I’m aware. I thought she might remove my spleen when I first showed up here. But some people are capable of being happy and worried simultaneously. Tiff’s not exactly shallow.”
Hamish counted off on the snare rim, but couldn’t make himself go any further. He laid the sticks on one of the toms.
“She’s always there, Niall, just like she always was. I always had hope before, you know? That maybe one day she’d turn around and say, ‘There he is.’” Hamish ran a finger along the snare rim. “Except every time she turned around it was to tell me to sod off for something. And now when she turns, she never gets more than halfway because her wife is standing in the wings.” He flicked the hi-hat with a fingernail. “Her wife or her boyfriend. Her wife’s brother. I mean, come on—twins? How the bleeding fuck could I ever compete with that?”
“I heard”—Niall’s tone turned tentative—“that Vitor asked you out.”
Hamish snorted. “No. Not just no. Hell no.”
“Not into blokes? Or not into the poly thing?”
“It’s not that. I mean, I’m not picky.” Except I’ve been in love with the same person for decades. “But if you’re in love with somebody, the last thing you should do is hook up with their friend. Or worse, their boyfriend. You’re too close and not close enough at the same time.”
“Ah. That makes sense, I guess.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I like Luci. Who wouldn’t? I mean she’s probably the nicest person—certainly the nicest jaguar shifter—on the planet. And Vitor is fucking hot, not to mention a little bit nuts, which would be attractive on anybody who wasn’t Tiff’s boyfriend. But I can’t.”
Niall stood up and strolled over to stand in front of the bass drum. “So date somebody else.”
“You got somebody in your back pocket? Because I haven’t found anybody else who’d—”
“You haven’t found anybody else because you haven’t looked. You’ve been focused on Tiff.” Niall lifted a hand, as if he’d pat Hamish on the shoulder if the kit weren’t in the way. But then he let it drop. “And she’s out of reach, boyo. She always was.”
Hamish sighed. “I know. But I need time to process.”
“I get it. But you may not have the time.”
“What do you mean?”
“The wedding’s next week. You planning to be the only unattached member of Hunter’s Moon at the festivities?”
Hamish felt the blood leaving his head. “Bollocks.”
Niall pulled a business card from his pocket and held it out. “Here.”
Hamish took the card between a thumb and forefinger. “What’s this?”
“Supernatural Selection. Matchmaking agency for supes.”
Hamish scowled at the card. “Why do you have something like that? Planning to ditch Gareth, are you?”
Niall chuckled, completely unperturbed. “Not hardly. I’ve only just gotten him back. No, this case is connected to them. It’s run by a witches’ collective, and the matches are facilitated by spells—guaranteed perfect. As I understand it, they’ve got a range of services, including short-term casual contracts. They can find you a date for the wedding. Somebody you can have a good time with, even if you say ‘so long’ after the last bite of cake.”
Hamish studied the logo—a stylized frontward and backward S, forming a heart. “Perfect you say?”
“That’s their brand. Although they’ve had a bit of a scare recently.”
“Related to your case? What’s the deal?”
Niall shrugged apologetically. “Can’t say.”
“Right. Snoop-client privilege.”
“We’re investigators. Not snoops.”
“You’re supe snoops. Own it, mate.”
A laugh echoed in the hall outside the practice room. Tiff. Tiff laughing. The sound curled in Hamish’s chest and squeezed his heart until he gasped.
He tucked the card into his back pocket. “Guaranteed perfect matches?”
“That’s what they say.”
Tiff strolled into the room with her arm around Luci’s waist, Vitor grinning down at her. Vitor caught Hamish’s eye and winked.
Strewth. “Good.” The fates knew Hamish hadn’t had any luck finding his own match. If he couldn’t have Tiff, it didn’t much matter who it was.
As soon as Vitor cleared the door, Spence and Josh entered together, although it must have been one of Josh’s days where he didn’t want to be touched, because Spence was close but not in actual contact. But the way they looked at each other—as if they didn’t need anybody else to be happy . . .
Then Gareth walked in, frowning down at the sheet music in his hands. But the instant he glanced up and saw Niall, his face lit up like the sun, and he walked straight into Niall’s arms.
All this love. It’s enough to make me hurl.
Hamish didn’t need love. Love did nothing but kick you in the bollocks. But a match? A partner? A mate?
Yeah. He could go for that. Because he was done being alone.
Are you a shifter who’s lost faith in fated mates? A vampire seeking a Second Life companion? Or perhaps you’re a demon yearning to claim a soul (mate)?
Congratulations! Your search is over!
Welcome to Supernatural Selection, where our foolproof spells guarantee your perfect match.
Until they don’t.
Author Bio:
Multi-Rainbow Award winner E.J. Russell—grace, mother of three, recovering actor—holds a BA and an MFA in theater, so naturally she’s spent the last three decades as a financial manager, database designer, and business intelligence consultant (as one does). She’s recently abandoned data wrangling, however, and spends her days wrestling words.
E.J. is married to Curmudgeonly Husband, a man who cares even less about sports than she does. Luckily, CH loves to cook, or all three of their children (Lovely Daughter and Darling Sons A and B) would have survived on nothing but Cheerios, beef jerky, and satsuma mandarins (the extent of E.J.’s culinary skill set).
E.J. lives in rural Oregon, enjoys visits from her wonderful adult children, and indulges in good books, red wine, and the occasional hyperbole.
Demon on the Down-Low #3
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