The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(52)

I glanced out the window, surprised to see the city speeding by. The ride was so smooth, I hadn't noticed Brickie starting the engine and beginning our drive to dinner.

Samson's laughter drew my attention. Still on the phone, he listened to whatever Forrest was saying, before cutting him off with a sharp, "Deal with it." He hung up, his eyes running over my body.

I got the sense this was more cataloguing than appreciation but I pretended otherwise, preening for him. "Problems?" I motioned at the cell that he'd tossed on the leather seat.

"People forget the pecking order. They need reminding."

"Peons." He missed my sarcasm. "What's your verdict with the photos? Did I intrigue?"

Samson looked at me shrewdly. "Not one for small talk?"

I propped my heels in his lap. "The faster we get business talk out of the way, the faster we get to other lingual pursuits."

"Works for me." Samson scrolled through a few pages on his phone, one hand resting on my shins. "For a first encounter with the general public, you didn't do too badly."

"More lovers than haters? Told you."

"Don't discount the haters," he said. "We need them."

"Why?" I pointed over my shoulder at the TV. "Can you turn that down?"

Samson raised the remote, muting the sound. "People hate to love and love to hate. Makes them want you even more."

"You're very wanted, Samson. So why retire from acting? Tired of the hatred and jealousy?"

"Nah. If I gave a shit about that, I wouldn't be in this game. I just get bored easily. Diversity is everything. What about you?" He stroked up my leg. "Can you handle fame?" 

I placed one foot on the floor, the other one propped on the edge of the seat between his knees. "Bring it. Those people don't know me. They know the persona I let them see."

"Lolita."

"Exactly. Fans don't care about who I actually am, only the person they project I am. I simply have to stay one step ahead of them and direct those projections to fall in line with my own goals."

Samson leaned forward and opened a small panel on the side of the vehicle, revealing a small fridge. He pulled out a bottle of champagne and uncorked it, patting the seat next to him.

I slid across the Escalade.

Pouring us each a glass, he handed me mine, clinking his against it in cheers. "Here's to women who understand what it takes to succeed in our build-up/tear-down culture."

"Oh, I understand perfectly." I sipped the bubbly vintage, the fizzy bubbles falling flat in comparison to my rush at having figured out what he was up to.

When I was a little kid celebrating Hanukkah, after lighting the candles and saying the prayers, my parents would make Ari and I sing what felt like the entire catalogue of Hanukkah songs before we were allowed to open our present for that night. It wasn't enough to just sing either. We had to be engaged. Failure to do so, like fidgeting or casting longing glances at the gifts, would be construed as a reason to make us start the song again. Two guesses which twin caused the restarts.

Looking back, demons could learn a thing or two from my parents.

This flirting was fun but I felt like I was back at the Hanukkah table making sure I didn't blow it, when all I really wanted was to get hold of Rohan and Drio and tell them my findings.

If we were correct about his affiliation with Louis XIV and Hitler –and I'd bet we were –then Samson was returning to drawing power from being the one behind the throne. You could get as much light from direct sun as you could from a mirror. Samson was a great mirror builder, building up other people to take the brunt of the fame for him. Slipping in on the sidelines and deriving his power by controlling the world through actors and idols, feeding off both the love and negativity they inspired on their way up or down in the public's estimation.

This way, he didn't make himself a target from either Rasha or other demons by taking center stage. Whether through his own orchestrations or a fickle public ready to turn on a dime, as soon as one client, one mirror, fell to another that he also backed, he still won, no downtime, no downside. Samson could do this forever, having clients in various stages of fame ascend or descend, and no matter where they were, people would hate to love and love to hate.

I picked up the champagne bottle, studying the label, which incidentally I knew nothing about. What I did know was that Samson would not be a guy to stint on the vintage. "More impressiveness, Mr. King." I topped him up.

He looked at his full glass. "Should I fear for my virtue?"

"Please. Like I'm after anything that easy."

Samson laughed.

"I'm going to get you drunk and find the gaudy chink in your impeccable image to prove how much you need me." I tapped a finger against my lips. "Spiderman underwear."