The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series

by Deborah Wilde

  That fit in with my plans for the day, namely eating and finding this shopkeeper. According to the walking map of Prague I’d downloaded onto my phone, the store Gelman had directed me to find was located in Old Town. I noted the tons of small cafés and bakeries on the map to check out along the way, so I skipped the hotel restaurant and headed off to explore Prague and get breakfast.

  I popped my earbuds in, choosing an upbeat playlist that contained no danger of playing “Toccata and Fugue” then, soundtrack in place, slid on a pair of red, plastic, heart-shaped sunglasses that I couldn’t wait to break out in Rohan’s presence. I tugged on my gloves, my breath gusting in tiny puffs in the crisp cold air. It was a lot chillier here than it had been back home.

  Sun reflected off diamond sparkles on the frost-covered ground as I wandered the twisted cobblestone streets in dreamy delight, the one downside being the occasional heel snag in the uneven stones. Prague was like a fairyland, a city filled with so many architectural gems that I got a crick in my neck. I passed building after colorful building, paintings and sculptures adorning their facades, some with attic-level arched windows, and wondered what it would be like to regularly wake up to these rooftops?

  This time of year, there weren’t the throngs of tourists jamming up the streets that I’d have found in summer. I snuggled deeper into my coat, following the scent of sugar, cinnamon, and dough. Turning the corner, I was rewarded with a bakery, its front wall open to the street. Inside, workers wrapped dough around a long stick, roasting it over an open flame until it was golden brown. I hopped inside and glanced up at the filling options painted on the menu board.

  I pulled an earbud free, the latest Bruno Mars spilling out. “One Trdelnik please. With whipped cream.”

  The baker pulled one of the long, hollow pastries off of its cooling stick, filled it to overflowing, wrapped it in a napkin, and handed it over. I bit into it, the cream squishing up over my top lip and nose. Flavor ecstasy burst on my tongue. That’s it. I was moving here.

  I dawdled in the streets as I ate, checking my map every now and then to make sure I was still on the correct route. There was no hurry and I was happy to gawk at everything.

  The map eventually directed me into a narrow courtyard, ringed with tiny shops. The one closest to the entrance was my destination. I peered through the windows expecting some dusty creepfest selling crystals and bits of flotsam best not asked about. Instead a plump, cheerful woman clad in colorful clothing sold children’s crafts and the ubiquitous marionettes hawked throughout the city.

  The shopkeeper greeted me brightly over the jangle of bells. “Can I help you?”

  I glanced around the shelves but my items weren’t on display. “Uh, I’m looking for something I hope you stock.”

  “Yes?”

  Feeling half-foolish, half-trepidatious, I said, “Virgin soil from a mountain not dug by men and purified well water.”

  “Wait here.” She disappeared behind a purple beaded curtain.

  I didn’t believe that it could be this easy. She was going to transform and come out with evil a-blazin’, right? Nope. She returned with two stoppered glass vials. One was filled with a rich, dark, soil and one contained clear liquid. “That’s it?”

  She smiled. “That’s it.”

  I eyed them. “How do I know this isn’t backyard dirt and tap water?”

  The shopkeeper rang up the purchases. “You don’t. Though I’d hardly keep my reputation if that’s what I passed off.”

  Good point. I paid for the vials, thanked her, and tucked them safely into my coat pocket. The fabric still smelled like roses. I exited the store, marveling at how uneventful that had been. Since I had tons of time before I had to get ready for tonight, I pulled out my phone, intending to check my map and see how to get to the Charles Bridge, when a burst of color on a sign in the far back corner of the courtyard caught my attention.

  It was a sunburst. A gold stylized sunburst with an androgynous face in the middle, framed by hair streaming out as if blown by the wind. Rays of light, some straight, some wavy extended from the face. One of the rays ended in a fleur-de-lis while another one had a hand, palm forward. I’d seen this design before.

  Next to the sunburst was the name of the store. Karel Tattoo. I went inside and found another small shop, very clean, with blue walls plastered in artwork. A lone black chair stood off to one side, next to a bookcase with neatly stacked rows of rainbow-colored ink.

  Karel, or the guy I figured to be Karel, was a short, burly man with a trim goatee, who was inked up all along his arms and neck. He lounged in the chair, looking up from his phone when I entered. “You want a tattoo?” His English was heavily accented with Czech.

  “The sun on the sign. What is it?”

  Karel stood up. “You been to Versailles?”

  A shiver ran up my spine. “It’s his symbol. Louis XIV.”

  Karel nodded.

  “I want it.” I didn’t, but some deep gut instinct made me say the words. “But…” This was going to sound so lame. “Can you make it temporary?”

  “No.”

  My shoulders slumped. I still had the sense I should do this but it warred with my disinclination to make the sunburst the first tattoo on my body. I didn’t want that permanent a reminder of this mission. Besides, if I ever wanted to be buried in a Jewish cemetery, then tattoos were right out.

  He pulled a pencil from his back pocket. “I can do it in body paint. Lasts about three or four days if you don’t get it wet.”

  My head snapped up. “Really?”

  “Yes. It won’t look like a tattoo but it’ll look good.”

  “Can you make it glittery?” Given his scowl, I thought I’d pushed my luck, but he nodded. “You’re the best.” I placed my hand on my left boob, above my heart. “Here, please. But I don’t want the fleur-de-lis or the hand.”

  He nodded brusquely at me to sit in one of the wooden chairs that constituted the waiting room. “Let me draw it up,” he said.

  A few hours later, I was the proud recipient of a brilliant, gold, shimmery sunburst. I even had the perfect dress to show it off. I fired off a quick email to Dr. Gelman asking which pastry shop to meet at. Then I got ready for my night out.

  I knocked on Rohan’s door at seven on the dot. He had a penthouse suite, as much as any room on the fifth floor could be called that.

  Rohan opened the door, leaning against the frame to check me out.

  I spun on my gold stilettos, knowing I looked fabulous. “You like?”

  My pale gold mini dress with spaghetti straps floated out as I twirled. I’d pinned my curls up in a messy, sexy do, with a few tendrils escaping down my back. Gold shimmery eye shadow adorned my lids, with no eyeliner but a ton of mascara. I’d kept my lips nude, with sheer glimmering gloss to pick up the light. My sun design peeked up above the neckline of my dress.

  Rohan reached a finger out as if to trace it, but I swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch. You might wreck it.”

  “What’s with the body art?”

  “Is my entrance contingent on my answer or can I come in?”

  Rohan stroked his chin. “I haven’t decided.” I didn’t mind his hesitation because it gave me the opportunity to check him out. He wore a black suit over a moss green T-shirt. There was no eyeliner, no spiky hair. Instead his locks curled softly along the tips of his ears. No rings except his glamoured Rasha one, though he had kept the leather strap tied around his wrist and his single silver bracelet.

  I cocked an eyebrow and he shrugged. “Even rock stars can dress up,” he said. He stood back, allowing me entrance. As I suspected, the only similarity between his room and mine was the four walls and a floor. I stepped inside his suite, the thick carpet muffling any sound.

  Dirty glasses were strewn around the room, with more than one bearing lipstick stains, while a graphic-print scarf was tossed carelessly over the sofa. I picked it up. “The old forget-the-scarf trick?” I loosened my hold on the silky material. T
onight was about the mission, not us.

  Rohan took it from me. “Yeah, I’ll get it back to her.”

  I sniffed a half-empty bottle of Glenfiddich. “You had a party and didn’t invite me? I’m crushed.” My voice was light, airy, totally uncaring.

  “It was an impromptu thing this afternoon. It would have been weird to specifically call you.”

  “So Samson wasn’t there?” I guess if he hadn’t been around, Rohan didn’t need me to play act.

  “No, he was. I just didn’t need you right then.”

  Everything he said was plausible and Rohan going out of his way to include me would have seemed suspicious so this could all very well have been true. Still, he was a rock star with self-admitted bad behaviors going back down the rabbit hole.

  I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Nice piano.”

  Neatly stacked sheet music lay on top of the black baby grand that dominated the living room. I peeked at the handwritten notations but Rohan flipped the stack over so I couldn’t see what he was working on.

  “It’s why I stay here,” he said.

  “If there was a hotel with a tap floor, I’d be so there.” I plucked out “Twinkle Twinkle.”

  Rohan took my lame one-fingered attempt at the tune and upped it, turning the simple nursery rhyme into a haunting melody for a few bars. His strong, elegant fingers flowed over the keys.

  I clapped my appreciation.

  The modern décor of the lobby continued here in the sleek lines and sharp whites paired with bright pops of accent colors. A large abstract print took up much of one wall. My eyes bounced to the curtains, now closed, and blocking any potential view. Like that of Prague laid out before us. I bit my lip, shutting down any lustful urges with a stern mental directive that tonight was a work night.

  “Did Samson want to hang out for a reason or was this a play date?” I asked.

  Rohan closed the cover on the keys. “King offered me a recording contract.” He laughed at the dumbfounded look on my face. “Yeah. I have no clue either. I’m certain I’m being set up for something, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is yet.”

  “Maybe we’ll learn more tonight.”

  “Hope so.” Still seated at the piano bench, Rohan jerked a finger up and down indicating my attire, then shook his head. “Scratch that. Start with what you were up to last night.”

  I caught him up on what Rabbi Abrams had asked me to do as well as the entire Gelman encounter, speeding through the zmey and troll part, since there seemed to be a direct correlation between that section of the story and the muscle jumping in his jaw.

  When I came to the end of the recap, Rohan frowned. “Amazing. In a month, you have me stepping back into the limelight despite swearing up and down never to do it, and get one of the most company men I’ve ever met going behind the Brotherhood’s back.”

  I gave him an arch look and he held up his hands. “Just that good. I know,” he said.

  I waited but he didn’t say anything else. I jabbed him. “Where’s my growl that I’m behaving recklessly? Going off on my own to do something that has nowhere near the importance of this assignment?”

  He crossed his legs at the ankles. “You saved me the trouble.”

  “Can’t shut down a rabbi’s order to me either, can you?”

  He scratched his cheek with his middle finger. “I promise to growl if I don’t like what this new look is all about.” His voice dropped lower. “Though I’m not sure that’s a punishment with you.” He watched me with a banked heat.

  “Down, boy.” I straightened my shoulders and moved away, putting two chairs and a low coffee table between us.

  He smirked but let it alone.

  Snapping my fingers, I sank onto the sofa. “Drink me.”

  “Wine?”

  “Please.”

  Rohan uncorked a bottle, holding it up for my approval.

  “My favorite kind,” I said.

  “Merlot?”

  “Open.” I waited until I had a glass in my hands to explain the sunburst. “When I went to get the supplies for Gelman, I came across this tattoo parlor with a sun on the sign. It’s the same design that Louis XIV branded himself with all over Versailles.”

  The bottle hit the counter harder than warranted.

  I drank some wine. It didn’t burn like rotgut, so a good vintage. “I saw it and had this overwhelming sense of rightness. I had to get the design.”

  The jumping jaw muscle was back, but the boy showed remarkable restraint by not speaking. Or locking me into handcuffs. Ooh. Handcuffs.

  I forced my thoughts to stay work appropriate. “Up until his retirement weirdness, Samson positioned himself as the sun at the center of the universe and encouraged people with crap lives to fly as close as they could. He pulled the old, ‘I’m bright. I’m shiny. Ignore the part where I’m a giant ball of flame that can destroy you.’ Well, I’m going to turn the tables on him. Pose as a descendent of old Lou and match Samson’s ambition. Because really,” I stretched an arm out along the top of the sofa, “even an alleged power-hungry demon needs a consort.”

  Rohan dropped down beside me. “So you upgraded yourself from bait to queen.”

  I smiled at him and sipped my wine.

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I want to know what you’re up to at all times.”

  I choked on my drink. “You mean I have your permission?”

  “Begrudging, but yes.” He took my glass, knocking back a long slug, before pressing it back into my hand. “This is a bold move. It might be the thing to crack Samson’s facade. Spin it as wanting to get signed by his management company. Figure out what he’s up to from that angle.” Rohan stared at the sunburst for another brief, intense moment, then snorted. “Jesus.”

  Sure, I was pleased, but I’d expected more of a fight. Much more. I gave him a once-over, noting the brush of purple under his half-open eyes, and the lines of fatigue sketching his face as he lay on the couch next to me. It was a little too languorous to be just tiredness, a little too carefully disguised to be careless partying. “How you doing there, tiger?” I asked.

  Rohan took a breath, looked at me, then looked away. When his smile came back, it was a bit strained, and it seemed like he’d been on the verge of saying something else. “I’d forgotten…”

  I leaned forward, awaiting the rest of the sentence. There was a polite knock at the door. Startled, I lost my balance, and tumbled sideways against the sofa cushions. “Samson?” I asked.

  “Room service. I ordered in. I hope that’s okay. I wanted to eat in peace.” He opened the door and a waiter rolled in a cart with two covered plates.

  With a flourish, I lifted the first cover and sagged. It was steamed fish with steamed veggies. Ugh with a side of ugh. “This looks–”

  Rohan started laughing before I could figure out how to lie my way through the rest of that sentence. “Lift the other cover,” he said.

  My eyes lit up at the enormous piece of schnitzel accompanied by a heap of gravy-drenched mashed potatoes. No greens in sight.

  “I did good?” he asked.

  I held my wine glass up to him in cheers.

  By mutual unspoken agreement, we didn’t discuss work, the Brotherhood, Ari, or us. Instead, Rohan entertained me with music biz gossip.

  Wine snorted out my nose at one particularly outrageous anecdote. “She did not!”

  Rohan put his hand to his heart. “Swear. Toe hickeys. Her exact instructions were ‘Suck them hard enough to open my third eye.’ Which was wrong on so many levels.”

  I screamed in laughter. “What did you do?”

  “Told her it was the wrong chakra.”

  “Was it? The wrong chakra?”

  “Fuck if I know.” A pious look flitted over his face. “I may have implied that cultural appropriation for western sexual kink purposes was frowned upon by Indian gods and would end in badly blocked energy. Then I blessed her with a namaste and got the hell out.”
>
  “How upstanding of you, Mr. Mitra.”

  “Some of us do have a moral compass.”

  I jabbed my fork at him. “Hey! I have a moral compass.”

  “Yeah, with Hell as your true north.” But he said it teasingly so I stuck my tongue out at him.

  His phone beeped with a text. Rohan glanced at it. “Samson.”

  I laid down my cutlery and wiped my mouth. “Seems our bubble is broken.” I didn’t want to go. I hadn’t had this much fun with someone other than Ari or Leo in ages.

  “Seems so.” He didn’t sound any happier about it than I did. Rohan pulled his ever-present tiny tin of candied fennel seeds out of his pocket and popped a few in his mouth before offering them to me.

  I crunched a few, the sweet licorice freshening my breath. “Pace yourself, baby. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  Chapter 10

  “Are you sure this is the right place?” I asked.

  We stood at the mouth of an underground passageway that would have looked sketchy by the light of day. At night, with no one around, it looked flat-out disreputable. Small shops with windows filled with tourist crap took up most of the corridor, while a sign pointed the way to the Museum of Torture.

  “That looks promising,” Rohan deadpanned. He strode into the passageway. “Lolita. It’s over here.”

  I blinked at the name, having forgotten about my persona during dinner. It had been so genuinely Rohan and me, instead of Lolita and rock star. Stiffening my spine, I arranged my expression in Lolita’s state of ennui and sashayed after him.

  Rohan stopped well before the stairway leading up to the museum, halting next to a nondescript black door with a small sign reading “Chill.”

  A hostess met us inside. After verifying that our name was on the list for this thirty minute reservation, she fitted us with thermal jackets. “It’s roughly minus twenty celsius inside,” she informed us. “We’re one of the colder ice bars in the world.”