We didn’t have to snoop for long. There was only one original painting in the place, which hung in the rabbi’s cluttered study on a shadowed wall away from any damaging sunlight. I turned on the small spotlight to see it better. A small plaque mounted next to the painting read “The Birth of Our Prince.”
Upon first glance, it was the unlikely subject matter of the birth of Jesus. A raven-haired woman, her coarse features twisted, gave birth in a manger, the night sky twinkling with stars beyond the open manger door. Except she had black wings with edges like razors, so unless Mary had had a few additions that no one else had seen fit to document, this wasn’t her.
A man wearing a crown kneeled beside her, his face etched with grief. The baby he held in his blood-soaked hands, still connected to the woman by a thick, purple umbilical cord glistening with fluid, was a monstrosity. It had three heads: an ogre, a ram, and a bull.
“Rohan!”
He came running at my screech, bringing the cardboard box and a small pouch with the pliers and screwdriver. “What?” All I could do was point at the painting. “Asmodeus?” Rohan dropped the stuff onto the rabbi’s desk, but didn’t tear his eyes off the artwork. “Does Malik know you killed Asmodeus? Is this some kind of message?”
“It didn’t come up in conversation but Malik makes it his business to know things and Ari is a topic near and dear to him these days. It’s possible he knows what happened.”
Malik hadn’t lied about painting this because his signature was legible in the corner. But of all the paintings in all the world, why have me get this one?
“Who are Asmodeus’ parents?” I said. “Who would come after me for killing their son?”
Rohan didn’t know either, but there was someone who might. It was worth the long distance charges on my burner. “Rabbi Abrams?” he said. “Nava and I need your help.” He described the painting to the rabbi, providing specific details at the rabbi’s prompting. Rohan’s expression grew grimmer and grimmer. “Yes, Rabbi. Thank you.”
“Holy Hell.” He rubbed his fist against his temple and I tugged on his sleeve. “Malik intended for us to know this. It’s going to open a Pandora’s box.”
“Why?” I was vibrating.
“The raven-haired woman is the demon Mahlat. See this?” He pointed to a genie’s lamp tossed on a bale of hay to one side. “According to certain Kabbalistic legends, Mahlat was put into a vessel like this and locked in these cliffs on the Dead Sea by King Solomon.”
“So that’s Solomon?”
Rohan shook his head and touched what looked like a tiny baby’s hat with very long strings, woven from rope.
“I don’t understand.”
Rohan traced his finger along the protective glass to point out a rock that had rolled slightly away from a larger pile. “It’s a slingshot.”
“That’s King David?!” I twisted my gold ring, with its engraved hamsa that marked me as Rasha, as if it could ward off this information. “No. He can’t be Asmodeus’ father. He formed the Brotherhood to stop demons, not birth them.”
Rohan pried the painting off the wall, and flipped it over, removing the glass. He held out his hand, and like an operating room nurse, I placed the screwdriver in it. He made short work of the staples then carefully pried the canvas away from the large outside frame.
As it slid free, an orange flame-shape slithered from between the frame and the canvas. No heat emanated from it and no sparks cracked as it wound itself around Rohan’s chest. He slashed at it with his finger blades, but as I’d learned from Ari’s shadow magic, that wasn’t a thing.
The painting thudded to the thick area rug at my feet.
Part of the flame creature reared up like the head of a cobra at me, so I bombarded it with magic. The crackling voltage passed through it harmlessly, but my presumption in attacking pissed the thing right off. It settled on Rohan like an anaconda, squeezing hard enough to bug his eyes out. The flaminess of it was similar to one of the magic types that marids possessed but this wasn’t a demon. More like… a trap.
I couldn’t fire because the only thing my magic would hurt was my boyfriend and I wasn’t done with him yet. I scrabbled for a hold on it, fear making my fingers clunky.
Grabbing at flames: also not a thing.
I ended up grabbing Ro’s shoulders, elbow deep in this entity that seeped into my skin like a toxic spill. My flesh split and reddened with burn lesions bulging with pus.
Rohan was turning blue, his thrashing growing weaker.
There was no way to fight and my flight instincts were screaming at me, so I grabbed the painting in one hand and yanked on Rohan. Magic bloomed inside me, not the white hot crackle of electricity, but a slow sensual unfurling of something more primordial.
The world shifted. The library disappeared, replaced by the shadow of the palm tree in the rabbi’s backyard that we now stood under.
Rohan gulped air down. His shirt was torn, his torso and arms a mass of bluish-purple bruises overlaid on blistered, burned skin.
I dropped to his side, ignoring the searing burn from the blistering mess running from my elbows to my fingertips and the melted latex on my hands. I patted him down, checking for injuries, but before I could ask him if he was okay, he jerked away and in a voice laced with dread asked, “What are you?”
Chapter 14
What are you? Rohan’s question rang ’round and ’round in my head. Why hadn’t his first reaction been to have my back? Or a simple “Thanks, Nava. So glad I’m not dead.” Was he scared of me now?
I stared out the plane’s window, flexing my gauze-encased fingers, the skin pulling tight over my knuckles. I can’t imagine what Carlos thought when we returned all beaten up, but he’d provided a first aid kit and dressed our burns. I’m sure charter jet employees were paid for their discretion.
I’d always been different from the other Rasha, just by the fact of being female. If I had magic abilities that they didn’t, why did that matter? Was Rohan viewing me differently now?
The leather couch squeaked as Rohan sat down beside me. “Are we going to talk about this?” He was still hoarse from the attack.
I shrugged, keeping my focus on the clouds.
“Will you please look at me?”
I stared at him, impassive.
He pressed an ice pack to his ribs, his shirtless torso a mass of pulpy bruises. Luckily, the burns were healing quickly. “What I said. I didn’t mean–it came out wrong.”
“Ah. So you don’t think I’m a freak among freaks?”
“No. But you aren’t like the rest of us, either.” He shifted stiffly and winced. “Our powers don’t grow stronger over time, but you keep getting layers.”
“That’s on my trainers for their failure to know the full spectrum of my electric magic.”
“Maybe. But you portalled us. That’s not connected to your magic.”
Like I hadn’t been circling back to that for the past six hours.
I headed to the telecommunications center at the far end of the jet. Every step sent fresh hell blazing down my injured arms. I traced my finger over the canvas, but the delicate brush strokes had no further secrets to yield. “Ari portals.”
“Ari shadow transports. It’s at least connected to his magic. Though, after this afternoon, I can’t help wonder if that ability is a result of your twin thing and you not being tested in the first place. That he can do it because you can.”
He wasn’t the only one wondering that.
“Did you know?” Rohan stood directly behind me.
The painting was rich with shadow, but Malik had captured pools of light, a certain radiance affiliated with holy births and moments of awe that was both chilling and captivating in this context. But then, that was that marid for you. “Know what?”
“That you could portal.”
I spun around, fists clenched. “Hell, yeah. I’m also waiting for the right moment to spring my invisibility and flight on you.” I shoved past him but he caught me by the wais
t in a gentle hold.
He tossed the ice pack onto the table. “I’m sorry. Please talk to me. This is upsetting you way more than it should.”
I didn’t want to talk to him. His words after I’d rescued us still stung. I could pull away, slam my walls up, and let him stew. Hello, comfort zone.
It was so tempting, but scary as it was to break that pattern, I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I couldn’t be, not in this relationship. I bowed my head, silently repeating the words until I had the courage to say them aloud.
“What if I’m a witch?” I helped myself to a Coke from the small tray of drinks that Carlos had left out for us so I didn’t have to face him as I spoke. “Because if I am a witch, I’m not Rasha.”
“Technically, Rasha are kind of mini-witches. Witches lite.” Rohan planted himself in front of me, tipping my chin up to meet his gaze. “You’d be better than Rasha.”
I doubted that. The snag in my hypothesis was that my magic signature wasn’t red and neither Dr. Gelman nor Sienna had pegged me as a witch, so if I was one, I was a pretty pathetic shadow of one. No longer unique, merely one of a multitude–and a half-assed one at that. I ran my unburned thumb along the edge of the tab. “Right. The Brotherhood would totally see me as better.”
“Like you care what they think.”
I popped the tab on the Coke hard enough to send up a fine mist of soda. “I care what some of them think.”
“Some of us would think it’s pretty fucking cool.” My mouth fell open and Rohan grinned at me. “What? It’d be like dating–”
“Wonder Woman?”
“Not even remotely.” He looked like he was about to elaborate so I clapped my hand over his mouth. He nipped me and I dropped my hand. “Sabrina,” he proclaimed.
I pulled my punch to his shoulder at the last second out of respect for his injury. “The teenaged witch? Rethink that, you perv.” I snapped my fingers, which was a terrible idea because a) they made no noise with my bandages on and b) snapping fucking hurt when burned. “Doctor Strange.”
Rohan grabbed a water bottle and twisted the cap off. “Quit it.”
“Quit what?”
He took a sip and wiped his mouth off. “Whatever weird shit you’re imagining with me and Benedict Cumberbatch.”
“You should be so lucky. For an old guy, he’s pretty hot.” I chugged back the pop. It was warmer than I liked, but I appreciated the sugar rush tingling my teeth and burning my throat. “I like being the only girl Rasha.”
“You like shit disturbing. If this is true and we’ve got a witch in our ranks?” He whistled and made a bomb exploding noise. “We’re in this together. Along with Ari, and Kane, and Drio, and Rabbi Abrams, and Baruch and Ms. Clara if you’ll let me tell them. Not to mention Mahmud, and at least a half dozen other guys that will have our back.”
“Against all the other Rasha and the Executive.”
“No. Against a few corrupt assholes. I’m willing to bet that most of the Rasha have no clue this is going on and if they did, they’d be as mad as we are. They’ll be on your side.”
“Even if I’m not Rasha?”
“You’re making this either or.” He tugged on my hamsa ring. “We were always told that this ring was a covenant with the Brotherhood, but maybe the fact you could be a witch and it still doesn’t come off means that it’s a covenant with the greater fight against evil. Wherever evil is to be found. And you, Nava Katz, seem to be leading the charge.”
I scowled at him. “How am I supposed to stay mad at you when you say things like that?”
He pulled his shirt back on with a wince. “You can’t. I’m perfect.”
True. Even with all his issues, Rohan was pretty damn great and thoroughly comfortable in his own skin. Me, on the other hand? Growing up, I’d had such a clear sense of myself. There were the jocks, the bunheads, the drama kids, and me, the tapper and Ari’s twin. Eventually, my identity had expanded to include being Cole’s girlfriend since we were joined at the hip.
When I’d lost two of those three, I’d floundered. Neither had been my choice to walk away from like Rohan leaving the band. I’d crafted the only identity I could to keep the hurt and loss at bay. The one way to feel like I had any say in my own existence. Then once again, I didn’t. I was told I was Rasha and that was that. Even worse, no one, from my parents through to Rabbi Abrams and the other Rasha were happy about it. I was some freak they’d all gotten stuck with.
That’s why I’d been so determined to get Ari by my side. Not just because this was his destiny, but because if I’d lost him, lost that one final essential link to myself… I exhaled and tipped back the rest of my drink.
I’d been fighting for so long and I’d just gotten to the point where I could breathe. I had allies and I’d adjusted to my new life as a hunter. Now it seemed I wasn’t the only girl at the party: I was some second-rate witch at best and some weird mutant at worst.
Outside the window, all was gray. There was no horizon to orient myself. I shivered, telling myself that I’d be on terra firma again soon.
“Do you think David was covering up his fuck-up?” Rohan was examining Malik’s painting.
I got him a fresh ice pack, cracking it to activate it, and pressed it against his ribs over the gauze taped there, the edges shiny with ointment. “How so?”
“This painting basically states that he fathered Asmodeus.” Rohan took over ice pack duty. “That he slept with this demon Mahlat. What if the reason he struck the deal with witches to create Rasha wasn’t out of some noble desire to kill all demons, but to have a handpicked team to clean up his mess?”
“Yikes. It’s entirely possible. Oh! The lovers.” I raced for the carry-on and pulled out our laptop. “The second part of that prophecy. ‘Tick tock goes the clock, the lovers reunite.’” I jotted down my thoughts as fast as I could type, which wasn’t all that fast with my bandaged hands
“David and Mahlat are the original lovers. Rasha and demon.” I tapped a finger against my lip. “That pairing doesn’t work if ‘the lovers reunite’ in the prophecy refers to Mandelbaum and whoever is doing the binding. Like symbolic lovers slash partners kind of thing. It would need to be rabbi and witch and David wasn’t a rabbi.”
Next to me, Ro went still. “Rasha and witch, Sparky.” He gestured between us.
“First off, we don’t even know I’m a witch. Second, wrong combo. We haven’t ‘re’ anything. We’re united. Full stop.”
“It’s a prophecy. Things yet to come. We haven’t broken up yet, but–”
“Ro.” I slammed the laptop shut. “I didn’t go through all sorts of hell to lose you so easily, okay? Don’t even think that bullshit.”
He nodded, but for the rest of the flight home his words hung heavy between us.
“You put my painting in a garbage bag?”
Malik was practically hyperventilating as he drew it out, muttering what sounded like endearments to the canvas. Some lively symphony played from inset speakers and his place smelled like tomato sauce.
I crossed my arms. “Nice job trying to get me killed, asshole.”
“Cardboard box,” he said, still running a hand over the canvas, checking for wounds. “Layers of packaging. Was I or was I not exceedingly clear in my instructions?”
“Boo hoo. I wasn’t going back in the house after that thing attacked us.”
“If I have to pay a restorer, you’re footing the bill.” He carried the painting down the hallway leading off the open concept living room and kitchen.
I followed him, chewing him out and being totally ignored.
Malik opened a closet door. Inside was a glass door with a keypad. He typed in a code. There was the hiss of a decompressing seal as he opened it, and cool air flowed out. Inside were several other paintings. Malik stowed this one carefully on a rack a few inches off the ground and sealed the unit up again. All that trouble and the jerk wasn’t even hanging the damn thing up. “You better hope it’s not damaged,” he said.
“I’m damaged, you dick.”
“You’re alive.” Malik raked a slow, thorough gaze over me. “Interesting.” He returned to his kitchen, picked up a wooden spoon and lifted a lid on the stainless steel pot burbling on the stove. Steam curled out. “Your boyfriend’s knives couldn’t have sliced my trap and your magic couldn’t have destroyed it. That means you escaped it.”
“How’d you get past the ward to set the trap for me?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I set it years ago. It just happened to be a handy way to get my answer of what you are. So answer.” He swiped some tomato sauce off the end of his spoon and tried it before adding a dash of salt. “Did you use some magic not in your Rasha starter kit? How did you escape?”
“A bad attitude and a fast car.”
“If you’re going to waste my time, leave.”
I didn’t even get a flick of his fingers in warning. I flew out of the kitchen, slamming into the wall in the hallway and cracking my skull before sliding to the ground.
The world swung sideways. I sat there, breathing through the vertigo. When I could open my eyes and the room held steady, I pushed to my feet, touching a finger to the back of my head. Blood.
The smart thing to do would have been to walk away. Keep my suspicions about what I was to myself and wait for Gelman to track down the witch. Except the marid had set me up with a very specific test. There had only been one of two ways I was getting out of there and if I was alive, he already knew.
He’d done his stupid test, now it was my turn. Still, it took me a moment to move in his direction. I kept the counter between us, standing stiffly on high alert. “I portalled. Disappointed I’m not dead?”
He filled a second pot with water and set it to boil on the stove. “Not yet.”
“Rohan and I could have been killed if your hunch was wrong.”
He shrugged like that was acceptable collateral damage. “The level of magic ability you accessed when you attacked me occurred when you’d been in an extreme state of distress. I needed to recreate those same conditions and see if I was right about you.”
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 102