Kane and Leo had met while the Nava-guarding Rasha boys were suffering from demon-compelled memory loss about my existence. Had we any Men in Black memory-erasing tech, they’d have used it on Leo. But occasionally people did find out about us and it’s not like the Brotherhood made them disappear. I didn’t think. If they learned about Leo’s half-goblin status though? They’d dust her in a heartbeat. It would be my death warrant, too.
Rohan was the one Rasha who knew the truth about Leo, and he was leaving her alone. For that, I’d be forever grateful.
“Gotta book,” she said. “Schmugs.”
“Schmugs,” I replied. My chest got warm and gooey at her matter-of-fact usage of our good-bye, shortened from “Hugs, schmugs.” Having Leo back in my life meant everything to me.
Packing took no time at all. I propped my suitcase by the door, casting around for something to distract me, too restless to sleep right now. Grabbing my phone, I scrolled through my music, then set it in my blue and silver bedside speaker dock. After my Achilles tendon snapped in high school on the verge of achieving my dream of tapping professionally, I’d quit dancing. Cold turkey, locked down that part of myself. It had taken becoming Rasha, and more specifically talking with Rohan about his own creative experiences to realize how miserable I’d been without tap in my life.
Kneeling on my fluffy area rug, I rummaged under my bed for the tap shoes that Rohan had brought over from my parents’ house as a surprise. A gesture that I didn’t want to examine too closely. Sliding my feet in, the worn soles fitting me like a second skin, I hit play. I could have chosen anything to dance to; old swing, modern jazz, pop, even salsa music worked, but right now I wanted Rohan.
Phrasing.
Snowflake’s raspy growl filled the room, singing the lyrics of his first hit, “Toccata and Fugue.” A stream of consciousness love song, it never failed to fill me with a wild recklessness, an electric flow dancing over my skin that had nothing to do with my newly acquired magic. I tried to stay in the present and not the memory of Rohan singing these lyrics to me in a park late at night a few weeks ago.
The girl with the lightning eyes and the boy with demons in his soul.
As freaked as I’d been at those lyrics, Rohan had practically swallowed his tongue before the second chorus. That didn’t seem to stop me from obsessively listening to the song every time I danced these days, however.
Kicking the rug out of the way, I tapped a percussive counterpart rhythm, my heel stamps, open thirds, and five-count riffs landing with gunfire precision on the hardwood floor. A siren’s call, the melody swayed through my body, making my blood sing.
I danced until I was too tired to worry about the outcomes of all the balls in motion right now, and then I passed out, laying my head as close as possible to the speakers, with Rohan’s voice on repeat, a quiet lullaby to send me into dreamland.
Not even a tendril of light slithered through my blinds when I awoke Wednesday morning. I cracked an eye to look at my alarm clock. 5AM. I flipped over, pulling the covers over my head, but sleep was elusive. Truth be told, I was wound tight, caught between nerves and exhilaration for the trip.
Slipping on a robe and socks, I padded into the kitchen for the first of several coffees. I filled my cup, adding copious amounts of milk and sugar.
Rohan was on his way out, airport bound for his earlier flight. He snapped his suitcase zipper into its built-in lock. “You ready? Got your passport? Your Nikki wardrobe?”
Would he go double-check Drio? Oh wait, I knew that answer.
I slammed my cup down, liquid sloshing onto the counter. “Pass. Port. Is what? For big shiny bird in sky?”
Rohan’s lips compressed into a thin line. “This isn’t a joke. Get focused on this assignment and your role in it.”
“Don’t worry,” I sneered. “I’ll be the picture of adoration.”
“Yeah, I’m already feeling the love.”
I curled my fingers around the mug, the heat from the coffee seeping through the ceramic. Fucking, fleeing, and fighting, oh my. I’d rather have lions, tigers, and bears.
“Have a good flight.” That was the second time in as many weeks that I’d uttered that phrase to cut off a loaded conversation with Rohan.
I brushed past him, taking the coffee with me.
The next few hours dragged by. Drio and I were supposed to ride to the airport in style, but since it became apparent there was no way Drio, me, and our luggage would fit into Kane’s Porsche, I called Ari and we all crammed into our dad’s Prius instead. I made small talk with my brother in the front seat and tried not to think about how much I regretted drinking that third cup.
This good-bye was far easier than the one my twin and I had said when I’d moved into the chapter house. Still, when we unloaded our luggage in the passenger zone at the Vancouver International Airport, I hugged my brother hard.
“Don’t be stupid there.” Ari’s blue-gray eyes, the only feature my blond twin and I shared, were filled with concern.
“It’s not my plan, but you never know.”
“I’m serious. Nothing you’re doing,” he gave me a pointed look indicating he was speaking about Gelman and getting himself Rasha’d up, “is worth you being hurt. Things get hairy, you step away. And by step, I mean run.”
I punched him in the arm. “Take your own advice, you hypocrite.”
A bleak expression flashed over his face before he rubbed his jaw. “I’m dealing best I can.”
My heart shredded into a million pieces at how lost he was. I’d tried yelling, begging, crying–nothing I’d said had stopped Ari. So I’d find Gelman and get the idiot inducted. “Get killed, leave me an only child, and I will find a way to reanimate you, visit humiliation galore upon your zombified corpse, and then kill you again.”
That got me a shadow of a grin. I’d take it. One more giant hug for Ari, a smacked kiss on the cheek from Kane, and then it was down to Drio and me wheeling our suitcases into the airport. Being stuck with someone who despised me for the next twelve or so hours as my sole travel companion? Good times.
“I have a very important role for you for the flight over,” Drio said as we approached the ticket counter.
Sweet! I cocked my fingers at him like a gun. “You got it. What?”
“Mute.” Light glinted off the skull ring on his middle finger, the glamour on his Rasha ring fittingly emblematic of his assholery.
“Look at my face.” I waved my hand around it. “Now put all your admittedly limited powers of deduction to the test and tell me if it says ‘sass me.’”
Drio bared his teeth at me, while the airport employee was given our passports with a charming grin that had her touching her hair, flustered.
Even then, I might have tried making conversation with him, because I got bored on flights, but upon checking in, I learned that being Rasha meant traveling business class. Time to milk every perk out of this ticket.
I started in the business class passenger lounge in the airport, an enormous rectangle of a room divided into eating and lounging, with one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows providing a view onto the runways. First stop? The booze, of course. It was free and on tap. I liberally doctored an espresso with Bailey’s because even I wasn’t going to guzzle vodka before 10AM.
On the job.
Then I pretty much skipped the espresso and kept topping up the Irish cream. I found some ice and a splash of milk, and bam! Daily calcium content dealt with. Two plates of waffles, bacon, and sausage for iron helped soak it all up. I finished with a glass of orange juice to keep the scurvy away. All in all, a damn healthy meal.
Belly full, stack of magazines in hand, I moved over to the reading and relaxation area. I wriggled my butt against my comfy chair. This was seriously heaven. I surreptitiously checked out my fellow travelers waiting for their flights to be announced. When it came to being chosen, demon hunters had nothing on the people in this place. Those economy schmucks waiting downstairs in the airport departure areas,
stuck sitting on molded plastic with second-rate food-court choices were cattle.
I’d never traveled business class before and this was a revelation. I felt like Eddy Murphy in that old Saturday Night Live sketch White Like Me, when undercover as a white man on a bus with only Caucasian passengers, the driver puts on “Life is a Cabaret,” and a party breaks out complete with cocktails. This was even better because all races and religions were embraced. Cough up the dough, and you too would be welcomed into the promised land.
“Promised land, huh?” A jocular businessman smiled at me.
Too much Irish Cream. “Damn straight, the promised land.” I held up my glass in cheers. “L’chaim.”
The fun didn’t stop there. When we boarded, there was no walk through the fancy part of the plane, eyes downcast, shuffling toward an economy seat that barely fit a child. I had my own roomy, lay-flat seat by the window and it wasn’t even next to anyone. I didn’t have to make eye contact with a stranger or worse, speak to them about my bladder and bowel needs.
I spent a good twenty minutes figuring out all the buttons on my console, testing everything from seat position to my media center with its plethora of movie choices. Getting the tray out took another five minutes, after which I tore in to my fleece blanket, pillow, and fuzzy slippers–which I put on before we’d even taxied. Items in the complimentary toiletries bag were sorted by fragrance and usefulness. By the time the chef–yes, chef–came around to introduce herself and give me a small printed menu, I’d spread out to the point of looking like I’d lived in my seat for about three years.
My lovely flight attendant Steve didn’t judge. Nope. He took my meal order with a smile, enjoying my enthusiastic oohs and aahs when he delivered my appetizer selection via a small cart. I got to pick three different types, plated personally for me onto white china with real utensils.
Movies, food, body lotion, I glutted myself. Forget ridding the world of evil, noble causes, and destiny, I was determined to ace this assignment, if only for more overseas gigs. Despite my desire to catch up on as many Oscar contenders as possible, I fell asleep at some point, until I was gently shaken awake by Steve, asking if I was ready for breakfast. Uh, hells yeah!
But all good things must come to an end, and all too soon, we landed in Heathrow for our transfer flight to Prague. There was no time to sample the delights of the British lounge. I raced after Drio, hauling ass to make our connection.
Much to our mutual dismay, we were seated next to each other for this flight. Drio sprawled out and immediately fell asleep, leaving me to eat all his snacks and the profiterole that came with his meal. At least he smelled nice, kind of woodsy. The final perk of the voyage was our luggage being unloaded first off the carousel at the Prague airport.
Other than the briefest glance to see if I was following him, Drio didn’t bother with personal contact.
The wind hit me in the chest the second we stepped outside. I hunched deeper into my coat, sitting on my large, silver, hard-sided suitcase and shivering, while Drio hailed a taxi and gave the driver the name of our hotel.
“Ah. In New Town,” the cabbie informed us.
This was my first time in Prague and in the maybe half hour it took to drive into the city, it vaulted to the top of my favorite places list. Prague reminded me of a smaller, more vibrant Paris. It shared the old, fabulous architecture, except while Paris buildings tended to a monotonous cream-gray stone–one of the first things I’d noticed when my family had visited several years back–many of the ones in Prague were colored in soft butterscotch, blues, and pinks. A formidable black gothic castle loomed over the town, while bridges and spires dotted the cityscape.
I had my face pressed to the window for the entire ride.
Our chatty taxi driver was more than happy to point out various neighborhoods and landmarks, like the enormous red metronome on the hill with its swinging arm that was over seventy-five feet long and a reminder of the legacy left by Stalin and communism in the city. He noted the famous pedestrian-only Charles Bridge in the distance as we crossed the Vltava river that snaked through the city.
Finally, the driver turned down alongside a long, skinny square with an imposing statue of a guy on a horse. The plaza gently sloped down, flanked on both sides by more incredible buildings with stores at ground level. “Wenceslas Square,” the cabbie said.
“You mean the guy they sing Christmas carols about?” I asked.
“Just so.” He stopped at the bottom. Brand name shops lined the bisecting street in either direction, while a pedestrian-only square stood beyond that. The driver pointed along the pedestrian area to the right. “Faster if you walk. About 300 meters.”
I took in the architecture that looked pretty much like the rest of the architecture in the city. “Isn’t the hotel in the New Town?” Where were the glass and steel skyscrapers?
The driver laughed. “Old Town dates back to 1100 AD. New Town 1300s.”
“Upstart neighborhood.”
Drio rolled his eyes at me, but to his credit, he gave the driver a healthy tip. We lugged our suitcases over the checkered pavement toward the hotel. I noted a lot of great stores that I’d be hitting up once our mission was completed.
Even my suitcase wheels spun with a cheerful clattering sound.
Drio turned off the pedestrian area and there it was, Praha WS Hotel. A five-story boutique hotel painted vibrant yellow with arched windows, it featured intricate plaster details, and black and cream trim.
“Is Samson staying here?” I asked Drio.
Since it was work related, he didn’t grumble at the question. “No. He’s at the Four Seasons. Rohan wanted to stay someplace away from our target.”
We swerved to avoid a family of weary-looking tourists with broad Aussie accents, bogged down with shopping bags. “Where’s King’s posse staying?”
“The Four Seasons. As am I. I want to be able to party with the boys. ”
“Why are you here then?”
He gave me a tight smile. “I’m delivering Rohan’s property.”
I looked in confusion at his suitcase until the penny dropped. “Thanks, but I’m good. You can go.”
“You have the credit card the reservation was booked under?”
I held out my hand for it. Drio kept walking, pulling the silver handle of the hotel’s glass front door open and heading inside.
Since Rohan wasn’t due to be here with Samson for a while, I’d been allowed to travel in normal person clothes instead of the easy access zipper-fest the guys were expecting. I kept my coat on and my head down for most of the check-in though, letting Drio handle it.
As baroque as the outside was, the inside was contemporary clean-lines. The black floors gleamed with a high-sheen polish, and the reception desk was a floating slab of the same black. Two long panels backlit in a burnt gold took up most of the wall behind the desk. An elevator bank was situated on the left, while a couple of steps at the back led to white linen tables in a small restaurant.
Drio handed me the keycard along with my room number. “2PM,” he reminded me. He checked his phone. “That gives you a couple of hours to eat, unpack, and get ready. Ro is with Samson and his crew right now at the Four Seasons but he’s bringing King over here under pretext of giving him some sample tracks for the song.”
“He’s inviting Samson to sing on it?”
Drio nodded. “Since wherever Samson goes, his two closest buddies follow, I’ll hook up with them and make sure I’m here for the meet. In case you need me.”
That surprised me and I guess it must have shown because he gave me a crooked grin, only somewhat less psychotic than the one directed at demons. “They take you out, I don’t get the pleasure when the Brotherhood gives the order.”
It was as good a reassurance as I could have expected from him. “Later, gator,” I said, and went to put on my war paint.
My third-floor room wasn’t bad. A bit small but bright. The walls, furniture, and linens on the queen bed were gl
eaming white. Red accents in the curtains and top blanket punched some color into the place. No sexy shower or anything and not much of a view from my room either. I’d been warned that I’d be checked into a basic. Since I was here as Rohan’s groupie, common sense dictated I’d be pleasuring the master in his own opulent suite. My place would be more of a dumping ground for my stuff since big time rock stars needed their space. If Samson managed to breach the doorway and visit me, the room wouldn’t seem out of place.
I flipped my suitcase open, pulling out the clothing I’d packed on top as my first attack gear. Samson liked the blatant. Red, black, short, tight. I went for white. Pure as the driven snow, me.
I wriggled the black-and-white houndstooth mini skirt that hit mid-thigh up over my white lace bikini briefs. Even if no one else ever saw them, the lingerie was part of my method acting, my from-the-skin-out character build. I’d paired the briefs with a white lace demi bra that pushed my C cups up into lush globes. That bra was a total score. Getting that much support without any metal underwire was a feat but I’d found it. I’d learned the hard way that metal against my body when my electric powers were triggered led to burning and pain. I’d even stopped wearing jewelry other than my Rasha ring, which didn’t cause me any problems.
According to Ari, Rasha magic stemmed from personality dysfunction, like how Kane with his poison power was a literal manifestation of him being toxic in relationships. As far as I was concerned, my magic was simply electric awesomeness and not, as Ari had said my “desire to shock others and keep them at bay made tangible.”
Next on was a tailored white men’s dress shirt, worn with one more button open than polite society would deem decent. The fall of the neckline allowed for a tantalizing glimpse of my rack.
Pointing my toes, I rolled the first of my white thigh-high stockings up, adjusting the elastic top so that about an inch of skin showed between their top and the skirt’s hem. Stocking number two went on the same way.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Sting (Nava Katz Book 2) Page 5