The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Sting (Nava Katz Book 2)

by Deborah Wilde

  “Lilith.”

  “Lilith? The original harlot of history?”

  “Yes. There is a strong correlation between sexual immorality and witchcraft in Judaism. To hear the men tell of it, at least.”

  “No wonder the Brotherhood hates me.”

  Dr. Gelman cracked a smile. “Have you read the Old Testament?”

  “Not my bag, no.”

  “Exodus 22:17. ‘You shall not suffer a witch to live.’ Trust me, the Brotherhood knows all about our existence. They hate the fact that we women dare to have a power that they want only for themselves.”

  I raised my fist in solidarity. “Then right on, witches.”

  She slapped her thigh. “I like you. All right. I’ll help. Beats sitting around waiting to die.” She scribbled something down and handed the paper to me. At the top was the name and address of a shop here in Prague. “Get these.”

  “Virgin soil from a mountain not dug by men and purified well water? What will you do with them?”

  “All in good time. Once you have these things, we’ll meet again.” She held up a hand like she was making a vow. “No demons this time. I’ll take you to my favorite café for the best pastries here in town.”

  “Yes, please.” I tucked the list into my bra, then picked up my coat by two fingers, grimacing at the stink drifting off its various splotchy stains. I’d been hoping to use the jacket to cover the worst of my dishevelment.

  Gelman plucked the coat away and waved a hand over it. The stains disappeared. As she gave it back, I caught a whiff of roses. I wondered how far her guilt extended.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of shoes I could borrow, would you? Mine got a tad destroyed down in the cave. Or could you magic mine back up here intact?” Those stilettos had been pricey.

  “No. But…” She crossed over to her closet, returning to me with a pair of shower flip flops hooked between two fingers. “My feet are a bit smaller than yours but they should fit well enough to get you home.”

  Second hand slippers. Lovely.

  Dr. Gelman huffed at my expression. Since I didn’t want her to toss me around anymore, I took the flip flops and left.

  9

  Bare-legged, I padded my way into the Praha WS Hotel on ill-fitting sandals, wincing at the twinges afflicting my poor hips. My once sleek outfit lay twisted on my body. Still grimy with dried blood matted into my hair and staining my clothes, I crossed my fingers, hoping that I pulled off the “extra from a low budget zombie movie” look, because, hey, I had on a nice clean coat so the rest had to be wardrobe and make-up, right? Given the looks from the stylish people milling about, I don’t think I succeeded. No matter. They’d make up some story to fit my disheveled state. People always found a way to explain things away.

  Given the blanched horror of the desk clerk, who I already had strike one with from earlier today, his explanation probably involved alleys, knees, and hourly rates.

  Fatigue clawed up the back of my neck, pounding my temples with a tight ache that radiated in my teeth. Cutting diagonally across the lobby, I rubbed my scratchy, dry eyes. Was I really still on day one of my trip? The thought of my pillow incited drooling.

  I should have gone straight to the elevator, but I stupidly looked into the lounge. Reflexively checking out the action. Rohan stood at the bar, his rich laughter carrying clear as a bell. In high flirtation mode, he was surrounded by female admirers. Lily wasn’t among the throng.

  I dug my nails into my palms, having gotten the kick in the ass I needed to keep heading for my room, but Rohan looked up at that moment. His smile slipped.

  One of the women, her sweet girl-next-door looks undercut by her aggressive stance, leaned in to say something, resting her hand on his arm. He tilted his head, as if listening to her, toying with his Rasha ring, but ran his eyes over me again, his expression guarded. He pushed away from the bar, shoulders squared. I couldn’t hear what his groupies said, but it was clear from their body language that they didn’t want him to leave.

  I shook my head, motioning for him to stay. Rohan watched me a moment more, then relaxed. Whatever he said in response to the woman had her touch her fingertips to her chest as she tipped her head back and laughed.

  Oh, please. I hit the call button.

  Boots thudded against the floor, closing in on me. Every step was inordinately loud given the din of chatter in the lobby. Stuck here as my stalker closed in, I stabbed at the button, willing the elevator to descend faster.

  The footsteps stopped behind me. “Was it Samson?”

  I turned around to face Rohan. “No. Rabbi Abrams asked me to do something.”

  His brows raised in silent questioning.

  “Can we not? I mean, not tonight? I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but now,” I pushed the button again. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not.” His hand snaked out and pushed up my sleeve revealing the kaleidoscope of yellow and purple bruising.

  I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his all-seeing amber eyes before looking away. Except that landed me on the full glory of the women waiting for the rock god’s return. Given their smirks, they didn’t expect me to be any great hold-up.

  Head groupie caught me staring. She turned with disinterest to her phone.

  I ignored the bitter burning in my throat. “Gathering back-ups, are we?”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “Actors Samson thought I’d mesh with.” He glanced over at them. “Gifts.”

  “They’re people, Snowflake.” Standing up for the sisterhood even if I wanted to return them to sender.

  “Not in this reality. We’re all commodities and Samson is continually taking inventory.”

  Peachy. The elevator finally decided to grace me with its presence. I held the door open with one hand. “I need to sleep.”

  “We can talk tomorrow, just… don’t lie to me, okay?” Rohan folded my sleeve back down, his touch so gentle, I barely felt it, even with the sensitive bruising. “Sweet dreams, Nava.”

  A second of tenderness and three short words and damn sunlight infused my soul.

  “Ro,” the woman who’d dismissed me called out in a lilting British accent, “my friend got us passes to that VIP room I was telling you about. Let’s roll.”

  “Your wish is my command, Poppy.” Between one blink and the next, Rohan swept all warmth away from me to dazzle this Poppy chick with the full force of his charm. He gave her that same cavalier smile bestowed on me in the elevator before we’d dashed to my room.

  Dark, malicious tendrils slithered up inside my chest. We might all have been commodities but damned if I was going to be tossed in the junk drawer.

  I didn’t watch him go back to the bar, shuffling instead into the elevator and down the hall to my room like the walking dead.

  It took me three tries to undo my buttons. Stripping my clothes off, I stood under the hot spray, head bowed, watching the combination of human and demon blood circle down the drain in wary fascination. My bathroom morphed into a steam room, fat water droplets streaking down the walls, before my trembling stopped.

  With my last iota of energy, I called Ari from the hotel phone, since mine was dead. It went straight to voice mail. “Hey Ace, tell Abrams I made contact. All good. Adventures galore tomorrow. Can’t wait.” I think I injected the right note of enthusiasm into my voice to sell the lie. “Crashing now. Stay alive or else. Love you.”

  Crawling under the covers, I reached out to turn off my bedside lamp and froze, my fingers hovering inches away from the switch. Even knowing the street light would cast a weak glow over the room and keep full darkness at bay, I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. Screw it. I wasn’t paying the electric bill. I punched up my pillow into full fluffiness and let exhaustion take me.

  What a difference fourteen hours of sleep made. I woke up Friday around noon, refreshed and starving, to find two texts on my newly-charged phone. The first was from Ari who was glad I’d checked in and promised to relay the mess
age. The second was from Rohan with today’s agenda. He’d be with Forrest for part of the afternoon, but said I should meet him in his room for dinner around seven and to dress appropriately. We were going out with Samson.

  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 strew
n 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. Tonight 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.