The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz Book 1)

by Deborah Wilde

  It was kind of cool to see how far ranging those original bloodlines had travelled into present day. But what wasn’t cool was how serious and stressed my brother was, so I smacked my lips, hell-bent on getting a smile. “Mmm. High quality Brazilian meat.”

  Ari made a sound of disgust and whipped my loofah glove at me. I ducked, laughing, and it sailed into my shower. “What? You don’t want a boyfriend? All those butchy men?” I leered at him. “Odds are good there’d be some friends of Dorothy in that crew.”

  His lips quirked, despite his best efforts to look stern. “I have no time for dating.”

  “Me neither. But I have a whole bunch of sex instead. Something you, my dear older brother, could use. Regular doing of the nasty might loosen you up.”

  “I’m loose,” he said, tightening his tie.

  “Yeah.” I shoved him out the door. “A regular whore of Babylon. Now get outta here. I’ve got to pretty up.”

  One thing I’d say in my favor, I was not one of those girls who took forever to get ready. I was showered and dressed in something practically Amish in the allotted ten minutes. I twisted my hair into a sleek chignon, and fresh faced, headed downstairs.

  Time for my close up, Mr. Demille. Bowing my head, I shuffled into the living room.

  “Forgive me, Rabbi.” I prostrated myself like a wedding guest begging the Godfather for a favor. “I was involved in a car accident on my way home,” I lied. I stood up again. “It’s why I needed a drink. I was so rattled.” I infused as much pathos into my voice as possible while blinking up at him. Tricky, since I was four inches taller, but not impossible. “I’m sure you’ve never had that problem.”

  Men, whether straight, gay, holy, or otherwise, could be such suckers. The rabbi patted my hand in forgiveness, his touch papery dry. “You need to show more respect, Navela,” he said, using the Yiddish diminutive of my name.

  I nodded, side-stepping around the wet-yet-once-more-spotlessly-clean former puke site on the white, short-velvet-pile carpet. “You’re so right. I should come to schul. Isn’t your son the Cantor at Park West Synagogue? Such a beautiful voice when he prays.”

  A look of abject horror contorted the rabbi’s features at the terrifying prospect of me getting my hands on his precious son. Trust me, the guy was a middle-aged balding chub. I had zero designs on his person.

  “Start small,” Rabbi Abrams said.

  While the rabbi had mentored Ari his entire life, having served as a head demon-hunter coach, my contact with him had been limited. In addition to coordinating training and fight instructors, he also taught my brother everything from demon types to creating wards and learning the various aspects of the Brotherhood itself. Ari tended to get pretty vague on those details.

  “Shana,” the rabbi called out to my mother. “Now that the entire family is here, we can start the ceremony again.”

  My mother handed him the newly washed chalice. “Of course, Rabbi.” Mom watched him shuffle off to prepare something, trailing a faint smell of mothballs in his wake, then, patting her sleek honey-colored bob, stepped past me with a murmured, “Carnage and lies? A busy morning.”

  Mom was a lot harder to fool. A whip-smart, tenured history professor at the University of British Columbia with an annoying tendency to recall events best forgotten, she was also a best-selling author of, big surprise, a tome on King David.

  My dad, Dov, dark-haired like me, was a prof, too. Law. Oy vey. Everything was fact-gathering to build a case with him. Case in point, he walked stiffly into the room, courtesy of his recent back injury, all pleated pants and sweater vest, the usual mug of coffee welded to his hand.

  I gagged at the smell.

  “What’s this about a car accident? Was this in the taxi? Did you get the information from him and the other driver?” His questions were gunfire fast. “You’ll need it for the claim.”

  Shit. I hadn’t prepared for questioning.

  Ace to the rescue. My brother tugged on Dad’s sleeve, leading him to his recliner. “Sit. Rabbi wants to start the ceremony.” Out of the corner of his mouth he muttered, “You owe me big time.”

  I gave him a sheepish grin and sat in the brushed twill armchair at the far end like a good little girl, stuffing my hands under my butt.

  Rabbi Abrams motioned for Ari to come stand beside him. While the rabbi was the picture of reverence as he lit the first candle, my brother’s hand jiggled madly in his pocket.

  I threw him a thumbs up. Ari was going to be great.

  The rabbi lit the last of the dozen or so large pillar candles on thick glass bases placed in a circle around the living room. The soulless space with its white carpet, white furniture and, wait for it, black and white brocade wallpaper was softened by their glow.

  The ceremony involved a lot of singing prayer or chanting or something in Hebrew. I’d pretty much spent my Hebrew school classes reading Sweet Valley High so I didn’t understand it, but I’d been to synagogue enough that the singing and ritualistic gestures were familiar. The rhythms and cadence of the language lulled me, even soothing my grating headache a bit.

  The old guy didn’t have a bad voice, probably where his son got his talent, and the ceremony itself was kind of lovely. Even my cold, dead heart couldn’t fail to be moved by the reverence and history of this ceremony.

  All male descendants of King David–or of any hunter–were tracked as potentials. The first ritual, performed when they were a baby, determined if they could be bumped up to initiate–one who carried the Rasha make-up, versus the regular Muggle descendants. It weeded out about 98% of the potentials. If level two status was unlocked, they were labeled initiates and slated for training. Their second and final ceremony, the official induction to the Brotherhood where they became Rasha, happened at age twenty.

  There were a couple of reasons for the wait. First off, it took initiates their entire childhood and adolescence to master the training and studying necessary to take on the gig. And, for more practical reasons, they needed to be inducted once they’d physically stopped growing and were in the prime of health for their body to accept the magic powers that this final ceremony would confer on them. After much trial, error, and loss of life, twenty had been hit on as the magic age.

  Rabbi Abrams blessed the wine then handed the chalice to Ari. Once my brother had taken a sip, he dipped his finger in the wine and dripped three fat red drops back into the chalice. A reminder of the precious human blood that would be spilled if they lost their fight against evil.

  I discreetly waved off some smudgy smoke, suppressing a tiny smile at my mom doing the exact same thing. If it had been up to my parents, they’d have rented a ballroom and invited every person they’d ever known to watch their little boy become a badass mensch. Let’s face it, a demon hunter induction had way more bragging rights than a Bar Mitzvah. But alas, the general populace was not to know the Brotherhood existed, so my parents had to keep quiet about Ari’s abilities and his big day today.

  I’d always wished Ari’s induction would happen in a stone cavern with chanting, hooded members, but old David had mandated humility into Demon Club’s mission statement. The chosen one was supposed to selflessly devote his life to demon hunting for the greater good, not personal glory. So it was always just a small ceremony with immediate family, if that, performed in the home.

  The rabbi wrapped a small handkerchief around Ari’s wrist–white to symbolize piety. Yeah, right. Based on the very few Rasha I’d met, it would take more than a hankie to tamp down their enormous arrogance. Try a textile factory’s yearly output.

  Rabbi Abrams held fast to the other end of the cloth as he lay his free hand on my brother’s head. More Hebrew.

  I snuck a look at my parents. To their credit, they didn’t look disappointed. In fact, seated there, watching the ceremony with rapt looks, they pretty much glowed with delight.

  My own chest warmed in tight mushiness and a tear leaked from my eye, streaking its way down my cheek.

  Ouch.
>
  I blinked against the sudden stinging. Everything took on a drugged, underwater quality as the room swam around me. I clasped my hands together, pressing them between my knees. Breathing through my nose. Determined not to mess up the ceremony.

  Again.

  Ari repeated some Hebrew phrases the rabbi gave him. Aww, look at that twin of mine, embracing his destiny. I focused on my excitement to be here with him as he stepped into his future.

  Better him than me.

  The edges of my vision flickered. The rabbi’s voice, harsh and far too loud, scraped over my skin. Clapping my hands over my ears didn’t help. My flesh broke out in goosebumps as whispers sounded around me. A million voices, a million Rasha spirits brought together to welcome the newly chosen.

  Carpet fibers pricked the soles of my feet as I stood up. The room spun. Sweat dotted my brow, slid between my shoulder blades.

  The rabbi had his back to me but Ari glanced over, a flash of concern rippling through his serious expression.

  Did I have delayed alcohol poisoning? I pulled at the neck of my shirt, fighting for air. Was that even a thing?

  Rabbi Abrams opened a small, intricately carved box, revealing the fat gold ring that would mark Ari as one of the chosen. Gold from the ancient Judaic symbol for divine or celestial light, a holy blessing sought since David’s time.

  Propelled by a force beyond my control, I opened my hand, reaching for the ring. Every atom inside me screamed out for that band.

  “Sheli.” Huh? How did I suddenly know the Hebrew word for “mine?”

  The ring floated free to hover in mid-air.

  Every head in the room whipped my way. Mom tensed, her body straining forward to look at me. Dad’s eyes widened, his coffee mug falling to the floor, brown liquid pooling in a sludge.

  Ari and Rabbi Abrams gaped slack-jawed at me.

  “Sheli,” I repeated, trance-like. My voice was a deep, rich, resonating command. Even though I was freaking out at my total lack of ability to control my actions, I also felt a deep sense of rightness in my gut as I spoke.

  That freaked me out more.

  The ring launched across the room to fit itself on my right index finger with the mother of all electric shocks. My hair blew back off my face. I snapped out of the trance, once more in full-control of my faculties.

  “Fucking hell!” I cursed, shaking out my hand while jumping up and down.

  The candles snuffed out, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

  Ari was the first to move. He reached over and snapped the ring box in Rabbi Abrams’ hand shut with a thud that cracked like gunfire. “It appears you had the wrong twin,” he said. He hefted the silver chalice. “L’chaim,” he toasted and slugged the whole thing back.

  2

  “I don’t want it,” I protested for about the hundredth time, yanking on the ring.

  “It won’t come off.” Rabbi Abrams’ face was so wrinkled up in horrified anxiety that he resembled a Shar Pei with a Dumbledore beard.

  “It’s water weight. Bloating.” I ran for the kitchen, dumping half a bottle of dish soap over both my finger and the stainless steel sink. “Move, you motherfucker,” I muttered, pulling on it with all my might.

  The ring spun round and round in the thick yellow goo, but wouldn’t move even a millimeter closer to my knuckle. A hamsa, a palm-shaped design with two symmetrical thumbs meant to ward off the evil eye, was engraved in the center of the band. The single open eye etched into the middle of the palm stared up at me with its tiny blue sapphire iris.

  I swear it smirked.

  Ari swaggered in. He’d abandoned the chalice and was now swigging directly from the bottle.

  “Take it,” I hissed, grabbing his wrist.

  “Fingers keepers.” He flicked my hand away with a painful snap. Soap splattered on to my shirt.

  “That is enough of that.” My mother marched into the kitchen and snatched the bottle out of his hand, slamming it down on the counter with such force that a chip of white quartz flew off. “You, stop drinking. And you,” she whirled on me, finger wagging, “take that ring off right now.”

  “Have at it.” I thrust out my hand at her.

  Mom couldn’t get the ring off either. “Dov.” She smacked her hand on the dented countertop to get Dad’s attention. He hovered in the doorway with his mouth half open, in full brain short-circuit mode. Even my boob flying free hadn’t upset him this much.

  Her second smack shook him out of his Medusa-victim impression.

  “Right.” Dad hurried over and reached for the ring, but hesitated, his hand hovering just over mine.

  I shoved my hand into his. “Get it off me, Daddy,” I said in a voice two-octaves too high.

  He tried. God knows he tried.

  As did Rabbi Abrams, who insisted on running the ceremony again. Of course, he had to do it with Ari sprawled in the recliner because he was now hammered. My brother, the light-weight.

  I spent the ceremony holding my breath, my gut knotted into a pretzel as I awaited the outcome.

  The rabbi got to the end and tugged on the ring. Nada.

  “How could you?” Mom asked, back in the kitchen where we’d reconvened in a glum silence. She twisted her hands together so forcefully, I worried she might break something.

  “What part of ‘chosen’ implies I had any say in the matter?” I bit down on the band, trying to budge it with my teeth.

  It was cold and tasted of metal and imprisonment.

  Ari belched. “Told you, you’d find your thing.” Having reclaimed the wine bottle, he now shook the last few drops into his mouth. “’Course, I didn’t expect it to be my thing.”

  That hurt. I hadn’t done this deliberately and I certainly didn’t want to be part of a Brotherhood. I scrubbed a hand over my face, way too sober to handle taking the blame for this. “You didn’t even know if you wanted it, asshole.”

  My brother wasn’t phased. “Too true. But,” he said, looking off thoughtfully, “I think that was pre-wedding jitters.” He met my eyes; those distinct blue-gray twins of my own that always let me know what he was thinking. Right now the sorrow in them broke my heart. “I think that in fact, I did. Want it,” he said.

  I dropped my head on the counter.

  “Fix this,” Mom demanded of the rabbi. “Nava isn’t a boy. She can’t be Rasha.”

  My head jerked up. Ari’s sorrow and my parents’ incredulity were understandable. It just would have been nice if for one second, any of them had stopped to ask me how I was doing with all this. Because I wanted to run. Hide away until Demon Club proclaimed that this terrible joke had gone on long enough and we could all return to our regularly scheduled programming, where Ari was the bright shiny twin with a destiny and I most decidedly was not.

  “Way to set women’s rights back two hundred years, Mom,” I snapped. For once, I was innocent of any wrong-doing, but no one could see that. No one cared.

  “She didn’t mean all women. Just you, honey,” Dad said to me in his infuriating, even-handed way. He extended an arm to the rabbi, leading him to the heavily-nicked kitchen table. Twins were a bitch on furniture.

  “Let’s be logical here,” my father said. “Does it matter if some ritual picked Nava? Ari is the one who is trained and competent. He’s devoted his life toward this goal. What if we simply ignored this as an odd blip and proceeded with the plan as is?”

  Most of me cheered this sentiment. Was completely on-board. A tiny part of me desperately wished that one person had my back.

  “Nava is the chosen,” Rabbi Abrams said. “She can do this.” Wow. Of all the people to champion me. The rabbi stroked his beard. “If Ari takes on demons without a Rasha’s power, he will die. Better to let Nava handle them, trained or not.”

  That sounded suspiciously like “send out the expendable.” I snatched the dish towel off its hook and savagely dried my saliva off of my hand.

  The rabbi was right. It was the magic that killed demons. Pumping one full of lead migh
t slow it down, but then again, it might simply piss it off enough to rip your head off faster.

  Obviously, Ari couldn’t go after a demon without having magic power. That was tantamount to a suicide mission, but I refused to believe that he was definitively out of the picture. This destiny fit him with a snug certainty.

  “There has to be a loophole,” I said.

  Dad touched his index finger to his nose then pointed at me like I’d brought up a valid idea. “You can’t expect the fate of the world to be in my daughter’s hands,” he said. “Might as well invite Satan to move on in and throw him a housewarming party.”

  “Really?” I asked, tossing the towel on the counter.

  Dad shrugged. “Do you think you’re capable of battling demons?”

  I refused to confirm or deny, leaning forward to address Rabbi Abrams directly. “Do I have a say in this?”

  The rabbi struggled up out of the chair, came over to me, and laid a gnarled arthritic hand on my shoulder. His knuckles were old-people-XL sized. I tried not to flinch–or think of demon claws. Good luck. A mélange of weirdo animal parts and other unholy bits fused into demony shape assaulted me in image form, courtesy of every nightmare bedtime story Ari had ever foisted on me. I shuddered.

  “This situation is…” Rabbi Abrams frowned.

  “Unfortunate? Unfair?” I supplied.

  “A tragedy,” he said.

  “Excuse me?!”

  He dropped his hand, giving a sharp tug to his black suit jacket. “I need to inform the Executive. We must figure out how best to proceed.” He sounded like I’d murdered his favorite puppy and was asking him to shake my blood-drenched hand. Symbolically, that may have been true.

  My hands tightened on the hem of my shirt. “Again, I ask if I have a say in the matter?”

  Rabbi Abrams frowned, his expression stern. “You cannot ignore your power. Your destiny.”

  I threw him a grim smile. Challenge accepted.

  My first order of business was sneaking out of the house. Mom and Dad rehashing the impossibility of it, the tragedy of it, was bad enough. But Ari refusing to speak to me? He’d sent me a final look of absolute betrayal, staggered into his room, and locked the door.