The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz Book 1)

by Deborah Wilde

  He applied the Band-Aid.

  Then he kissed my finger. A pointed and deliberate touch of his lips to my skin that went on for several beats too long. He stared at me with those sumptuously lashed eyes, his lips soft and warm.

  A giddy bubble danced around in my belly. I snatched my hand back.

  Rohan tossed the Band-Aid box into the Rubbermaid, the look on his face daring me to say something.

  I bit back a sigh. “Do we need to talk about this?” Much as I didn’t want to share my deeply held beliefs around the whole kissing thing, I also didn’t want–couldn’t afford–weirdness with him.

  “We don’t need to do anything.” His amber eyes were clouded with anger.

  I tried to convince myself that not all of it was directed at me but I wasn’t that deluded.

  “Look, about last night–”

  He fit the lid back on the container and hefted it up. “Nope.” He popped the “p” for emphasis. “Changed my mind. There is something you need to do.”

  I smoothed down the edge of the Band-Aid. “Yes?”

  “Not talk.”

  “Ever?”

  “Is that an option?” he asked.

  I held up my middle finger. “Thanks for the bandage.”

  He stomped off, grabbing a second container along the way.

  “I see,” Ari said as he entered, listening to Rohan pound down the stairs.

  “No, you really don’t.” I sank down onto my bed.

  He sat down beside me, ticking off items on his fingers. “You had sex, your dysfunctional kissing issues surfaced, and now you’re both messed up over it.”

  “Oh. Guess you do. Except I am neither dysfunctional nor messed up about anything. Everything went according to plan.”

  We both flinched at the sound of a trunk being slammed much too hard.

  Ari’s eyes darted over to window. “Yup. It went swimmingly. You get that he’s feeling used, right?”

  I slapped a hand over my mouth in mock shock. “A man feeling used after a sexual encounter? Oh my God, whatever will we do?” I dropped my hand. “He knew the score. No one forced him.”

  I sounded a bit pissy but I couldn’t believe I had to defend myself. A man had no-strings attached sex, he got high-fived. I did the same, even with the no-kissing, and the entire male gender posse’d up around poor, fragile Snowflake? Screw that.

  Ari stood up, stacking the last two containers on top of each other before picking them up. “You’re playing with fire.”

  “I’m not playing with anything. The fire was ignited, blazed, and doused last night. End of story.”

  He shook his head at me and carried my stuff out.

  I pushed thoughts of Rohan out of my mind. I was leaving home. A lump formed in my throat. Going downstairs into the kitchen, I found my mom making my favorite breakfast of waffles and extra-crispy bacon. There was enough for a small army, along with a heaping platter of cut strawberries. She motioned at the coffee pot. “I could warm the milk,” she said.

  “That would be great.” Part of me wanted to rush into her arms but another perverse part of me refused to give her the satisfaction of needing her. I’d learned my lesson with that bullshit vulnerability.

  “By the way,” Mom said, jerking her spatula toward the counter, “you got a letter.”

  A letter that she’d already opened. I scanned the contents. It was from the University of British Columbia asking me to contact them about the status of my enrollment.

  “I can let Admissions know you’re going back,” she said.

  “Kinda busy with Rasha stuff right now. Might have to hold off for a while longer.”

  “Being Rasha never kept Ari from his studies.”

  “Well, Ari was an initiate and he’d had his entire life to adjust to his schedule. Maybe I could have a whole week to deal with it before you get on my case about throwing school into the mix,” I snapped.

  “Don’t take that tone with me.” Mom turned away to refill the waffle platter.

  I balled the paper up in my fist, tossing it into the trash. Though I made sure she didn’t see me do it.

  To say the meal was strained was a massive understatement. I kept my eyes on my plate. Mom kept hers on her waffles. There was no talking. No bothering to find out how I was doing with moving out.

  Dad ambled in trailing citrusy 4711 cologne, a ratty sandal held up in one hand. “Shana, did you already pack the other one?” My parents were leaving for a two-week Caribbean cruise today, originally booked as a celebration post Ari-induction. Not sure what they saw it as now. Funereal?

  Mom pointed her spatula at him. “We discussed this.”

  Dad clutched the sandal to his chest, a mournful expression on his face. “But they’re so comfortable.”

  “I’ve packed the black ones.” She held out her hand for the sandal, but he ignored her to grab a plate and get himself some breakfast, the sandal stuffed defiantly in his waistband.

  This Rockwellesque picture was how Rohan and Ari found us.

  I met Ari’s eyes, miming shooting myself in the temple. He squeezed my shoulder in sympathy as he brushed by to take a seat next to me.

  “Eat,” Mom said to Rohan, thrusting a plate at him.

  He took it, but didn’t move to fill it up. “No harm will come to Nava,” he said.

  “I’m more worried about you boys,” Dad joked.

  My grip tightened on my fork.

  Rohan shot me an uncertain look.

  Ari shoved the maple syrup at me. “Eat,” he ordered. He tugged on his earlobe, our private twin code for “Relax. I’ve got your back.”

  I’m sure it was a delicious breakfast but I barely managed to choke down three bites. “Better hit the road,” I said about five minutes later.

  My mom glanced at the clock on the stove. “Oh. Yes. I need to finish packing.” She came up behind me and kissed the top of my head. “We’ll talk soon.”

  Not if I could help it. I gave her the “I’m wearing my happy face” smile that I’d perfected to get my parents off my back. “Have a great vacation.”

  Dad walked me to the front door. There was a moment there when I thought he might say something but he just hugged me. “It’ll be fine,” he assured me.

  Again with the “it,” not the “you.”

  “Yup. Have fun, Dad. Drink a mojito for me.”

  That left Ari as my sole escort to the car, which was perfect. He scooped me up into a giant hug. “Kick demon ass.” His voice was shaky. This would be the first time we’d be away from each other for a prolonged period of time.

  I grabbed on to him harder.

  “We have to go,” Rohan said in a gentle voice.

  “I’ll see you later,” Ari said, stepping back. I think his eyes were wet but it was hard to tell through the blurriness of my own.

  “And often?”

  “And often,” he promised.

  When he let go of my hand, I stared down at the empty space like I was leaving a limb behind. I’m sure the separation from my twin was healthy. I couldn’t give a shit. This sucked. But I dealt, opening the door to Rohan’s two-door vintage muscle car with its midnight blue finish and white racing stripe.

  The interior had clearly never seen a fast food wrapper. Even the mats were pristine. I relaxed, wondering why I felt so comfortable until I realized that it smelled like Rohan in here.

  I rolled down the window.

  Rohan fished a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before sticking the key into the ignition. Hand on key, he hesitated, shifting slightly toward me.

  I got extremely fascinated by my seatbelt. “Nice car.”

  He gave an insulted snort, stroking the wheel. “This is a fully restored ’67 Shelby. First thing I bought when the band hit it big. Drove it up here from L.A.” With a twist of the key, he started the engine, roaring away from the curb with a sharp left that flung me against the passenger door. His hands rested almost carelessly on t
he wheel.

  I tried very hard not to remember the feel of them on me, but that left my eyes trailing down his work-of-art body to his muscled thighs tensing as he shifted gears.

  My mouth went dry.

  The middle-aged dad in the minivan next to us glanced over, longing at the total picture of hot girl, hot guy, and hot car written so clearly on his face that I took pity on him and winked cheekily.

  He grinned back, swerving toward us before regaining control of his vehicle.

  Rohan sped ahead. “Wrecking havoc with traffic, Lolita?”

  I reached for the power button to put on some tunes but Rohan swatted my hand away.

  “I control the music,” he said.

  “Fallen angel with domination issues. Shocker.”

  “Takes one to know one,” he replied.

  “It is a nice car,” I said, ignoring his childish retort.

  “Best ride I ever had,” Rohan said with a sly smile my way.

  “You mean best wank.” I kicked off my flip flops. “It couldn’t be more of a jerk-off machine if you’d painted balls on the back tires.”

  Rohan gave an amused snort. Ready or not, I was on my way.

  17

  We carted my things up to my new room in a couple of trips. The bedroom was serviceable, if somewhat masculine. Tolerable queen mattress, wood furniture on the heavy side. This crazy print of two people against a stormy sea sat atop the dresser, propped against the wall. The person on the left was merely a strip of face and neck, as if torn off the person on the right, whose missing strip revealed weird cables and balls. It was the kind of thing Ari would have dug, if not my style. At least the view to the backyard was nice.

  The best part was the small ensuite bathroom. I would not have wanted to share with the boys and learn firsthand who missed the toilet seat when he peed.

  Rohan took my laptop to give to Ms. Clara.

  “Be sure to bring back a receipt,” I mocked.

  He spread his hands in a “what are you going to do” way. “The Brotherhood is incredibly anal.”

  “Well,” I deadpanned, “anal is the new black.”

  He blinked slowly at me with a fascinated gleam in his eyes. I stumbled back a step, my knees hitting the mattress, but he simply held up the laptop. “Anything you don’t want people to see?” he asked.

  I checked the heel of my shoe, as if that had been responsible for my lost footing, forgetting I wore flip flops. “You sound positively hopeful.”

  “Just don’t want you to be embarrassed.” He paused in the doorway. “More embarrassed.”

  I grabbed the closest thing handy, which happened to be a boot, and flung it at him. He rocked back on his heels, shaking with laughter, not even flinching as my footwear missed decapitating him by mere millimeters.

  “Leave,” I ordered.

  “Baruch wants you in the Vault,” he called back, my computer tucked under one arm.

  I popped another Midol and hustled my ass downstairs.

  “Yo, Tree Trunk. I’m–” I came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Drio waiting for me in sweats torn off at the knee and a white long-sleeved tee with perfectly placed holes that I swear he paid extra for. The overall effect was mouthwatering. Damn, these boys were annoyingly hot.

  “Where’s Baruch?” I asked. My previous encounter with Drio had burned up my fear quota, leaving me irritated at his presence.

  “You’re with me today.”

  I crossed my arms. “Why?”

  Drio cracked a smile at my suspicious tone as he pulled the door shut. “Because I scare you,” he said in a stereotypical vamp accent.

  “Was that supposed to be a Count Dracula impression? Because you sounded more like Count Chocula.”

  His brow creased in confusion. I opened my mouth to explain the difference. “No. I don’t care enough,” he said, crossing the room.

  I was about to ask if I should follow but I got distracted by his pants sliding down his hip and the tantalizing glimpse of olive skin revealed. He caught them before things got interesting and tugged them up. Too bad. My dislike of him did not override my voyeuristic tendencies.

  Though I hustled to catch up when I saw the vein in his forehead throb at my dawdling.

  “Heard you ran into some trouble last night.” He flipped a small panel mounted to the wall open, revealing a flat black pad. “Good work pissing Asmodeus off, since it’s not like we have enough to do with Samson.”

  I pulled off the elastic band I wore on my wrist and tied my hair up into a messy ponytail, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “Here’s a question. Last night, Asmodeus compelled me. How do I fight back against–”

  I gasped finding Drio with his hands around my neck. He wasn’t hurting me, but I hadn’t even seen him move. One second he was ten feet away, the next he was behind me.

  “Against surprises?” he asked.

  I screwed my eyes shut, my heart hammering. “Don’t flambé me.”

  Drio dropped his hands.

  I cracked open one eye to see him bring his thumb to the fingers of his right hand, shaking it in what even I recognized as an Italian gesture of frustration. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Your fire powers.”

  He massaged his right temple. “What fire powers?”

  I straightened my T-shirt with a sharp tug. “You know, your anger issues that manifest in some kind of elemental flame deal.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My anger issues? Because I’m Italian, I must be a hothead? Got any other ethnic profiling?”

  “Please. You being Italian has zip to do with it. You raging at me since day one on the other hand?” I spread my hands wide, encouraging him to make the tiny jump from A to B. My empirical evidence presented, I rocked back on my heels.

  Drio glanced skyward with a pained look, as if seeking divine patience. Then he waved his hands at me. “No flames. Though I’d be happy to find some matches. My power?” He zipped across the room and back in a blink.

  “Super speed?”

  “Technically, I flash step. I’m not zipping across the city.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t sound so disappointed.”

  I wasn’t disappointed; more confused about how this ability fit in to Ari’s theories about personality flaws and power manifestation. I’d have asked but the look on Drio’s face made it clear that he was not in a sharing mood. “How do you kill demons then? Flash stepping is hardly attack magic.”

  Drio looked insulted at the question. “It’s still the same inherent Rasha magic. If a bystander stabs a demon in their kill spot, the demon wouldn’t die. But when a Rasha zaps that place, touches it directly, or funnels his magic through a weapon to hit that same spot?” He brushed his hands together in an “all done” gesture. “My magic works fine. I don’t need fire powers.”

  “Fine. You weren’t going to immolate me. My mistake. What was your point?”

  “I lost it in all your…” He made the international symbol for “blah blah blah” with one hand. “For the record, I don’t agree with you being here. But Rohan said you deserved it since the make-up artist was your idea and you did pretty well last night. Even if your one-on-one leaves something to be desired.”

  Had Rohan said something not in conjunction with the fight to Drio? I shook it off with a “Let’s do this.”

  “We wouldn’t even have to do this if Rohan wasn’t so damn stubborn,” Drio said.

  “Stubborn?” I jabbed his side when he didn’t answer. “About what? The difference of opinion between him and the Brotherhood on how to proceed with the mission?”

  Drio did a double take. “He told you that?” I didn’t even have to fudge the truth about not knowing specific details because Drio was in a mood to rant.

  “It’s a no-brainer,” he said. “Forrest Chang, the director of Hard Knock Strife is a huge Fugue State Five fan. He contacted Rohan to do the theme song.”

  Interesting.

  “That doesn’t mean Roh
an would have the chance to buddy up with Samson.”

  “Invite King to sing as a cameo. Get in close to the bastard that way. We’ve tried everyone else in his inner circle. No go.” Frustration tightened the corners of his eyes. “It would be so easy for Rohan to get to know Samson. Who’d question a rock star hanging around a bunch of actors?” He pinched his lips together. “But he refuses to step back into that role.”

  “I think he’s afraid of what he could slip back into becoming.” Given what Rohan had told me, the scars ran deep, evidenced by the fact that he refused to take on something that would move this assignment forward.

  Drio slapped his palm flat against the center of the pad mounted on the wall. “You two have gotten chatty. Why don’t you talk some sense into him?” A red light scanned him as he studied me.

  If I managed that, the Executive would adore me. Desperate as I was to get Ari confirmed, I couldn’t use Rohan like this. It was a million kinds of wrong. “Let’s pursue the make-up artist avenue first,” I said.

  Part of the wall slid away, revealing a smaller room within the larger Vault, its floors and walls made of iron. Drio motioned me through the concealed door. Ignoring my tiny frisson of fear, I stepped inside, the wall sealing shut behind us.

  A beautiful Korean woman sat in the middle of the space, duct-taped to a thick iron chair bolted to the floor. Her eyes bugged out, darting around as she strained against the tape covering her mouth and binding her feet and hands to the arms and legs of the chair.

  She turned a pleading look on me.

  “Oh my God!” I took a step forward to help her but Drio knocked me back with a sigh.

  Flashing over to her side, he did some Vulcan neck pinch thing and she transformed into a sleek white fox with multiple tails. Mostly transformed. Her hands, feet, and face–all the bits touching the tape, stayed human. The overall effect was somewhat disconcerting.

  “Nine,” he said, seeing me count her tails.

  I inched closer. “What is she?”

  “King’s make-up artist, Evelyn. Also a kumiho. A master illusionist usually plying her tricks to seduce men.”