The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 (Nava Katz Box Set)

by Deborah Wilde

  “Uh, well, no.”

  Kane poured me a drink. “We grew up here. Were initiates together. Yeah, I’m five years older so mostly Ari was an annoyance underfoot, but for a lot of the time, me and him were the sole non-Rasha around.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that.” I accepted the proffered drink.

  “No kidding. Ari was a perfectionist before all this happened. Now?” He whistled.

  “Not fair. I want to be mad at him.”

  “Cheer up. If he goes on for too long like this, I’ll help you kick his ass.”

  The rest of the evening was a bust, though our rousing duet of “Enough is Enough” on the cab ride back lifted my spirits. I made a fine Babs and Kane’s Donna Summer smacked of sass.

  Once back at Demon Club, a.k.a. the Brotherhood-owned mansion that served as the Vancouver chapter, I took a bag of BBQ chips into Kane’s room.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Kane glanced up from his computer, its two monitor set-up casting an eerie glow over him.

  “Cutting my sexual frustration with a salt overdose.”

  Kane arched an eyebrow. “Okay, tactless. Care to rephrase?”

  “Sorry,” I said sheepishly.

  He snorted. “Get crumbs in here and die.”

  “Whatcha doing?” I peered over his shoulder.

  “Software patch to Orwell. Been having problems with it crashing.”

  “Who’s Orwell?”

  “What. Not who. Brotherhood in-house intelligence.”

  I laughed. “Do they know you call it that?”

  He pushed me back a couple of steps. “They don’t not know.”

  Hunters underwent a three-part process to become Rasha, starting with the Brotherhood tracking all male Rasha descendants, designating these babies “potentials.” A rabbi performed a special ceremony on them when they were less than a week old and if that determined they carried the Rasha gene, the boys were elevated to initiate status.

  Cue the next twenty years of studying all aspects of demon hunting, from demons types to fighting and ward building. At age twenty, decided upon because that’s how long it took to complete training, have stopped growing, and be in the prime of health to accept the magic, the final induction ceremony occurred.

  For some, hunting demons was all they stuck with, but others continued with school or specialized training, using that expertise in service of the Brotherhood. Ridding the world of evil spawn required a huge infrastructure. I’d recently learned much to my absolute shock, that another Rasha, Drio Ricci, had a degree in psychology. Kane had one in computer science which he put to use developing and refining surveillance software. In fact, he spent more time doing that than actual hunting these days, which now made a lot more sense. He also did custom jobs for clients at David Security International, the Brotherhood’s public persona.

  “Question.” I licked BBQ seasoning salt off my fingers. “Why live here at Demon Club? Wouldn’t you rather have your own place?” Living and working together intensified all the relationship drama–romantic, sexual, or other–but I certainly hadn’t been given a choice of housing.

  I got comfy on his bed, careful to eat over the bag.

  “I save a bundle in rent. But even better, I have a built-in reason to never bring anyone home.” Kane swore under his breath and typed in a short series of commands. “Don’t reroute, you bastard.”

  “What do you tell them?” My phone vibrated with a series of Twitter alerts for #RohanMitra. Huh. I had a blurry memory of setting that up sometime during pitcher number three. I flipped the screen face down on the bed.

  Kane double-clicked the mouse pad and quiet acid jazz flowed out of the speakers in the corner of the room. “I drop the DSI name, invoke vague-yet-sensitive security issues which preclude me from bringing them to my place, and steer us back to theirs. Boys eat that James Bond shit up.”

  “That’s cold. Maybe I want to invite people over and saying I live at DSI is weird.” If I ever decided that anyone other than my bestie Leonie Hendricks was worth socializing with.

  My stupid phone kept vibrating so I opened the damn Twitter stream to shut it up.

  Rohan was trending. I crammed a handful of chips into my mouth.

  “It’s practical. Don’t have friends who aren’t Rasha.” Kane watched the monitor a moment longer before he hummed in satisfaction, spun his chair away, and pulled his shirt off.

  “You can’t be serious. I need friends who aren’t just men. Or hunters.” I did a double take at one of the many Tweeted propositions for Rohan from his diehard fans, the Ro-mantics. “Jeez, lady, his dick isn’t magic.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.” Kane rolled his chair over to his dresser, opened a middle drawer, and pulled out a pair of manicure scissors. “Free advice. Keep the Muggle world at arms’ length and you don’t have to cut them off when the lies get too hard to keep track of.”

  I scrolled through photos of the Child’s Play party. Someone had had a good time. I wadded up the empty bag of chips and hurled it at the trash.

  Kane tensed, but as I made the shot, didn’t comment. He stuck the scissors point up into one of his nipple rings and opened the blades. The bead that had been holding the ring closed popped off.

  I winced. “That’s how you deal? Cut the Muggles off when it gets too messy?”

  “That would be cold. I don’t discriminate between Muggle and wizard. I’m equal opportunity cut ’em off.” He winked.

  I navigated over to one of the myriad of Fugue State Five fan boards. The first several threads were devoted to speculation on what Rohan was doing. And who he was doing it with.

  “While I applaud the sentiment, the sheer incestuousness of an all-Rasha environment is stifling. Twenty-four/seven Rasha is the messy part.” I said.

  Kane applied a drop of Astroglide to each side of the nipple piercing before rotating the ring, removing it. “Sucks to be you.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him, knowing he was teasing. “Don’t distress me, Kane. You wouldn’t want Ari learning that you’re making his twin unhappy.”

  He brightened, unscrewed a new bead from the end of a short straight barbell, and slipped the body jewelry through his piercing. “Blackmail? Oooh, I love this game. Let’s see who can disturb Ari more next time we see him, shall we?”

  “Let’s shall.”

  Kane secured the barbell in place. “How about this for sheer trauma value?” He broke into a series of high-pitched moans, waggling his eyebrows at me. Never letting me live down the fact that his bedroom was over Rohan’s and he’d heard us. Many times.

  My blush-avoidance failure made me cranky, not the thirty-seven comments on the fan boards with zero speculation on my inclusion in Rohan’s life. “You sound like a cow giving birth. My sex noises are sexy.”

  I tossed the phone on the bed.

  “No sex noises are sexy. Except for mine. But I’m the exception that proves all rules.” He switched out his other nipple ring, beginning the process all over again.

  “You’re lucky I love you.”

  “My blessing and my curse. Now to convince the other twin.”

  My eyes bugged out. “You want Ari to love you?!”

  “As if.” Nipple rings switched out for new jewelry, Kane tugged on each barbell.

  “You looooove him. You want to marry him,” I sang.

  “How adorable. No, I want to bend him over a sofa.” He shot me a look of pure exasperation. “What is it with Katz twins thinking my intentions are honorable?”

  “Is that what turned Ari off you before?” My brother was infuriatingly tight-lipped about his personal life. I had to share enough for the both of us.

  “You assume he’s turned off.”

  “Whatever.” My eyes darted back to my screen, compelled to reach for the vibrating phone once more. Fools. Taylor Swift was not Rohan’s type.

  I smirked at the next few ridiculous pairings, then froze. @MainMitraMistress had posted a grainy photo of
Rohan and his first love Dr. Lily Prasad breakfasting together. I recognized the restaurant as part of the hotel we’d all stayed in back in Prague last month. The Ro-mantic poster wondered if Rohan had reunited with lightning girl.

  Kane pulled the phone out of my hand. “Quit torturing yourself.”

  I sank back against his mattress. “Help me, Obi Wan.”

  Kane lay down beside me, folding his arm under his head. “You’re looking at this all wrong. Jettisoning flotsam is not a sacrifice.”

  I lay my head on his shoulder. “What about when you end up jettisoning someone who isn’t flotsam?”

  “If they cross a line and they should have known better?” The song ended, leaving Kane’s next words quiet musings in the silence. “Tell yourself that’s not a sacrifice either.”

  “Like that’s so easy.”

  “It’s a rough business, babyslay. I’m not going to say it won’t hurt, but you have to look out for yourself. At the end of the day, no one else will.” His expression was distant.

  The two of us hung out in comfortable silence listening to music, until too tired to move, I passed out still-clothed on his bed. I’d planned to sleep late Thursday, though I’d swear I’d only had the shortest of naps when someone shook me awake, with my gummy eyes, coated mouth, and all.

  “Nava,” said a breathy voice.

  I squinted up at my assailant to find our resident admin Ms. Clara standing over me. She was like a mini ray of sunshine with her blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and golden skin.

  “Later.” I jammed a pillow on top of my head.

  “Get up,” she snapped in the commanding tone that made her one of Vancouver’s most in-demand dominatrixes on her time off.

  Weighing the risks to my personal safety, I decided sleep overrode finding myself on the wrong end of her famous whip and flopped over to face the wall.

  She grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet with surprising strength given her petite frame. “Rabbi Mandelbaum is here.”

  I blinked. The head of the Brotherhood and man who wanted me dead lived in Jerusalem. “Huh?”

  “Nava Katz,” a Russian-accented voice said. A man in his mid-forties wearing a kippah, with peyot sidelocks and a curled lip stopped just inside Kane’s door. “We meet at last.”

  It was one thing to mock Rabbi Mandelbaum with a couple of continents between us but there was no ignoring the way the air itself seemed to charge with the power he embodied.

  I swallowed, pushing my rat’s nest of curls out of my face. Shit.

  4

  Rabbi Mandelbutt ordered me to meet him in the conference room once I’d made myself presentable. I swear he used air quotes on that word. Small mercies that Kane hadn’t still been asleep in the bed. The rabbi would have ordered a giant scarlet “A” to be sewn on all my clothing.

  He gave Kane a hearty handshake and headed downstairs.

  I hopped into the hallway, tugging off a sock, shower bound. “Holy shit, are you okay?”

  Kane looked down at his sedate green sweater and black pants. “I spy with my little eye something that looks like perfection. To what do you refer?”

  “You’re dressed like a normal human being.” I jumped onto my other foot, ripped off my sock, and gasped. “You knew Mandelbaum was coming and didn’t tell me.”

  “I found out yesterday and there was no point. You’d have stressed all day and I don’t like drama.” His lips quirked.

  I chucked my free sock at him. “You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

  “Obviously.” Kane waved his hand around his head. “As no part of me may be denigrated as such.” He pushed me into my bedroom. “Hurry up. You don’t want to make a bad impression.” He pursed his lips. “Worse impression.”

  Kane didn’t know the half of it.

  The Brotherhood was well aware that I’d gone to a witch for help. The question I couldn’t answer then but hoped to now was: what else had come to light about my activities in Prague?

  I made it downstairs to the conference room in time to get the full view of Rabbi Mandelbaum man-hugging my brother. I de-scowled my expression. Tried counting to ten. My twin embracing my mortal enemy was not something I could handle without coffee, much less breakfast.

  The rabbi’s face was alight–as alight as a bearded, sanctimonious douchebag could get–and I didn’t think he was faking it. On the one hand, this was great since it meant he’d bought the lie hook, line, and sinker that Ari had been inducted via the normal ritual. On the other hand, the Eau de Boys’ Club wafting off them made me want to hurl into the tasteful ficus beside the doorway. But if it meant Mandelbaum wasn’t about to breathe down my neck about the witches, then I’d grimace and bear it.

  “Our brilliant initiate is now Rasha! Mazel tov!” He gave Ari a final man-slap on the back.

  My brother preened.

  I cleared my throat.

  With that telltale curl of his lip back in full force, the rabbi grunted at me and motioned for us all to sit down.

  I took a seat next to Ari and across the table from the rabbi, smoothing a hand over my black, long-sleeved shirt with DSI printed in neat white letters over the heart. DSI was the most current incarnation of the Brotherhood’s public face, both providing the organization with a cover and allowing them access to high level places and people that might provide valuable intel for their real business of demon hunting. Not that I’d done any work for that side of the society yet, but it couldn’t hurt to look like a team player.

  The rabbi distributed folders to us, then leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together. The motion pulled his tailored navy suit tight across his broad shoulders. Rabbis were allowed to hit the gym. Who knew? “Rohan and Drio said your efforts to take Samson King down were invaluable.”

  “I think so,” I said, examining his words for any trap.

  Mandelbaum waved my comment off like what I thought was irrelevant. Which, let’s face it, it was. The very fact of me being Rasha was an abomination to him. “Rabbi Abrams assures me that this business with the Vashar has been put to rest and you’ve learned your place.”

  I’d earned my place but I let the dig pass, giving myself a mental high-five that I’d at least swayed the head of the Vancouver chapter to my side. One Brotherhood rabbi down, dozens to go.

  Ari frowned. “Vashar?”

  “Did your sister not tell you about that? She got hold of an amulet imbued with dark magic, capable of stopping initiates from being inducted as full hunters.”

  Ari fumbled his folder for the briefest second before his expression smoothed out. “I see.”

  He didn’t see at all but points to Mandelbaum for shit-disturbing.

  In a brilliant bit of misdirection, Dr. Gelman, the witch I’d gone to for assistance, had given me a Vashar. The Brotherhood, specifically the six rabbis who made up the Executive that ran the organization, were convinced that I’d taken the amulet in a jealous attempt to stop Ari from becoming a hunter. Their focus on that violation meant they’d missed the real crime–Gelman giving me the magic ceremony to induct Ari as Rasha.

  “I love my brother,” I said to Rabbi Mandelbaum. I hoped I sounded contrite and not relieved. The Brotherhood would kill Ari for having been inducted via “witchcraft” and kill me if they discovered I possessed induction magic. I mean, what if I decided to look for other females that had been missed as potentials and make them hunters as well? The horror. “My actions were ill-advised.”

  Where was that John Williams swell of uplifting music when you needed it?

  “She’s learned her lesson,” Ari affirmed. “Nava realizes how lucky she is to be one of us.”

  Sarcasm or sincerity?

  “Women like her are never satisfied with what they’re given.” Fabulous. Mandelbaum had been wronged by some female and I got to be the living embodiment of his gripes now.

  I dropped my eyes to the high-gloss gleam of the mahogany conference table. Not because I was chastened, because I couldn’t c
ontrol the hate spitting from my eyes. I gauged my palms with my nails as hard as I could to get myself together enough to school my features into the epitome of contrite. “All I want, Rabbi, is to show you how devoted to the cause I am. Earn your praise.”

  True fact. I wanted to hear him acknowledge my worth right before I exposed him and all his Machiavellian ideas around doing whatever it took to win the war of good versus evil.

  “I hope so,” he said, smoothing his beard with one hand, “because your accomplice is dead.”

  I gripped the table. “What?”

  “Esther Gelman,” he sneered.

  I bowed my head, willing my heart to start. I thought he’d meant Rohan. “De–dead?” My abashed quiver was a nice touch.

  “She was killed by a gogota.”

  Back on my last assigned mission in Prague, versus the “self-directed demon slaughtering path” I was currently on, I’d been attacked by a modified gogota demon. The same type of demon had later gone after Dr. Gelman, making me positive the Brotherhood was behind it. After that incident, she’d gone on sabbatical from her tenured physics prof post at Ben Gurion University in Israel, put her email on auto-respond, and dumped her cell, given the “not in service” messages I kept getting.

  Saying she was dead was the final nail in the rabbi’s full-of-shit coffin. She’d sent me a letter after she’d been attacked. Off-line, in deep hiding, sure. But she wasn’t dead. Also, interesting that he didn’t mention my attack. Though he had balls for bringing the demon up, I’d give him that.

  Then his balls turned brass because he went on. “Yes, your witch co-conspirator was killed by a gogota. A gogota that was modified with a metal spine rendering its kill spot inaccessible.”

  Ari shot me a pointed look because this was the first he’d heard of it. I frowned, unable to believe the rabbi would admit to the existence of the modified demon.

  “Really?” Ari said.

  “Yes,” Mandelbaum said. “The witches are armoring demons for some reason and one retaliated. Who knows what fallout the Brotherhood will have to deal with as a result of their hubris?”