He’d never locked his door against me before. Our twin connection was as necessary as oxygen. Ari had been my shoulder to cry on when my life had fallen apart, supporting me against the folks when I’d taken a time-out from university, while I’d spent my childhood making my brother laugh whenever I saw that his Rasha studies were getting to him. He protected and anchored me, while I lightened up his world. There was no place for locked doors between us.
The fact that there was now cracked my chest open for the black pain to slither in. If anything could turn me even more firmly against being a demon hunter than I already was, it was that damn door. I’d knocked until my knuckles bled. Begged and pleaded, but I was met with silence. I was dead to him.
It was worse than actually being dead.
Taking shallow breaths, I ran through one of my old exercises to get through pre-show performance jitters. Who knew being on stage and learning how to act happy would come in handy so many times in my almost-adult life?
I rummaged among the clean laundry piled on my desk chair for jeans and my favorite hoodie and got changed. Knocking aside the box in my closet filled with my most prized tap dance competition medals, I pulled my worn leather backpack out, haphazardly throwing in clothes and toiletries.
I allowed myself one last look around my raspberry bedroom: from the random photos of fun times hanging by now-limp tape, to the collage of speeding tickets spelling out vroom, to my unmade bed with exactly three pillows–two to sleep on and one to cuddle–and the clothes and books exploding over every surface.
My lucky sunglasses, the ones “liberated” from Ryan Tedder after I’d sweet-talked my way backstage at a OneRepublic concert, lay on my dresser, under my black and white poster of Gregory Hines. He wore an expression of sheer delight as the camera caught him mid-tap step. Somewhere deep inside me still lived the ghost of a memory where no matter what was wrong in my life, I could dance my troubles away. A one, a two, you know what to do. My mantra for dance and life.
Yeah, well. That was then.
I grabbed the glasses, stuffing them on my head. Then I hefted my backpack over one shoulder, and pushed up the window. Tap had been the one place I’d shone. My realm. Yeah, I’d readjusted my life around the void when the dream was taken from me, but why should Ari have to experience crushing disappointment and heartache? At my hands? Fuck that.
Maybe if I ran away, did something selfish, or acted unworthy of the power, the ring would decide I wasn’t the right twin after all and Ari could resume his path to destiny. The Brotherhood had invested twenty years in him, after all. Hopefully they’d work a little harder to bring him back into the fold.
Taking a deep breath, I swung my leg over the sill and reached for the gnarled tree branch outside my window. My stomach surged in that split second before my fingers connected with the rough bark but once they did, it was an easy climb down. I dropped the final few feet to the ground in a hard crouch, then commenced running away from home, trotting past well-kept family homes toward the main street.
Much as I hated to admit it, my dad was right. Demon Club and I were a terrible fit. First off, it had always been kept secret through the centuries, both to preserve its existence under the official “no demons here” stance of organized Judaism, and, since very few knew that demons existed, to keep mass panic from breaking out.
Sure, I’d kept mum about all of it, but let’s be serious. If magic powers could score me free clothes or booze, #MoveOverBuffy would be trending by dinner.
I slowed down when I hit the corner house two blocks over, just long enough to stop inches from the fence and do a little dance for the old Golden Retriever, sending her into a yappy frenzy of joy. Still barking, she jumped onto her hind legs, resting her front paws on the fence so I could scratch her between the ears.
The uptight gay couple that owned her twitched their curtain aside to move me along with a dismissive point of their fingers. I wiggled my ass one last time, snickering at their twin expressions of thin-lipped displeasure. Knowing Goldie would keep barking for another twenty minutes was just an added bonus.
Then I took off.
It might seem amazing that in this age of CCTV and camera phones, where every little transgression was posted to social media, that the Brotherhood and demons managed to remain a secret from both the Jewish community and wider world. As Ari had taught me, the explanation was simple: never underestimate humans’ desire to stay within our comfort zones.
Case in point, the yoga-clad mommy mafia clogging up the tree-lined sidewalk, venti lattes in hand. I swerved to avoid their race car pricey strollers and the judgmental stank wafting off them as they eyed me. We all sought affirmation. That’s why, as a species, we were such hypercritical assholes. We wanted proof we’d picked the right career or married the right person, even if said proof was of the at least we’re not them variety. We wanted our lives to tally in the positives column.
Only the whackjob paranormal bloggers sometimes got closer to the truth than everyone gave them credit for. Ari and I had spent a bunch of late nights being highly entertained by their theories.
While membership had grown since David’s time, the formal structure of the Brotherhood wasn’t put into place until October 10, 1871 with the great fire of Chicago. With the city destroyed, hundreds dead, and the entire thing being blamed on a cow, the Brotherhood had stepped up and gotten globally organized to make, well, order of the chaos. No more pockets of hunters fighting demons under a loosely affiliated umbrella. They were now ruthlessly efficient in the war on evil with chapters all over the world.
Which was the second reason I wanted no part of this. “Ruthless” and “efficient” were not words to describe me. If humanity was depending on me to be part of some protector squad, they were screwed. I’d be dead within minutes of my first demon encounter, destiny notwithstanding.
A horn blared at me, jarring me out of my reverie.
I scrambled across the busy retail street, narrowly avoiding getting pancaked, and stepped onto the far curb in front of the dry cleaners, my heart pounding. “A little respect for the jay-walker here!”
Where was this magic I was supposed to have received? Had there been a glitch because I was female? Because I was glitch? If I really had some cool new superpower, wouldn’t I have sped after the Mazda and flipped it on its side, mashing it to a pulp with angry pounds of my fists instead of standing here shaking? And if my magic did show up, would I have some stupid or embarrassing power like I’d teased Ari about?
I made my way to the bank machine, opening my wallet to sort through my credit cards. The Visa was bunk. I was scared to even stick it in an ATM for fear some collection agency bruiser would appear to hustle me off. But the AMEX? I tapped it against my chin. This baby was my emergency card, paid in full each month by Daddy Dearest.
Sliding the card into the cash machine, I punched in the ten thousand dollar limit. It made a beeping noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter, informing me in neat print that my cash advance limit was $500. Bah.
The money got tucked deep in an inside pocket in the backpack. Then I boarded the downtown bus, unsure of my destination. What I needed right now was a best friend I could crash with. What I had were tons of fellow partygoers and acquaintances.
The bus driver slammed on his brakes. I stumbled forward, whacking my head on the guitar case of the dude next to me. I’d had an awesome best friend in high school. Leonie Hendricks. It wasn’t as if we’d had a fight or anything after grad. We’d still hung out. But Leo had jumped headlong into university while I’d bounced around for a few semesters before withdrawing.
My hand went for my phone. Maybe I could call Leo. I snorted. Yeah, right. We could catch up. Leo could tell me about her criminology classes and I could tell her that in an impossible twist, I was the first lady Rasha and newest member of Demon Club. Oh yeah, and that demons existed. Then she’d roll her eyes sadly at me making a joke of everything, finish our social call with polite small talk,
and that would be that.
Well, that decided where I should go. A drink was in order. I headed over to my favorite business district pub for their pint and burger lunch special. A girl had to have a decent last meal, and the football-sized patties this place served would keep me full for a good twenty-four hours. Plus, the barkeep was adorable and amenable to flirting for free refills.
I sailed into the dimly lit interior with its multiple screens offering various sports replays set to classic rock blasting from the speakers, and seated myself at the scarred wood bar.
Josh, my barboy, grinned his hello. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, all white teeth, platinum hair, and that unnatural level of pretty attained by certain actors. It was enough to give a girl an inferiority complex. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. What can I get you and whatcha been up to?”
“Burger special and becoming the chosen one,” I replied with a breezy flip of my curls.
“Sweet.”
His attention reaffirmed my determination to stay far away from all things demon and huntery. I was young. I had my looks. Why would I want to mess that up fighting nasty creatures from the bowels of Hell? Or wherever they came from, since they didn’t exactly leave a home address and weren’t just a Christian concept.
I know Buffy looked good killing vamps, but come on, even I could separate fiction from fact enough to know that a team of hair, make-up, and wardrobe experts were not going to be a perk of my gig. Besides, hunting would cut in to my important to-dos like be adored and get free refills.
I waggled my pint glass at Josh as he placed my burger in front of me, noticing he hadn’t skimped on the fries. Salt and grease good. “Thanks, barkeep. What’s new with you?”
Turns out he’d landed a small but pivotal role in Hard Knock Strife, some big-budget picture shooting here in Vancouver. Something about childhood buddies caught up in the lure of easy money. “That’s worth celebrating,” I said, raising my new full glass in cheers.
“Stick around till I get off?” He nodded at my backpack, stuffed on the seat beside me, which was ringing for the umpteenth time. “Or do you have plans?”
“Nope.” I pulled out my phone and turned it off. But not before glancing at the screen. Seventeen messages all from my home number. My parents, not Ari. With a sigh, I shoved it into my hoodie pocket and threw him a coy look from under my lashes. “I’m all yours.”
“I’m counting on it,” he replied with a wicked grin.
Ladytown flooded like it was time to start collecting two of every animal. Whoa, baby. Praying that Josh was my golden O ticket, I found myself back at his place hours later, half-drunk, partially naked, and totally giving him the hand job of his life. Doing it for him, in hopes that he’d be able to do it for me. Honestly though, my thoughts pre-occupied me more than his cock. That I could work on autopilot.
“Maybe they chose me because of my attitude issues.” I lay on my side facing Josh, my head propped in my free hand. “Though technically, the choosing happened when I was born so they didn’t have any way of knowing how I’d turn out.” I kept the details vague since there was no knowing if Demon Club would kill Josh for hearing top secret intel.
“Mmmm, yeah,” Josh moaned, kicking his jeans off. His movement made the thin mattress bounce. His sculpted abs jiggled not at all.
“But what if that’s why I’m such a dick? Such an epic failure. Because I was destined for something amazing and denied it.” You talking dance or demon hunting, Nava? “You think I could sue them for existential pain and suffering?”
“Full-on.” Josh thrust his hips in a rhythmic motion.
I rolled onto my back, my hand still working away. I’d always been a good multitasker. “I didn’t ask for it. It’s not fair for my brother to be so pissed off.”
“Uh, babe?” Josh poked me in my side. “Discussions of brothers while your hand’s on my junk? Kinda killing the buzz.”
“Sorry.”
He leaned over me, his eyes glazed with lust. “Think you could…?” He motioned for me to go down on him.
“Yeah, sure.” My hand was getting tired anyway. I slid down his body. “Thing is,” I began. With my mouth full, the words came out garbled and I guess I caught some skin because Josh flinched.
“Go back to the hand job,” he sighed.
Geez, make up your mind. I shimmied back to my starting position. “I don’t even want this. It isn’t some lady-doth-protest-too-much shit either. The pressure would be insane. Everyone would be watching me, waiting for me to screw up. Plus the possible death of it all. I’m not big on that either.”
A niggle of guilt prodded at me for dumping my problems on Josh, so I gave him a flirty smile. He shot me a heated look in response. Lust tumbled hot and furious down from my now-dry throat to much, much lower. I crossed my legs, squirming, as I stole another glance at him.
His face seemed to… flicker? for a second. The line of his jaw blurring, his skin suddenly much furrier than his five o’clock shadow warranted.
I blinked and the room snapped into a sharp clarity. Just me and a gorgeous guy. But his serious sex appeal had me so lightheaded that all the color in the room bleached out briefly. In fact, I felt like I’d bleached out briefly.
“As I was saying… ouch!” My hand seized up. I shook it out and switched to my right.
My fingertips tingled. I amped up the speed, hoping he’d finish already. More than ready for my turn. I’d give up a kidney for an orgasm after the day I’d had.
Josh’s eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. All positive signs for his happy ending.
Thank God, because my hand hurt. Had I pinched a nerve? I grit my teeth. Cramp or no cramp, I wasn’t about to break my personal record of every man left satisfied. A girl had to have some skill she could be proud of, even if she couldn’t put it on a résumé.
Josh let out a guttural moan.
Being well-versed in the nuances of guttural, I translated this one as “gold star, Nava.” But my smugness fell away at the tugging pull starting low in my gut. Not a virulent food poisoning, all-out cramping, but more like my soul was being manhandled. I slowed down my strokes, rubbing my belly with my free hand.
Josh’s eyes sparked like he was getting off more on my discomfort than on my expert dexterity. A prickle of unease danced across the back of my neck.
“Let yourself go, baby,” he growled.
Please. He was hot but coming by osmosis wasn’t a thing. I was overreacting. Josh wasn’t a threat, just a douche.
Sweat trickled down my scalp and a sharp pressure rose through the fingers of my right hand, now cramped tight around his knob. I hadn’t been jerking him off long enough to be this tired. Pain pulsed outward from the middle of my palm as if my synapses had starting shooting electric bullets.
“Almost there,” he mumbled. His hips were practically levitating they were lifting off the bed so high.
My belly twisted and I drew my knees into my chest for some relief, yet I couldn’t stop touching Josh. The more I tugged, the more he moaned lustily, and the more I grit my teeth. My abdomen felt like it was a leaking tire, but I wasn’t injured. More like with each stroke I was losing something essential, growing wearier, and I wasn’t able to explain why.
Sparks flew off my hand.
Holy. Shit.
Josh’s body flickered like a stuttering screen, revealing a ram’s head.
Oh, hell no!
I spasmed, engulfed by a snapping blue electrical arc that traveled through my hand to envelop Josh’s dick, momentarily gluing us together with a disturbing sizzle and a whiff of burning flesh.
His eyes snapped open in alarm.
Given how every blink caused sparks to dance in front of me, I figured I was lit up from head to foot, but before I could check, Josh convulsed with a hot spurt. Then his body exploded into gold dust.
Both the pain in my hand and the pyrotechnics immediately ceased.
I wiped my fingers off on the rumpled sheet with a gri
mace. The downside was that I’d just met my first demon. The upside? Not only was he not naturally better-looking than me, my record was intact. Another satisfied guy. Dispatched to oblivion, but not every date was a winner.
3
The shock kicked in about thirty seconds later. I clutched Josh’s pillow, rocking back and forth emitting weird “guh” noises until I got my throat working again. Sure, I could step on a very small spider like the manliest of men, but that smattering of gold powder on the sheets had been Josh. My intermittent flirt buddy for the past six months.
An icy slither ran up my core as I stared at my right hand, its tremors Richter scale violent. Was this my demon-killing ability? Destined to be some supernatural whore luring hell spawn into back alleys for deadly rub and tugs?
Leaping from the bed, a hand clapped over my mouth, I sprinted over the cheap beige carpet to the bathroom. I barely made it to the toilet, throwing up all the contents of my stomach until the dry heaves kicked in. Beer and grease did not taste better coming back up.
I cleaned up as best I could, blowing my nose and using an entire travel bottle of mouthwash that I found in Josh’s cluttered medicine cabinet to rinse out my mouth. I considered using his toothbrush but that seemed too intimate for a guy I hardly knew.
I hiccuped in a half-sob, half-laugh. Orgasming to death okay, shared oral hygiene a line too far.
I gripped the sink so hard my fingertips turned white, forcing myself to take deep, calming breaths. Getting myself down to the functioning side of hysterical. I ran my fingers through my sweat-matted hair, taking in my reflection in the mirror of his bathroom cabinet. Pale, crazed, I couldn’t stare too long at myself so I yanked on the tap, washing my hands vigorously enough to rub them raw.
Taking a layer or six of epidermis off myself helped. The color had returned to my cheeks. Somewhat. But with my shocky adrenaline high wearing off came the painful realization that my boobs burned like crazy.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Page 3