The Unlikeable Demon Hunter

by Deborah Wilde

I eased onto a high bar stool. “Explain something, Rabbi. Why did David call us Rasha? We’re not wicked. We fight the wicked.”

  Rabbi Abrams put the mug down. “Rasha does mean wicked or guilty as sin. But its more literal meaning is one who departs from the path and is lost. This was David’s reminder to his hunters how close they are to darkness. How easy it would become for them to truly be Rasha in every way.”

  I’d had no idea.

  All of my fellow Fallen Angels, at least the ones that I’d met, were battling their own demons. Even Ari. “Begs the question if maybe out of all the descendants of the original group of Rasha, those of us who actually become hunters happen to be that much closer to the darkness to begin with.”

  The rabbi regarded at me shrewdly. “Could be, Navela. Could be.”

  “About Ari?”

  He sighed. “I performed the rites. He is not Rasha. We were wrong about him.” To be fair, he sounded pained saying it.

  I slumped in defeat. “He’s going to hunt demons, magic power or not. And we both know how that ends.” I grasped the rabbi’s hands in mine. “Please.”

  The kettle let out a shrill whistle. Waves of impatience rolled off me as he poured the steaming water into his mug and filled a tea ball, dropping it in the boiling liquid to steep. “There may be another way to check,” he admitted.

  “Then–”

  He held up a hand. “It is not usually sanctioned by the Brotherhood. In fact, in our entire history, I’ve only heard of it being allowed once.”

  “Help me. I’ll do anything. Fight more actively or not at all. Whatever they want. Whatever it takes.”

  Rabbi Abrams got out the honey and a spoon. “Drio learned nothing from Evelyn and everything else we’ve tried to determine if Samson is a demon has been a dead end. We have one avenue left open to us. Get Rohan to do the theme song and I’ll confirm Ari’s status.”

  “Rohan doesn’t want to do this.”

  “He’s all we have. Do it and I give you my word.” He lay the tea ball on a small saucer, spooning honey into his mug. “I too very much want Ari to be Rasha.”

  My stomach twisted, but it seemed I had no other choice. “Done.”

  Ari found me a few hours later, sitting motionless on the edge of my bed, an unfolded pile of laundry next to me. “You okay?” he asked.

  I forced a wan smile. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Drive me home? Kane does any more disinterested hovering and I’ll kill him.”

  “Hovering, huh?”

  “I’m not up to his game-playing.” Ari was disinclined to say any more. He looked around my room, wistfully. “I think it’s time for me to go.”

  Much as I wanted to force him to stay here until he was completely healed, I understood. And honestly, I was glad of the excuse to get away. He came with me downstairs to tell Ms. Clara we were leaving.

  She greeted us with a smile. “Feeling better?” She tapped her head.

  “Depends,” my brother replied. “Unfortunately, I now remember I have a sister.”

  I licked my finger and stuffed it in his ear. He shoved me away.

  “Before you leave,” she pulled a new phone out of her desk and tossed it over to me. “I’ll have your new laptop put back in your room. Remember, this goes with you everywhere.”

  I gotta admit, I had a pang or two as I picked up the sleek technowonder. “You’re not going to be able to find my iPhone anymore,” I said to Ari, with a mournful shake of my head.

  He smiled. “You forbade me.”

  “Like you believed me.”

  Ari took the phone away and smashed it against the desk.

  I clutched at his arm. Ms. Clara was going to murder him. “He didn’t mean it,” I yelped, blocking him from bodily harm.

  Ms. Clara laughed.

  Ari waved the phone at me, intact and not even dented. “Indestructible. You’ll save a bundle on replacements.” He dropped the phone in my hand.

  I ran a finger over the spot on her desk that he’d whacked to make sure it wasn’t dented either, because no way did I want Ms. Clara angry. But, like the rest of her office, it was in perfect, orderly condition.

  We said goodbye, then headed out to Dad’s Prius, sitting gleaming in the sunlight, scratch-free. Demon Club had restored it to showroom pristine condition.

  “Dad’s totally gonna know,” I said. Ari and I had been driving the car for a couple of years. Pristine had been blown off its list of adjectives in the first two weeks.

  We exchanged mischievous grins. He picked up a rock and I got out my key and we proceeded to nick and scratch the thing back to its former state. Five minutes later, we surveyed our handiwork with pride. Much better.

  The house was empty when we pulled up, since Mom and Dad weren’t due back from their cruise for more than a week. Party animals that we were, Ari went straight to bed and after triple checking that he didn’t need anything, I went into my room. Funny how small it seemed. I trailed a finger over my stuff, restless, bored, but not wanting to leave Ari alone until he woke up. I could have watched TV, but daytime programming blew at the best of times. Besides, I was too distracted.

  How was I going to convince Rohan to step back into the spotlight and do the theme song? It wasn’t my place to force him back into something that had deeply scarred him. He might have stopped singing because he no longer enjoyed it. I’d never gotten an answer out of him one way or the other. On the other hand, if I didn’t convince him? Then Ari’s chances of becoming Rasha were well and truly dead. As dead as he might be if he started hunting.

  Absently, I stopped in front of my tap shoes, picking them up to wipe the dust off with my sleeve. Once they were in my hands though? I itched to put them on, something I hadn’t done in over two years.

  There’d been no dancing in moderation since my dream had come crashing down. My heart couldn’t take it. The only way for me to cope had been to go cold turkey. Slam that door forever and padlock it tight. I couldn’t handle having something that had been my entire life be relegated to a hobby.

  The taste of copper brought me to my senses and I released my poor bottom lip from my teeth, shocked at how strong my urge to slip the shoes on was. Maybe I’d grieved enough. Still, I hesitated, running a hand over my calf. Did my Rasha healing mean I wouldn’t relapse into the pain of my dance injury?

  I’d do anything to be able to dance on a regular basis again but, for many reasons including my newfound destiny, the ship had sailed on my dreams of dancing professionally. I’d resigned myself to it, believing I couldn’t dance anymore. But now?

  I wasn’t ready to think about the long-term ramifications–or lack thereof.

  The ringing metal as I clacked the taps together decided it. Dancing had always helped clear my mind, focus me. Hopefully, it’d provide much needed answers now.

  I slipped downstairs, shoes in hand. Flipping on the light in the basement, I felt a nostalgic pang seeing the special wooden tap floor that had been installed in the corner of our rec room so that I could practice. While the floor was worn with black scuff marks from my metal taps, it was clean and polished. Mom may not have been a fan but she wasn’t going to let anything get dirty on her watch.

  After checking the soles for loose screws and finding the taps tight, I put my shoes on. My feet instantly molded to the worn contouring. I let out a sigh I didn’t know had so badly needed to be exhaled.

  I grabbed a homemade CD from the tower that had been relegated to the basement about five years ago, starting with a slow swing version of “Caravan” to warm up. Flaps, shuffles, paddle rolls–nothing fancy. I let my body fall into the muscle memory of balance and movement. A small smile crept across my face hearing how clean my moves still sounded.

  Next up was the Verve remix of “Sing Sing Sing.” I threw myself into it, choosing to improvise to the melody line, playing my own variation of the tune through my feet. A twinge in my left Achilles tendon–literally my own Achilles heel where my dance career had been co
ncerned–had me slow down, testing my foot for further signs of pain.

  Tap involved most of my weight being on my toes, with heel stomps aggravating my tendency to swollen tendons. But the pain really was just a twinge. I was good to keep dancing.

  It was as if a dam inside me broke. I needed to go hard. To pound the rhythm. Pound out my roller coaster of emotions and stress. I threw on “How You Like Me Now” by The Heavy, craving that driving beat to quell the edge inside me. One-footed wings, syncopated pullbacks, over-the-tops–I pulled out all my moves in addition to the flurry of basic steps rendered at breakneck speed.

  Fuck, how I’d missed this.

  Barely winded, soaring on adrenaline and happiness, I thumbed through the other CDs in search of what to play next, my hand stilling over the copy of Fugue State Five’s first album that Leo had forced on me all those years ago. I smiled when I saw her “Listen to it or I’ll kill you, dummy!!!!” written in gold marker on the CD.

  Pressing play, I counted down the end of the eight-beat opening of “Toccata and Fugue.” In contrast to the raspy growl of Rohan’s voice, my steps were lightness themselves. The floatiest soft shoe to counterpoint all the emo feels pouring out of the song.

  I’d never danced to this before, but it was the perfect fit. I lost myself in the joy of taking this beautiful piece of music and putting my own stamp on it. While Rohan singing to me in the park had freaked me out, now the song soothed me. My feet twined with his voice to create something altogether new.

  I matched the crescendoed ending of the song with a series of turns that propelled me across the floor, my hip bumping into the wall because I ran out of room. I laughed at my spatial miscalculation, the sound ringing clear in the silence.

  Then I saw Rohan’s face. He stood stock still in the doorway, staring at me like I was an alien. I wrapped my arms around my chest, my gaze sliding away from his. People could be extremely judgmental about tap’s place in the dance pantheon. Weirdo might have been offended by my dancing to his song.

  “I always thought tap dance was like–”

  “Shirley Temple,” I interjected dryly. “So, you’ve said.” I crossed the room, cutting off his next song with a push of the button. “What are you doing here?”

  I bent over to untie my shoe but he stopped me, stepping forward with one hand up.

  “Don’t. I mean, don’t let me interrupt. I just wanted to tell you I’m leaving. I have to go back to L.A.”

  A rush of panicky adrenaline speared through me. I clacked over to him, my shoelace trailing on the floor. “You can’t go.”

  “Why not? I haven’t been back to my apartment in weeks and Mom wants to take me for pizza at Highland Park Bowl.” Rohan pushed me back a couple of steps. “You’re all pale. What, don’t want to be without your main babysitter?”

  Apparently his memory return had come with the return of his anger over our hook-up.

  Discussing the theme song right now would only add fuel to that particular fire. I knelt down to take off my shoe. “Have a good trip.”

  He didn’t say good-bye.

  I leaned on Leo’s buzzer, muttering a steady stream of curses.

  She let me in, waiting bleary-eyed in her doorway. My friend appeared crazed: no jewelry, greasy snarled hair, a coffee stain on her denim miniskirt.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “Huge exam.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  She grabbed my arm, pulling me inside. “No! It’s my Ethics course and–”

  “Having none, it pains you to understand the concept?” I tossed my bag on her couch, flopping down on the lumpy cushions.

  “Something like that.” She padded into her kitchen in heavy wool socks with enormous holes in the toes and heels. “Coffee?” She sniffed the pot and recoiled. “Diet coke?”

  “Sure, if you have rum. Hold the coke.”

  Leo took two mismatched mugs out of her cupboard and reaching up on tiptoe, grabbed the bottle of booze sitting on top of her fridge. A generous sloshing of rum into each one and she joined me on the couch. “Ari is doing okay?” she asked. I’d called her once he’d been rescued.

  I nodded.

  “You’re persona grata now?”

  Again, a nod. I took a very large slug of rum.

  She pursed her lips. “That leaves a guy. Ooh, don’t want to let your precious Fallen Angels know you were slutting around?”

  I couldn’t help myself. I smiled.

  Her mouth fell open. “Which one?”

  I smiled wider.

  Leo launched herself at me, smacking my chest. “Liar!” she howled, her disbelief clear. “Where?”

  I held my cup up, out of splash danger. “You know the park by the theater on Seymour?”

  “Yeah.”

  I waggled my eyebrows at her.

  Her mouth fell open. “You strumpet.”

  “Jealous?” I smirked between sips.

  “D’uh.” She leaned in, a manic gleam in her eyes. “Give me details.”

  Bless Leo’s heart, she embraced her best friend role, listening to me dish and not complaining when I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to rant about Rohan or rave about how good he was.

  “Yup, better than ever before. I heard you the first four times,” she said.

  I’d been talking a while, mostly ranting at this point, and Leo had gone back to her homework. She sat at her kitchen table, books spread around her, while I munched salt and vinegar chips on the couch I’d commandeered.

  Leo’s purple diary lay beside me, a little beat up but still astoundingly glittery. She’d gone to her mom’s and dug it out of storage. I’d read a few of the initial goopy entries which had been enough to make me believe her about being in love with Ari. That and all the hearts with their initials doodled over the pages.

  “What’s the big deal about kissing anyway?” I asked.

  She raised an eyebrow at me.

  I pointed a chip at her. “It’s not the same for guys. It certainly shouldn’t matter to Rohan. You know how many girls he must have slept with?” I bit savagely into it.

  “You think he’s slept with any guys?” she asked.

  We both got lost in that image for a moment.

  I shook my head. “Don’t distract me. I’m ranting about sexual inequality and power dynamics here. The issue is not that he couldn’t kiss me. It’s about control.”

  “Boys like him do enjoy control,” she said, pencil in her teeth as she marked up her book with a yellow highlighter. “This should not be a surprise.”

  “Great.” I tipped the bag into my mouth, determined to get every last drop of salt and fat. “He’s all pissy because I was the one calling the shots.” I got lost in the memory of ordering him to go harder, and shivered.

  Leo spat out the pencil. “Come on my couch and you’re buying me a new one. Scotchgard does not protect against psychological staining.”

  “Maybe I should have asked him for permission. Guys like that.” I pitched my voice an octave higher. “Ooh, Daddy, please may I?”

  “That etiquette is especially appreciated when a man thrusts his dick in your face,” Leo agreed.

  I buried my face in my hands. “I loathe him. But he was so good. I want seconds. Thirds. Thirtieths.”

  “Sixty-ninths,” Leo quipped.

  I looked up. “Oh yes. Most definitely sixty-ninths.” I sighed. “This is bad. I think I might be addicted to him.”

  “Eh,” she shrugged. “Breathing is an addiction. But once you’ve stopped for an hour, it’s reasonably easy to quit forever. So how hard could this be to kick?”

  “And to think I never figured out you were a demon before.” I licked my fingers clean.

  “It’s because you’re so self-obsessed.”

  “Probably.” I checked the clock. Time to head back. “’K, babe,” I walked over to where she hunched at the table studying, intending to hug her, then decided I didn’t want to touch her until she’d showered. “Schm
ugs.”

  Leo shook her head at me. I hadn’t used our special shortened goodbye of “hugs, schmugs” since we became friends again. “Last time you schumgged me,” she said, “I didn’t hear from you for over a year. You suck, and I have no idea why I accepted you back into my inner circle.”

  “Because I am your inner circle. Besides, who else is going to get you up close and personal to your teenage masturbatory fantasy?”

  Leo blushed.

  “Eww. Rubbing one out to thoughts of Rohan Mitra is strictly verboten from this point forward. Besides, don’t you have that Madison chick on speed dial?”

  Leo gave a dreamy smile. “Ooh, yeah. She does know how to work her tongue. But that doesn’t preclude my fondness for boy parts. Hook me up with his friends.”

  “Schmug me and I’ll consider it.”

  I spent the rest of the week so bored out of my mind that I even adhered to Rohan’s stupid schedule. At least it passed the time, since there was nothing else to do right now other than train and study.

  Rohan was still in L.A. and even if I figured out the best way to approach him, I wasn’t doing it over the phone. Drio wouldn’t let me help with investigating Samson. Kane was working a security contract–turns out he was a coder who did a lot of surveillance software development for both the Brotherhood in-house and David Security clients, and Baruch was using the time not spent with me to inventory our equipment and weapons. My brother had decided to go back to class and told me to quit calling and checking up on him.

  I’d tried hanging out with Ms. Clara but ten minutes in her office poking at her stuff and she’d threatened to break out the whip. So I was actually excited the following Tuesday when Baruch got me for a conference call with some Executive Rabbis at HQ in Jerusalem wanting a debrief on Asmodeus. Might as well suss out the Powers That Be on their feelings for me.

  Of the three men on the other end, Rabbi Simon had been grudgingly complimentary on my performance, Rabbi Ben Moses hadn’t said much at all, and the head of the Executive, Rabbi Mandelbaum, a sneering chauvinist who sounded surprisingly young, was clearly never going to be Team Nava, even if I killed every demon in existence single-handedly.