The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave E-Book

Deborah Wilde

• Herausgeber: Te Da Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

Enjoy this urban fantasy series by best-selling author Deborah Wilde. Featuring a snarky heroine, kickass action, and spicy romance, this hilarious adventure sucker-punches you in the heart when you're not looking.

What doesn’t kill you... 
…seriously messes with your love life.

Nava is happily settling into her new relationship and life is all giddy joy and stolen kisses. 

Except when it’s assassins. Talk about a mood killer. 

She and Rohan are tracking the unlikely partnership between the Brotherhood and a witch who can bind demons, but every new piece of the puzzle is leaving them with more questions than answers. 

And someone doesn’t appreciate them getting close to the truth. 

Go figure.

On top of that, a demon known only as Candyman has unleashed a drug that’s harming users in extremely disturbing ways. 

Nava vows to take this demon down. But will life as she knows it survive this mission, or will this be the one time she should have looked before she leapt? 

Happily-ever-after? Barring death, she’s got a real shot at it.

This sexy, funny, paranormal series is perfect for fans of Kate Daniels, The Hollows, Elemental Assassin, Arcadia Bell, Imp Series, Crossbreed Series, Midnight Empire, and the Guild Codex.

Binge this complete series now!

Leseprobe

THE UNLIKEABLE DEMON HUNTER: CRAVE

DEBORAH WILDE

Copyright © 2018 by Deborah Wilde.

The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover design by Damonza

ISBN 978-1-988681-10-8 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-988681-11-5 (EPUB)

ISBN: 978-1-988681-31-3 (Large Print Edition)

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Excerpt from The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Fall

Nava explains awesome Yiddish and Hebrew words used in this series.

Become a Wilde One

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

Kissing Rohan Mitra, my delectable boyfriend of seventeen days, fourteen hours, and some miscellaneous minutes that I was above counting, was my new favorite addiction. Didn’t matter if it was a soft brush of lips, a quick, almost absent-minded peck to the corner of his mouth, a hot fevered embrace, or long, slow, drugged kisses like now, in a shadowy corner of Neon Paradise, our high bar chairs pushed close enough together for our knees to touch and one of Ro’s hands on the small of my back, pulling me toward him.

We’d mastered the art form under a variety of conditions: stolen in the hallway of the chapter house, between the order and pick-up windows of a Starbucks drive-thru, hell, even high off a demon kill. Those were especially delicious.

And sure, I’d been skeptical. Not being emotionally up for kissing anyone for over a year could do that to a girl. But Rohan Mitra was worth every second of waiting and more. I never wanted to break this kiss.

Oxygen, that demanding element, had other ideas. I pulled back and draped my arms around his neck, ruffling his locks that fell like dark silk through my fingers. Planning on a quick lungful before going in for more.

Then the darling boy spoke. “I didn’t think you’d be any good at kissing.”

I slapped the tall, lacquered table. “Boom. Officially hitting pause.”

Rohan raised an eyebrow. “On what?”

“Your boyfriend status. What could possibly have led you to believe something so deluded?”

He rubbed his nose against mine. “I figured the reason you were so dead-set against it was because of some deep-seated kissing insecurities. I was prepared to have to educate you on the subject. At length.”

I clicked my tongue, though hours of kiss education with Rohan honestly didn’t sound so bad. “My mouth is a marvel, Snowflake. It would behoove you to remember that.”

He leaned his elbows back over the top of his chair, pulling the fabric of his short-sleeved linen shirt tight around his biceps. “Behoove?”

“Yes. Not only am I astoundingly kick-ass, I am also highly erudite.” I’d gotten this Word of the Day app that I was putting to good use, unlike the running app the Brotherhood made me download for training purposes. A little intellectual self-improvement never hurt. Besides, Rohan’s last girlfriend was a hair away from getting her Ph.D in physics and I didn’t want to lower the bar too much. “Reiterating the marvel part now since that’s what you should be focusing on.”

His gold eyes crinkled in either confusion or amusement. “I see.”

“You doubt me?”

He rubbed his head. “One of those PDs we took out earlier really clocked me. My short term memory is spotty.”

“Apparently, since you’ve forgotten that we’re now calling them half-demons, not Practice Demons, out of respect for Leo. Also, shame on you. Blaming those poor spawn for your own shortcomings.” Tsking him, I slipped my fingers into his belt loops and tugged him close.

Five minutes later, I pulled away from his mouth with a nip. “Are my stellar abilities coming back to you yet?”

Wearing a slightly glazed look, his chest rising and falling rapidly, Rohan nodded like he’d forgotten how to form words.

I patted his cheek. “Good man.” I grabbed my emerald satin clutch off the table where it had fallen between his half-finished G&T and my glass of water and slowly edged myself out. Time for another circuit of the dance floor. “Be right back.” I pushed my water glass at him. “Drink this so you’re not all headachy tomorrow.”

“Hey, wait.” Rohan caught my wrist, eyes hot and insistent. “Restart the clock, Sparky.”

I smiled, then mimed smacking it again. He raised the glass in cheers. What a guy.

Leaving the boy to regroup, I skirted the packed dance area. The floor pulsed from the baseline of Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat” cranked to eleven, with everyone pulling out their best Napoleon Dynamite moves. Glittery disco starbursts illuminated arms thrown up in abandon, the dancers having a blast with the “hits from the 90s to today” that were on tap tonight.

Along the far edge of the floor, pleated curtains framed by multicolored spotlights illuminated cozy booths. Suppressing a smile at the dismayed groan that went up from the dude-bro group over by the pool tables, I curved around the sleek bar, restroom bound.

I charged into the middle stall, locked the door, and sank down in sweet relief. This rare night out was so precious that I’d stayed totally sober to remember every moment of it. But all the dancing I’d done had required copious amounts of hydration and I’d drunk an ocean of water tonight. I peed for so long I must have been pissing out stored reserves. On the plus side, I was so well-hydrated that my skin glowed like I’d been airbrushed.

The marathon urination gave me a chance to catch up on the scrawled graffiti. In neat red ballpoint above the toilet paper holder, someone had written: You’re a solid 8. Underneath that in pink glitter pen it read: Fuck that. I’m a 12½. A sentiment I applauded. Red pen then chimed back in with: Your ego certainly is. To which glitter had replied: All women are a 12½ out of 10. At least.

Black sharpie rounded out the exchange with: *fist pump* Sisterhood.

If I was going to be stuck in a cubicle peeing like a crazy person, it was nice to be in one with a compatible philosophic leaning and not “all girls be bitches.”

Someone else had drawn a wishing well in the center of the stall door. Responses alternated between lewd comments carved into the wood, initials drawn inside hearts, and requests of cash, designer clothes, and Hamilton tickets. It was all very silly, which was why I almost didn’t add the tiny snowflake to the bottom of the list.

I flushed the toilet and exited, bladder de-stressed. Though I had to wave my wrist in front of the tap’s motion sensor about seventeen times before I activated it. Damn things never worked properly for me, and I kept feeling like I was a dead person or a ghost. Two women entered as I was lathering up and I peered at their reflection in the gold gilt-framed mirror. “Christina?” I squealed.

“Nava! Where’ve you been, girlfriend? Campus is so boring without you. I have no one to ditch class with on mental health days.” Chinese-Canadian in her mid-twenties, Christina rocked a purple pixie haircut, a sequined one-piece romper, and an astounding example of cat eye eyeliner. When I attempted that look, I always came off as an Amy Winehouse drag queen who’d been crying while singing “Love is a Losing Game.”

“Oh, you know. Life.” I rinsed off my hands, tearing off some dead tree from the dispenser. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Nava.” The woman next to Christina, her blonde hair scraped into a straight ponytail worn low on her head, gave me a brusque wave. I doubted there was a sports bra under that swank suit jacket, and her pencil skirt failed to resemble the nylon workout pants I was used to seeing her in. She’d changed, but her presence was still a giant ugh.

I fumbled the toss of my paper towels, barely making the garbage can. “Naomi. You look–”

“Like she has a stick jammed up her white ass,” Christina said.

“Different.”

“I’m articling now.” Naomi brushed some imaginary lint off her navy lapel. “That’s a position in a law firm.”

She knew damn well that my dad, Dov, was a law professor at the University of British Columbia, since she’d had him for half a dozen classes. Clearly not much had changed besides the clothes. I jammed my hands into the pockets of my loose black trousers before either of them could see the spark of electric magic that jumped out of my fingertips. “You’re doing bitch work for the actual lawyers. Mazel tov. What are you two up to tonight?”

Christina held up a vial filled with tiny pink crystals that glinted in the light. “Sweet Tooth. Perfectly designed to give you the all-night euphoria of every lush depravity you can think of. Want in?”

“No, thanks.” There was only one thing I craved these days and it wasn’t some new drug. I rummaged in my small backpack purse for my hair clip to twist my sweaty locks into a loose chignon (and give Ro better access to kiss his way down my neck) when I noticed Naomi staring. “Yes?”

“Nothing.” She turned away, reapplying her sheer lip gloss. “You said we were going for a drink. One drink.”

“I lied,” Christina said. “You wouldn’t have left work otherwise.” She uncorked the vial releasing a burst of cotton candy scent. “One night to cut loose. ‘Life at Full Tilt,’ remember?”

Ten bucks said Christina was fighting a losing battle. Naomi was buttoned up so tight, cracking Level Fun required a set of lock picks, a tire iron, and some WD40. I patted my hairdo, waiting for their debate to end so I could get Christina’s new phone number. Reconnect now that my life was a bit more stable which, funnily, even with the demon hunting addition, was true.

“I’ve got to finish up some research for a court appearance.” Smug tone, nose in the air, Naomi hadn’t lost her infuriating knack of making everything she did sound sooo verrah verrah important.

“Minor court appearance,” I muttered. She was articling, not trying grand jury cases.

Christina tapped her finger against the vial a couple of times to dislodge powder from the sides. “Shut it, or I’ll key both your cars.”

I mustered a smile. “All dropped.” Christina had always been good at follow-through. “Hey Chris, I don’t have your current–”

“The lawyers are fast-tracking me to making associate. There’s every expectation of me making partner in record time.” Naomi ducked her head, her voice dripping with false modesty. “I don’t want to mess any of that up. I can’t. This is too important to me. Sorry, Chris.” The longing glance she shot at the vial was quick, but I caught it.

I dug my nails into my skin. Here, I’d do my one good deed for the night. “It’s okay to relax every now and then.”

“I’d imagine you’d know.” Naomi turned away from her reflection to peer at me with bullshit sincerity. “Still on a break from school?”

Between the annoying men I hunted with and my mother, Naomi was amateur hour. My smile stayed in place. “I’m in the security business,” I said. Savior of humanity, me.

“Like mall cop? Good for you.”

Okay, so not so much savior of all humanity because if a curupira was trying to suck her brains out right now, I’d totally point out the best spot to dig in.

My smile widened, teeth bared.

Christina muscled in between the two of us, smacking my hip in warning. “You can finish all your lawyer work tomorrow.” She dumped half the crystals into her hand. “This shit is like the best fuck and best chocolate all at once.”

“Careful Nava doesn’t steal it.” Naomi popped the cap back on her gloss.

“Jesus, Naomi, get over it. I didn’t steal Sean. You weren’t dating him or even sleeping with him.”

“I spent every weekend with him and I liked him.”

“You spent every weekend with all of your weekend warrior group. Besides, it’s not like his flirting was subtle. If you’d had a problem with us leaving together that night, you could have used your words.”

“As if you’d have listened.”

“Enough.” Christina held a hand up. “Naomi is an uptight bitch and Nava is a party whore. Have I settled it?”

“Like Nava limits the whoring to one area, but sure.” Naomi wiped a trace of gloss off the corner of her lip.

My magic slid through my veins, whispering sweet nothings like eviscerate her. “You don’t know anything about me, Naomi, so shove your little digs up your ass.”

“I know what I see.” She sniffed primly. “At least I have goals.”

“Big deal. You exchanged flinging yourself off cliffs for flinging yourself into work. Real growth. Christina, gimme your new number.”

She held up a finger and waggled the vial at Naomi. “It’s not addictive and there’s no hangover. I’ve done it a couple of times already so yes, I do know firsthand. It’s also way less dangerous than the shit you used to pull and you won’t have weird bruises to explain to your uptight firm. Merely a fun night that leaves you revitalized and ready to scale those lawyerly mountains. There, I’ve destroyed your objections, counselor.” She licked the drug off her palm. “Plus, it tastes like cotton candy.”

Her PSA over, she reeled off her phone number.

The second I had it, I dropped my phone in my clutch and snapped the clasp shut. “Excellent. I’ll call you. As for you, Naomi, I’m going back to my boyfriend and forget you exist.”

Naomi actually snorted. “Who’d you steal this one from?”

I gave her an icy smile. “Keep running on that hamster wheel. Maybe if you go fast enough and achieve enough, no one will realize you have absolutely no personality. Just an addict, held together by insecurity and rage, desperate for a rush to make you feel alive.”

Christina gasped.

Aw, shit. My eyes darted away from both their faces, my fingers fiddling with the diamante clasp. This was what happened when I let things fester. Spewage and emotional carnage.

“Fuck you. You have no idea how hard I work.” Naomi’s voice trembled.

Calvin Harris’ “This Is What You Came For” came on and I flinched at the memory that came with it. Christina, myself, and a few others had gone back to the apartment she shared with Naomi near campus to chill. That song had pulsed on low through the speakers and the air was fogged with the sweet smell of pot.

It was the time of night when people got cozy and shared past experiences. I’d been telling them about my Lincoln Center debut back in high school. The whole room had been silent except for me and that song, and yeah, the shine of admiration in their eyes had eased the constant sting of hurt a bit. Tap had been such a sad topic for me during that period, and it had been nice that night to remember the highs and not just the lows.

Naomi had burst in, eyes bright, loudly retelling some craaaazy adventure she’d just had. Like, the last one had been insane, but this one?She’d nudged me to the side so she could sit next to Christina, except there wasn’t enough room on the couch so she ended up half-squashing me instead. She’d sucked all the air out of the room, totally disrupting our mellow vibe and killing my tale. I’d never understood why everyone not only indulged her spotlight-hogging, but was so charmed by it.

Keeping my mouth shut since speaking out against her was pointless, I’d reached for the joint in the ashtray and lit it.

Naomi had waited for me to inhale. “Geez, Little Miss Gimme. Never enough with you.” This from the woman who had literally just interrupted herself mid-story about BASE jumping. Flinging herself off buildings, slacklining it across canyons, yes, it was cool, but she was such a hypocrite accusing me of being extreme.

Her crew called themselves the Full Tilt Gang for fuck’s sake. Half the stunts they pulled were done illegally, so her moral high ground was built on quicksand.

Christina had shot me a sympathetic smile but the others had snickered unkindly. Not ten minutes ago they’d thought I was the coolest person alive, and here Naomi had totally turned them against me. Naomi had smirked, taking her friend’s arm and monopolizing her in conversation, my existence forgotten.

The same way she now clutched Christina’s arm, not so much possessively as in defeat.

My gut twisted. I’d fired off a lot of smart remarks in the past, but my comment to Naomi now had been a bitch too far. I didn’t want to deliberately hurt others anymore. I was doing good in the world.

I wanted to be good in the world.

“Naomi, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bringing up the past. But you do deserve a night off,” I said. “The earth will continue to spin. The lawyers work you to the bone and in return you get no interesting tasks, no praise, and no life. Besides, you’re ridiculously smart. I’m sure you can knock out the items on your minion list in record time. Do this stuff, don’t do it, but enjoy yourself tonight. Normal is important.”

Naomi snatched the vial away from Christina, rolling her eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me how to have fun. I trademarked that shit.”

So much for my genuine, heartfelt attempt at being friendly, Bellatrix.

Christina squealed and clapped her hands while Naomi licked up the crystals. In her excitement, she failed to notice that when Naomi tossed the vial out, there was still some left at the bottom.

A cautious good time on the menu, then. Whatever worked for her. As for me, I waved bye to Christina, catching the door and shouldering past a group of chattering women spilling in.

Rohan waited for me at the end of the short hallway leading to the restrooms. His lopsided grin soothed my fraying edges.

“Hel-lo,” Christina said, having followed me. “I could ride that boy into next week.”

“Words spoken by many a woman with working eyeballs,” I said. “Yup, he’s all the catnip. But he’s also more than just a hot body.”

Christina gave me a searching glance. “You know this how?”

“That’s my boyfriend.”

Naomi’s mouth fell open as she stared at Rohan. “No way. He’s dating you?”

To be fair, his moss green shirt emphasized his broad shoulders and leanly muscled, V-bod. It was like his East Indian/Jewish genes had convened a summit at his conception to negotiate for maximum incredible. He was magnificent, but for me? His humor at 2AM blending me smoothies that he named after our demon kills–the Tezcatlipoca Mocha Blast was my fave–the effort he’d made getting to know Ari and Leo, and the steadfast belief in his convictions even as he helped me dig deeper into the Brotherhood, were even more attractive. I respected the hell out of him.

“Way, baby.” I said. “We don’t match, but we go.”

Rohan crooked a finger at me and all three of us sighed.

“I underestimated you,” Naomi said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “In more ways than one.” I hugged Christina goodbye with mutual promises to see each other soon and headed for my guy.

Rohan slung an arm around me, glanced back at the women, then kissed the side of my head. “You okay?”

I leaned into his steady comfort. “Perfect.”

The opening notes of George Michael’s “Freedom” kicked in and he tugged me onto the dance floor, squirming past the other dancers into the center. He caught me around the waist, singing into my ear about roads to Heaven and Hell as we grooved to the music, all rolling hips and sinuous arms.

I was lightness and air, anchored to this mortal plane by the rasp in Rohan’s voice and the gentle bite of his fingers through the thin fabric of my tank top. I caressed his cheek and he nuzzled into my hand. “Did you get yourself happy, Snowflake?” I asked, referring to the lyrics.

“I did. I am.” Still, when he sang along about freedom, the insistence in his voice was more than emotive karaoke.

“Is that what it felt like to leave the band? Like you got your freedom?”

He pulled me to him, making me ride his hard thigh in the dirtiest of dancing. Cuntessa de Spluge was in Heaven. “I thought all heavy conversations were banned tonight,” he said.

“Yes. Heavy conversations pertaining to current Brotherhood-witch shit are banned during date night,” I confirmed, my hips in a slow, syncopated slide with his.

“But prying into my past?”

“A total go.” My breath quickened, a spark low in my gut bursting into flame.

“Nice try. Pool?” he asked as the song ended, taking away my happy motion ride.

“You callous bastard.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing my ears. “I want you desperate for me.”

“Your arrogance isn’t doing it for me.”

“Yeah, it is.” He waggled his eyebrows at me in exaggerated fashion.

I shot him the finger and sashayed off the dance floor.

We passed Naomi, currently the filling in a boy sandwich. She’d shed her jacket, leaving her in a lacy camisole. Good time evidently unlocked. Christina smiled at her from outside the plastered-together bodies, but her expression was a bit strained. I didn’t blame her. Naomi had gone from “no” to “wheeee!” in record time and she’d been known to ditch Christina when there were more interesting–or dangerous–things around to play with.

I raced off ahead to snag a pool table, practically flinging myself bodily over it until Rohan caught up. I handed him a pool cue. “Answer my prying now. Was it a relief ditching Fugue State Five? You ever wish you had that back or some new version of it?”

Are you going to run away soon?

His expression turned distant. “Sometimes… It felt like I was living with a noose around my neck. Writing music, even performing again, it wouldn’t be like that. I wouldn’t be like that.”

“What changed?”

He pulled some balls out of the corner pocket, rolling them over the green felt for me to rack up. “Time. Heals all wounds, right?”

Rohan had always had a dark side, which had gotten worse with the twin fallouts of fame and the demon murder of his cousin Asha. His personal demons had been front and center pretty recently on our mission in Prague and only intensified on his gig in Pakistan, so I doubted he was suddenly a paragon of mental wellbeing, but I nodded.

He bopped the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry, Sparky. I’m not going back down any dark roads.”

I wasn’t convinced of that either. Not given the single-minded focus Rohan had shown in unraveling the mystery of what certain Brotherhood members were up to these past few weeks. But that was part of tonight’s ban on serious Rasha topics, so I pushed those thoughts away.

Maybe I was overthinking things. Besides, I needed my full concentration to kick his ass. Rohan was exceedingly competitive.

The hour grew later, the music faster, the crowd drunker. Despite being jostled yet again by a stray elbow, I sank three balls in rapid succession. I chalked my pool cue, eyeing the eight-ball. “Need a safe word, baby? Because when I sink this and obliterate you for a second game, it might be more pain than you can handle.”

Rohan slid his palm in a teasing glide along my belly. “Try me.”

“My favorite dare.” I positioned my stick slightly off-center, and with a satisfying crack, sank the eight-ball. I handed Rohan my pool cue. “Does it chafe? Be honest.”

He snapped both our sticks back into the mounted wall rack. “It’s a little raw, not gonna lie.”

“Good. I want you to feel it in the morning. Remember who owns you.” I smacked his ass, laughing at the mock-scandalized expression on Rohan’s face.

He caught my wrist, tugging me up against him and nipping my earlobe. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to minister to me and take away the sting like a good girlfriend?” His voice ran over me like rivulets of honey.

I mentally stomped on the memory of his ex, Lily, adjusting his scarf and quietly caring for him in a dozen small ways when we’d all been in Prague.

Without having to be asked.

In the Grease lens on the world, which was really the only useful metric, Lily was Sandy and I was Rizzo. Rohan claimed to want Rizzo, so he should have known that the idea of me on some Sandy scale of good was laughable. I gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Got something in mind, O wounded man child?”

“Since you asked.” He motioned for me to fan him.

“Yeah, right.”

“So hot,” he whined, taking my hands and moving them ineffectually up and down. It was so humid in the club, my skin was sticky where he held my wrist. “I know these are the wilds of Canada, but don’t you people know about A/C?”

Laughing, I blew air on him. “Poor pampered L.A. baby.”

Motioning for him to follow, I unclasped the chain blocking access to a small stairway and led him up. At the top was a small balcony overlooking the back half of the dance floor and one of the bars. The door behind it had been jacked open to the summer night. A siren cut through the alley below, its flashing lights bouncing off the building walls.

“Befriending bouncers has its perks.” I sat down on the bench, snickering as Rohan turned his face to the breeze wafting over us like a dog sticking its head out a window.

“Bootylicious” started up, and oh yes, I sang along. Rohan scoffed, with a “Figures you anthem’d this,” but I didn’t stop my beauteous phonetic rendition of the song.

That is until the chorus when Rohan spun, breaking into moves worthy of Queen B’s backup dancers. Shimmying, he wriggled closer until, keeping out of touching range, he canted his hips up in a long slow roll, running his hand down along the hard planes of his stomach. His shirt rode up, exposing a stretch of brown skin I wanted to lick. Lower and lower, his hand slid dangerously along his waistline, then lower still.

I sat there, gaping.

Rohan jumped onto the bench, feet planted on either side of me. He tossed his head, flicked off each shoulder, grinning. Clutching the burnished gold railing behind me with one hand, he twerked his ass lower and lower, his falsetto singing note-perfect.

Fuck. Me. Where had he been hiding this?

Rohan ground against me once, twice, and I lunged for him, our mouths crashing together. He tasted of anise seed and gin, his mouth cool from the ice he’d been crunching all night.

I opened my eyes, seeking a deeper connection. Seeking affirmation that he was here and this was real and that the voices trumpeting disbelief that we were a we could go screw themselves.

A flash of something caught the light from the club area below and I stilled.

Rohan’s eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” he murmured.

I craned my neck, twisting around him to peer down at the bar.

The bartender wrestled a bottle away from Naomi. One of Naomi’s hands was curled like a claw, and her expression was frozen in a snarl. She relaxed for a second, her shoulders slumping. The bartender eased up too, which was when she swiped the bottle and cracked him upside the head. He stumbled back against the bar, a few bottles cascading over his shoulder and shattering on the floor in bursts of light.

Pushing Ro off of me, I scrambled to my feet and shot down the stairs.

Most of the patrons were still caught up in their own dealings. They hadn’t had my eagle-eyed view of the club and the press of bodies was too thick for anyone not in the immediate vicinity of the bar to have witnessed the attack. I impatiently shoved my way through the chatting, flirting masses until I broke through to the bar.

The clean-cut bartender pressed a bloody rag to one temple, his body angled as far away as possible from Naomi. Shards of glass speckled his shoulders and alcohol ran down his shirt in sticky rivers.

Naomi sat on the bar top, legs crossed, swinging one slender ankle. She tipped a bottle of Bombay Sapphire back, its blue glass streaked with neon, one side smeared with the bartender’s blood. After a single disturbingly long swig, she shook the final drops into her mouth with a couple of violent jerks.

Then, to my horror, she bit into the glass, licking off whatever remaining gin coated its insides, oblivious to the blood streaming out of her mouth along her psychotic smile.

I stood there frozen, heart racing. Clueless how to process this fucked-up tableau. Naomi’s smirk was loaded with memories of every time she’d ever made me feel inadequate. I’d dealt with shit way worse than this, but there was such a cutting intimacy in her look, like she knew exactly who I was and that I’d never gotten over my weaknesses, that my past self had taken control of my brain. I froze up.

Somebody screamed right as the music cut out, breaking the spell and sending the dance floor into chaos. I ran for Naomi, but my friend Max, one of the bouncers here at the club, reached her first.

Naomi wore a matter-of-fact expression on her face as she calmly explained to Max, curling her bloody tongue around a razor sharp part of the bottle’s neck to catch an errant drop of booze, that the bartender had tried to cut her off and that wasn’t very “Full Tilt.”

Max had never been anything other than an ocean of calm, even when breaking up a stabbing outside the front door. So when this 6’4” brick wall of a man drained of all color, clutching his phone so hard he cracked the screen, my blood ran cold.

But if he couldn’t handle it, who could? My spine straightened. The past was just that, the past. I was Rasha and a hell of a lot stronger now on every level. I gave myself a mental shake and snapped into action. I pried the cell from Max’s death-grip, and called 911. Then I tossed him the phone back with a barked, “Talk to them.”

Light glinted off the jagged bottle neck as Naomi ran her thumb over it, her eyes not leaving mine, blood and gin dripping from her chin and meandering down her collarbone to stain her camisole in a gruesomely pretty bloom. “Nava, Nava, Nava. Always killing my good mood.”

I couldn’t use my magic. There were too many people around. I swallowed, hyping myself up to step closer. “Naomi, put the bottle down.”

She wrinkled her nose at me, waving the broken glass. I stepped back out of neck slashing range. She took another sip, but finding it empty, dropped the bottle on the floor where it shattered.

Shards flew. One stung my ankle and I cursed.

Undeterred, Naomi picked up someone’s abandoned pint of beer and chugged some back.

I reached out for the glass, my body turned somewhat, so she wouldn’t see the new bouncer slowly approaching from her right. Max, still on the phone, kept a wary eye on us all. “Okay, fine. Then how about you share?”

Her expression hardened. “Always gotta steal something, don’t you?”

Screw this. I rushed her, jumping back as she vomited blood, swayed, and went down like a sack of rocks.

The second bouncer caught her before she hit the ground, the beer mug rolling out of her hand onto the floor. “What. The. Fuck?” His pupils were dilated to the point of practically disappearing.

I was willing to bet the answer to that was “demons,” because even with the fentanyl crisis ravaging my beloved Vancouver, this was too insidious to be human evil, but I needed proof.

I left Naomi in Max and this other bouncer’s care and sprinted to the bathroom.

Grimacing, I plunged my hand into the mound of wet paper towels in the overflowing garbage, praying that their sogginess was water-based versus something requiring a tetanus shot. I was fumbling in there shoulder-deep before my fingers closed on the vial. I pulled it out, relieved that despite it being uncorked there was still some of the drug inside. I twisted up some dry paper towel to use as a stopper and sealed the drug in.

Laying it carefully on the bathroom counter, I disinfected my arm with scalding water and a shit-ton of soap. By the time I hit the main part of the club again, the house lights were up and employees were directing confused patrons toward the front door, doing their best to keep them from rubbernecking.

Two paramedics strapped Naomi’s prone form onto a gurney.

Christina stood beside them, the orange shock blanket around her shoulders sliding half-off under the force of her hysteria. Rohan had his arm around her, his head close to hers, speaking. She clutched at his shirt front.

I ran over, insides icy. Christina had taken the same drug Naomi had. The drug that had made her chew through glass and slice people. And Rohan was right next to her.

When I reached her, I felt like an idiot. Christina’s eyes were hollow and wide, possessing none of the mania that Naomi’s had. She was just terrified and at the touch of my hand on her shoulder, she fell into my arms, sobbing and repeating, “I’m sorry,” over and over.

“I’ll see if a paramedic will give her a sedative,” Rohan said into my ear.

I gripped his hand. “Tell them she did Sweet Tooth. Let them know she can’t have anything that conflicts with it.” He nodded and I laced my fingers with his, giving him a quick squeeze. He gave me a sympathetic smile and left.

Smoothing Christina’s hair, I absently registered him crossing the room to catch up with the first responders as they sped the gurney out. The gurney that had Naomi strapped to it. Naomi, who just an hour ago had been calling me mean names in the bathroom, who shouldn’t be lying there like this, motionless. “It’s not your fault.”

It was both our faults. Lead twisted my gut. Bad enough that I’d encouraged Naomi to take the night off because I’d implied she had a stick up her ass, but to have mocked her for her past and driven her to do something she wasn’t sure of? I’d taunted the universe and the universe had kicked my ass.

Christina turned her tear-streaked face to mine. “Why did it affect her and not me? What did I do to her?”

Fine questions I didn’t have answers to. Yet. The one thing I was absolutely certain of? If this was some fucked up demon product, then I’d hunt it down and destroy the evil spawn with my bare hands. Cold comfort, but I’d take it where I could find it.

2

We didn’t get home for another couple of hours, between telling a harried Max exactly what I’d seen and driving Christina to the hospital to get checked out. Oh, and scrolling through her contacts to find her brother Henry’s number. Christina and I had hung out at university so I’d heard her talk about Henry, but we’d never met. I explained who I was and asked him to come to get his sister, since once the sedative she’d finally been given in the ER kicked in, my friend couldn’t do much more than sluggishly wave at her phone.

Once he’d arrived, Henry assured me he’d get hold of Naomi’s family and keep me posted. I hadn’t been able to get any information out of the nurses about Naomi beyond “she’s in surgery and being looked after.”

I practically staggered out the ER doors, wrapping my arms around myself against the wind lashing at my denim jacket. The silence of deep night would have been a welcome relief except the earlier thump of the bass at the club still pounded in my temples and rang in my ears. My shoulders were wound tight; fatigue clawed at my eyes and brain, making everything gritty and dull.

I trudged across the parking lot. “I’m so tired that my feet don’t want to feet.”

Rohan was a champ. He got me to his precious ’67 Shelby Mustang, settled me in, and cranked the heat.

“Thank you.” I yawned, my head falling sideways against the window.

“For what?”

I pushed a dark brown strand of hair of out my mouth. “Sticking around.”

Rohan started the ignition with a quick flick of his wrist. The motor roared to life, settling into a purr as he pulled out of the parking spot. His biceps flexed as he shifted gears. “Yeah, I was gonna go off and leave you. Dummy.”

“Remember, you are a callous bastard.” I yawned again, my mouth opening so wide that my ears popped. “Can you swing by the house?”

“It’s late.”

“I know.”

He shrugged, and ten minutes later, drove around a quiet residential block so we could check out Dr. Gelman’s sister’s place. Dr. Esther Gelman was the witch that had given me the magic ceremony to get Ari inducted and her sister Rivka lived here in Vancouver.

Like every single other time that I’d come by, the place was locked up tight. No car in the car port, no change to the closed curtains. After I’d kind of broken in and damaged the place a few weeks ago, someone had set a new and powerful ward on the property. Anyone who got too close had the overwhelming urge to go elsewhere. It even affected me to some degree. I was overcome by a strong desire to go home and do my laundry. The ridiculousness of that idea generally reminded me it was magic at work and I could fight it, but damn, it was tough.

I had to find a way to contact Dr. Gelman, but could only think of the same idea that I was loath to do. It would have to wait. The Sweet Tooth situation was the more immediate concern anyway.

I rolled down the window to get some frigid air on my face and punched in the number for Brotherhood HQ in Jerusalem to let them know I had a case to investigate. The man I spoke to, older and with a French-Canadian accent, took the details about Sweet Tooth, assigned me a case number, and wished me luck.

“Huh.” I looked at the phone after he’d hung up. “That was kind of anti-climatic.”

Ro flicked on his turning signal. “Did you expect good fireworks or bad, phoning in your first mission?”

“Not sure. But note that I’m the hunter of record in charge, Snowflake.” That was pretty cool.

He sighed. “Such domination issues.”

My chuckle turned into a yawn, my lids fluttering shut.

I woke up to the emergency parking brake being engaged in front of Demon Club, the mansion housing the Vancouver chapter of the Brotherhood of David, that was located in the Southlands area of Vancouver’s west side. Trust me, now that I was the first female member of this secret society, changing the name was on my To-Do List, though given the rest of the shit on there, like exposing duplicitous rabbis on the Executive, it kind of lacked urgency.

I stumbled up the front stairs. Heavy cloud cover obscured the few stars that could usually be seen. Without moonlight, the gardens were formless shapes. The house itself was quiet; no lamps shone out the beveled bay windows, no smoke escaped the multiple chimneys. The forest surrounding the house was still and dark.

I kicked off my chunky emerald heels in the foyer, sighing dreamily as my toes flattened out against the cool tile. Rohan tried to steer me up the curving stairs to my bedroom, but I shook his hand off. “Not yet. Get me the hawkweed and meet me in the kitchen? Please?”

My nap had only made my body realize how badly it craved sleep, and even slapping my cheeks as I shuffled down the shadowy hallway over the intricate inlaid wood floor failed to wake me up. I stepped through the arched doorway into the kitchen.

The under-the-cupboard lights were on, casting warm lemon pools over the dark granite counter. The room smelled faintly of garlic, which got my stomach rumbling, which led me to the brilliant idea of protein as a pick-me-up.

After placing my frozen meal of choice in the stainless steel microwave that matched the industrial fridge and glass-topped stove, I examined the vial with the remaining crystals. There was nothing special about the container. Made of glass, it had a label with the words “Sweet Tooth” written in script.

The microwave went “bing.” I pulled my TV dinner out, puncturing the plastic wrap with a set of keys that I found on the counter.

An aggrieved sigh alerted me to Rohan’s presence. “All the options open to you and you go for that.” He poked at the plastic tray like he was scared the contents might bite him.

“I’ll have you know this is the finest Fried Chickeny Delight available in No Name Form.” I bit into a chicken leg. “Huh. You know what it doesn’t taste like?” I asked, munching.

“Chicken?”

I dropped the leg back on the tray. “Good guess. It’s chicken-esque.”

“Technically, it’s chicken-y.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure if ‘-y’ is a step up or down in the culinary world from ‘-esque.’” I crossed over to the fridge, pulled out the small jug of maple syrup, and doused the poultry-facsimiles like I was putting out a fire.

“Please eat real food. I honestly don’t know how you’re still alive.”

“Preservatives, obviously. And quit being such a food snob. This is real.” I tapped the jug. “One hundred percent real maple syrup, because I am Canadian and civilized.”

“Half-right.”

I took another bite. “Oh yeah. Way better now. Okay, gimme the spell stuff.” I licked off my fingers, wiping them on a piece of paper towel. Millennials–major factor in the demise of the napkin industry. True fact.

Rohan tossed a Ziploc bag with a mixture of salts and chopped up bits of yellow Snowdonia Hawkweed onto the counter. The plant was incredibly rare, but what was scarcity when you had a boyfriend with a fat bank account from his rock star days? How fat, I had no idea. He’d assured me he didn’t have billionaire status, but I suspected that multi-millionaire was still within the realm of possibility. I mean, dude had been the lead singer of Fugue State Five, international chart-topping, emo band extraordinaire. That said, multi-millionaire in Vancouver would scarcely have bought this monstrosity of a chapter house we lived in, so I clearly was not with him for his money. Real Housewives of Vancouver had never been an aspiration of mine. Besides, Ro could have been poor as dirt and he’d still be a prime catch.

I dumped the mixture in water, stirring it with the thin paintbrush that he’d thoughtfully brought. “Such a good sidekick.”

“What happens when you use the ‘s’ word?” Rohan sealed up the Ziplock.

“You tackle me.”

He stuffed the baggie in his pocket. “And what happens when you admit that I’m Batman?”

“You tackle me.”

Rohan quirked an eyebrow. “That all?”

I paused my stirring, perking up. “Ooooh, yeah.” His nerdy role-playing had a deliciously filthy narrative. “’K. I pick door number two.”

Rohan snickered. “Phrasing.” I blushed from head to toe. “Don’t feel bad, Sparky.” He pushed my dinner to the far end of the island, ignoring my glare. “We’re two consenting adults with perfectly natural urges.”

“Yes, we are.”

Rohan opened the fridge, grabbing the bread, cheddar, and butter. “Except for that thing you beg for which is totally depraved.”

“Don’t forget the mustard. And fuck you.”

Rohan gave a smug lift of his right eyebrow, but pulled out the distinctive yellow squeeze bottle. “What? Again? Woman, you’re insatiable.”

“You are never getting laid again.” I motioned at him to put more cheese on the grilled sandwich he was making me, and helpfully retrieved two plates from the white cabinets.

Ro rummaged around on the fridge shelf. “Is there orange juice?”

I pulled an unopened carton out of the cupboard holding the pots and pans and put it on the counter. “I hid this for you. Kane was sucking back the stuff like there was no tomorrow.” I poured it into a glass over ice.

Once he’d chugged some back, I waved the vial in front of his face. “Thoughts. Go.”

Rohan slid a generous pat of butter into the cast iron pan he’d heated, before reading the label. “‘Sweet Tooth.’ Catchy name. Branding and everything.”

“It’s all about discoverability.”

“Did they snort this?”

“Licked it.”

“The initial effects kicked in pretty quickly for licking it. Another point for a magic source.” He placed the sandwiches in the pan, spatula in one hand, then pulled out my paper towel stopper and, sniffing the drug, recoiled. “Gross. Cotton candy. Could be worse.”

“Yeah. Could be watermelon scent.”

“Exactly. Swear that’s a demon invention.” He sniffed again, more cautiously and gave me back the vial. “No other obvious chemical odor. I’d say test it and let’s see what we’ve got.”

I drummed the paintbrush against the counter. This was my first actual case and already I didn’t know how to handle this. I bit my lip and exhaled. “I’m not sure how to do the spell.”

“Because it’s crystals, not something solid?”

“Yeah.” The spell to test for magic signatures required the caster to paint a specific vine pattern on the object with the water/salt/hawkweed mixture. “There’s only a tiny amount here. The drug dissolves if it’s absorbed into the bloodstream, so if I add this liquid and the spell doesn’t work, we may lose what little Sweet Tooth we have to test.”

He flipped the sandwiches. “You want brown or golden brown?”

“Golden brown.”

Rohan checked both sides, then plated my sandwich golden brown side up.

We tossed out a few options while eating, like either of us ingesting the stuff and then testing ourselves for a magic signature. Dismissed that one pretty damn quickly, given what had happened to Naomi.

Belly pleasantly full, I poured half of the remaining crystals into a bowl. That gave us a smaller sample size, but also gave us a second shot if need be. Dipping the paintbrush in the water mixture, I did my best to swirl the pattern onto the drug, then said “gallah” to invoke the spell.

The crystals dissolved, leaving us with nothing for the spell to work its magic on.

“Damn it.” I tossed the paintbrush onto the counter with a clatter.

“Wait.” Rohan picked up the brush. The finely-bristled tip cycled through a rainbow of colors before settling into a pulsing blue. It had absorbed enough of the crystals to give us a result.

“Demon magic for the win,” I said.

“Too bad the spell can’t tell us which demon,” Rohan said.

“You need the magic equivalent of a forensic chemist,” Ari said, padding into the kitchen in pajama bottoms and a faded blue T-shirt, in dire need of a shave. He rubbed a hand over his short blond hair.

“What are you doing up so early?” I glanced out the window at the basketball court and press of dense cypress, arbutus, and Douglas fir beyond. My twin may have been a morning person but light was only barely leaching back into the world.

“Up late reading while waiting for the storm to pass so we can get clearance to fly in. I’m going on assignment. With Kane.”

There was a tense silence.

“Kane? With you?” Rohan repeated. “Wow, headquarters sure has our best interests at heart.”

It was scathing, but fair. Our friend and fellow demon hunter Kane Hashimoto and Ari were no longer exactly on speaking terms after a disastrous kiss a few weeks back. Not like their dysfunction would stop them from having each other’s backs, but the timing was awful.

“No way,” I said, waving my hand. “I forbid this. Veto. No.”

“Don’t worry, Nee. Even if the weather was fine, I still have a few more days here for obvious reasons.” He picked up an uneaten thigh. “Is that maple syrup? Awesome.” Dipping the chicken into the golden pool, he devoured half the meat in one bite.

We Katz twins made it a point to be impressive.

Rohan winced like he was in genuine pain.

I hugged Ari around the waist, burrowing my head into his chest. My brother was the best. We’d had a bumpy few months–what with me becoming Rasha during his induction ceremony, then our growing pains working together after I’d finally found a way to make him a hunter too– but our “don’t mess with us” status quo was restored.

“Quit smothering me.” Ari wriggled free.

“What’s happening in a couple days?” Rohan asked.

I snatched the paintbrush away from him using it to jab him in the chest. “There’s a countdown widget on your phone.”

Rohan’s brows creased. “Are you sure?”

“And a back-up countdown widget.”

Rohan shrugged. “Not ringing any bells.”

“The reminder taped to your dresser?”

“Must have missed it under all the mess.” As if. Snowflake was anal-retentive tidy.

I slapped my hand against the giant paper calendar pinned to the fridge with magnets reading Yeah, bitch! Magnets! The calendar contained a single entry. The large square for Monday June 19 was festooned with gold stars. “Nava’s 21st birthday! Commence adoration!!” was written in all-caps black sharpie. In smaller penciled letters someone had added, “And Ari’s.”

“You do know the last person who joked about forgetting Nava’s birthday was never seen again, right?” Ari dumped the detritus of the meal in the trash.

“Don’t worry.” I threw a pointed glance at Rohan. “I’ve already got the remote gravesite picked out should people fail in their duties. Back to this forensic chemist idea.” I motioned at Ari. “Expound please.”

Rohan, eating his sandwich, nodded in agreement.

“I’ve been thinking about it since I heard the gogota attacked you and your scientist witch,” Ari said.

“Dr. Gelman. This isn’t a case of She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.” She’d gone off-grid after the attacks. Rabbi Mandelbaum, head rabbi on the Brotherhood’s Executive, maintained she was dead. While I was getting increasingly worried about her failure to surface, no way did I believe him. Dr. Gelman was a badass witch, and she was probably taking her sweet time getting back in touch just to annoy me.

“Then those yaksas attacked the village in Pakistan. That makes the sites of the attacks crime scenes.” Ari always talked faster when it came to chemistry stuff. Hand gestures, intense eye contact, the whole nine yards–it was actually kind of adorable. “Essentially, with both the gogota and the yaksas horn fragment, you removed material from those crime scenes to cast the spell. A forensic chemist does the same thing at a non-magical crime scene; they work to identify material found there. The spell that you and Ro cast was like basic magic chromatography. It led you to the discovery of the purple magic signature on both. The initial identification. Now you need someone who can dig deeper and isolate the specific components.” He pointed at the vial. “Same with this. If a forensic chemist specializing in magic existed, that person might be able to tell you which type of demon was behind this. The specific component, so to speak.”

My brother was a chemistry major. I’d bet a kidney he was dying to find a way to combine that passion with magic.

“That would be extremely cool.” I finished up my sandwich, licking buttery crumbs off my fingers. “I wish I could do that.”

“You have enough of a revolving list of powers,” Ari said dryly. “Electricity, magnetizing shit, however you’d oscillated your power to almost kill Malik. It’s weird.”

“You’re jealous that I keep rolling out new tricks.”

Rohan snorted, reaching for a napkin that he used to meticulously wipe off his hands. Fine. Maybe my magic was kind of weird, being variations on a theme rather than one ability gained all at once. But considering that all the other Rasha had ages to understand magic and what would happen when they came into their powers, and I was just mastering it on the go, I was acing the catch-up.

“How do we know these magic forensic chemists don’t exist?” I asked.

“Oh, I just asked Rabbi Abrams.”

“Ari!” I jumped off the bar stool, my heart hammering.

“Calm down, stress case, I didn’t tell him. But hasn’t he risked enough for us already? He deserves to know.”

“Save your breath.” Rohan removed the canister of ground coffee from the freezer, slamming the door. “We’ve had this conversation a dozen times.”

“And for the dozenth and first.” I stacked our dishes in the dishwasher. “I’m not saying anything until we know who’s responsible for the purple magic. The man is a billion years old. I’m not potentially causing him to stroke out based on supposition.”

They turned identical scowls on me. Even Kane had been nagging me to bring the head of our chapter on board. I was terrified to tell the rabbi. Partially because I didn’t want to upset him, but mostly because he was the one rabbi in this entire Brotherhood that I trusted. How was I supposed to tell him the core of the cause that he’d devoted his life to was rotten? It didn’t matter that I wasn’t the one responsible, I knew what they did to messengers, and I wasn’t ready to give up the fond smile he bestowed on me whenever he saw me.

“We don’t have a forensic chemist,” I said, “but we do have drugs with demon magic all over them.” I sealed up the remaining crystals in the vial once more.

“What happened?” Ari asked.