The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Need E-Book

Deborah Wilde

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

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.

Nava Katz has a lot on her plate:
Brotherhood: unmask. 
Demons: slaughter. 
Guy problems: terminate with extreme prejudice.
 
Nava is hot on the heels of a demonic serial killer and finally working with her brother. The assignment should be a dream come true, not a nightmarish power struggle made worse by her twin's refusal to believe there's corruption within the Brotherhood. 
 
She's determined to find proof of their dirty dealings, even as she risks irrefutably breaking her sibling bond.
 
And speaking of clocking annoying males upside the head... 

Nava is also totally over smoking hot rock star and fellow hunter Rohan Mitra. There is a veritable buffet of boy options out there, and this girl is now all-you-can-eat. 
 
So when her demon hunt brings her first love, Cole, back into her life, her revenge fantasies for closure—on all fronts—are a go. 
 
Except neither her old wounds nor her new ones are as healed as she believes. It’s less "Hopelessly Devoted," more "Worse Things I Could Do."

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: NEED

DEBORAH WILDE

Copyright © 2017 by Deborah Wilde.

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.

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

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Wilde, Deborah, 1970-, author

          The unlikeable demon hunter : need / Deborah Wilde.

(Nava Katz ; 3)

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-988681-04-7 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-988681-05-4 (EPUB).--

          I. Title.  II. Title: Need.

PS8645.I4137U56 2017                       C813'.6                   C2017-901640-7 C2017-901641-5

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

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Excerpt from The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave

Become a Wilde One

Acknowledgments

About the Author

1

“I could do with a boy or a burrito.” I rubbed my belly, the silky material of the long-sleeved tunic that I wore as a mini dress sliding under my fingers. Were TV shows and book covers to be believed, I’d stake out my prey with a sleek fall of hair, clad in head-to-toe leather. Too bad my curls were allergic to flat irons and tight leather pants gave me yeast infections. Learned that the hard way.

“In that order?” My twin brother Ari was a disembodied voice in the shadows.

I side-stepped the run-off dripping from the broken rain spout onto the alley’s cobblestones, thinking fondly of my double-breasted, classic trench coat back inside the bar. “Depends on how good the burrito is.”

The bar’s dented back door crashed open, releasing a spill of music, a sharp blast of chatter, and two demons glamoured up to look human.

I jerked my chin at them. “Took you long enough.”

The taller of the two, Zale, swaggered toward me in his white shitcatcher pants, his white vest stretched tight across his wiry torso, and his fedora perched rakishly atop his bald black head. He cocked his finger and thumb at me like a gun. “All right, all right, all right.”

Fucking Matthew McConaughey wannabe. The original was more than enough.

Skirting the edge of the dim pool of light cast by the sole bulb over the door, I sashayed forward on my three-inch heels, a whisper of a breeze rippling my hem. “You promised me witches.” I trailed a finger down his chest. “Gonna deliver?”

His friend Dmitri barked a laugh.

Zale shot him an amused smile. “You want the goods? Pony up.” He reached for his elastic waistband.

I reached for my magic.

Look at that. I was faster. Electricity snaked out of my fingertips in a forked bolt.

“My implication that I was willing to blow you for their whereabouts?” I smiled sweetly and cracked open the concrete beside his shell-toe shoes. “Total fabrication.”

Zale blurred out of sight. I wasn’t concerned because this raku demon only had short range flash stepping ability and a dark shadow had disengaged itself from the gloom to give chase. Ari, my fellow demon hunter.

My brother’s smirk, sharp as a razor’s edge as he tracked the demon, made it all too clear how hunting suited him.

“What are you?” Dmitri’s perplexed and vacant blink at me fit right in with his dishwater blond man bun and tapered floral pants, but was still insulting.

“I’m Rasha.”

He laughed. “You can’t be a hunter, you’re a girl.”

I grabbed my boobs with a shocked gasp. “That’s what this means?” Damn, I had a good rack. “I can’t sing either, but that doesn’t stop me practicing for The Voice auditions. So, yup. Girl and Rasha.”

He made a sound of disgust.

I didn’t need that kind of disrespect today, so I flicked a bolt of electricity into his crotch.

The felan demon dropped to his knees, his wheezed exhale a pretty good dying bagpipe impression.

“You were saying?” I asked.

Five tentacles sprang from his chest like Shiva’s arms, the one closest to me striking the ground with a sticky slurp. The air fogged with the stench of patchouli and fungus.

I swiped at my watering eyes. “You’re missing a tentacle.”

“I’m perfect the way I am.” His snarled–and issue-laden–response made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but the real kicker was his front tentacle lashing across my forearm.

Take the precision of a bee sting and magnify it by the mass destructive power of a nuclear bomb. That was close to the searing fire that his paralytic touch shot along every nerve ending in my body. I wheezed a gasp, my arm dropping to my side.

The felan snickered.

“Shut it, asswipe. At least I’m not wearing floral pants.” I tried to move my arm, receiving a wet noodle dangle for my efforts.

He fingered his fabric. “I’m wearing these pants ironically.”

“Not paired with that hair abomination you’re not. Might as well wear a button that says, ‘I’m a demon, ask me how!’” My arm felt like my mouth after a dental procedure–numb, swollen, and clunky. Had my elbow been able to drool, I’m sure it would have.

A sliver of moonlight guided me as I fired my magic at Dmitri, but the paralytic was already taking root, thick and sticky as molasses. My stream of blue and silver current stuttered out of me, the demon dodging it with ease.

Dmitri swaggered in closer, locked a tentacle around my ankle, and pulled. I crashed down on my ass, my legs wobbling like the finest Jell-O. “Cute panties,” he said.

I’d have killed him just for the use of that horrid word but my heart hammering at an unsustainable speed was all I was capable of. He pinned me down and wrapped a tentacle around each appendage like I was Gulliver imprisoned by the Lilliputians.

I stiffened out like a surfboard. My breath punched out of me in a scream, my pain spiking like I was coated in bubbling lava. I was half-convinced my flesh was melting from my bones. Gritting my teeth, I forced my magic out. Animated lightning bolts danced over my now-blue skin and a wave of current burst from my entire body to wrap around the demon like barbed wire.

It knocked the felan back a whopping half-step, but at least it broke his hold. I still couldn’t move, but I could take a deep breath.

“Witches. How do I find them?” I tightened my magic net on him, taking perverse satisfaction in his eyes bugging out of his head.

“Urban. Myth.” He flailed his tentacles, caught tight in my web. “There are no witches, you moron.”

My vision kaleidoscoped into black blobs, the paralytic sinking its hooks into every inch of me. Lungs burning, nervous system in a Code Red panic, I had to finish him off, except I was now seeing multiples of the lemon-colored tentacle tip indicative of his weak spot. His Achilles heel and the place I needed to direct my magic in order to kill him.

I dug down into my last molecule of energy and nuked Dmitri with so much magic that he charred like a well-done steak. The air reeked of fetid BBQ, but I’d hit his sweet spot and dispatched him into oblivion with a puff of lemon-colored-yet-hippy-scented-dust. At least I didn’t have to clean up after myself. Lack of a corpse, the sole public service that demons provided.

Fumbling for the edge of my Spanx with spasming fingers, I pulled out the modified EpiPen tucked against my hip and blue-to-the-sky’d it in my thigh. Thanks to the fast-acting antidote, the pain in my body subsided from “rip my skin off” to “whimper madly.” Much better. I twitched my fingers, happy to note they still moved, then flopped over, hands braced on the cobblestones. Luckily, the stones were dry. Landing in an unidentifiable puddle would have been an indignity too far.

The bulb over the back door cracked and sizzled out. I turned my head away from flying shards and sat up.

Zale blurred into the alley, eyes wide. Shadows pressed in as if they had weight and heft, tinged with an ashy smell. The raku backed away but he was cornered on all sides by darkness.

There was a languid elegance to my brother’s magic.

Zale spewed some super homophobic insults involving Ari’s interactions with his fellow hunters in a way I was almost positive was impossible.

The shadows expanded, like they were taking a deep breath, before wrapping themselves around each of Zale’s arms and his upper torso. They jerked the demon back against the brick wall, the crack of his skull momentarily shutting him up.

I yanked out the doctored-up EpiPen still sticking out of my leg. It contained a felan antidote provided by the Brotherhood of David, the testosterone-laden secret society of demon hunters that I had become the first female member of. The antidote had dealt with the worst of the poison–the fatality part–leaving me merely battered and bruised. A run-of-the-mill Wednesday.

Zale struggled as Ari strolled closer, a pale blue silhouette. The raku’s tendons popped along his skin as he strained against his bonds. “Fucking psycho.”

Ari stilled. Flexed his fingers. The shadows holding Zale gave a sharp jerk, snapping both his arms out of their sockets. The demon’s roar cut off in a cough as a shadow slithered up his chest, wound around his neck, and strangled him.

“Ari.” I scrambled to my feet.

My brother’s eyes glittered dangerously. He edged his face close in to Zale’s and Zale flinched.

“Boo,” Ari said with a hard smile and fired a shadow like a punch into Zale’s abs. His sweet spot. The raku gasped and disappeared, dead.

With a flick of his hand, Ari caught Zale’s fedora before it hit the ground and flipped it onto his head.

Ugh. I winged my used EpiPen at him, where it hit his shoulder and then clattered to the ground. “Seriously?”

Ari cocked his head at the bar’s back door. “Ready to go in?”

Not hardly after his baby Drio torture impersonation.

Picking up the EpiPen, I exchanged it for a nubby joint from the tiny purse slung across my body, slid a bobby pin from my hair, and fastened it on as a holder before lighting up.

I exhaled a long column of smoke into the warm May night, my skin returned to its normal Snow White complexion.

“We’ll find the witches another way,” Ari said.

“I know.” But I was running low on ideas. Over the past month, we’d sussed out campus wicca groups and employees of the new age bookstore Acacia Books. When neither of those avenues had panned out, we’d done what Rasha do best, worked our way up, okay, killed our way up, one demon at a time until we’d found this duo. I’d been certain Zale and Dmitri were our ticket to sniffing out actual witches instead of women who celebrated the goddess via pricey bamboo clothing and new age bush beating.

Insert sad trombone sound.

Ari made a “hand it over” motion and surprised, I did. All of my life, my handsome, serious twin had been the good to my not-so-much. Our parental unit’s “golden boy” to my “big disappointment.” Blond to my dark, the only thing we shared were our blue-gray eyes and absolute bond.

When I’d managed to get Ari inducted in his rightful place as Rasha, I’d bet that his power, reflecting an aspect of the user’s personality, would manifest as some type of earth magic. Steady. Stable. Grounding.

I’d lost fifty bucks.

Ari lit up, practically deep throating the joint.

“Your technique needs work.” Our friend and fellow Rasha, Kane Hashimoto, had joined us from inside the bar, hands jammed in the pockets of his dark jeans, his shock of black spiky hair even more explosive than usual.

Ari raised his eyebrows and sucked deep enough to hollow out his cheeks before passing the joint to me.

“Ew. I almost don’t want it after that.”

My brother offered it to Kane who shook his head.

“Uh, excuse me,” I said, snagging the joint. “I said almost.” I took a drag, letting the burn spear my lungs.

A group of friends passed by our alley with a clatter of heels on concrete and shrill drunken laughter. Once, before all the demon-hunting, I’d been that carefree. That oblivious. I held on to the sound of their laughter, wistfully wrapping it around me before letting it flutter free.

“How did the fact-finding mission go?” Kane asked. He’d agreed with my assessment that Ari and I could dispatch the felan and raku just fine.

“Dead end.” I contemplated the hissing, glowing joint tip, the sweet smoke curling around us a definite upgrade from the rotting garbage emanating out of the nearby dumpster.

Ari clapped my shoulder in sympathy. He’d help me keep looking for the witches to make contact with the woman I’d hoped might become a mentor. I wanted a friend and a guide who both possessed magic and was female, the Brotherhood being sorely lacking in that department.

That was the reason I’d given Ari and Kane for my search anyway.

My brother patted his head. “I got a hat.”

Kane grimaced. “Demon cooties.”

“The demon was bald,” Ari said.

The explanation didn’t win Kane over. He grabbed the fedora and pitched it into the dumpster. “You’re welcome.”

Ari shook his head, his lips a flat line.

“At least you got to add another kill to your scoreboard, brother dear, making you still in second place to moi,” I said.

“Only in your cheating reality.” He snagged the joint.

Kane laughed. Japanese-Canadian with chiseled cheekbones and a tight body, he had two modes of dressing: barely and horribly. Tonight was door number two, featuring a Technicolor Eurotrash-striped nightmare. He rolled up his sleeves, carelessly folding up the cuffs.

“Look at you, big boy,” I said, “you’re still wearing a shirt.”

“The night is young, babyslay.” He peered at me. “You look like shit.”

I flicked the lighter a few times. “And here I was going for utter shit.”

Ari took one more hit then held out the joint to me. I waved his offer off. If I was considering the rainbow bruising on my arms a pretty accessory, I’d had enough.

Shouting broke out from a crack deal going down at the end of the alley. Since it involved all human players and the buyer took off, I didn’t mix in, though the pricey cover I’d paid earlier tonight that could have gone towards getting the addict some food didn’t sit well. In this neck of Vancouver, lush gentrification butted against low-income neighborhoods and the uneasy mix was sickening to anyone with a conscience. Or me.

Kane strode over to the dealer, now smoking a cigarette by the wall.

Ari frowned at the man, as if trying to place him. “Fuck.” He ground out the joint and hurried after Kane, me at his heels, trying to get my brother’s attention and have him fill me in.

Ari got to Kane before Kane got to the dealer. He stepped between Kane and the man, but Kane neatly sidestepped him, his eyes trained on the pusher.

“You ought to rethink your line of work.” Kane smiled, dagger-sharp.

“Yeah?” The dealer flicked his lit butt at Kane.

Kane caught it, crushed it in his hand, and winged it back. The butt beaned the dealer on the nose. In retaliation, the dealer pulled a knife and lunged, but Kane deflected the strike, an almost bored expression on his face as he slammed the attacker’s arm back into the wall, over and over again, until the knife clattered to the ground.

Kane shoved his palm into the dealer’s cheek, pinning the guy’s head back against the bricks. The Rasha’s skin coated with a purple iridescent sheen.

My nose stung from the sharp tang of salt.

Ari made a tch noise.

The dealer threw his hands up. “Take it easy, man.”

Kane casually ripped the dude’s ear off.

My hands flew up to block the blood spray, but there wasn’t any. The dealer’s skin simply split open, droopy speckled gills popping out. He struggled, but Kane held him fast.

“Should have taken me up on my offer.” Kane slapped his poison-covered hand against the gills. The demon just sort of dissolved under Kane’s toxic touch and disappeared, dead.

Kane swayed on his feet, one hand shooting out for balance. Ari tried to grab his shoulder and steady him but Kane brushed him off. “Leave it. I’m good.”

“Sure. Until your kidneys fail, idiot.”

Kane shot us a bright smile. “But like all things about me, even my failure shall be glorious.”

2

Ari filled me in about Kane being pulled off active duty for a while because of dangerously high salt levels in his blood after too many kills in too short a period of time. The cost of his particular magic, just like mine was risk of heart attack. Much as I wished otherwise, there’d be no point berating Kane.

“What kind of demon was that?” I asked, with a glance back.

“A fix. They feed off addiction.” Ari shook his head, staring musingly at the bar’s back door that Kane had already gone through. “Rare though. The only way to identify them is by a thickness in their throat where the gills are hidden.”

I flung the bar’s door open. “How the hell did he spot that all the way back in a dark alley?”

“He spots everything.” I couldn’t tell if Ari sounded annoyed or impressed.

If the witch-seeking fail wasn’t enough, the bar was an irritating insult to injury. Too many bodies pressed too close together in hopes of getting even closer before night’s end.

We muscled our way to the rickety metal table we’d secured with our jackets. For the amount this place charged to get in, the owners could have refurbished this old watering hole. The floor was sticky in patches, and the ceiling fans couldn’t overpower the stench of stale beer and brittle desperation.

I crashed my ass onto the chair, grateful to be sitting down, then grabbed the muscled arm of a passing server. “There is a massive tip for you if you get us a pitcher of beer and a large order of wings in five minutes.” The bar didn’t do burritos but their miso-glazed wings were to die for.

Kane dropped down next to me, all iridescence and salt tang gone from his skin. He must have washed the poison off.

The saucy waiter pursed his mouth. “Sweetheart, we’re understaffed. I’m good but I’m no miracle worker.”

I motioned to my two companions. “I’ll throw in the phone number of the boy of your choosing.”

Ari craned his neck to check out the beers on tap. “Whoring your own brother for food. Wow.”

“Yes,” I said. “Because for years women had to bear that burden. Feminism. Get on board.”

“I’ll take the non-whiny one,” the server said.

Kane preened. “If you want me to call you back, you’ll give me extra ginger dipping sauce.”

The server winked at him. “Done.”

Kane tracked the guy’s ass as he walked away and Ari tracked Kane. This is what I’d been living with for the past month. Ignoring, longing, sexual tension, and more ignoring. I was living in a CW teen soap as the sassy best friend without any foreseeable love interest in my storyline. It was time to get these two together already so I could star in my own spin-off. Besides, they’d be adorable together. Provided they didn’t turn their magic on each other leaving either a poisoned corpse or one eviscerated by shadows; but hey, every couple had their problems.

Tonight’s plan to wisen these two the fuck up? Beer. That fine libation that had kicked off many a beautiful romance.

The waiter was back in three minutes with tall glasses and an icy pitcher. “Wings in two.” He pointed at a table of customers playing a loud drunken game of “I never.” “I switched their order with yours. The McRude ones can wait.”

I waved the lager he’d poured for me in benediction. “Bless you, my son. Drink up, boys,” I said to Ari and Kane.

Holding my dark curls off my neck with my free hand, I pressed the pint glass to my forehead, sighing at the nip of condensation against my skin. “It’s great to kick back with good friends.”

Silence. I’d lost them to their phones. I snapped my fingers. “Social time, gentlemen. Be social.”

They grumbled, but the wings arrived, and that did the trick. I dug in with a munchie-induced fervor, happy to eat and people watch. “If my life was a movie, I’d fire whoever cast the extras. These people are blech.” I jerked a chicken wing at a couple engaged in a nauseating display of PDA. “Especially them. I can’t stand them.”

I sucked the rich, slightly spicy glaze off chicken skin that was so crispy, it crackled when I bit it.

Kane looked over. “You know them?”

I dipped another wing in the tangy ginger sauce. “No.”

“Nava hates lots of people she doesn’t know.” Ari nodded his thanks as I topped us all off with more beer. “It’s her special talent.”

“I’d settle for them turning off the baseball game and Grease.” Kane glanced at the muted TV screens hung above the bar, dipping his sauce-coated fingers in the small bowl of warm water that had come with our order. “Sports and musicals, the seventh level of Hell.”

I gasped, hand to my heart.

Ari facepalmed. “Now you’ve done it.”

“Grease is the seminal cinematic exploration of teen culture,” I said.

Kane grabbed a napkin. “No way. Cruel Intentions.”

I eyeballed the remaining wings, pulling my generously estimated third into a pile. “Wanting to fuck late 90s Ryan Phillipe does not make something seminal.”

Kane and Ari both leaned back, arms identically crossed. “Says you,” they said in unison.

Perhaps bonding over their mutual interest in screwing a third party was not the way to foster romance. Hmm. Further thought was required.

I nibbled on a wing. “I’d argue that contrary to popular belief, Grease doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Ari paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. “Criticizing the movie? Are you concussed?”

“No. It’s still a mostly perfect film. I’m merely older and wiser,” I said. “See, it ends with Sandy sewing herself into a catsuit that makes peeing impossible. She’d totally rather be in her ponytail and poodle skirt but she’s so sweet that she’s not going to say anything, letting her bitterness build until it manifests in a brain aneurysm.” I pulled the dipping sauce away from Ari. “Don’t hog the sauce.”

“Much as I cannot believe I’m encouraging this conversation,” Kane said, “I’d say they both compromised and got their happily-ever-after.”

“Please. The second Danny saw he’d broken her, he had that stupid letterman’s sweater ripped off. Couldn’t even make it through the first verse of ‘You’re the One that I Want.’ Greedy bastard wanting things how he wanted them.” I tossed the bones onto the plate. “The only sane one was Rizzo. She would have taken one look at the indignity of the catsuit and the flying car and said ‘Fuck this, I’m out.’”

In a move of stealthy beauty, Ari exchanged a runty wing in his pile for a majestic specimen in mine. “Rizzo wouldn’t have been asked into the car in the first place.”

I picked up a fork, holding it tynes-out above my remaining wings. “Right? The guys knew that. She’s fierce. She wasn’t going to change for anyone. I am Rizzo. Hear me roar.” I ran a finger along the tynes. “I got distracted by the bullshit car and forgot I was Rizzo.”

“Jesus,” my brother muttered.

“Ah.” Kane’s voice was gentle. “You got distracted by a lot more than the car, babyslay. Ro–”

I jabbed the fork at him. “Say his name and I’ll kick your ass six ways to Sunday.”

Kane patted his butt. “I see through your pathetic excuse to touch it.”

My stoner brain was taking over and I was about to get maudlin. Nope. Time to put happy sloshy brain back in the driver’s seat. I motioned to our server for another pitcher, but he was super harried and didn’t see me, so I nudged my brother, who was busy eye-fucking some guy at the bar.

That was wrong. He should have been eye-fucking Kane. No. Ew. “Less catting around, more paying attention to your tablemates.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t sample what is so readily available,” Ari replied, twirling a finger around the bar.

Excuse me? I tapped my fork dangerously against my plate. “Because I accidentally crazy-glued my legs shut?”

“Because of he-who-shall-not-be-named,” Kane said, disarming my weapon before swiping a wing from me.

The men fist-bumped.

“Voldemort?” Peeved, I stabbed the wing back. “No problem. We’re just good friends.”

Ari rolled his eyes, accompanied by an aggrieved sigh that had totally been my signature move. When I was fourteen.

“Oh, for the days when you were still a nice guy. Demon torture really changed you, bro.”

Ari held up his glass in cheers.

“Nice guys are only good for one thing,” Kane said.

“What?” I licked glaze off my fingers.

“Corrupting. And when done right?” Kane drank some beer. I suspected it was more for effect than thirst. “Highly rewarding.”

Ari made a derogatory sound.

“I’m sure you’ve had loads of experience with that,” I said.

Kane shook his head. “Just one.”

I wadded up my napkin. “Somebody shoot me.”

My brother gave Kane a lazy smile. “Except you weren’t rewarded that time, were you? Guess you’re not the irresistible sex god you think you are.” He pushed his chair away from the table and sauntered off.

Kane flicked beer droplets at his back. “That’s rude. I’m exactly the irresistible sex god I think I am.” He left as well, swaggering in the opposite direction from Ari.

What was actually rude? Me sitting here still drinkless. I elbowed my way through the packed room, following Ari’s path to the bar.

“What can I get you?” The scruffy bartender trained a polite smile on me.

I bit down on my bottom lip, wondering what his stubbled jaw would taste like. “Pepper,” I sighed.

“Pardon?”

I tore my eyes away from his chin.

“G bombs.” I amended. My favorite shot of cinnamon schnapps and vodka. I held up two fingers, eavesdropping on the conversation next to me while I waited.

To be fair, it was more of a monologue, punctuated by vague agreement from the other party. I suspected his lack of participation was because his IQ, like mine, was plummeting at the inanity spewing out of the main speaker. I almost had to bail on my eavesdropping to preserve what little brain function I had left when the monologuist said, “…and then I sobered up and didn’t get the Harry Styles tat.”

“Wise move,” Ari said to the beautiful boy without a hint of sarcasm.

“You cannot be this hard up,” I said into my twin’s ear.

Loud laughter from the far end of the bar flitted over to us. I caught Kane licking salt off rock hard abs, an empty shot glass in his hand and a Cheshire Cat smile on his face.

“Next round’s on–” But Ari and Pretty Boy were gone. I was all for no-strings attached hook-ups, but that had never been my brother’s style. Somebody had to be the good twin in our dynamic and since he’d perfected the role, I’d appreciate him staying out of my theatre of shock and awe. That was my leading lady material.

“Here you go.” The bartender lined my drinks up.

I paid him, added a generous tip, and slammed the first shot back. The booze warmed my throat, making my battle pain, if not obsolete, then well-obscured. Kudos to my accelerated Rasha healing abilities. I’d still be bruised for a while though, hence the long sleeves tonight.

“That looks good.” A plus-sized chick on the stool to my left tapped her French manicured nail in front of my remaining shot. She propped her elbow on the bar, head in hand, and tilted her face to mine, her eyes endless pools of brown. Her black hair was pinned in a messy chignon, and she was all curves in her pencil skirt and white tank top.

“It is,” I said. “Provided you like cinnamon.”

“Fortunately, I do.”

The Entertainment Tonight segment on the TV mounted above the bar caught my eye. Specifically the footage of the famous singer on the red carpet last night for some party at Child’s Play, the music fest happening in London to benefit war orphans.

A flurry of light bulbs flashed in his smug face as he grinned his rock fuck grin for the cameras, decked out in black leather pants and a metallic black T-shirt, his hair spiked up and eyeliner ringing his gold eyes.

Rohan Liam Mitra, ladies and gentlemen, the asshole who hadn’t replied to any of my texts because he was on a mission but who now was, apparently, back on the grid and just ghosting me. I downed my second shot, slamming the glass back on the bar hard enough that I checked I hadn’t cracked it.

“Bad night?” the girl asked.

“You could say that.” Weeks ago, Rohan had left on a last-minute assignment to Pakistan to hunt down the demons that had killed four Rasha. Fine, had to go where the Powers That Be sent you, I got that. But you didn’t just fire off an arrogant “any questions?” and leave my stunned-yet-perfect self without so much as a third party “Rohan says ‘hey.’”

I smiled at the woman. “Thanks for asking about my night. It’s more than I can say for my charming companions, wherever they went.” I held out my hand. “Nava.”

“Audrey.” Her grip was firm, her skin warm against mine.

As quite the peen aficionado, girls didn’t generally light me up, but there was something heady about her. “Could I buy you a drink?”

A feline smile spread across her face. “I’d like that.”

Audrey was smart and funny and mostly kept me from sneaking glances at the TV every three seconds, where Paul McCartney mugged with Rohan as they gave some interview outside the party. Did they not have any other performers to focus on at this stupid event?

“…and the best part was just jumping off the boat every morning into the tropical waters, in this endless bay of blue.”

I leaned in closer to catch Audrey’s description of her Vietnam travels over the noise of the bar, her vanilla scent teasing my senses. “That sounds amazing.”

Her hand skimmed my arm. “It was.”

Onscreen, the photo frenzy had intensified to the point of me having to blink against the strobing white light. Freaking Shakira was giving Rohan a giant hug. He said something to make her laugh then squeezed her shoulder.

My supposed fuck buddy had upended my life, smashing through my “no kissing” rule with a kiss that had lit up my soul and quenched an ache inside me. I’d been like a woman so dehydrated, she hadn’t even realized she was dying of thirst.

Rohan didn’t need to call. I didn’t need to call.

I eyed the smattering of freckles across Audrey’s collarbone that I intended to lick my way across like a map to nirvana. “Wanna get out of here?”

She licked a drop of G Bomb off her lower lip, her smile blooming wide and filthy. Excellent.

3

“Get out of here” was a relative term. We made it as far as the bathroom, crashing into an empty stall, our lips locked together. I moaned, licking into the corner of her mouth.

Rohan had left me with a simmering need that my new vibrator couldn’t satisfy, erotic dreams that I couldn’t escape, and a desperate yearning that frequent underwear changes couldn’t accommodate. I craved the glide of skin on skin, fingers plunging, and the taste and feel of lips on mine.

Kissing was definitely back in my world.

Audrey rocked her hips against me. I palmed her breast, hot and heavy in my hands, thick-headed with lust.

The main bathroom door crashed open, Kane’s cheery “Incoming,” booming through the space. There was some giggled shrieking from the women at the sinks and a “Watch the hands,” from my brother.

The giggling continued through the women’s departure.

Audrey bit my lower lip, her fingers inching their way up my thigh.

A stall door banged. Then another one.

Then ours, catching me in the shoulder as it swung open. “Hel-lo, cherry ChapStick.”

“Piss off, Kane,” I snapped, not taking my focus off Audrey.

Audrey twined her leg around my ankle. “What she said.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Ari asked.

I slammed the graffiti-covered cubicle door shut with my ass and crushed my lips to Audrey’s, sucking on her tongue, the taste of cinnamon driving me wild.

Ari pounded on the stall door.

“Boyfriend?” Audrey asked, pulling out of the action.

I gagged. “Annoying brother.”

“Who will get more annoying if you don’t stop what you’re doing,” he said from the other side of the stall.

“That’s rather homophobic of you, Ari,” Kane said. “And hypocritical given what you were up to ten minutes ago. Huh. Maybe hypocritical should have gone first?”

“Your dad forgot to give him ‘the talk,’” Audrey murmured, her lips trailing up my throat.

I snickered, then shivered as she sucked a sensitive spot under my ear.

Another pound on the stall door.

Growling, I flung it open. “What?!”

Ari braced his hand on the door so I couldn’t slam it again. “You don’t kiss.”

“I beg to differ,” Audrey purred. Oh, I liked her.

“It’s your golden rule,” Ari said.

“I never met a rule I couldn’t break.” I shooed him off.

He went nowhere.

Kane splayed a hand on the counter, gave a horrified look at whatever he’d touched, and washed his hands. “So she wants to open her legs and not her heart. So what?”

“Aren’t you a charmer?” Audrey drawled.

“Your place?” I asked Audrey. She nodded and I grabbed her hand, ducking past the assholes in our path, and leading her out of the bathroom.

Kane strolled alongside Audrey. “It’s not judgment.” He shot a pointed look at Ari keeping pace with me. Stupid Rasha wouldn’t recognize a brush off if it bit them in the ass. “I’m all for living life on one’s own terms.”

“I know what happened with you and Ro,” Ari said.

I cut through a knot of women crowding the bar, hoping to ditch him in the fray.

“Ro?” Audrey said. “Is that your boyfriend?”

“Ha! No.”

“He kissed you,” Ari said, rejoining us on the other side of the people cluster. “Then took off. That’s why you’ve been throwing yourself into your work this past month.”

A server backed into our path.

Audrey ducked under his drink-laden tray. “Am I being used to punish some guy?”

“No.” At least, I didn’t think so. “This is none of your business,” I informed Ari. I stopped at our table and grabbed my trench coat.

“I have to live and work with both of you,” he said. “I don’t want to fucking deal with your collateral damage. Not when I finally got here.”

I, of all people, understood why being Rasha without further complication mattered so much to him. But it wasn’t fair to assume that, once again, I’d be the roadblock. “There’s nothing to deal with.”

Ari shifted to block me.

Kane mimed hitting a bell. “Ding. Corners.” He manhandled a glowering Ari and me onto opposite sides of the table. Audrey came too, since I still had hold of her hand.

A couple at the next table turned our way as if waiting to be entertained by our drama.

“Do this,” Kane wagged a finger between me and Audrey, “all you want, babyslay, but after the talk which must be had.”

“You wouldn’t say that if I were a guy,” I said. Audrey snickered, helping me put on my coat. Chivalry, always a turn-on. “And since Rohan is partying halfway across the world, consider the talk unnecessary.”

Audrey stepped back. “Wait. Rohan, as in Mitra? As in lead singer of the global chart-topping emo superband Fugue State Five?” she squealed. We all stared at her and she shrugged. “I may have had three or four of their albums. That’s why you couldn’t stop ogling him on TV?”

“No. I mean, yes, but not like–”

“You want an introduction?” Ari asked Audrey.

I stepped on my brother’s foot.

Kane slapped his hand over his mouth several seconds too late to cover the laugh that burst out of him.

“I’m more a Janelle Monáe girl now.” Audrey’s hand slipped from my grasp. She pulled the clip from her disheveled chignon, her hair dropping like a curtain to her shoulders and hiding the sexy curve of her throat. “We could have had fun but–”

I reached for her. “No past tense. Present tense.”

She shook her head, keeping her hands out of reach. “Too much drama for me. Hope things work out for you.”

“Audrey, please. At least give me your number.”

She waggled a wave at me over her shoulder and was swallowed up by the crowd.

I whirled around to face Ari. “Happy?”

“Just sort your shit out.” On that note, Ari left.

I lunged for him, Kane catching me around the waist as I batted at the air between me and my brother’s retreating back. “Can you believe him?”

“He’s scared and lashing out,” Kane said, clapping a hand over my mouth when I opened it to protest. “Think of what he’s been through.”

I yanked his hand off. “Like I don’t know? I was the one who did everything to get him inducted again.”

He dropped down into a chair, waving our empty pitcher at a passing server. “Via witchcraft. Not the regular Brotherhood ceremony. Sit. You’re giving me a crick.”

I pulled off my coat and sat down. “He’s being ridiculous.”

“His entire life he’d been told he was a chosen one. Then he wasn’t. You were. None of the regular rituals worked on him and the one thing that did make him Rasha was some witchy ceremony. Half of him is convinced it’s temporary and the other half is terrified that even if it isn’t, the Brotherhood will find out and take the magic away.” Kane fixed a strand of his black spiky hair. “He doesn’t want anything that might draw attention or reflect badly on him. As your twin, that includes you.”

“Like you guys had some big heart to heart?”

“I don’t do those.” Kane patted his cheeks. “Excess emotion causes age spots.” He beamed at the waitress who had returned with a sloshing pitcher and two clean glasses. “You do get that I’ve known Ari most of his life, right?”

“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 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 that 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.