The bed creaked as Dr. Gelman sat down on the mattress across from me.
I raised my head to meet her eyes. She leaned forward, arms braced on her thighs. “If you’re not a demon,” I said, “why did you send me to that alternate dimension?” Exhaustion trumped anger.
“Answer me this first. Who gave you my email? Why did you send me that message?”
I was reluctant to answer because Rabbi Abrams had mentioned she didn’t like the Brotherhood but at my hesitation, she conjured up a less intense invisible band to pin me against the chair. Enough to put an uncomfortable pressure on my rib cage. “Rabbi Abrams.”
To my shock, she barked out a laugh, which turned into a hacking cough. Able to move again, I rose in concern to help her, but she waved at me to stay where I was.
“That slick talker? He’s still alive?” she asked.
I tried to reconcile the rabbi I knew with a slick talker and failed. “Maybe it’s a different Rabbi,” I said.
“Short? Ancient?” I nodded. “That’s him. He dated my sister ages ago. Broke her heart.”
“The zmey and the troll?” I prompted. I wriggled my legs. My hips didn’t blaze with pain anymore, more of a dull ache.
“That wasn’t an alternate dimension. I portalled you under the city. Tons of tunnels crisscrossing Europe. I didn’t know what you’d encounter, but after receiving that email, I figured better safe then sorry.”
“Got a washcloth?” My hands and forearms were splattered with blood from being sliced by the zmey’s scales. Most of it was dried but one gash had opened again and was trickling freely. I looked like I’d been performing open heart surgery with my bare hands.
She jabbed a finger at me. “You look like shit.”
I scrubbed the non-bleeding hand over my face. “Seriously?”
“I meant the outfit.”
“Don’t be fooled by the togs,” I said. “They’re working attire.”
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Not like that. Actually,” I amended, “kind of like that. But I’m undercover.”
“I bet you’re the picture of elegance normally.”
“I have a certain je ne sais quoi style, thank you very much.” Since I wasn’t dead, I felt justified in returning to my normal mouthiness. “I don’t suppose you have a Gatorade?”
“No.”
“Water?”
She narrowed her eyes at me then headed into the bathroom.
I sat up, rolling out my neck and shoulders, one tight millimeter at a time. “The reason I’m here is because twenty years ago the Brotherhood identified my twin brother Ari as an initiate. Then at his induction ceremony a few weeks ago, we realized that oops! Wrong twin.”
Mom was a direct descendent of King David. Her bloodline meant that when Ari had been born, the Brotherhood had checked to see if he carried the Rasha potential. Since the Brotherhood is big on the “secret” part of secret organization, my parents hadn’t been aware of the true purpose of Rabbi Abrams’ visit back then. While all male baby descendants of David and those first Rasha were tracked and tested, only a fraction of these potentials passed the first ritual and were bumped up to initiate status. It was only after Ari was confirmed among that number that my parents, much to their shock, were filled in about demons, hunters, and their son’s very important destiny.
My brother spent the next twenty years training and studying for the day that he’d be officially inducted as a hunter. The reason for the time delay was twofold. First off, there was a ton of demons to learn about and all their sweet spots to be able to recall. Not to mention fighting, laying wards–all the tricks of the trade.
The second reason was more practical. After a lot of trial and fatal error, the Brotherhood had pronounced age twenty as being the soonest that initiates were strong enough to receive the magic power conferred upon them in their official induction ceremony.
When Ari’s ceremony revealed that the Brotherhood had been training the wrong Katz sibling all these years, the shit had hit the fan. My parents were as knocked for a loop as the Brotherhood. Ari had been the golden child with a destiny. I’d had a destiny at one point too, but being a professional tap dancer didn’t buy much cred at faculty parties. Neither did being Rasha, since it was top secret, but at least my parents could bask in the glow of clandestine knowledge at their job well done producing such a mensch.
Funny how the glow didn’t happen for their little menschette.
Dr. Gelman pressed a glass of room temperature water into my hand, laying a wet washcloth on the table beside me.
“Todah rabah.” It couldn’t hurt to express my gratitude in her native tongue.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
I fumbled in my skirt pocket for a tiny complimentary package of salt, dumping it in the glass. That little amount of sodium wouldn’t deter a demon, but it would help with my electrolytes in case Gatorade wasn’t available. Stirring it with one finger, I plugged my nose against the taste and gulped most of the drink back before replying. “His initiate status has been confirmed but re-running the ceremony didn’t induct him. Rabbi Abrams thinks you can help.”
I swallowed a few times against the disgusting aftertaste of the drink, wiping off my bloody handprint with the wet cloth.
“Thus the golem reference.” Dr. Gelman looked me over, tapping her lip with her finger. “The twin factor complicates things.” Given the gleam in her eyes, it also made this problem more interesting. “No one ever performed the first ritual on you?”
I shook my head.
“Then your potential had been laying there dormant all this time. Corked up and wanting out. That’s how it would have remained had you not been in the right place–the induction ceremony–at the right time of your life to uncork it.” Dr. Gelman tossed out the salt package. “Essentially, that ceremony called up all the pressure the magic had built up inside you and the cork popped.”
“Like a fine champagne.” I cleaned off the blood, dirt, and people ash as much as possible. My movements were slow and careful, my healing not yet complete.
Another coughing fit overtook her. This time I got her a glass of water, taking the opportunity to rinse out the washcloth in the sink. Streaks of red and black swirled down the sink. I handed her the glass and continued cleaning myself off. “How long did you smoke for?”
She frowned. “How’d you know?”
“I had a teacher who died of lung cancer.” I scrubbed at a stubborn patch of dried zmey flesh stuck to my leg.
She ran her finger over the rim of the glass. “Why bother quitting? Can’t kill me twice. So Isaac re-ran the ceremony and bupkis.” It took me a second to realize that Isaac was Rabbi Abrams. I hadn’t thought about him having an actual first name.
I tossed the washcloth down. “Do you have a way to help?”
She inclined her head. “I do.”
“And Rabbi Abrams,” I couldn’t bring myself to call him Isaac, “didn’t think the Brotherhood would sanction that way. Because you’re a… what?” I held up my hands at her glare. “My best friend is a half-demon. I’m not going to judge. Especially if you plan on helping me, but this is about Ari’s safety. Please.”
Her indignation turned to amusement. “A Rasha with a demon friend. You’re an interesting girl.”
“Thanks. The Brotherhood fails to see it.”
“Yes, well, they are stunningly myopic. I’m not a demon, Nava. I’m a witch.”
I laughed. “There’s no such thing as witches.”
Dr. Gelman’s face pinched in prune-faced disapproval. “Says the girl with the magic powers.” Her fingers twitched.
“Sorry,” I yelped. A touchy witch. Awesome. “Besides, I have Rasha magic. Not witch magic. I’ve never seen anyone go around casting spells.”
She grabbed my ring. “What is this, if not a spell?” Her accent grew more pronounced in her anger.
“You knew it was a glamour?”
“You have to wear the R
asha ring. Until I touched it, that ring didn’t resemble the hamsa.” She shrugged. “A rabbi performed a spell on it. Even mezuzahs have a powerful spell on them. A word, seemingly gibberish, engraved on the back that helps keep demons at bay.”
Mezuzahs contained a prayer scroll wrapped in a decorative case. Most Jewish homes had them. In secular ones like ours, they were nailed to the frame of our front door instead of every door. My family home also had wards that used salt, iron, and Rasha blood to keep away fiends but I guess mezuzahs worked well enough for regular folks.
“Those spells, that magic, is wielded by rabbis. Just as you wield magic, inherent rather than spell-based, to kill demons.” Dr. Gelman tapped her head. “What did you think was going on?”
“I dunno. Witches are women, not rabbis.” Dr. Gelman snorted at me. “Also,” I continued, determined to make my point, “I’ve never heard of a real witch, especially a Jewish one.”
She waved a hand at me in barely concealed impatience. “Who do you think performed the first ritual when David gathered his Rasha?” From the look on her face, I knew better than to answer with “a rabbi?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I hedged. “It’s not any gospel the Brotherhood preaches.”
“This surprises you? History is rife with organized religions, most of which are patriarchal, co-opting celebrations devoted to women’s power.” She eased back against her chair, her inner professor in full force. “Think about the power of pagan fertility rituals that in Catholicism became the sexless sinless Virgin Mary. Or how Astarte, the Canaanite goddess of fertility and sexual love was condemned as a cult in Judaism and stamped out in favor of the monotheistic Yaweh. The Brotherhood reframed our power, casting us as evil witches.”
I leaned forward, fascinated. “Like who?”
“Baba Yaga.”
“She’s a myth.”
“Demons are also a myth,” she chided, “but we know better, don’t we?” Touché.
“Any other famous witches?” If celebrities could be demons, maybe a few A-listers had other interesting talents.
“Lilith.”
“Lilith? The original harlot of history?”
“Yes. There is a strong correlation between sexual immorality and witchcraft in Judaism. To hear the men tell of it, at least.”
“No wonder the Brotherhood hates me.”
Dr. Gelman cracked a smile. “Have you read the Old Testament?”
“Not my bag, no.”
“Exodus 22:17. ‘You shall not suffer a witch to live.’ Trust me, the Brotherhood knows all about our existence. They hate the fact that we women dare to have a power that they want only for themselves.”
I raised my fist in solidarity. “Then right on, witches.”
She slapped her thigh. “I like you. All right. I’ll help. Beats sitting around waiting to die.” She scribbled something down and handed the paper to me. At the top was the name and address of a shop here in Prague. “Get these.”
“Virgin soil from a mountain not dug by men and purified well water? What will you do with them?”
“All in good time. Once you have these things, we’ll meet again.” She held up a hand like she was making a vow. “No demons this time. I’ll take you to my favorite café for the best pastries here in town.”
“Yes, please.” I tucked the list into my bra, then picked up my coat by two fingers, grimacing at the stink drifting off its various splotchy stains. I’d been hoping to use the jacket to cover the worst of my dishevelment.
Gelman plucked the coat away and waved a hand over it. The stains disappeared. As she gave it back, I caught a whiff of roses. I wondered how far her guilt extended.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of shoes I could borrow, would you? Mine got a tad destroyed down in the cave. Or could you magic mine back up here intact?” Those stilettos had been pricey.
“No. But…” She crossed over to her closet, returning to me with a pair of shower flip flops hooked between two fingers. “My feet are a bit smaller than yours but they should fit well enough to get you home.”
Second hand slippers. Lovely.
Dr. Gelman huffed at my expression. Since I didn’t want her to toss me around anymore, I took the flip flops and left.
Chapter 9
Bare-legged, I padded my way into the Praha WS Hotel on ill-fitting sandals, wincing at the twinges afflicting my poor hips. My once sleek outfit lay twisted on my body. Still grimy with dried blood matted into my hair and staining my clothes, I crossed my fingers, hoping that I pulled off the “extra from a low budget zombie movie” look, because, hey, I had on a nice clean coat so the rest had to be wardrobe and make-up, right? Given the looks from the stylish people milling about, I don’t think I succeeded. No matter. They’d make up some story to fit my disheveled state. People always found a way to explain things away.
Given the blanched horror of the desk clerk, who I already had strike one with from earlier today, his explanation probably involved alleys, knees, and hourly rates.
Fatigue clawed up the back of my neck, pounding my temples with a tight ache that radiated in my teeth. Cutting diagonally across the lobby, I rubbed my scratchy, dry eyes. Was I really still on day one of my trip? The thought of my pillow incited drooling.
I should have gone straight to the elevator, but I stupidly looked into the lounge. Reflexively checking out the action. Rohan stood at the bar, his rich laughter carrying clear as a bell. In high flirtation mode, he was surrounded by female admirers. Lily wasn’t among the throng.
I dug my nails into my palms, having gotten the kick in the ass I needed to keep heading for my room, but Rohan looked up at that moment. His smile slipped.
One of the women, her sweet girl-next-door looks undercut by her aggressive stance, leaned in to say something, resting her hand on his arm. He tilted his head, as if listening to her, toying with his Rasha ring, but ran his eyes over me again, his expression guarded. He pushed away from the bar, shoulders squared. I couldn’t hear what his groupies said, but it was clear from their body language that they didn’t want him to leave.
I shook my head, motioning for him to stay. Rohan watched me a moment more, then relaxed. Whatever he said in response to the woman had her touch her fingertips to her chest as she tipped her head back and laughed.
Oh, please. I hit the call button.
Boots thudded against the floor, closing in on me. Every step was inordinately loud given the din of chatter in the lobby. Stuck here as my stalker closed in, I stabbed at the button, willing the elevator to descend faster.
The footsteps stopped behind me. “Was it Samson?”
I turned around to face Rohan. “No. Rabbi Abrams asked me to do something.”
His brows raised in silent questioning.
“Can we not? I mean, not tonight? I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but now,” I pushed the button again. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” His hand snaked out and pushed up my sleeve revealing the kaleidoscope of yellow and purple bruising.
I shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his all-seeing amber eyes before looking away. Except that landed me on the full glory of the women waiting for the rock god’s return. Given their smirks, they didn’t expect me to be any great hold-up.
Head groupie caught me staring. She turned with disinterest to her phone.
I ignored the bitter burning in my throat. “Gathering back-ups, are we?”
He clasped his hands behind his back. “Actors Samson thought I’d mesh with.” He glanced over at them. “Gifts.”
“They’re people, Snowflake.” Standing up for the sisterhood even if I wanted to return them to sender.
“Not in this reality. We’re all commodities and Samson is continually taking inventory.”
Peachy. The elevator finally decided to grace me with its presence. I held the door open with one hand. “I need to sleep.”
“We can talk tomorrow, just… don’t lie to me, okay?” Rohan folded my sleeve
back down, his touch so gentle, I barely felt it, even with the sensitive bruising. “Sweet dreams, Nava.”
A second of tenderness and three short words and damn sunlight infused my soul.
“Ro,” the woman who’d dismissed me called out in a lilting British accent, “my friend got us passes to that VIP room I was telling you about. Let’s roll.”
“Your wish is my command, Poppy.” Between one blink and the next, Rohan swept all warmth away from me to dazzle this Poppy chick with the full force of his charm. He gave her that same cavalier smile bestowed on me in the elevator before we’d dashed to my room.
Dark, malicious tendrils slithered up inside my chest. We might all have been commodities but damned if I was going to be tossed in the junk drawer.
I didn’t watch him go back to the bar, shuffling instead into the elevator and down the hall to my room like the walking dead.
It took me three tries to undo my buttons. Stripping my clothes off, I stood under the hot spray, head bowed, watching the combination of human and demon blood circle down the drain in wary fascination. My bathroom morphed into a steam room, fat water droplets streaking down the walls, before my trembling stopped.
With my last iota of energy, I called Ari from the hotel phone, since mine was dead. It went straight to voice mail. “Hey Ace, tell Abrams I made contact. All good. Adventures galore tomorrow. Can’t wait.” I think I injected the right note of enthusiasm into my voice to sell the lie. “Crashing now. Stay alive or else. Love you.”
Crawling under the covers, I reached out to turn off my bedside lamp and froze, my fingers hovering inches away from the switch. Even knowing the street light would cast a weak glow over the room and keep full darkness at bay, I couldn’t bring myself to turn it off. Screw it. I wasn’t paying the electric bill. I punched up my pillow into full fluffiness and let exhaustion take me.
What a difference fourteen hours of sleep made. I woke up Friday around noon, refreshed and starving, to find two texts on my newly-charged phone. The first was from Ari who was glad I’d checked in and promised to relay the message. The second was from Rohan with today’s agenda. He’d be with Forrest for part of the afternoon, but said I should meet him in his room for dinner around seven and to dress appropriately. We were going out with Samson.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 36
