“Nothing.” I placed my venti latte in the Honda’s cup holder. Rain streaked down the front windshield, the slick streets amplifying the traffic to a dull roar. “Did you research your supposed symptoms?”
He tapped the steering wheel absent-mindedly. “Yeah. If we don’t get anything here, we need to talk to the families of the other victims.”
“Sure. We can rule out whether others complained of night terrors.”
We snagged a parking spot in front of the clinic with about five minutes to spare before Ari’s appointment.
The reception area was fairly generic: abstract art on the walls, chairs and couches in muted greens and blacks. A bland soothing comfort. The receptionist’s red bow tie was the brightest pop of color in the place. He handed over a clipboard with paperwork for Ari to fill out, his smile a bit brighter than polite patient care warranted. I got the hairy eyeball.
Ari didn’t seem to notice, so once we’d sat down, I pointed out in a hushed voice that Gay Cutie was jonsing for him. My brother didn’t answer, concentrating on the questionnaire to be completed.
When he’d finished, I volunteered to take it up to the counter. “Here you go.”
I scouted the reception area. Or, rather, the files lining the bookshelves along one wall.
“Thanks. Dr. Alphonse will be out to see your…” Gay Cutie arched an eyebrow.
“Brother,” I supplied.
“Brother,” he replied more cheerfully, “in a minute.”
Another employee dumped more files next to the receptionist. “Risking life and limb in the name of health care,” she said.
“Better you than me,” Gay Cutie said. “I swear one day we’ll be found like the Wicked Witch of the East in there.”
His coworker laughed. A phone rang. “I’ll get it,” she said, answering the phone on a second desk.
“So, how long has the clinic been in business?” I asked.
Gay Cutie sorted the new files. “About three years now. Doctors Stewart and Alphonse founded it.”
“Big staff?”
He cut me an unimpressed look over the stack that he straightened with a sharp smack against the desk.
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just that the other place we tried was a bunch of quacks and if Ari doesn’t get his sleep problems resolved soon?” I sighed.
“Well, we’re professionals.” His tone was clipped.
Before I could thaw his icy demeanor, Ari called out that he was headed in to his appointment with Dr. Alphonse. He stood beside a fifty-something woman in a smart pantsuit with white streaks in her frizzy hair.
I nodded then asked Gay Cutie where the restroom was. He directed me down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand, eyes already back on his computer screen.
The first open door off the corridor led to a sparse consult room decorated with a large illustrated poster asking “What type of sleeper are you?” The cupboards were locked and there was nothing else of interest so I moved on. The next door was closed and I didn’t want to risk interrupting someone’s session.
One more door before the bathroom.
Jackpot. Files were stuffed into a filled-to-bursting bookshelf, while various clinic supplies from boxes of printer paper to neatly folded linens were stacked in haphazard rows. I pulled out the list of victims’ names and began scanning the folders, grateful that they were in alphabetical order.
Unfortunately, the files were also all old. I examined a stack on a battered desk that was jammed into the corner beside an ancient Mac, its laboring fan sounding like a bag of angry bees. The top file was open and, given some of the notes in pencil, it looked like the employees were transferring these files to an electronic database.
I moved the mouse and the monitor came to life. Good. One less level of security to get through. I gained entry to the system with the clinic’s address. Kane had imparted all kinds of useful tips regarding common passwords.
The database of patient records popped up, but there were no files for Bader or Chen. I continued my search with Epstein.
“Ari, why don’t you tell me in your own words what you’ve been experiencing?”
I fumbled to catch the keyboard before it hit the ground, but the doctor’s voice had come from a vent. I exhaled. Then cocked my head to hear how well Ari could pull off this ruse.
“I’m only sleeping for a few hours a night,” he said. “When I wake up I see this dark figure at the foot of my bed. I’m powerless. My vocal chords are frozen, my limbs don’t move. I’m stuck there watching it watch me.”
I barely caught that last quiet statement.
Night terror symptoms were essentially the same as a visit from a nightmare demon. He wasn’t describing an actual nightmare demon since the wards around Demon Club precluded that. What made me uneasy was that I didn’t think his recitation of the medical condition was an act. The way he rushed his words, the break in his voice as he’d said he was powerless; my brother wasn’t that good an actor.
“Do you feel too hot or too cold during this process?”
“Both. I’m sweating but I’m shivering, too.”
I had to double-check the last batch of patient records listed on screen, having no memory of what names I’d just read. Even an initial visit by any of the victims would have produced paperwork. But there were no files for anyone other than Davide who had only recently started treatment with Dr. Alphonse.
“Do you feel paralyzed?” she asked. “Like there’s a pressure on your chest?”
“Yes.”
“Terrified?”
A pause.
I stared down at my feet. He’d had nightmares when we were kids. On a scale of one to awful, how bad did me not considering how investigating this place would affect him rate?
“What you’re experiencing are classic sleep terrors,” she said. “Any history of substance abuse?”
“No.”
“Have you had any stressful situations in your life lately?”
Ari laughed, a devastating sound. “You could say that.”
“Night terrors can manifest as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s a paralyzing experience where the sleeper feels helpless, unable to scream or open their eyes.” There was way too much compassion in this woman’s voice for her to be a demon. “Those symptoms are called ‘felt presence.’”
“Huh,” Ari said. “Didn’t some cultures attribute these symptoms to demons?”
“Yes,” I could practically hear her smile. “If you meet Mara, you can ask her about it. She lives for those tales.”
I stiffened because a mara was a type of nightmare demon.
“I’d love to hear them. Is she around?” he asked.
“Not right now.” Dr. Alphonse went on to explain some of the physical attributes of sleep paralysis, such as difficulty breathing due to the controlled respiration of REM sleep. From there she outlined some of the ways that her clinic could help alleviate the symptoms.
Minimizing the database, I poked around until I found a Word doc helpfully labeled “Employee contacts” and snapped a photo of Mara’s information. The clinic was closed on Sunday and Monday so tomorrow morning would be the perfect time to try and catch her.
I hurriedly concluded my search, restored the screen to the way that I’d found it and hustled out of there. Gay Cutie gave me an odd look, like going into the bathroom after me was probably going to require nose plugs, but I hadn’t been caught.
I flipped through half a magazine without seeing a single page, practically grabbing Ari by the elbow when he emerged to hustle him out the door faster.
I thrust the photo of Mara’s address at him.
“Not bad, newb.”
“What are those?” I fished my keys out of my pocket, casually craning my neck to take in the title of one of the pamphlets he held–Sleep Disorders–before he just as casually stuffed them in his pocket.
“Convinced her,” he said.
“Great.” I started the car. If Ari wanted to discus
s this, he would.
I lasted three blocks.
“Why didn’t you tell me the nightmares never stopped?” I pinched my lips together.
Ari jabbed a finger at me. “Because of that.”
I flicked on my right turn signal, waiting for the crosswalk to clear of pedestrians. “Are you considering seeing Dr. Alphonse?”
“I’ll deal.” His voice was flat.
I slowed to a stop at the red light. This was one of the longest lights in Vancouver and with my hands not needed on the wheel, I worried I might do something I’d regret, like haul off and clobber the stubborn bastard. PTSD had to be pretty common amongst our bunch. I’d bet good money Rohan was neck deep in it after Pakistan.
“If the Brotherhood has massage therapists on call, they must have someone you can speak to. A Rasha psychiatrist or something.” The second the light changed to green, I gunned the car forward.
Ari was quiet for a long time, staring out at the rain. “That’s part of how they train us.”
“You need to be a bit less cryptic. I never got the program.”
He rummaged in the leather messenger bag that lay at his feet. “When we initiates hit our teens, we’re exposed to the harsh realities of demon hunting. Shown photos of carnage, hear firsthand testimony about demon attacks. We work with specially trained Rasha on how to live with the stress.”
I clenched the wheel. Another thing I’d missed out on. “That’s what you were doing each spring break in high school? That intensive you did?” It explained why my brother had always come back quieter than usual from “Camp Rasha.”
Not finding whatever he was looking for, Ari opened the glove compartment and rooted through it. “They flew me out to different crime scenes or to spend one-on-one time with hunters describing what they’d lived through,” he said. “What they’d lost.”
Who they’d lost?
“If they took the trouble to prepare you before you started hunting then they’ve got to have Rasha on staff to help you cope now,” I said.
“They do.” He fished out a black pen and dropped it into the messenger bag.
“But you won’t go see them.”
“No. And not because I’m stubborn, which is what you’re thinking right now.” He slammed the glove compartment shut. “If we went into therapy for every single thing that was going to mess with our heads? We’d never be out there. So we deal with it. We talk to each other and do whatever we have to to claw some sunshine back into the world.”
“You could talk to me. As well.”
“It’s not the same. Kane has gone through everything with me. So much about our lives are similar. Initiates, being gay.”
Fascinating that Ari’s general “all Rasha talking to each other” had suddenly gotten so specific. I shrugged off my sting of hurt and renewed my commitment to seeing him and Kane together. If they could figure out their bullshit, they’d be good for each other.
“I’m glad you have someone to confide in,” I said. “As for me, I managed to get into their files. Only Davide was a patient.”
“It was worth a shot. Turn left here. Ellen Chen’s family should be at the end of the block.”
I slowed to a stop in front of the house he indicated and cut the engine.
“I’m going to take this one on my own.” He fished a pair of glasses out of his jacket and slid them on, then picked up the messenger bag.
“Why?”
“They believe I’m her agent’s assistant in town to settle up some paperwork.” He rummaged in the bag and pulled out a business card.
“Millner and Associates Literary,” I read. It had an embossed logo and everything. “Is this for real?”
He nodded and tapped the name. “Right down to Simon Kelly. Her actual agent’s assistant.”
“Well, go get ’em, Simon.”
“Thanks. I’ll make my own way home.”
I hadn’t expected to be on my own this afternoon but maybe that was for the best. I could get on with my plan to track down the spine. “Hey, Ace, the contact guy for the snitch? You wouldn’t happen to have his phone number, would you?”
I could have asked Leo, but I felt kind of weird asking for that favor from her.
“No clue. Why?”
I started the engine. “Doesn’t matter.”
“Is this about the witches? I’m not helping you bite off more than you can chew and accidentally endanger my brothers. Especially not after you lied to me about what the witches are up to.”
“Montague deliberately endangered you, endangered the entire chapter house, when he took down the wards.” In addition to his intimate and interactive time with the jax, Montague had been the Rasha who took down the wards around our original place at the bidding of Asmodeus, Prince of Lust. Ari had been captured and tortured in the fallout. “You’re focusing on the wrong loyalties, bro.”
“So are you.” He opened the door.
I released the parking brake, muttering under my breath about deliberately obtuse individuals.
Ari slid out of the car. “I know what you meant, Nee. I always do when it comes to you. But sometimes I wonder if the reverse is ever true.” With that, he shut the car door and walked away.
What a ridiculous thing to say. So I hadn’t realized his insecurities around the way he’d been inducted until Kane had told me. Why would I have assumed that he was bent out of shape about it? What did it matter that his becoming Rasha hadn’t happened exactly according to plan? It had still happened, hadn’t it? I’d risked my life to get him exactly where he wanted to be and he was going to pout about it?
And he had the gall to doubt my loyalty?
I sped back to Demon Club, making one quick stop.
“A mocha latte no whip,” I said, presenting one of the two cups I held to Ms. Clara with a flourish. She was in her office, located on the ground floor of the chapter house next to the conference room and other offices kept for visiting Rasha or rabbis.
Tasteful photographic prints of the city from Pacific Spirit Park to neon signs in Chinatown framed her white walls. The office wasn’t large but it was bright and organized with a near mania.
While the Brotherhood was a secret organization, it wasn’t secret from families of the rabbis and Rasha. That’s how Ms. Clara had come to work for us. Her dad had been Rasha.
She was dressed in iron-gray slacks and a matching sweater that she managed to make soft and feminine looking. “Thanks, doll. What do you need?”
“That obvious?” I sat down.
“Kind of.” Ms. Clara leaned back in her black and brushed steel Aeron chair that matched her desk and sipped her coffee. “Mmm.”
“There’s this guy.”
Ms. Clara raised an eyebrow.
“Really not like that. This old guy. Obsessed with UFOs.” I drank some more of my own mocha.
She nodded. “Harry. Our go-between with the informant.”
“I need to find him.” I paused, ready with a lie, but she simply drank some more coffee, waiting for me to continue. “Ari was the one who’d originally gotten me to him, but when I swung by Harry’s house, he’d moved and Ari doesn’t have a number for him.”
I’d hoped Harry could get me to the witches. Now I hoped he could find the spine.
“I’m not sure how to reach him. Why don’t you just ask Leonie?”
I spat mocha all over her desk. Still coughing, I grabbed a handful of tissue from the box and mopped up the liquid before she broke out some dominatrix moves for messing up the sanctity of The Desk. “Leonie?” I squeaked. “Why would I do that?”
“Nava, I know she’s half-goblin. And our resident informant.”
I shook my head “no” hard enough to rattle my brain. My heart thudded in my ears.
Ms. Clara came around to my side of the desk and, grasping my shoulders, crouched down to meet my eyes. “Breathe, doll. She’s in no danger.”
“How did you find out?”
“Xiaoli.” The previous head Rasha here in
Vancouver.
“Who else knows?”
“No one.” She stood up, opened her top drawer and peered inside. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
I knew a dismissal when I heard it. I threw the soggy tissues out into the trash, praying I could trust her about Leo. “Yeah, sure. Sorry to have bothered you.”
She brushed past me, headed for the door, coffee in hand. “Not a problem. I’m going upstairs to get a cookie to go with my mocha.”
I pointed at her desk. “You left your drawer open.”
“Did I? I’m opening and closing that thing three hundred times a day.” She left the room.
I edged around the desk warily, not sure what I’d find given that blatant set-up. There was a plastic cube containing paperclips, a bundle of multi-colored pens and a neat stack of pastel Post-Its. Also an envelope filled with petty cash.
I smiled and plucked out three crisp one hundred dollar bills. Harry liked his payouts. And Ms. Clara was truly a bad-ass mofo.
I texted Leo to see if she was around. I’d made it up to the foyer, rooting through my bag for my lipstick when she texted back a photo of a bunch of red squares.
I sent her a series of question marks. Seconds later my phone rang.
“Tell me you’re downtown,” she said.
“I’m headed that way in a minute.” I applied the Rebel pink, running a finger along the edge of my lips to wipe off any excess lipstick.
She squealed. “Really? How come?”
“Coming to see you.” I stepped outside onto the front porch, squinting against the sun’s glare. My favorite pair of sunglasses had been broken in a demon encounter and my back up heart-shaped ones had been dumped in the Great Lolita Purge when I’d rid myself of the undercover persona I’d used in Prague–and Rohan’s nickname for me.
“Good. Paint chip 911. Can you come to the hardware store by my place?”
“Sure. Be there soon.” This visit necessitated yet another stop. The bribe train just kept adding more cars.
Leo had commandeered the two high school employees into holding about thirty-seven paint chip samples up to the front window and was barking commands at them to turn this way and that.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 63
