I crossed the room. Every hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my shoulder blades prickled, tensing for an attack.
“Halt.”
Malik prowled toward me, circling me. He had that gleam in his eyes, the one that spoke of an ancient intelligence, an inhumanity barely buffered by a thin veneer of civility, and a power too complex for me to comprehend.
I forced myself to affect a semblance of nonchalance and a tight control of my bladder.
“How did you do it?” he said.
I flinched away from the whisper of his breath over my skin, even though he smelled yummy, like zingy citrus and spearmint. “Do what? Snuff you out like a candle? That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
He stepped away from me. “But that’s my price, petal. That and a small job.”
“What’s the job?”
Malik studied me a moment longer, then laughed, returning to his wine. “You have no idea, do you? Could you hurt me a second time?”
My heart hammered in my ears. My skin turned blue, electricity pouring off me. “Test me and let’s find out.”
“As you wish.”
I gasped, all the air forced from my lungs. My limbs twitched, muscles seizing as my magic slammed back inside me. I jerked up off the ground, my head snapping back, and my mouth howling a silent scream while my lungs burned and black spots danced at the end of my vision.
“I’d say the answer is ‘no.’” He let me flail a bit more before flicking his fingers sending me crumpled to the ground. “An answer and a job and I let you live.”
I had to get my lungs working and my heart beating again before I could form words. Meantime, I remained sprawled facedown, the floor muffling my words. “I don’t know how I did it.”
“We’ll work on it.” Malik hooked a hand under my elbow and yanked me to my feet. He had to physically escort me to his couch, because when he let go of me, my legs trembled and gave way.
“Then you’ll know my secret and I won’t know any of yours.” I twitched with the aftershocks of his assault.
“I doubt you only have the one.” He went into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a glass of water. “Salt. You need your electrolytes.”
His knowledge about Rasha never failed to impress and horrify me.
By holding the glass in both hands, I managed to keep my tremors at bay and drink most of the liquid without sloshing it on myself. I tried not to taste it as I knocked it back because salt water was the worst. “The job?”
“There’s a painting of mine. It was lost to me centuries ago and I want it back.” Weirdly, Malik was actually a talented artist, beloved by all in the artists’ collective that he painted out of. I’d seen a few of his works. One of them, an abstract of a woman called “Lila: on waking” had stuck with me for the vibrancy, life, and passion captured in the half-suggested lines.
“What’s its evil purpose?” I said. “Suck people’s life force? Turn the viewer to stone?”
Malik crossed his arms. “It’s a very fine painting and I think it would go perfectly on that wall.”
“Why can’t you port in and get it?”
“Think about it for a moment and get back to me.”
I almost laughed because that sounded like something I’d say, but I didn’t want to set off the psychopath who was barely tolerating me. “It’s behind a Rasha ward.”
He slow-clapped me.
“Whatever. Give me the address.”
He scribbled it down, plus a few other things, but didn’t give me the list right away. “The canvas is stretched over a frame. Do not touch that one. Simply remove it from whatever other larger frame it was placed in. Bring pliers and a screwdriver to remove the canvas from the new frame. Wrap it in buffered, acid-free glassine paper, wrap it a second time with bubble wrap and put it into a cardboard box that’s at least three inches larger on all sides than the wrapped canvas. I’ve noted the dimensions down for you.”
“Why can’t I just transport it as is?”
“Because I said so. I don’t want it damaged.”
He handed the paper over and I leveled him with an unimpressed look. “This is in Orlando.”
“Very good. You’re functionally literate. That bodes well for a bright future.”
“How am I supposed to get there?”
“Ask your boyfriend. He’s got cash.”
“Get a hobby that isn’t me, you stalker.”
He picked up his wine again, running a finger around the rim. “Oh, petal. You flatter yourself if you think you’re the twin I’m most interested in.”
I bared my teeth at him, stomped to the door, and wrenched it open.
“Tick tock, Nava.” That reminded me about the prophecy, but I wasn’t about to share that tidbit with him. “You have forty-eight hours.”
“I can’t pull this off in that time frame. I need a week.”
“Seventy-two hours.” He shooed me toward the door.
“Get stuffed.” We both knew I’d do it.
I laced up my new beautiful tap shoes. “Why aren’t you predictably furious?”
Rohan, once more in my “Tap Dancers Need Wood” shirt, plucked a string on his guitar, plucked it again, then tightened it. “I live to fuck with you.”
“No, you live to fuck me.” I crossed into the center of the floor, my taps ringing out.
“Don’t pigeonhole me.” He strummed a few chords.
“Okay, but seriously. What gives?”
“I looked up autocratic and was shamed into humble submission?”
“Next.”
He scooted forward on the sofa, the guitar in his lap. “You were right. It was worth pursuing and there was nothing you could have done differently. You’re alive and we’ll go get the painting together.”
“Next time can we skip all the blustering and jump right to this part?”
“How about next time we both agree to try and do better? Together.”
I nodded. “I’d like that.” Fighting demons as we did, we’d find ourselves in critical situations where talking things out wasn’t going to be an option, but when it wasn’t life-or-death, then yeah, we had to face it as equals.
“Good,” he said. “Now, you dictating the playlist or can I surprise you?”
I batted my eyelashes at him. “You’re full of surprises tonight, baby. No reason to stop now.”
We made it through “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and most of “Blank Space” when Drio showed up. He took in Ro’s shirt and his gleeful rendition of Taylor Swift and glared at me. “You’ve wrecked him.”
I ended the song on a heel scuff. “Or I’ve thirty-seven percent improved him.”
Ro ran a hand down his body. “You can’t improve perfection. Got the goods on Ferdinand?”
Drio had learned Ferdinand was killed outside Palm Springs. According to Golda, that’s where he’d been living. “Hell of a commute into L.A. every day.”
“The L.A. affiliation is bullshit.” Rohan stuffed Ferdinand’s address that Drio had gotten in his pocket. “How’s Golda?”
Drio brightened. “Still hasn’t forgiven you.”
“She will.”
“You’d have to face her first, chickenshit.” He knocked the wall twice. “I’m going off-duty. Don’t call. Don’t text.”
I made a “squee” face and ran into the hallway after him. “Are you going to see Leo?”
“No.”
“Total lie. You’re all prettied up and you put on cologne. You like her. Do you like her?”
“She’s great.”
I jumped into the stairwell, blocking him. “I know she’s great, but that wasn’t my question.”
Pain flashed across his face so fast, I wasn’t sure I’d seen it. “Leave it, Nava.”
I blinked because he so rarely used my name. “Leaving it.”
“I’m glad you and Ro are happy.” He rubbed his hand briskly over his hair. “Don’t fuck it up.”
“Why do you assume I’d be the one?”
That earned me a level stare. “Forget it. Thank you for going to Palm Springs. We’re going to get these assholes.”
“Do you remember what I told you about the thrill of the fight? How we could get hooked and nothing else compared to this big noble cause?” He rolled onto the outside edge of one foot, his eyes growing distant. “Other shit matters. Don’t forget that.”
I opened my mouth to press him further because you didn’t just drop something that heavy without context, when he caught me in a stare so ferocious, I took a step back, my hands up. “I’m not asking.”
He stalked off.
I fired Leo a quick text of apology for possibly making her booty call ragey and quickly turned off my phone.
It took us another day to make a plan and arrange everything. Rohan and I headed to the airport on Thursday morning to fly to Orlando and retrieve the painting. The Shelby roared along Southwest Marine Drive, the windows down, and the wind streaming in our hair. Despite being blackmailed into working for Malik, I was in an irrepressibly good mood, singing along with “Can’t Stop The Feeling.” Rohan joined in for all the falsetto parts.
My Brotherhood phone rang with the “Imperial Death March” theme, assigned to all secret society numbers.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Katz.”
I slapped the stereo button off. “Hello, Rabbi Mandelbaum.”
Rohan cut me a wary look and I shrugged.
“What have you done since our last conversation in regards to stopping Candyman?” the rabbi asked.
“Our last conversation that was only two days ago?”
“Yes. I assume you are investigating right now and that you aren’t merely going out for brunch with your boyfriend?”
I frantically motioned for Rohan to veer past the Arthur Lang Bridge leading to the airport because Mandelbaum was tracking us. This was a bullshit phone call designed to let me know he could get to me. “We’re following up on some of the lab equipment we found at the house. Whether it was purchased or stolen. There might be something that leads us back to the demon.”
There was nothing. We’d sent Drio down this road yesterday while we planned our Orlando mission. All the pieces were too widely available; even cattle prods could be purchased on Amazon.
“Don’t waste Rohan’s time. He’s too valuable a Rasha.” Mandelbaum hung up.
I shoved my Brotherhood phone in the glove compartment.
Rohan found a security-patrolled lot and paid for parking, while I called for a taxi on my burner to take us to the airport. Ro borrowed the phone to call Drio to let him know where both the car and the spare key were, so he could drive the Shelby around and it didn’t sit in one place for hours. Brotherhood-issued phones automatically sent out locations after twenty-four hours of inactivity, in case a Rasha needed to be rescued.
Rohan would rather get a root canal than let anyone drive his car, so whatever had bonded these two had bonded them but good.
The cabbie had turned off the main road to one of the hangers near the south terminal before I spoke. “I hate Boris Badenov.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Ro said. “But you have to let him keep underestimating you.”
I pulled my seatbelt away from my chest like I needed room to breathe. “It’s not a matter of ‘let.’ There’s nothing I can do that would make him see my worth.”
Except taking him down. He’d see it then.
The cabbie pulled up to a private terminal not far from the Flying Beaver, which was this cool pub on the water with views of the floatplanes. We grabbed our one small carry-on and the cardboard box with the packing supplies.
Rohan paid him and we walked directly on to the ramp where the private jet Ro had chartered awaited us.
“I am so turned on right now,” I said.
Carlos, our steward for the journey, greeted us. He checked the tickets on Ro’s phone, ensured we had our passports for customs when we landed in the U.S. and gave us the tour of the jet. There was a lounge with a large screen TV and DVD system and a telecommunications center. He got us settled in, saying that drinks and a choice of hot meals would be available after take-off.
Ro made himself comfortable on the couch while I paced the plane. “Did you find Mandelbaum’s timing suspicious?” I said. “Why would he phone when we were headed for the airport?”
“He couldn’t know. Only the three of us did.”
“Yeah.” I did another lap.
“Nava. Drio didn’t tell him.”
I stopped. “I honestly don’t think he did, but we had our phones. Could they be listening in to our conversations even if we’re not on the phone?” I wasn’t worried about that on this flight since we’d left them in Ro’s car which Drio was going to take back to the house.
I was however, extremely worried about what Orwell might have overheard up to this point.
“You’re being paranoid,” he said.
“Justifiably paranoid.”
Carlos entered the cabin to tell us to get ready for take-off and we strapped in.
Keyed up though I was, when the engines rumbled to life and the jet sped down the run-away, my stomach still flipped in exhilaration. It was a fairly smooth ascent and soon we were cruising comfortably at altitude and able to move around.
I signed on to the secret email that Kane had set up for me, swearing it was safe from prying eyes, and called Rohan over to review the blueprints and dossier we’d compiled on the owner of the painting.
Rabbi Paskow had served the New York chapter for forty years before retiring to the sunny climes of Orlando, where he lived with his wife in a gated community on a golf course. His son and three grandchildren still lived in Queens, and the rabbi and his wife were currently on their yearly visit up north.
We wouldn’t encounter them, but we still had to get into the alarmed and monitored house in full view of all neighbors and community security. The easiest solution would have been for Kane to stage an alarm issue that we could have responded to, but he was busy with his mission, so no hacking job for us.
We didn’t have time to match the uniforms of the groundskeepers but we did have two things: Ms. Clara, who had access to the rabbi’s cell number, and a Florida-based minion who owed Malik a favor. Neither Rohan nor I were happy about the latter part of the plan, but desperate times.
Before we’d even landed in Houston for the first leg of our flight, Lackey Demon had burst a pipe feeding into the rabbi’s home. The water line fed in to the laundry room so hopefully the damage would be minimal. Drio had called it in at an appointed time, then after the agreed-upon waiting period I’d phoned Rabbi Paskow, who’d already been notified by the community’s management company. I said I was from the restoration company and I needed authorization to enter his premises to assess the damage.
He’d promised to call the clubhouse immediately to let main gate security know to expect us. Our entire plan was dependent upon the snail’s pace of all bureaucracy. When my family had had a flood, the restoration company hadn’t been called until the next day. I was counting on a similar procedure here–that they’d be so focused on containing the leak and fixing the pipe that they wouldn’t have called the restoration company themselves.
The plan was held together with metaphoric Scotch Tape and a prayer, and there were more places it could derail than not, but Malik had given me an impossible timeframe and I needed to find whoever was behind the purple magic.
The walk to the rental car from the airport terminal in Orlando was short but with the humidity here, it was like walking through a swamp in scuba gear. I was sticky by the time we reached the Corolla. Once we cleared the rental lot, we pried off the stickers on the rearview mirror and windows that the company used to track the cars in and out of the lot. Driving up in an obvious rental would have given us away.
We didn’t see much from the highway beyond some strip malls, lots of entrances to gated communities, and even more palm trees, though it was a lot greener than I’d expected.
&n
bsp; When the security guard at the gate took the identification into the booth, I tensed. We’d doctored them up yesterday with Photoshop and a laminate machine. All she did was check it against something on her computer, hand them back, and give us directions to the rabbi’s house before lifting the gate.
Billboards on an undeveloped area of the grounds advertised homes starting at $300,000, which wouldn’t buy you a shoebox condo in Vancouver proper, but got you a pretty swank place here. Like Rabbi Paskow’s: a yellow villa-style home set back a couple of blocks from the golf course that was a decent size for two people but not enormous. A spectacular pink bougainvillea dominated the front yard.
Workers milled about outside. Rohan and I approached the one woman in business casual who was supervising, correctly guessing she was from the management company. We introduced ourselves, presenting business cards with fake names from the area’s largest restoration company. She was a bit flustered that the rabbi had called someone in before she’d had a chance, but we brazened it out and someone else soon claimed her attention.
Other than the fact that she could later describe a brown-skinned man and white-skinned woman, any other details would be wrong. Rohan and I had both put in brown contacts after we’d disembarked. He’d styled his hair into the most boring cubicle drone look to go with his khakis and plaid shirt and I wore a wig of short, straight, light brown hair.
We didn’t bother taking down the Rasha ward around the house. Theft and tampering was bad enough, we didn’t want the rabbi left open to an actual demon attack.
My blouse was sticking to me by the time we snapped on latex gloves, grabbed all necessary supplies and got inside into the air conditioning. Framed prints of grapes and Provence pastoral scenes hung on pale yellow walls, with sandstone tile and floral print-furniture rounding out the decor. Fresh flowers sat in brightly colored hand-blown glass vases on fussy side tables, making the place smell like a hothouse.
The damage in the laundry room was minimal. One small corner had flooded, so we cleaned it up and lugged the industrial fan we’d rented inside to dry it out. The sanitation engineers hadn’t had to open the concrete floor inside, which was good because we were alone in the house.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 101
