Personally, I would never have even let Ari suffer stage one.
I glanced at the owl clock. Ten minutes left if I was lucky.
Ilya turned as bright red as a boiled lobster and blood leaked out of his nostrils.
On screen, Mischa’s tenderizing continued.
“Huh. Bones breaking really sound like the crack of a wooden baseball bat.” I let up on the magic for a moment in case he wanted to share.
Ilya wiped the blood away with his sleeve.
“You better have the balls to kill me because I’ll hunt you down for this,” he said through wheezing breaths.
“‘Balls?’ Don’t need them. It doesn’t seem like yours are helping you terribly much at keeping it together, does it?” Fuck. He was really going to sell his brother down the river. I cranked my magic up again.
Ilya’s hair was smoking–on his head, on his arms, on his face–but he didn’t say a word.
Seven minutes left.
“Stage three,” I said into the mic, holding the screen up once more.
Mischa’s face was a bloody pulp. His head lolled at an awkward angle. Kane raised a gun and fired it into Mischa’s knee.
Ilya flinched.
I mentally fist pumped. “Last chance. The cause or your brother.”
The pool of sunshine in the cabin had been dwindling down through our encounter to the last dull rays of twilight. The oppressive gloom now pressing in on us went a long way to setting the appropriate ambiance for the grand finale.
Ilya turned his face away from me.
“Shitty birthday gift for the two of you,” I said. “But kudos on your devotion to the cause. Kill him,” I said into the mic.
Words I never thought I’d say. Especially to a twin.
Several months ago, a Rasha had taken down a ward and facilitated the kidnapping and torture of my brother at the hands of a monster. I hadn’t been able to understand that kind of betrayal and yet here I was, the monster now torturing Ilya and blithely ordering Mischa’s death.
I truly was a Fallen Angel, trying harder and harder to hold on to some of my light.
The image jerkily zoomed in to Kane placing the gun against the back of Mischa’s neck.
“No! I’ll talk.” Ilya rushed his words, his eyes glued to the gun trained on his brother. By the time he neared the end of his debrief, he was practically slurring, his words were tumbling out of him so fast.
Good thing the iPad was recording all the important intel he was spilling because my entire focus was on keeping him pinned in place. Physically and emotionally, I was exhausted. My vision swam and my breathing was labored, but I didn’t want to release him until I had the full picture.
A car crunched over the gravel, coming closer up the drive.
My time was up. iPad in hand, I released Ilya, but in the split second before I could portal out, he used his telekinesis to blow me through the window.
Glass exploded around me, cutting into my flesh as I sailed into the air and landed in the driveway with all my weight on my left ankle. My foot twisted, giving way beneath me with a hot burst of pain, and I slammed forward, breaking my fall with my knees and one forearm on the gravel.
Glass sparkled in my lashes like diamonds, embedded all over my skin like I was a human disco ball. I closed my eyes, using my magic to buzz the pieces out of myself, while blood streamed freely from dozens of gashes, soaking into my clothes and providing an underlying silky texture for the swath of road rash striping my body.
The balaclava was ripped from my head.
Ilya squatted in front of me, blinking in confusion. “You? But…” Headlights from the approaching car illuminated the evil glee on Ilya’s face. “No matter. Now it’s your turn to die.”
“Ilya! Happy birthday!” A man exited the car, carrying a bright pink pastry box that looked cheerfully discordant against the tableau of broken window, bloody Ilya, and me, holding the iPad aloft in a weird Lady Liberty impersonation. The man was hale and whole, in perfect health except for the shocked expression on his face as he slammed the driver’s side door. “What happened?”
“Mischa?” Ilya did his second double take of the day.
I had one way out. Mischa hadn’t seen my face yet so there was only one person who could rat me out. I bracketed Ilya’s face with my hand and pulled on his memories of me, eliminating them.
The one good thing about Rohan’s absence was that it had left me with a whole lot of time to nail several witchy arts. This was one of them.
Ilya’s face went slack, his eyes unfocused. Memory wipe accomplished.
Go, me. Gelman seriously needed to start handing out gold stars to her star pupil. Or rugelach.
Mischa’s booted heels rang closer and closer. “Hey!”
Exit, stage left.
I landed on the back lawn at Demon Club, sweaty, bloody, and in copious amounts of pain, prepared to lay here under the cloudless night sky until I was either found by friends or eaten by wolves. I was tapped out and neither my magic nor my inflamed ankle were capable of getting me back into the house.
Ari discovered me about five minutes later. “Shit, Nee.”
He pulled out a jagged shard that had been too deeply lodged in my collarbone to pop out with my magic.
Fire blazed down through my shoulder. I turned my head and vomited onto the grass.
He carefully scooped me up and carried me inside. “Did you get the answers?”
I nodded, waving the iPad. The screen was cracked but it still worked.
Kane bounded into the kitchen. “How did it look? Am I brilliant or what?”
“She’s injured and exhausted. Wanna give her a minute?” Ari carried me into the TV room and lay me down on one of the oversized leather couches.
They got my ankle propped up with a cold pack, my back settled against a bunch of pillows, and let my accelerated Rasha healing magic do its thing.
Kane reheated some Hawaiian pizza for me, allowing me to shovel in three pieces before once more demanding I sing his praises.
“Yes, you’re a genius. Really.” I licked sauce off my fingers. “I’m not being snarky. Even I was uncomfortable watching it and I knew it was staged.”
Kane had used hundreds of surveillance photos we’d taken of Mischa to create a 3D rendering of his face. Knowing Mischa and Ilya’s birthday might be an occasion for them to meet up, Kane had mapped Mischa’s head onto the footage of a purely fictional torture session we’d filmed. My best friend Leonie had hooked us up with a couple of film student friends from university to help make it happen and man, were those dudes warped. We told them we were filming a short horror film, and they immediately had a dozen disturbing ideas to improve it.
Ari, having a similar build to Mischa, had played the body double when required, while the prop body the film boys had brought along had taken the brunt of the damage.
Kane had worked on the resulting footage around-the-clock, and that was what Ilya had watched. Kane had remained at Demon Club to stream it and stay in contact with me to switch up scenes as needed. Blessings for stage make-up, camera angles, and fake blood. Oh, and high-stress situations that smoothed over any suspension of disbelief issues.
“Play the audio file.” I scrubbed at my arm with the damp cloth my brother had brought me. Sure, I’d stopped bleeding, but being coated in dried, flaking blood wasn’t a step up.
Kane and Ari’s expressions grew grimmer and grimmer the more they heard of Ilya’s babbling.
The Brotherhood’s Executive was comprised of six rabbis who oversaw the organization. As its head, Rabbi Mandelbaum wanted to usher in a new era with some very big-picture thinking: in this day of CCTV and iPhones, the rabbi didn’t think that demons–or the Brotherhood–could be kept secret much longer.
Fair enough, except his plan was to strategically unleash the spawn on the world, swoop in, and play hero. He’d intended for Tessa, a witch in possession of dark magic, to cause an earthquake in a major urban center. By pinpointing the r
ight stress trigger, she’d have set off earthquakes across the globe. Mandelbaum would then have deployed Rasha to all those cities, since demons were drawn to disasters. With those places compromised and on high alert, no one in the organization would have thought twice about the redistribution of hunters.
Then, using demons bound against their will to carry out orders, again thanks to Tessa’s black magic, Mandelbaum would unleash the second wave of spawn on the public in those cities where the Rasha happened to already be conveniently stationed. The Brotherhood would present itself as the only de facto option before any other militaristic group could even think about trying to pull rank. Not that the military could kill demons, since their deaths could only be brought about by magic, but Mandelbaum didn’t even want them getting a toehold on the situation. Plus, he could claim he was preventing unnecessary loss of life from the military.
In one stroke he’d reframe the ensuing terror of people finding out about demons into a huge relief that we’d had these secret heroes all along. The Brotherhood would be universally adored and Mandelbaum would be the most powerful man in the world.
Thanks to Ilya, we also finally confirmed what the deal with the modified gogota had been. An early–and abandoned–line of experimentation to try and make demons even more challenging to kill when they sent them after their enemies.
Like Rasha who strayed from the fold.
I hugged a pillow tight against my chest.
“Go team,” Kane said, his body rigid.
Ari sat with his head in his hands.
“You okay, Ace?” Ari had grown up being Team Brotherhood all the way.
“I knew something like this was coming, but to hear it spelled out so matter-of-factly?” He dragged in a shaky breath.
“The trouble with this plan?” I polished off my last crust. “Tessa’s dead. The use of dark magic burned her up from the inside about a month ago. Ilya said that Mandelbaum hasn’t figured out how to do this without a replacement witch.”
“I’d throw a parade,” Kane said, “except Ilya also mentioned that the rabbi was actively looking for one.”
Heaven help us if he found a woman who had that ability–either the one currently AWOL or the one trapped inside me.
Chapter 2
Since I was all dented, I spent Saturday night binge watching the final season of Orphan Black off my laptop. Supernatural might not have had the same allure for me anymore now that my day job was destroying the things that went bump in the night, but clones and my Tatiana Maslany crush held up just fine.
By the last episode, I was a teary mess, rolled up in my blankets like a burrito. Battered and bruised, my body ached and worse, my heart ached. I was a puddle of emotions by the final credits, thanks to this stupid show that had given me all the feels.
I put the laptop on the pillow next to me and massaged my temples. For the past month, my head had felt trapped in a vise exerting a continuous, low-grade pressure that pinched the front of my face and made my eyeballs ache in gritty weariness. I hadn’t been able to take a full breath either. I swear my lungs had seized up inhaling on a gasp that horrible night that Ro had left, and never managed to come unstuck.
But I’d have taken ten times that pain if I could have traded away mornings, because bright and early, every day, I would hang in that moment before full wakefulness, a smile blooming across my cheeks, and roll over to face my boyfriend, only to be jolted with the brutal reminder that he wasn’t here. My eyes would snap open, my brain would trip over his absence, and the totality of my loss would swamp me anew.
Being alone put me in that same swamp.
Kane and Ari were out because it was Pride weekend here in Vancouver, which is where Leo and Ms. Clara were as well. I was too battered on every level to be out partying with them. In my fragile state, the smart thing to do would have been to turn off the light and go to sleep, but I was restless. And yearny, which totally needed to be a word. Maybe I’d write the Word of the Day app people.
I fumbled in my side table for Snake Clitspin, my trusty S-shaped vibe, hit the power button, and scrolled through the settings to the particularly delicious pulse/vibe combo guaranteed to get me off in minutes. Kicking off my underwear, I brought him close to my clit Cuntessa de Spluge, Snake whispering you know you want it.
Heat pooled in my belly, my lady parts growing damp.
Snake brushed over my clit and my entire body jumped to attention. I slid the vibe inside me.
Calloused fingertips biting into my sides.
No. Sisters were doing it for themselves. I palmed my tit, massaging the sensitive flesh.
Rohan shooting me a lazy grin as he licked my nipple.
Focus. It was Snake and me and that’s all I needed. My breathing quickened.
Hot gold eyes feasting hungrily on my naked body.
I canted my hips, emptily aware of being filled with silicone instead of Ro’s hard, hot cock. The tight swell inside me receded, and the more I chased it, the more it eluded me.
That glorious fullness of him, thrusting into me, driving me deeper into the mattress.
My thighs clenched at the phantom memory.
I grit my teeth, blocked out all images of dark haired, brown-skinned men that I ached for, and gave ’er. Fifteen long minutes and four setting changes later, I came with a whimper, not a bang.
With a snarl, I tossed Snake away. He hit the wall and bounced to the carpet, buzzing merrily.
I wanted to buzz merrily because I hadn’t buzzed merrily since the night my life had gone to shit, when I’d made a deal with Lilith, the most powerful witch alive, to possess my body in exchange for giving Rohan his powers back.
He’d trapped her unconscious inside me. And while my malevolent tenant was still out like a light, I’d rather have dealt with her than the constant replay of the wreckage that was my relationship.
The Vault it was. My heart was a parched desert, but my biceps were hella toned from whaling on the punching bag.
I turned Snake off, replacing him in the drawer with a stern scolding to up his game next time.
Two hundred and forty-two steps from my bedroom to the Vault. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the other and not deviate from the route. I limped out the door, careful of my not-yet-healed ankle. Leaning heavily on the bannister, I navigated the stairs to the main floor, and that’s when my stupid betraying feet led me astray.
I clutched the doorframe of Rohan’s bedroom. Uh-uh. I wasn’t going in. Wasn’t going to lay on his bed like an addict, sniffing his pillow, terrified the last of his musky iron scent had finally faded and would portend him fading. From my photos.
From my life.
I didn’t need to turn on the lights to find his hoodie with the blue zipper and blue cowl neck. Snuggling into it, I crawled under his covers. I was injured and he had a better mattress with way more plush bedding so it was only natural to want to recover here. However, I stuffed my burner phone under his pillow, because phoning him was where I drew the line. I wasn’t a pathetic clinger. Our time apart was a slowing down, not a break up. I knew all that, and still, in the dead of night, I’d find myself bathed in sweat and uncertainty.
Why was I the only one who ever reached out?
That wasn’t fair. Ro had put himself on-call from hunting, insisting on taking all the vacation days he’d accrued but never used since he’d become Rasha. Hunters weren’t great at work/life balance. (For the record, I had zero vacation days. I’d been at this gig for almost five months and I had yet to qualify for an extended coffee break.) He was focusing on his dad Dev who’d had a heart attack and was still recovering from double bypass surgery. Any leftover time was focused on his music. Which didn’t mean he wasn’t focusing on us.
In a quiet, secondary way.
As I pounded the pillow into flat submission, a flash of black caught my eye, wedged between the mattress and the wall. I stretched my fingertips to snag it. It was one of the velcro cuffs from the bondage system I’d b
ought that one time we rented a hotel room. I dropped it like a hot potato, but it was too late.
I was assaulted with images of Rohan, not sexy ones, but playful ones, like the time I’d ambushed him washing his car with an arsenal of water balloons, resulting in the water fight to end all water fights and both of us soaking wet, doubled over laughing. The marathon of Prince hits he’d played for me to tap to, while wearing eyeliner with his feet half-stuffed into a pair of my heels to give me the authentic Royal Badness experience. Every memory of him fighting alongside me, talking to me, feeding me.
And then suddenly hating me.
My brain caught up to my fingers a second after I’d hit speed dial. I tried to end the call before it could actually go through, much less ring.
“You’re up late,” Ro said.
We both were. Vancouver and Los Angeles were in the same time zone.
The huskiness in his voice shivered through me. Whiskey-soaked. No. Stripped down from singing.
I wished I could have seen his face but our one attempt at FaceTime after he’d left had been an unmitigated disaster. I’d spent the entire phone call deconstructing every single expression, not to mention that seeing him somewhere that wasn’t with me was too hard. Too raw. The call had gotten weird and we’d defaulted to these voice-only calls that let me believe in the continued intimacy of our relationship. Since then, we’d fallen into this place where we only had about three safe topics of conversation, the first one being his music.
“Did I interrupt a recording session?” I said.
“Nah. I was just screwing around with a new melody.”
Yeah? What about Josie and the other Pussycats? I tamped my paranoia down. “Nice. The writing’s going well then?”
He made a frustrated sound. “It’s this last song. I can’t get it to fall into place.”
Rohan updated me on the progress of his album, sharing the latest anecdote of his mom Maya, a famous record producer, and him butting heads over the creative direction. Rohan had told me that she’d previously refused to work with him for just this reason and the fact that she’d agreed to for his solo album had his fans going crazy with excitement.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-6: A Complete Paranormal Romantic Comedy Series Page 115
