The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Fall

by Wilde, Deborah

  Ro took the phone back. “Don’t mess with my girl, Cisco. She’ll own you.” He laughed, told the Rasha he was speaking with to ‘fuck off,’ and hung up.

  “I need a shower first.” I looked around the room at the twin-size bed and bookshelves packed with albums in trepidation. “Uh, am I supposed to stay here with you?”

  “We’re staying in one of the guest bungalows out back. More privacy.”

  “Not a pull-out couch. Not even a spare room. Entire bungalows. Plural.”

  “Mom had them built for musicians to stay in residence while they were recording. There are only three.”

  I patted his cheek. “It’s good I showed up when I did, because you are clearly in need of re-connecting with how the little people live.”

  “You’re a regular humanitarian.”

  “My compassion should be a model to all. A walking mitzvah. Where are my suitcases? I’ll freshen up, we’ll go meet the others, and then I want to pay a visit to Gary Randall.”

  “Billie put them in the bungalow already. Yes. We have a full-time housekeeper.”

  I mimed zipping my lips and waited for Ro to take a quick shower, after which he gave me a brief tour of the house.

  There were a modest five bedrooms upstairs, each with their own bathroom that was spa quality. Maya’s room was by far, the most shocking. The woman embodied rock-and-roll, yet her bedroom was pure old Hollywood glam, from its cream walls to the French vintage bed frame, its headboard and footboard upholstered in soft pink. A crystal chandelier hung over an art deco vanity table which held an assortment of glass perfume bottles and silver-handled make-up brushes.

  I clapped my hands. “It’s so girly. I love it.”

  Other than the colorful living room that I’d already seen on the main floor, there was a formal dining room with a table that could easily seat twenty whose top was a solid slab of wood, a kitchen that a professional chef would weep over, and the TV room, though there was no sign of these supposed awkward photos. There was, however, more comfortable seating than in V.I.P. movie theatres with higher quality screening equipment.

  I sat in one of the leather recliners and pressed every button on the console, beaming when I was rewarded with heat and vibration. “Show me the bell pull to summon the butler and I may never leave.”

  “Mom got rid of that when she renovated ten years ago.” I couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Press that.” He leaned over and indicated a green button next to a tiny speaker.

  “We’ll return to this later. Right now, I want to see those photos you promised me.”

  “They’re in the TV room.”

  I looked from the giant white screen to the mounted projector. “This isn’t it?”

  “This is the screening room.”

  “Uh-huh.” At this point, I expected the TV room to come complete with a stable of A-list celebrities to personally act out their filmographies for my viewing pleasure, so I was highly relieved to find a couple of beat-up couches, a normal flat screen TV, magazines and newspapers tossed on the coffee table, and family photos covering one wall.

  I pretended to wipe a tear from my eye at the photo of a very young Rohan, maybe five or six, in a one-piece green spandex leotard, his hair in a mullet, and his two front teeth nowhere to be seen, standing in front of this cheesy solar system photo backdrop.

  “There’s just so much to unpack here, I don’t know where to dive in.”

  “I was an asteroid in the school play.”

  “You were something. This is truly the greatest gift I’ve ever received.”

  “I’m adorable,” he said.

  “We’ve discussed this. You need to stop reading your fan boards. They’re severely biased and not leading you anywhere good.”

  Ro tugged on my arm. “Enough. You’ve hit your blackmail quota for the day.”

  “Sweet deluded boy. You didn’t honestly think you could show this to me and not have it be an ongoing topic of conversation, did you?”

  I moved through the rest of the photos, some truly hilarious like an adolescent Ro, all goth attitude, others genuinely sweet, capturing Ro’s life with his parents on beaches, at Disneyland, and in the studio with Maya. Even at his most teen emo, he was always smiling when he was with his mom and dad. Some might consider that nerdy. Not me.

  The mid-afternoon heat scorched my skin as he led me outside. Not through a door. Please. Nothing so pedestrian. We stepped past the billowing sheer white curtains in the living room, and presto chango, we’d gone from inside to outside, thanks to the retractable wall.

  Shielding my eyes with one hand against the glare, I looked from the sparkling blue pool and connecting hot tub with, oh yes, a waterfall, to the enormous stainless steel grill and the teak loungers with striped cushions arrayed in groups on the pool deck, and wondered if his parents cared to adopt me.

  The charming yellow adobe bungalows with red tiled roofs were situated down a short path lined with spiky cacti and carefully raked rocks.

  Ro stopped in front of the closest–and smallest–one. “I hope you like it.”

  It was cozy but bright, with a good flow from the living room to the open kitchen. Black leather bar stools were pushed up to the counter, while the long exterior wall was wallpapered in this 1970s-inspired, trippy purple iridescent pattern that should have been horrendous but was edgy and rock-and-roll. Kane could learn a thing or two from it.

  There were fun touches like a beanbag chair with a space-age vibe, a Magic 8 Ball on the shelf which I may have squealed at, and a framed colorful painting consisting of geometric shapes, almost like a child had done it.

  Hang on. I marched across the room and peered at the signature.

  “This is a Kandinsky. A real Kandinsky. I saw his stuff in the Pompidou in Paris.”

  Ro jammed his hands in the pockets of his board shorts and rocked back on his bare heels. “Admittedly, this may be on a bit of a different scale from most people’s homes.”

  “Stop talking. You’re embarrassing yourself, Mr. One Percent. Prove you can get your hands dirty with the rest of us peasants and unpack my suitcases.” They were visible through the bedroom doorway, sitting neatly in the corner.

  “Billie would have done that already.” He gave me his best innocent smile. “I can help you shower.”

  I only declined his offer because we’d never make it out of here otherwise, and stepped into the bedroom to grab the outfit I’d brought especially to meet my fellow Rasha. Not only was everything neatly folded, Billie had ironed a few key pieces before hanging them up.

  I poked my head out the door. “Do your parents want to adopt me?”

  “Incest is frowned upon in my family.”

  I scrunched up my face. “Billie ironed. I mean… I do have a really good vibrator.”

  Ro whipped a pillow at me. I shrieked, ducked, and went to take my shower.

  All was well for the first couple of minutes but partway through shampooing my hair, my energy leached out of me. I slid onto the river rock shower floor and pulled my knees into my chest, letting the hot spray beat down on me. My skin felt itchy and ill-fitting. Everything seemed stuck in slug mode, from the water condensation streaking the walls, to the flat white noise of the spray, like the world had lost thirty percent of sound, motion, and color.

  I guess lack of a good night’s sleep, our emotionally-charged reunion, the sex, and gearing up to go meet new Rasha in potentially hostile territory had taken more out of me than I realized.

  A couple of wisps had leaked out of Lilith’s magic box since Esther had checked me out. Even in my inward-seeing magic vision, they were barely evident: fine, short, black threads drifting inside me.

  My own magic presented as a spiderweb, stretching out from the crown of my head to my toes, and I mentally tied these threads into the heart of it, letting them fuse and evaporate, giving me an energy boost. Evil Willow may have been my favorite character on Buffy, but jonesing for dark magic to the point of destroying the world wasn
’t a life goal.

  Holding my own at my first visit to the L.A. chapter, was.

  Re-energized, I pushed to my feet and finished my shower.

  Ro was waiting with a giant fluffy towel to wrap me in but I shooed him away so I could get dressed.

  My fitted black crop top had hot pink glittery letters saying “Punches like a girl. Kicks your ass.” I’d paired it with black hip hugger cargo pants that were cut off mid-calf. Thanks to a ton of gel, I’d achieved a sleek ponytail. I dusted gold eye shadow over my lids, with minimal mascara, all the better to let my red lips pop, and cat-walked into the living room in my black Doc Martins. “As the first female Rasha, am I appropriately representing?”

  I got a thumbs-up and more kisses so I took that as a yes, and then it was out to his ’67 Shelby Mustang that he’d had shipped back to Los Angeles. The two-door vintage muscle car had been freshly washed, midnight blue finish and white racing stripe glinting in the daylight.

  “I hate to admit it, but I missed her.”

  Ro snickered. “You gave Shelby gender. I’ve broken you.”

  “Yes. You win. Mazel tov.” I sank onto the passenger seat cooing, “You can’t wait for me to drive you again, can you, baby?”

  “Let’s not get crazy.” Ro reached across me to his glove compartment and handed me a flyer for a fundraiser for an international children’s charity working with kids in Third World countries.

  “Is this our debut as Navan?” I said. Ro scowled at me. “You prefer Rova? I can live with Rova.”

  “I prefer no stupid couple name.”

  “Celebrity couples get names and you count.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Deal with it.” There were a bunch of performers supporting this event. That meant press and probably fans. “Go big or go home. You’re going to have to take me shopping, Sugar Daddy.”

  “Why? Want to look your best for Zack?” Rohan turned the key and the Shelby purred to life. He shifted gears, his bicep flexing, and roared down the driveway.

  I looked at the paper again and squealed. “Zack is hosting this? You’re letting me meet Zack?!”

  “I’m letting you be in a room in which Zack will also be. Whether or not you actually get to meet him remains to be seen.”

  “Maybe he’ll autograph my fanfic binder.”

  “You are not to discuss your adolescent sexual fantasies of the dude.”

  “Little bit, yeah, I am.”

  We kept the windows down and the music loud. At my request, Ro took a circuitous route along the Sunset Strip. The West Hollywood end of it was pretty swanky, with lots of boutiques and restaurants. Billboards advertising TV shows, movies, and concerts that I’d never heard of were everywhere. Sunset got less intense the farther along we drove. There were entire blocks where I could forget this was the entertainment capital. I even got the occasional glimpse of old Los Angeles with 1950s neon motel signs before Ro swung us back on the highway.

  Any time he wasn’t changing gear, he was touching me, his hand resting on my thigh, cupping the back of my neck, absently caressing my cheek. Keeping us connected.

  I rolled down the window and turned up the music. “Going to Demon Club in the City of Angels. Ironic.”

  “Where do you think the Fallen Angels name originated? Go back. I like that song.”

  Making a face, I hit the button to return to the previous station playing the jangly indie guitar band song.

  “You’d like this album,” Ro said. “It’s called ‘Lolita Nation.’”

  I gave him a tight smile and shifted in my seat to look at him. “So,” I said casually, “from the interview you did it sounds like Ascending is coming together.”

  He made a frustrated sound, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I have to release the tracks on September 27.”

  “Why? Are you under contract?”

  “Something like that.” He drove another block before he spoke again. “I finally believe that Asha wouldn’t have wanted me to quit music, just be happy without losing myself to the industry, but I can’t get back to where I was creatively.”

  I scrolled through the myriad of satellite radio choices. “You haven’t forgiven yourself yet.”

  Ro braked at a light. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Maybe I can’t until I find Asha’s killer. Avenge her.”

  “You need to forgive yourself regardless because if you don’t, you won’t be able to move forward in all areas of your life.”

  Rohan was silent for a long time, during which I stared resolutely out the passenger window so he couldn’t see me biting my bottom lip.

  “Maybe,” he finally said.

  We crossed over a bridge.

  “What’s that?” I said, pointing out the window.

  The thing was tall. It was skinny. It had fronds. It was not a tree.

  “A cell tower doctored to look like a palm tree.”

  “Your hometown is weird, Snowflake.”

  The Arts District where the L.A. chapter was located was a mash up of reclaimed brick warehouses, trendy cafés, hip galleries, and works yards.

  I climbed out of the car. “Look. Pedestrians! And cyclists!”

  Cyclist, singular, but good to know there was at least one.

  I stared at the ground for most of our walk along Mateo Street, Ro guiding me by my elbow, because there was all this great art stamped on the sidewalk, like “Wake the Fuck Up” or the “I Heart L.A.” where the “I” was represented by a silhouette of a man standing and working on a laptop.

  Passing a café with a profusion of planters out front, we turned down a side street and there it was. Demon Club La La Land was a two-story, brown brick building with arched windows and accent tiles in a deco wave pattern that occupied an entire block. Cameras encased in plastic bubbles monitored the exterior–discreetly–while a tasteful plaque next to the front door read “David Security International.”

  Rohan hit the buzzer and the front door unlatched.

  I braced myself and stepped inside to a reception area with warm inset lighting, original brickwork, and white and steel furniture. The DSI logo was stamped on the concrete wall behind the reception desk.

  The angular woman about my mom’s age manning the desk smiled at Rohan, then held out her hand to me. “You must be Nava. A pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Helen.”

  We shook. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Helen manages DSI and our unruly bunch,” Rohan said. “Los Angeles is the world headquarters of the security part of our organization.”

  “Usually you’ll find me in the back,” Helen said, “but Louis, our receptionist, had a final exam today. I expect Rohan is going to give you the grand tour, but if you’re hungry there’s a fully stocked kitchen upstairs.”

  I thanked her and followed Ro through the single door to her left.

  “This floor holds everything DSI needs,” he said. “Offices, conference room. They do double duty for the Brotherhood.”

  This part of the warehouse looked exactly like an international security firm should with its corporate veneer and various workstations. Rohan nodded at a few people, men and women both, as we passed. None of them seemed particularly interested in me.

  “Not Rasha?” I said.

  “The DSI support staff are Rasha-affiliated.” Ah. They had family members that were Rasha or rabbis. “Some of our training rooms are also down here.”

  Ro slapped his hand on a sensor and a door swung open revealing a smallish indoor track.

  “Running? Really? Exactly how much have you forgotten about me this past month?”

  Rohan booped me on the nose. “Thought you might want to say hi.”

  A lone Rasha stood in the middle of the track in bare feet, a black Henley, and board shorts, his back to me.

  “Treeeee Truuunk!” I ran for Baruch and jumped on his back, pressing a loud kiss to the side of his head while pretending to dry hump him, and that’s when I saw the unfamiliar man.

&nbs
p; Kippah wearing, no Rasha ring, fit but “gym fit,” not killing-demons fit. Like he’d calculated the exact number of reps to get his lightly muscled physique, the perfect match to his tan, but not-overtly-so skin. This had to be the rabbi that ran this chapter.

  I slid off Tree Trunk, he of the Zen expressions, whose twinkle of amusement could be construed as outright hysterical laughter, steeling myself for the rabbi’s disapproval.

  “Nava, hi.” The rabbi extended a hand for me to shake. This was such unexpected behavior that I gaped until Baruch cleared his throat. “I’m Rabbi Wahl. Welcome to Los Angeles.”

  Everything about the rabbi was polished, from his business casual wear which projected a laid-back vibe of Mr. Reformed-Modern-Times-Jew, to his buffed nails. Overall, he presented the ideal snapshot of a shiny, attractive man who could have advertised modern California life.

  “Thanks.” I discreetly wiped my palm on the back of my cargo pants, positive he’d exuded an oily residue. “Happy to be here.”

  The rabbi made some small talk, offering up some sights I should take in if I had the chance. I kept my smile on my face, trying not to be distracted by the fact that I was hearing creepy clown music and imagining him offering cotton candy, all with that used car salesman smile of his.

  Baruch and Rohan chatted with him so familiarly that they were a breath away from breaking out a guitar and rocking out together to “This Land is Your Land.”

  Were my instincts that wrong?

  One more welcoming statement and the rabbi excused himself.

  I raised my eyebrows at Ro in question.

  He shook his head. “Keep your guard up around him.”

  “And the hand sanitizer close. So, Tree Trunk,” I said brightly. “How’s life? How was Ms. Clara’s visit last month? How come you’re in Los Angeles? How much did you miss me?”

  “Where’s the recording you made of Ilya’s confession?” Baruch packed a lot of displeasure into those eye blinks of his.

  “Your absolute disinterest in any type of small talk is one of your most charming traits. Also, a very specific question for someone whom I haven’t told anything to yet.”

  Baruch snapped an elastic off his wrist, tying back his shoulder-length black hair. He still looked like a surfer Special Ops. “Another thing to discuss,” he growled.