“I’ll see if a paramedic will give her a sedative,” Rohan said into my ear.
I gripped his hand. “Tell them she did Sweet Tooth. Let them know she can’t have anything that conflicts with it.” He nodded and I laced my fingers with his, giving him a quick squeeze. He gave me a sympathetic smile and left.
Smoothing Christina’s hair, I absently registered him crossing the room to catch up with the first responders as they sped the gurney out. The gurney that had Naomi strapped to it. Naomi, who just an hour ago had been calling me mean names in the bathroom, who shouldn’t be lying there like this, motionless. “It’s not your fault.”
It was both our faults. Lead twisted my gut. Bad enough that I’d encouraged Naomi to take the night off because I’d implied she had a stick up her ass, but to have mocked her for her past and driven her to do something she wasn’t sure of? I’d taunted the universe and the universe had kicked my ass.
Christina turned her tear-streaked face to mine. “Why did it affect her and not me? What did I do to her?”
Fine questions I didn’t have answers to. Yet. The one thing I was absolutely certain of? If this was some fucked up demon product, then I’d hunt it down and destroy the evil spawn with my bare hands. Cold comfort, but I’d take it where I could find it.
2
We didn’t get home for another couple of hours, between telling a harried Max exactly what I’d seen and driving Christina to the hospital to get checked out. Oh, and scrolling through her contacts to find her brother Henry’s number. Christina and I had hung out at university so I’d heard her talk about Henry, but we’d never met. I explained who I was and asked him to come to get his sister, since once the sedative she’d finally been given in the ER kicked in, my friend couldn’t do much more than sluggishly wave at her phone.
Once he’d arrived, Henry assured me he’d get hold of Naomi’s family and keep me posted. I hadn’t been able to get any information out of the nurses about Naomi beyond “she’s in surgery and being looked after.”
I practically staggered out the ER doors, wrapping my arms around myself against the wind lashing at my denim jacket. The silence of deep night would have been a welcome relief except the earlier thump of the bass at the club still pounded in my temples and rang in my ears. My shoulders were wound tight; fatigue clawed at my eyes and brain, making everything gritty and dull.
I trudged across the parking lot. “I’m so tired that my feet don’t want to feet.”
Rohan was a champ. He got me to his precious ’67 Shelby Mustang, settled me in, and cranked the heat.
“Thank you.” I yawned, my head falling sideways against the window.
“For what?”
I pushed a dark brown strand of hair of out my mouth. “Sticking around.”
Rohan started the ignition with a quick flick of his wrist. The motor roared to life, settling into a purr as he pulled out of the parking spot. His biceps flexed as he shifted gears. “Yeah, I was gonna go off and leave you. Dummy.”
“Remember, you are a callous bastard.” I yawned again, my mouth opening so wide that my ears popped. “Can you swing by the house?”
“It’s late.”
“I know.”
He shrugged, and ten minutes later, drove around a quiet residential block so we could check out Dr. Gelman’s sister’s place. Dr. Esther Gelman was the witch that had given me the magic ceremony to get Ari inducted and her sister Rivka lived here in Vancouver.
Like every single other time that I’d come by, the place was locked up tight. No car in the car port, no change to the closed curtains. After I’d kind of broken in and damaged the place a few weeks ago, someone had set a new and powerful ward on the property. Anyone who got too close had the overwhelming urge to go elsewhere. It even affected me to some degree. I was overcome by a strong desire to go home and do my laundry. The ridiculousness of that idea generally reminded me it was magic at work and I could fight it, but damn, it was tough.
I had to find a way to contact Dr. Gelman, but could only think of the same idea that I was loath to do. It would have to wait. The Sweet Tooth situation was the more immediate concern anyway.
I rolled down the window to get some frigid air on my face and punched in the number for Brotherhood HQ in Jerusalem to let them know I had a case to investigate. The man I spoke to, older and with a French-Canadian accent, took the details about Sweet Tooth, assigned me a case number, and wished me luck.
“Huh.” I looked at the phone after he’d hung up. “That was kind of anti-climatic.”
Ro flicked on his turning signal. “Did you expect good fireworks or bad, phoning in your first mission?”
“Not sure. But note that I’m the hunter of record in charge, Snowflake.” That was pretty cool.
He sighed. “Such domination issues.”
My chuckle turned into a yawn, my lids fluttering shut.
I woke up to the emergency parking brake being engaged in front of Demon Club, the mansion housing the Vancouver chapter of the Brotherhood of David, that was located in the Southlands area of Vancouver’s west side. Trust me, now that I was the first female member of this secret society, changing the name was on my To-Do List, though given the rest of the shit on there, like exposing duplicitous rabbis on the Executive, it kind of lacked urgency.
I stumbled up the front stairs. Heavy cloud cover obscured the few stars that could usually be seen. Without moonlight, the gardens were formless shapes. The house itself was quiet; no lamps shone out the beveled bay windows, no smoke escaped the multiple chimneys. The forest surrounding the house was still and dark.
I kicked off my chunky emerald heels in the foyer, sighing dreamily as my toes flattened out against the cool tile. Rohan tried to steer me up the curving stairs to my bedroom, but I shook his hand off. “Not yet. Get me the hawkweed and meet me in the kitchen? Please?”
My nap had only made my body realize how badly it craved sleep, and even slapping my cheeks as I shuffled down the shadowy hallway over the intricate inlaid wood floor failed to wake me up. I stepped through the arched doorway into the kitchen.
The under-the-cupboard lights were on, casting warm lemon pools over the dark granite counter. The room smelled faintly of garlic, which got my stomach rumbling, which led me to the brilliant idea of protein as a pick-me-up.
After placing my frozen meal of choice in the stainless steel microwave that matched the industrial fridge and glass-topped stove, I examined the vial with the remaining crystals. There was nothing special about the container. Made of glass, it had a label with the words “Sweet Tooth” written in script.
The microwave went “bing.” I pulled my TV dinner out, puncturing the plastic wrap with a set of keys that I found on the counter.
An aggrieved sigh alerted me to Rohan’s presence. “All the options open to you and you go for that.” He poked at the plastic tray like he was scared the contents might bite him.
“I’ll have you know this is the finest Fried Chickeny Delight available in No Name Form.” I bit into a chicken leg. “Huh. You know what it doesn’t taste like?” I asked, munching.
“Chicken?”
I dropped the leg back on the tray. “Good guess. It’s chicken-esque.”
“Technically, it’s chicken-y.”
“Yeah, I’m not sure if ‘-y’ is a step up or down in the culinary world from ‘-esque.’” I crossed over to the fridge, pulled out the small jug of maple syrup, and doused the poultry-facsimiles like I was putting out a fire.
“Please eat real food. I honestly don’t know how you’re still alive.”
“Preservatives, obviously. And quit being such a food snob. This is real.” I tapped the jug. “One hundred percent real maple syrup, because I am Canadian and civilized.”
“Half-right.”
I took another bite. “Oh yeah. Way better now. Okay, gimme the spell stuff.” I licked off my fingers, wiping them on a piece of paper towel. Millennials–major factor in the demise of the napkin i
ndustry. True fact.
Rohan tossed a Ziploc bag with a mixture of salts and chopped up bits of yellow Snowdonia Hawkweed onto the counter. The plant was incredibly rare, but what was scarcity when you had a boyfriend with a fat bank account from his rock star days? How fat, I had no idea. He’d assured me he didn’t have billionaire status, but I suspected that multi-millionaire was still within the realm of possibility. I mean, dude had been the lead singer of Fugue State Five, international chart-topping, emo band extraordinaire. That said, multi-millionaire in Vancouver would scarcely have bought this monstrosity of a chapter house we lived in, so I clearly was not with him for his money. Real Housewives of Vancouver had never been an aspiration of mine. Besides, Ro could have been poor as dirt and he’d still be a prime catch.
I dumped the mixture in water, stirring it with the thin paintbrush that he’d thoughtfully brought. “Such a good sidekick.”
“What happens when you use the ‘s’ word?” Rohan sealed up the Ziplock.
“You tackle me.”
He stuffed the baggie in his pocket. “And what happens when you admit that I’m Batman?”
“You tackle me.”
Rohan quirked an eyebrow. “That all?”
I paused my stirring, perking up. “Ooooh, yeah.” His nerdy role-playing had a deliciously filthy narrative. “’K. I pick door number two.”
Rohan snickered. “Phrasing.” I blushed from head to toe. “Don’t feel bad, Sparky.” He pushed my dinner to the far end of the island, ignoring my glare. “We’re two consenting adults with perfectly natural urges.”
“Yes, we are.”
Rohan opened the fridge, grabbing the bread, cheddar, and butter. “Except for that thing you beg for which is totally depraved.”
“Don’t forget the mustard. And fuck you.”
Rohan gave a smug lift of his right eyebrow, but pulled out the distinctive yellow squeeze bottle. “What? Again? Woman, you’re insatiable.”
“You are never getting laid again.” I motioned at him to put more cheese on the grilled sandwich he was making me, and helpfully retrieved two plates from the white cabinets.
Ro rummaged around on the fridge shelf. “Is there orange juice?”
I pulled an unopened carton out of the cupboard holding the pots and pans and put it on the counter. “I hid this for you. Kane was sucking back the stuff like there was no tomorrow.” I poured it into a glass over ice.
Once he’d chugged some back, I waved the vial in front of his face. “Thoughts. Go.”
Rohan slid a generous pat of butter into the cast iron pan he’d heated, before reading the label. “‘Sweet Tooth.’ Catchy name. Branding and everything.”
“It’s all about discoverability.”
“Did they snort this?”
“Licked it.”
“The initial effects kicked in pretty quickly for licking it. Another point for a magic source.” He placed the sandwiches in the pan, spatula in one hand, then pulled out my paper towel cover and, sniffing the drug, recoiled. “Gross. Cotton candy. Could be worse.”
“Yeah. Could be watermelon scent.”
“Exactly. Swear that’s a demon invention.” He sniffed again, more cautiously and gave me back the vial. “No other obvious chemical odor. I’d say test it and let’s see what we’ve got.”
I drummed the paintbrush against the counter. This was my first actual case and already I didn’t know how to handle this. I bit my lip and exhaled. “I’m not sure how to do the spell.”
“Because it’s crystals, not something solid?”
“Yeah.” The spell to test for magic signatures required the caster to paint a specific vine pattern on the object with the water/salt/hawkweed mixture. “There’s only a tiny amount here. The drug dissolves if it’s absorbed into the bloodstream, so if I add this liquid and the spell doesn’t work, we may lose what little Sweet Tooth we have to test.”
He flipped the sandwiches. “You want brown or golden brown?”
“Golden brown.”
Rohan checked both sides, then plated my sandwich golden brown side up.
We tossed out a few options while eating, like either of us ingesting the stuff and then testing ourselves for a magic signature. Dismissed that one pretty damn quickly, given what had happened to Naomi.
Belly pleasantly full, I poured half of the remaining crystals into a bowl. That gave us a smaller sample size, but also gave us a second shot if need be. Dipping the paintbrush in the water mixture, I did my best to swirl the pattern onto the drug, then said “gallah” to invoke the spell.
The crystals dissolved, leaving us with nothing for the spell to work its magic on.
“Damn it.” I tossed the paintbrush onto the counter with a clatter.
“Wait.” Rohan picked up the brush. The finely-bristled tip cycled through a rainbow of colors before settling into a pulsing blue. It had absorbed enough of the crystals to give us a result.
“Demon magic for the win,” I said.
“Too bad the spell can’t tell us which demon,” Rohan said.
“You need the magic equivalent of a forensic chemist,” Ari said, padding into the kitchen in pajama bottoms and a faded blue T-shirt, in dire need of a shave. He rubbed a hand over his short blond hair.
“What are you doing up so early?” I glanced out the window at the basketball court and press of dense cypress, arbutus, and Douglas fir beyond. My twin may have been a morning person but light was only barely leaching back into the world.
“Up late reading while waiting for the storm to pass so we can get clearance to fly in. I’m going on assignment. With Kane.”
There was a tense silence.
“Kane? With you?” Rohan repeated. “Wow, headquarters sure has our best interests at heart.”
It was scathing, but fair. Our friend and fellow demon hunter Kane Hashimoto and Ari were no longer exactly on speaking terms after a disastrous kiss a few weeks back. Not like their dysfunction would stop them from having each other’s backs, but the timing was awful.
“No way,” I said, waving my hand. “I forbid this. Veto. No.”
“Don’t worry, Nee. Even if the weather was fine, I still have a few more days here for obvious reasons.” He picked up an uneaten thigh. “Is that maple syrup? Awesome.” Dipping the chicken into the golden pool, he devoured half the meat in one bite.
We Katz twins made it a point to be impressive.
Rohan winced like he was in genuine pain.
I hugged Ari around the waist, burrowing my head into his chest. My brother was the best. We’d had a bumpy few months what with me becoming Rasha during his induction ceremony, then our growing pains working together after I’d finally found a way to make him a hunter, but our “don’t mess with us” status quo was restored.
“Quit smothering me.” Ari wriggled free.
“What’s happening in a couple days?” Rohan asked.
I snatched the paintbrush away from him using it to jab him in the chest. “There’s a countdown widget on your phone.”
Rohan’s brows creased. “Are you sure?”
“And a back-up countdown widget.”
Rohan shrugged. “Not ringing any bells.”
“The reminder taped to your dresser?”
“Must have missed it under all the mess.” As if. Snowflake was anal-retentive tidy.
I slapped my hand against the giant paper calendar pinned to the fridge with magnets reading Yeah, bitch! Magnets! The calendar contained a single entry. The large square for Monday June 19 was festooned with gold stars. “Nava’s 21st birthday! Commence adoration!!” was written in all-caps black sharpie. In smaller penciled letters someone had added, “And Ari’s.”
“You do know the last person who joked about forgetting Nava’s birthday was never seen again, right?” Ari dumped the detritus of the meal in the trash.
“Don’t worry.” I threw a pointed glance at Rohan. “I’ve already got the remote gravesite picked out should people fail in their dut
ies. Back to this forensic chemist idea.” I motioned at Ari. “Expound please.”
Rohan, eating his sandwich, nodded in agreement.
“I’ve been thinking about it since I heard the gogota attacked you and your scientist witch,” Ari said.
“Dr. Gelman. This isn’t a case of She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.” She’d gone off-grid after the attacks. Rabbi Mandelbaum, head rabbi on the Brotherhood’s Executive, maintained she was dead. While I was getting increasingly worried about her failure to surface, no way did I believe him. Dr. Gelman was a badass witch, and she was probably taking her sweet time getting back in touch just to annoy me.
“Then those yaksas attacked the village in Pakistan. That makes the sites of the attacks crime scenes.” Ari always talked faster when it came to chemistry stuff. Hand gestures, intense eye contact, the whole nine yards–it was actually kind of adorable. “Essentially, with both the gogota and the yaksas horn fragment, you removed material from those crime scenes to cast the spell. A forensic chemist does the same thing at a non-magical crime scene; they work to identify material found there. The spell that you and Ro cast was like basic magic chromatography. It led you to the discovery of the purple magic signature on both. The initial identification. Now you need someone who can dig deeper and isolate the specific components.” He pointed at the vial. “Same with this. If a forensic chemist specializing in magic existed, that person might be able to tell you which type of demon was behind this. The specific component, so to speak.”
My brother was a chemistry major. I’d bet a kidney he was dying to find a way to combine that passion with magic.
“That would be extremely cool.” I finished up my sandwich, licking buttery crumbs off my fingers. “I wish I could do that.”
“You have enough of a revolving list of powers,” Ari said dryly. “Electricity, magnetizing shit, however you’d oscillated your power to almost kill Malik. It’s weird.”
“You’re jealous that I keep rolling out new tricks.”
Rohan snorted, reaching for a napkin that he used to meticulously wipe off his hands. Fine. Maybe my magic was kind of weird, being variations on a theme rather than one ability gained all at once. But considering that all the other Rasha had ages to understand magic and what would happen when they came into their powers, and I was just mastering it on the go, I was acing the catch-up.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter_Crave Page 3
