The Unlikeable Demon Hunter_Crave

by Deborah Wilde

  The grizzled cook flipped pancakes. “Help you?”

  Rohan marched up to the counter. “We’re supposed to meet Aida.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “When’s she back?” I asked.

  He shrugged, scraping some black grease off the edge of his metal spatula, and not bothering to look at me.

  I rapped on the laminate counter. “I asked you a question.”

  It wasn’t so much the tone of my voice when I spoke as the fact that he saw the crescent-shaped birthmark on my cheek that made him jump to attention. Painted-on, but he didn’t know that. If wreta didn’t enthrall you with their secretion, they enjoyed a good intimidation. I was counting on him having experienced the latter firsthand.

  “She’s not coming back. Told me last night she was wrapping things up and leaving.”

  “Where to?” Rohan said.

  “No clue.” He wiped his hands on his grimy apron.

  I strode around the counter and the cook shrank back against the grill. “Got a home address for her?”

  One of the men glanced our way but the customers were more interested in shoveling food into their mouths than being good Samaritans.

  The cook held the spatula out against me like a shield and shook his head. “No clue. I swear.”

  We patrolled bustling downtown thoroughfares, sketchy alleyways reeking of urine with men and women shooting up next to dumpsters, upscale clubs with ESL students from the numerous schools in the downtown core dancing in large groups, and those bars you only went to when you were already really drunk and couldn’t get in anywhere else. There was no sign of Aida.

  Or any other demon.

  “I refuse to believe that every demon in the city simultaneously took the night off.” The scarcity of evil spawn was troubling. There hadn’t even been any sign of those demons that flew at your face in a blur in the summer twilight that most people mistook for asshole wasps, who sucked seconds off your life as they zipped past. I seriously hated demons.

  I plodded along like the walking dead, my head woozy and my shoulders weighted down like a lead jacket, passing two dudes in Henleys, ripped jeans, and distressed buckle boots, who’d probably spent way too many hours playing Guitar Hero. They screamed drunken obscenities at each other, their faces inches apart, spittle flying, as a group of girls in miniskirts, arms thrown around their crying, raccoon-eyed friend, weighed in on the relative assholery of one of the men.

  Watching the heartbroken girl, sobs wracking her slender frame, was physically painful. I reached for Rohan’s hand.

  The guy on the right stumbled back, his hands outstretched to the crying girl, his expression pleading as he told he loved her.

  She dashed away her tears with short angry jabs. “You love the idea of me.”

  Rohan squeezed my fingers; I’d let go of him.

  The couple held a look that bore no sign of recrimination from either of them, just tragic acknowledgment of an ending. My heart twisted; a black-and-white bad guy would have made this easier.

  He half-raised his hand in a wave. The girl nodded, and her friends sprung into motion, ushering her away and leaving him alone in the middle of the street.

  Rohan pulled me tight against him as we turned off the bright lights and noisy crush of the Granville strip. “Let’s not ever be them, okay?” He blinked too slowly, bleary-eyed and unshaven. “Nava?”

  I slid my arm around his waist matching my strides to his. “Of course not.” I looked up at him. “Want to call it a night?”

  “Yeah.”

  We blasted the A/C and I made Ro sing along to my dad’s favorite shitty soft rock station to prove he was still awake while driving. After the third 70s power ballad about imploding love, I changed it to talk radio and feigned a deep interest in the state of toll bridges here in the Lower Mainland.

  Back at the mansion, I flung my clothes off and collapsed into Rohan’s bed. This was my second night of a lack of sleep and I hadn’t had the energy to climb my stairs. The boyfriend had refused my reasonable request to carry me, so his bed it was.

  I stared up at the ceiling, hating this entire day. “You think Rabbi Abrams still likes me?”

  “Yes.” Rohan turned off the lamp, moonlight streaming in through his blinds. He motioned for me to turn on to my side, then spooned me. “He won’t sic the Brotherhood on you.”

  Ro shifted to let me stuff my feet between his legs and I twisted my hair up tight so it didn’t attack him.

  I pulled his arm across me. “I know none of what’s happened is my fault, but it’s all blowing open because of me.” I sighed. “He’s not answering my calls.”

  “Mine either. But he needed to know.”

  “And if he didn’t, it’s too late now.” I rubbed my eyes, taking the edge off the curl of fatigue that clawed behind my eyeballs. Tossing and turning, I sank into a sweaty sleep.

  I woke up an hour later by myself in a cold bed. The thin red file folder on Rohan’s dresser with the little bit of information he’d amassed on Ferdinand Alves was gone. I threw my “Karma is like 69. You get what you give.” T-shirt on over boyshorts and crept through the house towards the voices filtering out from the library.

  I peered in at Kane and Rohan from the safety of the shadows by the door. Through Kane’s pink mesh tank top, I glimpsed the black wings tattooed on his back, though not their flame-licked tips or the scorched feathers fallen to the base of his spine.

  Rohan twisted the folder. “His print was on that damn spine. There’s got to be something we can follow up. Look again.”

  I winced. Wrong tone, Snowflake. Ro knew better. He was a performer; he could read his audience no problem.

  Kane planted his hands on his denim-clad hips. “I have looked. Date of birth and current status listed as deceased. There was a list of his missions and all the chapter houses Alves was assigned to, with Los Angeles as the one on record for the past year. Standard info. That’s it.”

  “Impossible. I’ve never heard of him. It’s a lie.”

  “Then it’s a lie. Look, I’m sweaty, tired, and this pink body glitter itches. So–”

  “Sure. Wash off. Sleep. Don’t let some Rasha’s betrayal interfere with you fucking your way through every guy in Vancouver.”

  The scent of salt that flooded the air was so strong that my eyes watered. Kane’s skin turned iridescent purple, coated with his magic poison. “Come again?”

  Rohan stepped back. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, man. I just–fuck.”

  I pressed against the wall, letting the shadows cover me as Rohan blew past, headed downstairs. He was bound for the Vault to blow off steam. Again.

  I crawled back into bed but sleep was a long time coming.

  Waking up Sunday morning was a painful experience. I stomped into the kitchen, prepared to snarl at anyone that got between me and coffee. I flung open a cupboard, grabbed a mug, and did a double take.

  The paintbrush on the counter was back to its original color.

  “I’m guessing you heard our little chat?” Kane braced his hands at the top of the door-frame, leaning into the kitchen. His lime green pajama bottoms slid a tantalizing smidge down his hip and his bare chest showed off his perfect six-pack and the barbell jewelry in each nipple. His spiky hair was a bed-headed snarl. “Stop objectifying me. It’ll only depress you that you can’t have any of my magnificence.” He slapped his rock-hard abs.

  I mustered up a weak smile, worried that my relationship with Kane had been damaged by Rohan being a jerk. “About last night. I’m–”

  Kane plucked my empty mug out of my hands, effectively shutting me up. “Ro’s his own person. Just because you’re dating doesn’t mean you have to apologize for him. You’re not responsible for him.” He poured himself coffee.

  Wasn’t that what happened when you were in a couple? You apologized for the other person? Or had that just been me for my ex, Cole, especially near the end? I had all of one whopping teen relationship to draw on, an
d given how strong a personality Ro was and where we were in our lives, it wasn’t much of a guide. “I’m not sure how responsible he is for himself right now.”

  Kane took a stupid long time hogging the sugar. “He’s hyper-sensitive about anyone failing him. Don’t care. We’ve all got our hot buttons. He doesn’t have to keep repeating the same script.”

  Mature me did not point out his hypocrisy as he went into week three of not speaking to my brother. Besides, antagonizing him wasn’t going to get me the sugar any faster. I dumped a splash of milk in my coffee, then stood pressed up against him until he got annoyed enough to hand the green-glazed sugar jug over.

  I finally got that first delicious taste of caffeine, picked up the paintbrush, and ruffled my thumb through the bristles.

  “What’s so fascinating, babyslay?”

  “Last night this paintbrush was blue.”

  “Blue how?” Kane snagged a banana out of the bowl on the counter and unpeeled it.

  “Signature spell.”

  “It should still be blue.” He swallowed about half in one bite while I limited my inappropriate thoughts to a scant dozen or so.

  I sipped my coffee. “You’d think.”

  Ari walked in, already dressed in black on black. Shocking. “Morning, Nee.” His eyes flicked over Kane’s chest for the barest second.

  Kane didn’t react. Or greet him. But his eyes lingered on my twin.

  Sexual tension and simmering frustration, not a combo I ever wanted to experience again.

  “Good morning, Ace.” I poked Kane in the hip. He swatted my hand away.

  Ari swiped my coffee away, took a sip, grimaced, and shoved it back into my hands.

  I shook sloshing java off my fingers. “I was enjoying that.”

  “No, you weren’t. You get a new paintbrush?”

  “Nope. Wait here. I want to see something.” Making a big show of clutching my coffee to my chest, I retrieved the last of the Sweet Tooth from my bedroom and brought it back to the kitchen.

  I slapped the vial into Ari’s hand. “Check it out. It’s not pink anymore.” No more crystals either, just a fine white powder.

  “I see that.” He inspected it. “Looks like corn starch.”

  Kane slow-clapped him.

  I muscled in between them. “Quit being assholes. You guys have to keep each other alive in a couple days.” I dipped the tip of my pinky into the powder and licked my finger. “Corn starch it is. Whatever magic element was combined with it to make the Sweet Tooth is gone.”

  Kane held the vial up to the light. “If the magic has a short shelf life, that makes this stuff more valuable. Limited supply.”

  “He’s right. Oh, shut up,” Ari said at Kane’s gloat.

  “Gawd,” I muttered. I snagged a croissant from the bag on the counter and went in search of Rohan.

  He’d set up shop in the library and dragged the whiteboard upstairs from the conference room. On it he’d scrawled a list of demons with any type of toxin or hallucinogen. His cramped writing covered the board.

  Rohan was sprawled on one of the sofas grouped near the fireplace. Big chunks of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases were empty, with half-open books strewn over chairs, the long table that ran along the window, and the Persian carpet. “It’s the list that won’t quit,” he groused.

  He read my “Karma is like 69” T-shirt and laughed, resting his head back against the top of the sofa. “A joke for every occasion.”

  “I’m a regular walking comedienne,” I said waspishly. Snarky comments were the last thing I needed from him right now.

  “You are. You’re always ready to laugh shit off. I need that.”

  Oh. He wasn’t being sarcastic. I plopped down next to him, resting my head on his shoulder as I perused the database entry on his laptop. Lavellan: a poisonous water shrew.

  “Fun new development.” I told him about the evaporating magic. “Could that help knock some spawn off the list?”

  “Not sure. I doubt anyone did tests on how long any of these poisons last.”

  “Because they’d rather kill the demons producing the poison than study them.”

  “Even so.” Rohan settled a pillow behind his back. “How short is this shelf life? A day? A month?”

  I pulled the laptop over. “Let’s hope that Aida hasn’t skipped town.”

  “At least we know wreta demons aren’t responsible for Sweet Tooth.” Wretas needed to be present for their drug to be consumed. The user generally sucked the secretion straight off the demon, though they could just fling prismatic drops at you to get you hooked if so inclined. It was possible that the demons had found a way to anchor their secretion in corn starch, but Sweet Tooth didn’t behave the way the wreta’s hallucinatory bliss did. Wreta secretions were powerfully addictive–Christina couldn’t have done it a couple of times and walked away. She’d have been emaciated, sucked dry, seen her hair fall out, and also be most likely dead now.

  My fingers flew over the keyboard. Our lunch detritus ended up shoved to one end of the library table, and I took the occasional pull of the bottle of Coke at my elbow despite it having gone flat, warm, and gross about an hour ago.

  Our digging did yield a few notable facts about wretas: they tended to live in groups and if they didn’t secrete on a regular basis, they stank like a noxious sewer. This resulted in them living close to waste-producing industries.

  “Got something like that in Vancouver?” Rohan asked.

  “We do actually. There’s this slice of land down by the water on the east side. Houses both a chicken rendering plant and a waste reduction plant. When the wind blows the wrong way?” I plugged my nose. It smelled like Satan’s sweaty sneakers and death.

  I opened Google Maps.

  Rohan peered over my shoulder. “Look for places with lots of bamboo planted.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re excellent for filtering out formaldehyde, which is a byproduct the wreta produce. And they grow tall, allowing for privacy.”

  It was extremely slow going but we eventually narrowed down the possibilities to a handful of places. It took a bit of finagling to get the equipment we needed without Ms. Clara here to facilitate everything for us, but she worked her magic from Jerusalem.

  The first address we went to had been demolished since its Google Maps images had been taken and the second was home to a sweet old Italian man who shared large juicy cherries right off his tree with us.

  The third house had freshly-painted cream trim and stained-glass windows. We drove around back. The man wearing thick garden gloves to protect himself from the salt boxes he was stuffing into the trash aroused our suspicions; the crescent-shaped birthmark on his cheek confirmed them. The wreta didn’t pay any attention to the white van with the pest control logo on the side that slowly cruised by.

  We added gloves and face masks with respiratory filters to our yellow chemical suits, piled out of the van and entered through the back gate.

  The demon was crouched chanting on the lawn next to a salt circle that ran the perimeter of the fence and continued around the side of the house. He paused at our approach. Big mistake.

  “Where’s Aida?” Rohan growled, stabbing the wreta’s shoulder with his finger blades. The blades should have cut through the protective gloves. But that was a part of Rohan’s magic: all of the knives without any of the clothing loss. Much to my dismay.

  The demon froze. His body ran slick with his secretion, drops slashing everywhere. We would have been tripping balls if not for these handy dandy protective chemical suits.

  When his drug failed to take us out, he burst into a flurry of fists and kicks, wrenching himself loose. I tackled the wreta, but he fought hard, demanding we let him finish the ward. It took both of us to pin him in place.

  I elbowed the demon in the face. “Aida. Where is she?”

  This just set him off again, thrashing and going on about the stupid ward and how it was coming.

  “What’s coming?” I said.


  The wreta’s panic escalated into full-blown hysteria. He grabbed Rohan’s hand, using Ro’s index finger blade to slice his own wrist open. Rohan rolled the demon sideways before any blood could hit the salt line and set the ward.

  We didn’t know what the ward was meant to do, and we couldn’t be caught in unknown magic, but part of me was certain we’d regret our decision to leave the property exposed.

  Rohan leaned his weight on the demon. “Where’s Candyman?”

  “Answer him.” I kicked away part of the salt ward line.

  The wreta stared helplessly at it, then grabbed Ro’s finger and rammed it into his eyeball. His kill spot. He disappeared, dead, leaving only an oily puddle that seeped into the dirt.

  Rohan punched the ground, his expression a feral snarl.

  “‘Choose death’ isn’t a popular slogan in the demon lexicon.” I nervously scanned the backyard. “What the fuck is coming?”

  Rohan put a finger to his lips and motioned to the back porch. We crept up the stairs and I eased open the kitchen door.

  A scuffed navy backpack filled with cash sat on the kitchen counter next to a cell phone with no security code on it. Gotta love demon arrogance. There was no one listed in the contacts, and no data plan to check the browser history, but we found a text chain about some kind of drop in two days’ time, along with a time and place. I tried calling that number but it was disconnected.

  I tossed the phone into the backpack and tiptoed down the hallway, grateful that the shag carpet muffled the tread of our heavy work boots. I hit the living room doorway and recoiled, the reek of hot copper and rotting meat thick even through my respiratory filter.

  I’d stopped so suddenly that Rohan slammed into my back and I had to grab the doorframe to stop myself from stumbling inside the room.

  The floor was slick with blood. Demon viscera glistened under the LED overhead lamp.

  Two wreta sat there, unmoving. Or well, one sat there, oblivious to the puddle of piss at his feet. The other one had been ripped apart like a chicken carcass and what was left of the five and a half foot demon was being funneled into a giant gaping maw.

  The demon eating the wreta had an amorphous blobby body with skin like an oil spill, and a smaller egg-shaped head that brushed the nine-foot-ceiling. The head was featureless except for that mouth which took up most of the real estate, a massive pit sucking back its victim.