This was the type of envy-inducing humiliation King foisted on contestants on his reality show Live Like A King. All for the dubious honor of winning a position in his entourage. Bad enough contestants so willingly debased themselves, Rohan and Drio had tracked players and crew and found that they were exceedingly accident-prone. Fatally so.
“Samson mentored Louis,” Rohan said. “We’ve been assuming the wrong way round.”
Drio was already looking something up. “Louis chose the sun as his emblem to cultivate the image of an omniscient and infallible sun-king around whom the entire realm orbited. I’d say this is more than a potential link.”
“I don’t know if he tried this with any other empire builders.” I unscrewed the water bottle cap. “Napoleon or Genghis Khan or Hannibal or whoever.” The cold liquid eased the dryness in my throat.
“That brings us back to who Samson actually is.” Drio typed as he spoke. “If Louis was his first attempt to control someone and be the power behind the throne, it might have taken him time to get strong enough to position himself.”
“Where’s he been since Hitler?” I asked.
“Defeat takes a toll,” Rohan said, peering over Drio’s shoulder at the screen, water bottle in hand, forgotten. “If Samson was behind the Nazi fascination with the occult, tying his own power to theirs, then the end of World War II would have been a huge blow. It might have taken him this long to bounce back.”
I shrugged. “He’s still not as strong as he once was if he went from partnering with Hitler to being an actor.”
Rohan sputtered a laugh as he drank.
“I wasn’t being funny.”
He wiped a hand across his mouth. “Do you understand how famous Samson is?”
“Yes,” I snapped.
He shook his head. “You don’t. Not really. You’ve never experienced it. That level of fame, you’re treated like a god. Anything, anyone you want?” He snapped his fingers. “Yours. There’s no door barred to you.”
“You’d know.”
“I didn’t want it,” Rohan said.
“What about tasting it again now?”
“I want it even less.”
“Even if it gets you your heart’s desire?” I asked softly.
Rohan hesitated, his eyes darting away from me for a fraction of a second before he answered. “World domination is not my heart’s desire.”
Slick avoidance of answering. “No. It’s not.” Lily was. Maybe I’d arrange for Poppy to meet the good physicist and let her see what she was really up against. I bricked up my sorrow, adding it to the pile of emotions I had no desire to examine or experience.
“There was one last thing I found,” I said. “The symbol of the Mesopotamian sun-god Shamash had four straight and four wavy rays. Louis’ has both, too. Could Samson be Mesopotamian?”
“Shamash was a god, not a demon. But that sun symbol was present in Babylonian and Assyrian cultures.” Drio chugged half his water back in one go.
“That might explain Samson’s preference for Semitic-looking women. Personal attraction stemming from point of origin,” I said.
“Bhenchod!” Rohan swore, grabbing the laptop away from Drio. The anticipation in the room was palpable as he looked something up. With a shout of victory, Rohan turned the screen around for us to see it.
“Adramelech,” I read. “Sun-demon. Is Adramelech his name or his type?”
“Name,” Rohan said. “As a sun-demon, he’s a Unique.” He frowned. “Which means the Brotherhood may not have info on his kill spot. I’ll get on that.”
Drio leaned back in his chair, nodding. “Babylonian. Nasty bastard. Known for his ambition. Maybe the fact he got burned with politics is influencing his choices now. Like initially he meant to draw power from these charismatic figureheads. When it failed with Louis, Samson tried again with Hitler. Another fail and a new strategy needed.”
“Cross-platform.” I swirled the plastic bottle, watching the little eddy of water inside while filling them in on my suspicions around why Samson had founded the record label and management company. “Build up. Tear down. With all these available platforms only adding to his power. Social media crosses all national borders and language barriers. For the first time in history, he doesn’t require a military leader to allow him to rule the world. He can do it exactly as he is and do it with more reach than any of those rulers ever did. Celebrity trumps politics.”
“He’s the biggest star with the most reach,” Rohan said. “He’s in the perfect position to establish himself as an entertainment conglomerate and push his agenda indefinitely.” He nodded. “Good work.”
Generally his praise warmed me enough to push aside any bullshit between us, but not today. “To figuring it out,” I said, hoisting my bottle, and pushing aside my unhappiness.
“To destroying that bastard.” Drio clinked his bottle against mine. We looked at Rohan who didn’t join in.
“What’s wrong? We’ve got him,” I said.
“We’ve got a name that might be his,” Rohan corrected.
“Oh, you mean more conjecture?”
“You were right. Actually,” he amended, “I was right in the first place but I had an off day yesterday. No assuming anything until we do the ritual.”
“You mean we could still do the ritual and be wrong?”
“Yeah.” Rohan closed the laptop which had defaulted into my annoying screensaver of frogs plummeting to the ground. “Though I doubt it.”
Drio clapped Rohan on the back. “Playing it smart.” The smile he saved for torturing demons bloomed wide. “Then having fun playing.”
“Are you still planning to go to set on Tuesday?” Rohan asked.
Off my nod, Drio told me that once I got there, I should arrange a Wednesday meeting with the demon. “I’ll give you a time and place as soon as I’ve made all the arrangements for the ritual.”
“How will you get him away from the bodyguards?” I asked.
“We’ll take care of them. Piece of cake.”
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You’ll kill them?”
Drio looked at me like I’d been dropped on my head.
“Like murder is an unreasonable assumption with you.”
“They’re human,” he said. “We won’t hurt them.” He stood, stretching his arms over his head and causing his shirt to ride up, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of olive skin and six-pack. “I think a little subtle interrogation is in order today. In case we’ve missed anything.”
“Why get subtle now?” Rohan joked. “Amp up the fact finding. By any means necessary.”
Drio snapped off a salute, clearly happy to have free reign. “Ciao, ragazzi.” He grabbed his jacket and left.
I stuffed my laptop back into my bag.
Rohan rolled his neck out a couple of times. The corded muscles across his shoulder rippled with the movement. “Nava?”
“What?” I zipped up the bag.
He caught my hand, forcing me to turn toward him. “I’m sorry. There is no universe in which I think you’re furniture. I meant the role. And I appreciate you’re facing a double standard that sucks balls. That’s why I fought Mandelbaum to keep you.”
Rasha, rabbis, and Executive alike worshipped Rohan. Him going to bat for me was worth a lot. I focused on that and not the damage he’d done last night. “Accepted and appreciated.” I flicked the zipper. “I wish I didn’t need anyone to stick up for me.”
“I know.” He paused. “Anything else you wish?”
“If we weren’t committed Rasha doing whatever the mission demands, then that would be quite the loaded question.”
I’d made it to the second chorus of “I Will Survive” in my head before he answered. “Is that what we are?”
Now it was my turn to remain silent.
He rubbed a knuckle over his forehead.
“You look tired,” I said. He gave me a wan smile. “Do you want a massage?”
A teasing glint lit his eyes. “Are you t
rying to seduce me?”
“You looked… your neck… tense.” I blushed, stammering like an idiot.
“I’d love a massage. It’s only fair considering you put half of the knots there.” He sat down on the sofa.
Sitting beside him, I stretched out my hands in preparation. I’d given massages a million times with tap friends to work out leg cramps. I was a regular Florence Nightingale here, with the bonus of wiping all traces of Poppy and Lily off of him, branding my scent and my touch into his brain.
“Just a sec.” Rohan unbuttoned his shirt, letting it fall off his shoulders.
I swallowed, then warmed up his neck and shoulders, relaxing his muscles. Gradually I applied a deeper pressure on the upward strokes, making circular kneading motions over his entire upper back.
I focused on his tattoo as I worked on the tension in his neck and shoulders, latching on to the black ink as a safe harbor. I pressed the pad of my thumb into his clavicle and he sighed. Still using my thumbs, I applied sustained pressure to the muscles that rotated the shoulder.
His breathing slowed with every touch. In my hands, he became languid, pliant. It would be so easy to lean in and bite the nape of his neck. Let my fingers trail around his front, down the dusting of hair from his navel into his pants.
He’d probably be hard.
Hot.
Rohan groaned, the sound rolling through my hands into my very core. I crossed my legs against the desperate bolt of need that spiked through me. Yes, it would be so easy to turn this into something else, but my brain kept replaying the image of Poppy’s cat-like smile and those indentations in the carpet. The memory of him telling Lily he always loved her.
The nightmare of feeling summarily dismissed in every way imaginable last night.
Rohan jerked. “Ow. Careful.”
“Sorry.” I massaged him a moment longer then patted him between the shoulder blades.
He twisted around to face me. “Done?”
“Yup.”
He stretched. “Thanks.”
I picked up my bag. “Have a good day.” I yawned. “I need a nap.”
Rohan frowned. “Big plans?”
“Yeah.” Me and the TV. I placed a hand on his now-tense shoulder. “Hey, don’t undo all my good massaging.”
Are you jealous? Do I care? Fine questions that I had no answers to.
He stood up, regarding me for a long moment. Chin up, I met his gaze, ready to take on any lecture but all he said was, “Be careful.”
“Yup.” I almost asked him what he was up to, but I didn’t want to know. “Later, Snowflake.”
“Bye.”
I closed the door to his suite behind me, sagging against the door, my head bowed. Then I straightened my spine and headed downstairs to my room.
18
Monday morning, I hustled to go meet Dr. Gelman, banishing all Rohan Mitra thoughts from my mind. Today’s weather was more spring than winter. Walking briskly kept me warm, even with my jacket open. I followed the map on my phone to our meeting, eyeing the building in question. Several signs on the ground floor invited people in to a billiards hall, but it did say Café Louvre in giant red neon letters along the second story. Worst case scenario and the place was a dump, I’d grab breakfast from my new favorite bakery on the way back to the hotel.
I hit the second floor and found myself transported. La Belle Époque, indeed. It was an airy, thoroughly charming Parisian café. A long rectangular room, the space was painted salmon pink and cream with rococo plaster touches and ceiling medallions. A long bar ran most of the length.
“Wait until you actually eat something,” Dr. Gelman said. She braced a hand on the wall, winded from her climb to the second floor. Once she’d caught her breath, she noted today’s outfit in approval. “Better.”
With a final longing glance toward the pastry case, I followed her into the farthest reaches of the room. We sat down at a small wood table for two. The waitress handed us our menus and bustled off. There was a good selection of croissants and omelets, but I’d been promised pastry. I pointed back toward the case. “Which one should I have?”
“Go right for the treats, don’t you?”
“Always. I want no regrets. You never know when you might die.” I clapped a hand over my mouth, realizing that in her condition that might not have been the best thing to say.
“Don’t stress yourself, kid.”
The waitress came for our order. Dr. Gelman asked for an omelet for herself and the classic sacher for me. “A latte, please,” I added.
The scientist looked around the mostly empty restaurant, as if memorizing the few patrons’ faces.
“What’s wrong?”
“Probably nothing.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “You got the supplies?”
“Yes.” I reached for my purse to give them to her but she stopped me.
“Keep them. You’ll need them for the ritual.” She placed the cigarette in her mouth, coughing as she did.
“Really?”
She sighed, annoyed, but dropped the cancer stick on top of the pack.
“Thank you. How does the ritual work?”
“You know the story of the golem?” she asked.
“Clay monster. Rabbi brought it to life.” Even if I hadn’t vaguely known the tale, the story was set here in Prague. Half the tourist shops displayed books with covers to that effect in their windows.
The waitress deposited our lattes. I sucked my first sip back like a junkie getting her morning fix. Which, let’s face it, I was.
“Once the golem had been physically built,” Gelman said, “the rabbi needed to write the Hebrew letters aleph, mem, and tav on its forehead to bring it to life. They spelled ‘emet,’ meaning truth.”
I searched my brain for a long-buried memory of Jewish folklore told to me by my grandmother. “Didn’t they stop the golem by erasing the word?”
“Not the entire word. The aleph. It changed emet to met. Death.”
“I don’t want Ari to be erased or die.”
The waitress placed my sacher in front of me. A thick slab of chocolate cake. “You’re so pretty, face cake!” I clapped my hands.
Gelman and the waitress looked confused.
“It’s as big as my head,” I explained. “Thus deserving of the moniker.” The waitress shot me a weird look like she was wondering if my craziness might interfere with her tip. I beamed at her in reassurance. “Thank you.”
She didn’t look convinced and after telling us to let her know if we needed anything else, hustled away.
Dr. Gelman cut into her omelet. “Is your twin like you?”
“Not even a little bit. And yes, my parents were overjoyed by that fact. I see the look on your face.”
She chuckled.
I dug my fork into the dark rich chocolate, making sure to snag some of the ganache coating and the whipped cream piled high on the side.
Oh, sweet mother of fuckers. I almost wept at the taste. It was the nirvana of chocolate, the perfect sweetness, the perfect moistness, the perfect richness, and then to reward the eater further, the cake was shot through with raspberry. Literally the best pairing in the world.
I dabbed at my eyes. “I’m all verklempt.”
She smiled indulgently at me. “I’m glad you like it.”
I forced myself to put my fork down and savor this experience. “Ari?”
“The ritual involves invoking aleph mem tav, but it cannot be undone or erased. He’s in no danger from that.”
“Meaning there are other dangers.”
“There are always other dangers, Nava.” Her statement reminded me of something Rohan would say. To wipe away the bitter taste in my mouth, I took another bite, still determined not to fall on the cake like an animal.
“Does Rabbi Abrams know the details of this ritual?”
“No. Few do.”
Taking another careful look around the restaurant, she pulled something out of her purse. She pressed it into my hand, closing
my fingers around it. Paper crinkled over a hard center. She shook her head at me when I turned my hand up to examine what I’d been given.
I casually tucked the small package into my pocket.
Dr. Gelman buttered her toast. She kept a pleasant smile on her face, as if we were chatting about nothing of consequence, but her voice was low and insistent. “Why do you think you can’t take your Rasha ring off?”
I caved, needing another bite. “It’s part of the magic.”
She salted her eggs. “More than that. It’s a covenant between Rasha and Brotherhood that the hunter dedicates their life to the cause. The symbol of their willing servitude.”
“It sounds like handcuffs.” I frowned, tugging on my ring. “No one told me that.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if they did. You’re not given a choice. The Brotherhood is all about power wrapped up in a cause. The most dangerous sort of fanaticism with very lucrative rewards. They are determined to control every aspect. That’s why your existence upsets them so much.”
“Not everyone hates me.” I felt compelled to defend them. “Some of the Rasha would fight to protect me. Rabbi Abrams is on my side, too.” I hoped.
“He is. The fact he sent you to me proves it.”
“How so?”
“He hasn’t told the Brotherhood about Ari’s confirmed status yet, has he?” she said.
“No. And I’d wondered about that.” Ari had told me that Rabbi Abrams wanted his status kept under wraps until he figured out why re-running the ceremony hadn’t worked. “How did you know?”
Dr. Gelman took a pill case out of her bag, dumped a tiny white tablet into her hand and dry swallowed it. “The Brotherhood could induct Ari, but with their way your magic would be nullified.”
“Oh.” I dragged my finger through some ganache. “A month ago, I would have been first in line for that option.” Save Ari, ditch Nava. I wasn’t shocked, though it still was kind of sucky to hear it spoken aloud. I shrugged and licked the chocolate off.
“Your existence has upset the order they’ve worked centuries to create.” She scooped up some omelet. “If my ritual works, the Brotherhood can never know. They must believe that Rabbi Abrams performed the regular ceremony again. That he’d made a mistake with the ritual the previous time. These ceremonies require precision and other factors can interfere with magic. If, for example, your brother was feeling extreme emotion.”
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Sting (Nava Katz Book 2) Page 17
