The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 (Nava Katz Box Set)

by Deborah Wilde

  It got me thinking about pinball, which morphed into the image of poor Rohan being batted around by giant flippers of fame. “It’s like you were a pinball.” I flicked my left hand like a pinball flipper. “Bam. Paparazzi.” I flicked my right. “Bam. Managers.”

  “Bing! Full tilt. Fans,” Rohan chimed in.

  “Exactly.” I wiggled my toes. What other profound insights might moving various body parts bring?

  Rohan reached up to pluck a low hanging leaf, rubbing it between his fingers. “The need to keep racking up points, to stay in the game becomes addictive. But the machine isn’t sentimental. If you fall down the hole out of play, it’s got another ball ready to take your place. It did a number on me and I fucked up.” His eyes grew distant and haunted as he added softly, “Big time.”

  Before I could ask what he meant, he reached inside his inner jacket pocket and removed a small, disc-like container. Twisting the clear plastic cover, he shook out a few candy-colored rice grains and popped them in his mouth. “Coated fennel seeds. Want some?”

  A burst of licorice hit my tongue when I crunched into them. I held out my hand for a few more.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Above me, a massive dark raincloud menaced. That wet electric smell had gotten sharper. It was still muggy though, and I was stoned and comfortable under the canopy of leaves so I didn’t bother moving.

  I glanced at Rohan who still seemed lost in painful memories. I decided not to probe. “You sound remarkably well-adjusted now.” I brushed the wreckage of the leaf he’d shredded off of his thigh. “Or not.”

  Rohan gave a wry laugh. “This is definitely the well-adjusted version. You should have seen me even a year ago.”

  “Fucking everything that moved?” I asked, cursing myself for putting images into my very visual brain.

  “More like fighting.”

  “Hence your impressive kill record.”

  “What about you?” he asked.

  I laughed, shaking my head.

  “What?”

  I repositioned myself, sitting sideways on the bench, my legs tucked up alongside me. “You get this is surreal, right? Sitting here getting stoned with Rohan Mitra while he asks about me?”

  He preened. “Your teen fantasy made real. You’re overwhelmed.”

  I shoved his shoulder. He didn’t budge, but when he nudged me back, I jostled sideways. Such strength. Bet he could pin me down.

  “There’s not much to tell.” I curled my fingers under the bench to grip it.

  Rohan extended the blades on his right hand, bringing them up to eye-level with a waggle. “Ve hav vays of making you talk,” he said in a horrible German accent. The blades disappeared. “I know you didn’t spring fully formed. You’d have been nicer.” He jabbed my side. “Tell me. Ari was the initiate, you were the what?”

  I rubbed my arms.

  Rohan shrugged off his jacket and draped it over my shoulder, shaking his head at me when I tried to protest.

  Feebly.

  What can I say? The thing was soft as butter and smelled like him.

  “I was going to dance,” I said.

  “Like around a pole?” I shot him the finger at the giggle that escaped him.

  “Like Heather Cornell, Chloe Arnold, Dormeshia Sumbry-Edwards, Lady Di Walker, you asshole. None of whom are Shirley Temple and all of whom are amazing tap dancers.”

  He held up his hands. “Sorry. So that was your dream?”

  I brushed my cheek against the collar, pretending to be scratching my jaw with my shoulder, snuggling into his residual warmth, and letting myself be enveloped in a Rohan cocoon. “Yeah. When I was about three I saw this old Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire tap number. After that I insisted my dad fix my shoes to ‘make those noises,’ so he taped pennies to my slippers.” I smiled at the memory. “I refused to take them off. They enrolled me in my first class that fall.”

  “What was the highlight?” I checked to see if he was humoring me but he seemed genuinely interested.

  “The summer before grade eleven, I got accepted into a special program where I studied with master tappers and then performed at Lincoln Center. That was pretty fucking mind-blowing. Not sold out concert stadiums though,” I said, with a wry grin.

  “I never played Lincoln Center. I’m impressed. So, what happened?”

  I shrugged, not able to get into it right now. Damn stoner confessions never went anywhere good.

  Rohan didn’t press me. “Do you miss dancing?”

  “Like breathing,” I said in a thick voice.

  He slung an arm around my shoulder and curled me into him. Nooked into his arm like that, I felt protected. Snug.

  Home.

  Bad stoner thought. I disengaged from his hold. It was stupid but I missed the warmth of it. The protectiveness. “Do you miss it?”

  “Fame? Not even a bit.”

  “Singing. Your band.” I cocked my head to look at him. “Do they know you’re Rasha?”

  “Zack does. The other three were dicks. We’re not in contact anymore.”

  “And the singing?” No answer.

  He’d been a rock superstar and I didn’t understand how someone walked away from living the dream. Especially when I’d have given everything for it. “You can’t tell me of all people that you don’t miss something you cared so much about for such a long time.”

  He shrugged.

  “What about the music itself?” I said. “You say the rest of your band are jerks but you guys were together for a few years. There must have something good about the collaboration.”

  Rohan raised an eyebrow. “Still dwelling on the wrong members of the band, are you?”

  “You never know. I might want to revisit my fanfic.” I nudged his leg. “Come on. I’m talking shop with the great Rohan Mitra and you’re not gonna tell me?”

  He reached over me to pick up the pipe and lighter, sparking up with a flick of his thumb. I waited as he inhaled, watching him leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. He held the smoke in for so long, it had to be a stonewalling tactic. Finally, he exhaled, a long column of smoke that dissolved into the late night mist.

  “The writing, the jamming, was one of the best parts.” He gazed up at me through his lashes. “I mean performing is always tops, you know that.”

  I nodded sagely.

  “But sitting down with the guys and realizing I could put all the shitty things I was feeling, all the dreams I never thought I’d share with anyone, into words that I wanted to belt out to the world in this incredible music? Having my lyrics come alive for my audience?” He laughed, but it sounded too soft, deflated.

  “Sing for me,” I blurted out.

  “More teen fantasy?” he teased. “I don’t think you can handle intimate and interactive.”

  “Try me.” I swear I was still talking about his singing. Not my fault that that his lids lowered a fraction over his eyes with a look of simmering desire.

  I swallowed, desperately trying to get saliva into my very dry mouth.

  Honestly, I didn’t expect him to start. I sure as hell wasn’t prepared for it to be his first number one hit “Toccata and Fugue.” The song jolted me back to being thirteen, to the first time I’d heard it.

  It was a hot summer night. Leonie and I were slumped in the backseat of her older cousin’s beat-up Jetta that to us seemed like the greatest car in the world because it was owned by a teenager, not a parent. I remember resting my hand out the window and the hot wind rushing through my splayed fingers as we drove back from the beach. Our hair was a wet tangle of salty strands and the faint scent of coconut clung to our skin.

  Leo was pissing off her cousin, dusting the sand from her bare feet onto the backseat carpet. Then this song came on the stereo and a guy’s raspy voice singing a stream of consciousness love song overrode the bickering in the car.

  That voice unnerved and excited me, igniting this wildness that at that tender age, I didn’t know how to handle and couldn�
�t name. I’d strained against the seatbelt to push my face and shoulders up to the night air, like the breeze could make the restlessness subside. I don’t think I breathed until the song was over.

  I caught myself holding my breath the same way now. Rohan’s voice called that same wildness to the surface of my skin, dancing over me. His eyes never left mine as he sang the chorus of the girl with the lightning eyes and the boy with demons in his soul.

  My stomach plummeted. What the holy fuck were the chances of universe convergence that would make me, him, and those lyrics end up in the same place? It freaked me right out. I’d just learned of one destiny in the past couple days and him singing this song right here, right now, was calling into prophecy something that I wanted no part of.

  I’d give freely of my body. My heart was off-limits. Especially to a guy like him. Seriously. I’d take the demons.

  Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one unnerved. Rohan broke off midway through the second verse, looking like walls were closing in on him. He cleared his throat a couple of times as I stuffed my feet into my shoes, and grabbed my clutch.

  “Good thing my eyes are bluish-gray,” I joked. “We should get–” I didn’t even bother to finish. Just up and bolted along the sidewalk, ready to push anyone out of my way who tried to get between me, a taxi, and home.

  I spied the steady “on” light of a cab, waiting at a traffic light a couple of blocks away, and sped up, cutting through the playground to hit the street in time to flag it down.

  The ground shook as I passed the swings. I grabbed onto a chain, trying to keep my footing as a massive being winked into existence with a rumble of thunder. Nothing like a demon arrival to sober a girl up.

  14

  Rohan yanked me away from the swing set, shoving me behind him and blocking my body with his.

  “I got your message, Rasha,” the demon growled. “So delighted to see who killed my children.”

  Asmodeus. Oh, shit. Leo wasn’t supposed to have been this efficient. He wasn’t supposed to have found me until I was safely behind the chapter house wards. At least I had Rohan.

  “Message?” Given the cold, flat fury on his face, Snowflake would happily feed me to the demon himself.

  I rose onto tiptoe to see over Rohan’s shoulder. His body was taught with tension, which was unsurprising since Asmodeus was built somewhere between a tank and a small mountain range and boasted three heads: a bull, a ram, and an ogre. His chest was covered in hardened scales. Gulp.

  “Kill now, talk later,” I muttered.

  “If there’s anything left of you when I’m done,” Rohan murmured back.

  Blades snicked out to outline Rohan’s entire body, running up from his left ankle, along the outer edge of his leg and arm, over his head and down the other side. Plus the short wicked steel extending from his fingertips. His front and back were still vulnerable but he was pretty fucking intimidating glinting in the moonlight.

  Asmodeus sauntered forward, as if giving us puny humans time to marvel. I couldn’t see this creature inspiring anyone to lustful thought and deed because he was a ghastly fucker. Prime candidate for needing a glamour. Though it was interesting to see who his spawn took after, in a huh, would you look at that? way.

  I tossed my purse and Rohan’s jacket on a bench with trembling hands, visualized throwing my power switch to on, and stepped out from behind Rohan. “Good of you to reply in person.”

  Asmodeus stopped, not ten feet away, showing the first glimmer of interest since his arrival. Little clouds of dust swirled around his rooster feet. Then he laughed. At least, his ogre head did. “A female Rasha.”

  Oooh. Now the lust part made sense. Three boring words spoken in a dark, seductive voice and I’d gone sopping wet. Cuntessa was frantically dog paddling. I flicked my eyes to Rohan’s bulge. This was indeed an equal opportunity demon.

  Rohan glared at me but I took it as a bonding moment.

  “Where’s his sweet spot?” I asked, speaking low into Rohan’s ear.

  “No idea.” Officially fucked now. “Watch him fight,” Rohan said. “See if he shields any part of himself. That could be a clue.”

  Asmodeus prowled toward us. For each one of Asmodeus’ steps, Rohan forced me back two. I barely registered what he was doing, my attention fully focused on the demon.

  Asmodeus reached the swing set, but instead of batting the structure out of his way or sidestepping it, he ripped the thick metal chain right off the frame, tossing the entire swing aside onto the wood chip-covered ground. The disinterest with which he so casually desecrated a piece of kid’s playground equipment drove home that nothing was sacred where demons were concerned. They would show up anywhere, go after anyone.

  Right now, he was after me. I jumped back another step without any prompting from my bodyguard.

  “I could be persuaded to keep you as a plaything,” Asmodeus said. “I like new toys.”

  “Yeah, but there’d be this whole hook-up with your son between us. Best not.” I could barely hear myself speak over the crackle of my magic and the pounding of my heart.

  Reminding him of his son–and by extension, my role in his demise–was not the smartest move. A cruel smile spread across all three faces simultaneously. “It wasn’t up for debate,” Ogre head informed me, reaching one fleshy hand out.

  Rohan sprang into action, diving to the ground in a roll. With a sharp flick of his neck, he used the blade along the top of his head to slash the tendons of Asmodeus’ rooster feet.

  Black fluid gooshed out as the entire left side of Asmodeus’ body sagged like a landslide, but he didn’t die.

  Rohan sprang to his feet, then rushed the demon again.

  Asmodeus held up a hand, looking almost bored.

  Rohan stopped inches from the demon, lips parted, giving breathy gasps, like he was stuck on the verge of an orgasm.

  “Bring me the girl,” Asmodeus ordered. His eyes glowed as he caressed Rohan’s neck with his warty index finger.

  Rohan rubbed up against him like a cat. It was the new gold medal standard of creepy. Physical danger from demons was one thing, but I found the psychological threat of being compelled via voice command even more disturbing. Rohan marching toward me with jerky steps, uselessly fighting the demand, unnerved me more.

  I sprinted for the section of playground designed for older kids, crossing a small, arched bridge that traversed a blue river painted on the concrete, and swung myself up to the top of a plastic climbing structure. Grabbing the safety rail, I fired a forked blast of electricity at Rohan from my index finger. One day, I’d master this technique from all my fingers simultaneously and have a handy little arsenal going.

  It knocked into his right side with a sizzle, but didn’t deter him. Rohan came puppet-like, closer and closer, Asmodeus trailing, limping behind him–almost like a bored parent.

  Frantic, I scanned the area for some kind of projectile, but these stupid modern playgrounds were made for safety and all the plastic was nailed down tight. Next option. With a running jump, I leapt onto the fireman’s pole. In my head, I was super stripper personified as I swung my way down–legs out, core taut–around the pole to kick Rohan. To be fair, I was aiming for his chest, but my sweaty hands slid, knocking me off-balance.

  The thud as my foot collided with Rohan’s skull jarred me hard enough to rattle my teeth, so no surprise that it was enough to snap him out of his demon-induced spell.

  “Wanna not do his job for him?” Rohan bitched, knocking me to the ground as Asmodeus’ twisted ram’s horn slashed the air where my head had been.

  “That’s nothing like thank-you.” I scrambled to my feet.

  “You got that, did you?”

  We backed into the grassy field. “You want her?” Rohan asked the demon. “You gotta go through me.” I shivered at the menace in his voice.

  Asmodeus charged, fiendishly pointy horns thrust front and center.

  Rohan grabbed the closest horn before it could do any damage, using mom
entum to swing himself around. He was amazing to watch, all lethal elegance as he struck the demon with short, fierce blows. He swung his leg around in a brutal roundhouse kick, the blade along his thigh jamming into the neck of the ram’s head, lodging there. With a quick jerk of his hip, Rohan popped his leg free, slashing the ram neck in the process.

  Viscous goop gushed out in an arc as that head flopped forward onto the demon’s chest.

  My jaw dropped. “Whoa.” I defied anyone to say that move wasn’t hot.

  Rohan smirked at my reaction.

  I narrowed my eyes. No way did he get to have all the fun.

  Rohan jumped into my path to block me. “Hey, Dark Menace,” he said, “stay back.”

  I’d sidestepped him before the words finished leaving his mouth, intent on my target. I was still terrified, but then again, becoming blasé around demons would be at my peril. Watching Rohan use his entire body fighting Asmodeus had inspired me so I tried pulsing electric blasts in waves off my body. It was too clunky, depleting, and I didn’t yet have the range so I switched it up, flinging lightning balls at Asmodeus, rapid fire like a pitching machine set to eleven.

  Rohan grabbed my non-pitching arm, but I shook him off.

  Asmodeus lit up as my blue voltage covered him, his flesh smoking. “Is that all you can do?” His laughter boomed, echoing off the trees around us. The demon wasn’t shielding shit. He was fearless, taking everything we threw at him without batting an eye.

  Rohan swore and jumped back in the fray.

  Thunder ripped across the sky, crashing over us. My heart jumped into my throat, and as the skies opened up, my power went into overdrive as if in response to nature’s call. The rush was insane. My body tingled, like the explosion of energy inside me needed a way out through my skin. I reached for the electric moisture blanketing me. The rain ran over me in velvet rivulets, dancing over the magic pouring out through every pore.

  Everything took on a surreal, dreamy quality–even Asmodeus, swinging back and forth dodging our dual-sided assault. Despite his injuries, he fended us off pretty well, looking almost amused by the entire encounter. Demons were such dicks.