The room was a librarian’s wet dream, filled with every type of book on demons imaginable. Many of the books sported the same publisher’s imprint of the white letters BD against a black square. If you were going to keep demonic activity a secret, it made sense to have an in-house printer to keep a lid on how information was disseminated.
The library was woefully light on fiction, though. I kept hoping the Brotherhood would spring my own personal Giles on me, but sadly that had not yet come to pass. Buffy had lied big time about the perks of being chosen.
I dropped into a chair. “What’s this?” I pulled a highlighted folder over.
“It rules out all the types of demons that Samson isn’t,” Rohan said. “Either because that demon behavior doesn’t fit his M.O.–”
“Like lust,” I said, flipping the file open to peruse the columns of densely-typed demon species.
“Like lust,” Rohan agreed. “He’s not going to be a bottom feeder, like a vral either, acting on base drives.”
“Too high a level of intelligence,” Drio said.
“He’s a master manipulator,” I agreed. “He can glamour himself to look human as well.” I tapped the folder. “Does this list take that into account?”
Rohan seemed pleased I’d thought of it and even Drio nodded in acknowledgment. “It does.” Rohan looked around the library. “We’re still left with endless possibilities but ruling these types out helps.”
“A lot of things to investigate then.” I ticked the list off my fingers. “Name. Unique or a type.” As in a one-of-a-kind demon or part of a species. “The specifics and timeline of his master plan. Find someone willing to say word one against him.”
“That collective silence is a testament to his abilities,” Drio said. “Evelyn didn’t crack once.”
Evelyn had been Samson’s make-up artist. I’d suggested checking her out since actors spent so much time in make-up and she might have known something. Drio had outed her as a kumiho demon, suspected of using her illusionist abilities to help maintain Samson’s human appearance.
Since Samson was constantly in the public eye, and maintaining glamours took energy, his having someone to assist him had seemed a reasonable assumption. Even though Drio had given himself a lot of leeway to get answers out of her–he didn’t rape demons but he did love his torture–she didn’t succumb to his persuasive ways.
And to think that Mandelbutt had made me undergo a psych eval to determine my suitability as Rasha. The Hebrew word for wicked, “Rasha” more literally meant one who departs from the path and is lost. A reminder from David about how close we hunters were to darkness.
I eyed Drio. Some of us closer than others.
“Any sense that Samson is suspicious of her disappearance?” Rohan asked.
“No.” Drio swung his feet onto the one clear corner of the table. “According to his buddies, he’s pissed that ‘she’s pulled this shit yet again.’” He scanned a page in the file closest to him. “His new make-up artist checks out as human.”
“Hold on.” That wasn’t something you said about an underling you didn’t care lived or died. Maybe Leo was right and we Rasha had to cut the black-and-white thinking out. “What if Evelyn stayed silent because she was in love?”
Drio scoffed at the idea.
“Love is just as powerful as terror,” I told him. “Maybe more so.” Demons did love. Perhaps not as we did but something similar drove them. I’d learned that firsthand when Asmodeus came after me for killing two of his spawn. “‘This shit’ she’s pulling, getting mad at him about something and leaving? That sounds like jilted lover behavior.”
“Do we have any intel on Evelyn and Samson having been partnered up before now?” Rohan asked Drio. “Based on what little we have on him before he hit big in Hollywood?”
“No. But…” Drio tilted his head, studying me as if trying to recall something. “You had me ask her if Samson had spent time in France.”
“Yeah. In Versailles at the court of Louis XIV.” Louis had called himself the Sun King. Samson meant sun. Sun. King. The similarity was worth pursuing, especially since some demons lived long lives. “Louis wanted to take over the world. Samson could have gotten ideas from him and maybe the location was a clue to Samson’s demon identity.”
“Yeah, but the French.” He pointed at a green folder. “The stapled report.”
I glanced at Rohan who shrugged, but retrieved it from the file.
“Check out the second page,” Drio said.
I leaned over the table for a better look. It was Drio’s findings on his session with Evelyn. The relevant section was a detailed explanation of her possessions, including a locket with a French quote engraved on it that she’d worn around her neck. “On n’aime que ce qu’on ne possède pas tout entier,” Rohan read in a terrible French accent.
I giggled.
“It means–” Rohan looked for the translation.
We love only what we do not wholly possess, I thought.
“‘We only love what we don’t fully possess,’” Drio said. “Could sum up their relationship.”
“We done?” I asked. “I want to go over this list.”
Rohan handed over a printout of my travel details. “I’m on an earlier flight than you two. Your plane lands Thursday morning Prague time, so I want you in the hotel lobby by 2PM. I’ll have Samson there so you can meet him.”
“Got it.” Scooping up the photos and some files, I retired to my room to figure out my plan of attack since the only thing I agreed with them on about me playing groupie was the bait part.
I spent the next couple of hours watching every video online of Samson that I could find. Didn’t matter if it was formal interviews, award-show sound bytes, or party footage, I studied it all to see how he handled himself and who he surrounded himself with.
I rearranged the pillows behind my back, sitting against my headboard with my legs stretched out, computer on my lap, scrolling through red carpet snaps and Instagram pics.
Drio had reached out to Samson’s posse long before Rohan agreed to do the theme song but they’d rebuffed all attempts to buddy up until learning of Drio’s own entourage pedigree, prompting Drio to dub them starfuckers. He could handle them just fine. It was the women that Samson kept company with who were of interest to me. I flipped between windows at the various stills frozen there.
Two things were abundantly clear. One, he was not picking his companions for their scintillating conversation, since he didn’t seem to let his dates speak. Every single one of them, from famous swimsuit models to porn stars, always clad in short, tight dresses, mutely let themselves be led around.
This led to the second revelation which was they all possessed a status that I lacked. Drio could tart me up all he wanted, but D-list strumpet wasn’t going to cut it. Sadly, there was no way to fabricate any kind of fame for me. Not at this late date.
I’d have to catch Samson’s interest another way.
It brought me back to that quote on Evelyn’s locket. After Googling it, I learned it was attributed to Marcel Proust, which didn’t help any. But the idea kept looping back through my head like a song on repeat. We love only what we do not wholly possess.
Samson worked in envy the way Michelangelo worked in marble. Was it possible to catch his interest through my utter disinterest? Not to make him love me, but to want me? Want to impress me? Physical type aside, he seemed to go for women who didn’t present any type of challenge. Hot arm-candy. Not to dismiss the intelligence of his dates, but chances were, when these women were with Samson, they kept pithy insights and witty repartee to a minimum. They knew their role, lesser lights revolving around Samson’s bright sun.
Only he was allowed to be the center of the universe with everyone–dates, posse, and general public–being pulled into his gravitational orbit. I expected overt evil from a demon, but Samson wasn’t forcing anyone to buy into what he was selling or do his bidding. Merely presenting himself as the de facto pinnacle to aspir
e to, then exploiting our all-too-mortal weaknesses for his own gain.
I pulled my blanket around my shoulders.
Right or wrong, people worshipped celebrities and would do anything to be like them. Knowing this, Samson was letting us do all the heavy lifting. Simply giving us a final nudge into the misery necessary to achieve whatever his big picture goal was. Shades of gray brilliance.
Though whether that made him a demon or a psychopath remained to be seen.
I stared at his grinning mug on my laptop. “If you’re getting everything you ever wanted, Samson, then how do I make you want me? How do I become your own personal challenge to conquer?”
Evelyn had been sexy. She’d been flat-out beautiful. Smart too, I’d bet. She had a Proust quote around her neck, not a pop lyric. Had her intelligence been a turn-off? That would rule out the sexy librarian look. I searched online but couldn’t find any photos of the two of them together to determine body language.
My stomach growled, interrupting my investigation. I stretched out my neck and shoulders deciding this was as good a time as any to take a break and headed downstairs into the kitchen to make dinner. Buttered toast and a glass of juice coming right up.
I drummed my fingers on the dark granite countertop waiting for the toast to pop. When it did, I flipped each piece over to examine them, before turning them back over once more.
“Whatever are you doing?” Rohan pulled a bag of pre-cut veggies out of the industrial-sized, stainless steel fridge in the wall of white cabinets.
“Checking for the right-side-up,” I said.
“On bread?”
I flipped the piece over for him in show-and-tell fashion. “When you slice bread, that results in a right-side-up and wrong-side-up. Like wood grains. It’s important to butter the toast on the correct side.”
“Or what? Solar eclipse? Tides out of whack?”
“General fuckery ensues. You can’t be eating upside-down bread, Snowflake.” I munched on my toast, watching as he chopped up garlic and ginger then fried them up in a pan. “How come you don’t just use your own blades to cut the stuff?”
“Because my blades are weapons, not cutlery.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry.” My stomach growled again. “That smells good.”
Rohan pulled out a bunch of dried spices from a cupboard. “It’ll taste good, too.”
He handled the chopping knife with ease and I drank in his relaxed stance with just a frisson of danger in how fast he used the blade. Stubble scruffed along his jaw, and the shadows on his face shifted as he took a sip of wine. It was a good look for him. The look of a guy cooking his date dinner. Satisfying her before he satisfied her.
I dropped my toast on the plate, its taste suddenly lacking. Picking up the wine bottle, I grabbed an empty juice glass and sloshed the liquid in.
Rohan closed his eyes briefly in pain.
“Do we have any photos of Evelyn and Samson together?” The spicy wine hit my palette and went down real smooth. All righty. Liquid dinner it was.
“Yeah. In the red folder in the library. Why?”
“Evelyn possessed a different beauty than the women Samson surrounded himself with, but she’d also been a part of his life for longer than anyone else we could find. I want to know if her feelings were reciprocated, let alone if my love theory is even correct.”
“What we have won’t help you. They’re mostly set photos documenting them working together.”
“Damn. Still, I’ll check them out.” I poured more wine. “Drio might have a point about not talking. Or rather, not appearing too smart in front of Samson.”
“That’s a safe assumption.” Rohan plated the veggies, going back to the fridge for one final item.
“Cilantro? It doesn’t need it,” I said through a forkful of stir fry.
Rohan lunged for me, wrestling the fork away. “Make your own dinner.”
“But yours is so–” I squealed. “No tickling!” Of course that just amped him up further. Silly boy didn’t realize that I’d had years of practice suppressing my laughter in such situations, thanks to Ari’s merciless tickle torture. Half-bent over, I bit down on my lip, grateful that Rohan attacked from behind and couldn’t see my strained expression. “Doesn’t even affect me.”
“You’re a dirty liar,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around me and kissing my neck.
I dropped the square ceramic plate on the counter. “More a dirty exaggerator.” I tried–and failed–to suppress the shiver that racked my body at the touch of his lips under my ear. I turned in his arms, smoothing the pulse beating in his throat with my finger. Feeling the smooth, soft patch right under the rasp of his jaw-line stubble, like a secret that only I knew. “Wanna really exert yourself over me?”
He pressed his forehead against mine. “I have to go to the studio. Put in some song time.”
“It’s okay.” I patted his cheek as he released me. “Will you be working late?”
“Probably.” His regret was genuine.
I picked up my wine, heading for the library and the photos of Evelyn when Rohan pressed the plate of stir fry into my hands. “Eat, Lolita.”
I smiled, then gasped. Lolita. That was it. I raced off with my food, the pieces of my plan falling into place.
4
Best teacher I’ve ever had, but make one dumb mistake and she’ll eviscerate you, wrote a commenter on ratemyprofessor.com. I scrolled through the other comments for Dr. Gelman and found similar sentiments. Her academic page at Ben Gurion University in Be’er-Sheva, Israel was populated with lists and lists of her articles on climate change, and her photo showed a woman in her mid-sixties with leathery olive skin, white streaking her black hair, and a no-nonsense expression.
I liked her already.
The rest of my day included last-minute trips to the mall and my parents’ place to raid my closet for some Samson-attracting clothes, memorizing the list of demons and their various known traits to the best of my ability, then obsessively checking to see if the scientist had replied to my meeting request.
She hadn’t, so I decided to call Leo. My bestie answered the phone sounding more subdued than usual.
“Oh, no. Did your date with the soulful poet go badly?”
Leo gagged. “He had more estrogen than my last girlfriend. I can’t be around guys who make me lactate.”
“Sorry, pumpkin. Better luck next time.”
“There’s got to be a group of hot guys who are smart and funny.”
“There is.” I sorted through my underwear, putting the pairs coming with me into a pile. “They’re all sleeping with other guys.”
Leo sighed. “I should have been born a gay man.”
“Yeah, but then I’d never have a shot with you.”
“I like that you dream big. Okay,” she said, sounding more cheerful, “gotta go play Switzerland and help broker a transaction between two clients.” I didn’t bother asking for details, even though I itched to go crash that party. Leo worked part-time as a P.I. with demon clientele. She used much of the info she gathered for good, being an informant to the Brotherhood, much like the Brotherhood used its David Security International front to gain access to high-powered players and secrets that otherwise might elude us.
I tossed my empty suitcase onto my bed. “Good luck and watch your back. I’m off to Prague tomorrow morning.”
“That oughta be interesting.”
“You have no idea.” I filled her in on my hope that I’d soon have a way to get Ari inducted as Rasha. “Can you stay in touch with him while I’m gone? Maybe go out together?”
“Of course.” I heard her car door slam. “So long as dickhead doesn’t accompany us.”
I tried a couple of combinations on the built-in lock before I got the sequence right and the suitcase fell open. “Dickhead is Ari’s personal bodyguard right now so please be nice.”
Kane and Leo had met while the Nava-guarding Rasha boys were suffering from demon-compelled memory loss about
my existence. Had we any Men in Black memory-erasing tech, they’d have used it on Leo. But occasionally people did find out about us and it’s not like the Brotherhood made them disappear. I didn’t think. If they learned about Leo’s half-goblin status though? They’d dust her in a heartbeat. It would be my death warrant, too.
Rohan was the one Rasha who knew the truth about Leo, and he was leaving her alone. For that, I’d be forever grateful.
“Gotta book,” she said. “Schmugs.”
“Schmugs,” I replied. My chest got warm and gooey at her matter-of-fact usage of our good-bye, shortened from “Hugs, schmugs.” Having Leo back in my life meant everything to me.
Packing took no time at all. I propped my suitcase by the door, casting around for something to distract me, too restless to sleep right now. Grabbing my phone, I scrolled through my music, then set it in my blue and silver bedside speaker dock. After my Achilles tendon snapped in high school on the verge of achieving my dream of tapping professionally, I’d quit dancing. Cold turkey, locked down that part of myself. It had taken becoming Rasha, and more specifically talking with Rohan about his own creative experiences to realize how miserable I’d been without tap in my life.
Kneeling on my fluffy area rug, I rummaged under my bed for the tap shoes that Rohan had brought over from my parents’ house as a surprise. A gesture that I didn’t want to examine too closely. Sliding my feet in, the worn soles fitting me like a second skin, I hit play. I could have chosen anything to dance to; old swing, modern jazz, pop, even salsa music worked, but right now I wanted Rohan.
Phrasing.
Snowflake’s raspy growl filled the room, singing the lyrics of his first hit, “Toccata and Fugue.” A stream of consciousness love song, it never failed to fill me with a wild recklessness, an electric flow dancing over my skin that had nothing to do with my newly acquired magic. I tried to stay in the present and not the memory of Rohan singing these lyrics to me in a park late at night a few weeks ago.
The girl with the lightning eyes and the boy with demons in his soul.
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 (Nava Katz Box Set) Page 32
