Not a rope. A length of sweaty, matted hair. Laughter burst out of me like a hyena, wild and manic.
A hot raspy tongue licked up the side of my arm, cleaning away the blood, silencing me mid-chortle. I blasted the giant evil freak. Even if I killed it, I had no clue how I’d climb out of here, but one danger at a time.
The zmey hissed, a sharp pop of sulphur my one warning that I’d displeased it.
I flung a couple of bodies on top of me. Fire rolled over me, the poor corpses I’d pulled over my head barely keeping me from being toasted like a marshmallow. The heat was of an intensity beyond anything I’d ever experienced. I wriggled deeper down into the nest so my clothes wouldn’t melt against my skin. Or my skin melt right off. Even with my lids screwed tight, I’d swear my eyeballs were shriveling up in their sockets like raisins.
Dozens of dead people fingers poked at me, some with fleshy touches, others with boney jabs. My whimpers were audible even over the roar of the flames.
The fire stopped as quickly as it had started, leaving the only sounds my ragged breathing and the demon’s nasally snorts.
I pushed the bodies off me. They’d been so toasted that by this point, they were merely person-shaped piles of ash that fell apart, coating me. Popping my head up, I inhaled a lungful of hot foul air but as I did, my coat slipped off my waist. I fumbled for it, frantic, until I was able to snag a fistful of fabric and clutch it to my chest. It wasn’t a special coat, and I couldn’t say why the thought of losing it filled me with such panic.
How long was I trapped listening to the demon snacking away? A minute? An hour? Long enough for death to howl a lonely dirge in my head. I used to think my death would occur after a long life filled with dance. I wasn’t stupid enough to think tap would ever make me rich, but between the odd Broadway show, performing globally in festivals, and teaching, I’d be okay. More than that, I’d be happy. Living my dance dreams, I would have taken on the world and soared.
When all that came crashing down due to my torn Achilles, I imagined my death a lot then, too. Probably why, when I became Rasha, the fatality rate didn’t freak me out.
Even so, I’d allowed myself to believe that as a hunter, my death would occur in a moment of badass heroism. Hailed and heralded by fellow Rasha for all time, I’d gone so far as to create the perfect “Nava, You Irreplaceable You” playlist. I’d never imagined my death as the pointless end it now seemed fated to be with my disappearance proving a mystery and my body never being recovered. Coldness seeped into every inch of me. I couldn’t stop trembling.
I didn’t want to die alone in the dark.
Green light filled my vision, bright and shocking against the utter black as the zmey turned all six of its eyes my way. There was enough light from those gleaming peepers to see the puff of smoke from its nostril flare and the many sharp teeth as it opened its mouth, sucked in a breath and–
I fell onto a thick cream carpet.
It was super plush, so I relaxed on it for a second to catch my breath and decide if I was actually alive or in some afterlife waiting room. I blinked, the room swimming into focus. I lay between a bed and a chair with a tiny side table and standing lamp. A flat screen TV stood on a long table across from the bed. Best of all, there was no stone cavern and no demon.
As I struggled to sit up, an invisible force shoved me back onto the ground.
Whoops, spoke too soon.
8
I managed to get off one wild shot at my unseen assailant before my magic sputtered. I didn’t feel tapped out. Exhausted, broken, and in desperate need of electrolytes, sure, but my tank wasn’t totally empty. I tried to call up my power, but it bubbled up under my skin, and stayed there, trapped. My accelerated Rasha healing abilities may have been working on fixing my hips but they did nothing against this sensation that quickly turned from unpleasant to a torturous searing. Without anywhere to go, magic flooded my nerve endings. A scream tore from my throat and I thrashed against my invisible bindings.
A black shoe stepped into my field of vision. “You are Rasha? How?” I couldn’t see the speaker but it was a woman, albeit one with a raspy Israeli accent.
“Bite me, demon,” I ground out. Probably not ideal to taunt her, but my skin was starting to blister so my judgment was less than sound.
Dr. Gelman stepped into my field of vision. Gaunt, she’d lost a lot of weight since the photo I’d seen. Her sweater hung off her frame. “You think I’m a demon?”
I couldn’t answer her, too busy convulsing at her ongoing magic torture. A head-to-toe spasm racked me with such force that my body bucked off the ground before I bowed backwards, crashing back down head first. My eyes bugged out. I turned my head so she wouldn’t see the tears leaking out of my eyes. I’d have done anything to get Ari inducted as Rasha, but hadn’t I paid accordingly yet?
I felt a shift in her magic binding and my power shot out of me, dissipating harmlessly into the air. Sweet release, other than the throbbing mess of my post-zmey-encounter body. “Was the zmey going to finish me off too quickly?” I sneered. “Had to fuck with me some more?”
“I should not have left you there so long.” A flash of regret passed over her features. “I’m going to let you up,” she said. “But if you use your power in any way, you’ll be sorry. Understood?”
My tiny head jerk sufficed for a nod. I couldn’t sit up. Trying resulted in a whimper. I clutched my hips.
Dr. Gelman placed a hand on either side of me, doing something surprisingly unevil with her magic that relieved much of the pain. Then she propped me onto my feet, where she half-dragged, half-pushed me into the chair.
I sat there, head bowed. Why had Rabbi Abrams sent me here? I hadn’t thought he’d wanted me dead, but I’d been wrong so many times before.
The bed creaked as Dr. Gelman sat down on the mattress across from me.
I raised my head to meet her eyes. She leaned forward, arms braced on her thighs. “If you’re not a demon,” I said, “why did you send me to that alternate dimension?” Exhaustion trumped anger.
“Answer me this first. Who gave you my email? Why did you send me that message?”
I was reluctant to answer because Rabbi Abrams had mentioned she didn’t like the Brotherhood but at my hesitation, she conjured up a less intense invisible band to pin me against the chair. Enough to put an uncomfortable pressure on my rib cage. “Rabbi Abrams.”
To my shock, she barked out a laugh, which turned into a hacking cough. Able to move again, I rose in concern to help her, but she waved at me to stay where I was.
“That slick talker? He’s still alive?” she asked.
I tried to reconcile the rabbi I knew with a slick talker and failed. “Maybe it’s a different Rabbi,” I said.
“Short? Ancient?” I nodded. “That’s him. He dated my sister ages ago. Broke her heart.”
“The zmey and the troll?” I prompted. I wriggled my legs. My hips didn’t blaze with pain anymore, more of a dull ache.
“That wasn’t an alternate dimension. I portalled you under the city. Tons of tunnels crisscrossing Europe. I didn’t know what you’d encounter, but after receiving that email, I figured better safe then sorry.”
“Got a washcloth?” My hands and forearms were splattered with blood from being sliced by the zmey’s scales. Most of it was dried but one gash had opened again and was trickling freely. I looked like I’d been performing open heart surgery with my bare hands.
She jabbed a finger at me. “You look like shit.”
I scrubbed the non-bleeding hand over my face. “Seriously?”
“I meant the outfit.”
“Don’t be fooled by the togs,” I said. “They’re working attire.”
She raised an eyebrow at me.
“Not like that. Actually,” I amended, “kind of like that. But I’m undercover.”
“I bet you’re the picture of elegance normally.”
“I have a certain je ne sais quoi style, thank you very much.” Since I w
asn’t dead, I felt justified in returning to my normal mouthiness. “I don’t suppose you have a Gatorade?”
“No.”
“Water?”
She narrowed her eyes at me then headed into the bathroom.
I sat up, rolling out my neck and shoulders, one tight millimeter at a time. “The reason I’m here is because twenty years ago the Brotherhood identified my twin brother Ari as an initiate. Then at his induction ceremony a few weeks ago, we realized that oops! Wrong twin.”
Mom was a direct descendent of King David. Her bloodline meant that when Ari had been born, the Brotherhood had checked to see if he carried the Rasha potential. Since the Brotherhood is big on the “secret” part of secret organization, my parents hadn’t been aware of the true purpose of Rabbi Abrams’ visit back then. While all male baby descendants of David and those first Rasha were tracked and tested, only a fraction of these potentials passed the first ritual and were bumped up to initiate status. It was only after Ari was confirmed among that number that my parents, much to their shock, were filled in about demons, hunters, and their son’s very important destiny.
My brother spent the next twenty years training and studying for the day that he’d be officially inducted as a hunter. The reason for the time delay was twofold. First off, there was a ton of demons to learn about and all their sweet spots to be able to recall. Not to mention fighting, laying wards–all the tricks of the trade.
The second reason was more practical. After a lot of trial and fatal error, the Brotherhood had pronounced age twenty as being the soonest that initiates were strong enough to receive the magic power conferred upon them in their official induction ceremony.
When Ari’s ceremony revealed that the Brotherhood had been training the wrong Katz sibling all these years, the shit had hit the fan. My parents were as knocked for a loop as the Brotherhood. Ari had been the golden child with a destiny. I’d had a destiny at one point too, but being a professional tap dancer didn’t buy much cred at faculty parties. Neither did being Rasha, since it was top secret, but at least my parents could bask in the glow of clandestine knowledge at their job well done producing such a mensch.
Funny how the glow didn’t happen for their little menschette.
Dr. Gelman pressed a glass of room temperature water into my hand, laying a wet washcloth on the table beside me.
“Todah rabah.” It couldn’t hurt to express my gratitude in her native tongue.
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked.
I fumbled in my skirt pocket for a tiny complimentary package of salt, dumping it in the glass. That little amount of sodium wouldn’t deter a demon, but it would help with my electrolytes in case Gatorade wasn’t available. Stirring it with one finger, I plugged my nose against the taste and gulped most of the drink back before replying. “His initiate status has been confirmed but re-running the ceremony didn’t induct him. Rabbi Abrams thinks you can help.”
I swallowed a few times against the disgusting aftertaste of the drink, wiping off my bloody handprint with the wet cloth.
“Thus the golem reference.” Dr. Gelman looked me over, tapping her lip with her finger. “The twin factor complicates things.” Given the gleam in her eyes, it also made this problem more interesting. “No one ever performed the first ritual on you?”
I shook my head.
“Then your potential had been laying there dormant all this time. Corked up and wanting out. That’s how it would have remained had you not been in the right place–the induction ceremony–at the right time of your life to uncork it.” Dr. Gelman tossed out the salt package. “Essentially, that ceremony called up all the pressure the magic had built up inside you and the cork popped.”
“Like a fine champagne.” I cleaned off the blood, dirt, and people ash as much as possible. My movements were slow and careful, my healing not yet complete.
Another coughing fit overtook her. This time I got her a glass of water, taking the opportunity to rinse out the washcloth in the sink. Streaks of red and black swirled down the sink. I handed her the glass and continued cleaning myself off. “How long did you smoke for?”
She frowned. “How’d you know?”
“I had a teacher who died of lung cancer.” I scrubbed at a stubborn patch of dried zmey flesh stuck to my leg.
She ran her finger over the rim of the glass. “Why bother quitting? Can’t kill me twice. So Isaac re-ran the ceremony and bupkis.” It took me a second to realize that Isaac was Rabbi Abrams. I hadn’t thought about him having an actual first name.
I tossed the washcloth down. “Do you have a way to help?”
She inclined her head. “I do.”
“And Rabbi Abrams,” I couldn’t bring myself to call him Isaac, “didn’t think the Brotherhood would sanction that way. Because you’re a… what?” I held up my hands at her glare. “My best friend is a half-demon. I’m not going to judge. Especially if you plan on helping me, but this is about Ari’s safety. Please.”
Her indignation turned to amusement. “A Rasha with a demon friend. You’re an interesting girl.”
“Thanks. The Brotherhood fails to see it.”
“Yes, well, they are stunningly myopic. I’m not a demon, Nava. I’m a witch.”
I laughed. “There’s no such thing as witches.”
Dr. Gelman’s face pinched in prune-faced disapproval. “Says the girl with the magic powers.” Her fingers twitched.
“Sorry,” I yelped. A touchy witch. Awesome. “Besides, I have Rasha magic. Not witch magic. I’ve never seen anyone go around casting spells.”
She grabbed my ring. “What is this, if not a spell?” Her accent grew more pronounced in her anger.
“You knew it was a glamour?”
“You have to wear the Rasha ring. Until I touched it, that ring didn’t resemble the hamsa.” She shrugged. “A rabbi performed a spell on it. Even mezuzahs have a powerful spell on them. A word, seemingly gibberish, engraved on the back that helps keep demons at bay.”
Mezuzahs contained a prayer scroll wrapped in a decorative case. Most Jewish homes had them. In secular ones like ours, they were nailed to the frame of our front door instead of every door. My family home also had wards that used salt, iron, and Rasha blood to keep away fiends but I guess mezuzahs worked well enough for regular folks.
“Those spells, that magic, is wielded by rabbis. Just as you wield magic, inherent rather than spell-based, to kill demons.” Dr. Gelman tapped her head. “What did you think was going on?”
“I dunno. Witches are women, not rabbis.” Dr. Gelman snorted at me. “Also,” I continued, determined to make my point, “I’ve never heard of a real witch, especially a Jewish one.”
She waved a hand at me in barely concealed impatience. “Who do you think performed the first ritual when David gathered his Rasha?” From the look on her face, I knew better than to answer with “a rabbi?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I hedged. “It’s not any gospel the Brotherhood preaches.”
“This surprises you? History is rife with organized religions, most of which are patriarchal, co-opting celebrations devoted to women’s power.” She eased back against her chair, her inner professor in full force. “Think about the power of pagan fertility rituals that in Catholicism became the sexless sinless Virgin Mary. Or how Astarte, the Canaanite goddess of fertility and sexual love was condemned as a cult in Judaism and stamped out in favor of the monotheistic Yaweh. The Brotherhood reframed our power, casting us as evil witches.”
I leaned forward, fascinated. “Like who?”
“Baba Yaga.”
“She’s a myth.”
“Demons are also a myth,” she chided, “but we know better, don’t we?” Touché.
“Any other famous witches?” If celebrities could be demons, maybe a few A-listers had other interesting talents.
“Lilith.”
“Lilith? The original harlot of history?”
“Yes. There is a strong correlation betwe
en sexual immorality and witchcraft in Judaism. To hear the men tell of it, at least.”
“No wonder the Brotherhood hates me.”
Dr. Gelman cracked a smile. “Have you read the Old Testament?”
“Not my bag, no.”
“Exodus 22:17. ‘You shall not suffer a witch to live.’ Trust me, the Brotherhood knows all about our existence. They hate the fact that we women dare to have a power that they want only for themselves.”
I raised my fist in solidarity. “Then right on, witches.”
She slapped her thigh. “I like you. All right. I’ll help. Beats sitting around waiting to die.” She scribbled something down and handed the paper to me. At the top was the name and address of a shop here in Prague. “Get these.”
“Virgin soil from a mountain not dug by men and purified well water? What will you do with them?”
“All in good time. Once you have these things, we’ll meet again.” She held up a hand like she was making a vow. “No demons this time. I’ll take you to my favorite café for the best pastries here in town.”
“Yes, please.” I tucked the list into my bra, then picked up my coat by two fingers, grimacing at the stink drifting off its various splotchy stains. I’d been hoping to use the jacket to cover the worst of my dishevelment.
Gelman plucked the coat away and waved a hand over it. The stains disappeared. As she gave it back, I caught a whiff of roses. I wondered how far her guilt extended.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a pair of shoes I could borrow, would you? Mine got a tad destroyed down in the cave. Or could you magic mine back up here intact?” Those stilettos had been pricey.
“No. But…” She crossed over to her closet, returning to me with a pair of shower flip flops hooked between two fingers. “My feet are a bit smaller than yours but they should fit well enough to get you home.”
Second hand slippers. Lovely.
Dr. Gelman huffed at my expression. Since I didn’t want her to toss me around anymore, I took the flip flops and left.
9
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 (Nava Katz Box Set) Page 36
