The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave (Nava Katz Book 4)

by Deborah Wilde

  It was the time of night when people got cozy and shared past experiences. I’d been telling them about my Lincoln Center debut back in high school. The whole room had been silent except for me and that song, and yeah, the shine of admiration in their eyes had eased the constant sting of hurt a bit. Tap had been such a sad topic for me during that period, and it had been nice that night to remember the highs and not just the lows.

  Naomi had burst in, eyes bright, loudly retelling some craaaazy adventure she’d just had. Like, the last one had been insane, but this one? She’d nudged me to the side so she could sit next to Christina, except there wasn’t enough room on the couch so she ended up half-squashing me instead. She’d sucked all the air out of the room, totally disrupting our mellow vibe and killing my tale. I’d never understood why everyone not only indulged her spotlight-hogging, but was so charmed by it.

  Keeping my mouth shut since speaking out against her was pointless, I’d reached for the joint in the ashtray and lit it.

  Naomi had waited for me to inhale. “Geez, Little Miss Gimme. Never enough with you.” This from the woman who had literally just interrupted herself mid-story about BASE jumping. Flinging herself off buildings, slacklining it across canyons, yes, it was cool, but she was such a hypocrite accusing me of being extreme.

  Her crew called themselves the Full Tilt Gang for fuck’s sake. Half the stunts they pulled were done illegally, so her moral high ground was built on quicksand.

  Christina had shot me a sympathetic smile but the others had snickered unkindly. Not ten minutes ago they’d thought I was the coolest person alive, and here Naomi had totally turned them against me. Naomi had smirked, taking her friend’s arm and monopolizing her in conversation, my existence forgotten.

  The same way she now clutched Christina’s arm, not so much possessively as in defeat.

  My gut twisted. I’d fired off a lot of smart remarks in the past, but my comment to Naomi now had been a bitch too far. I didn’t want to deliberately hurt others anymore. I was doing good in the world.

  I wanted to be good in the world.

  “Naomi, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be bringing up the past. But you do deserve a night off,” I said. “The earth will continue to spin. The lawyers work you to the bone and in return you get no interesting tasks, no praise, and no life. Besides, you’re ridiculously smart. I’m sure you can knock out the items on your minion list in record time. Do this stuff, don’t do it, but enjoy yourself tonight. Normal is important.”

  Naomi snatched the vial away from Christina, rolling her eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me how to have fun. I trademarked that shit.”

  So much for my genuine, heartfelt attempt at being friendly, Bellatrix.

  Christina squealed and clapped her hands while Naomi licked up the crystals. In her excitement, she failed to notice that when Naomi tossed the vial out, there was still some left at the bottom.

  A cautious good time on the menu, then. Whatever worked for her. As for me, I waved bye to Christina, catching the door and shouldering past a group of chattering women spilling in.

  Rohan waited for me at the end of the short hallway leading to the restrooms. His lopsided grin soothed my fraying edges.

  “Hel-lo,” Christina said, having followed me. “I could ride that boy into next week.”

  “Words spoken by many a woman with working eyeballs,” I said. “Yup, he’s all the catnip. But he’s also more than just a hot body.”

  Christina gave me a searching glance. “You know this how?”

  “That’s my boyfriend.”

  Naomi’s mouth fell open as she stared at Rohan. “No way. He’s dating you?”

  To be fair, his moss green shirt emphasized his broad shoulders and leanly muscled, V-bod. It was like his East Indian/Jewish genes had convened a summit at his conception to negotiate for maximum incredible. He was magnificent, but for me? His humor at 2AM blending me smoothies that he named after our demon kills–the Tezcatlipoca Mocha Blast was my fave–the effort he’d made getting to know Ari and Leo, and the steadfast belief in his convictions even as he helped me dig deeper into the Brotherhood, were even more attractive. I respected the hell out of him.

  “Way, baby.” I said. “We don’t match, but we go.”

  Rohan crooked a finger at me and all three of us sighed.

  “I underestimated you,” Naomi said.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “In more ways than one.” I hugged Christina goodbye with mutual promises to see each other soon and headed for my guy.

  Rohan slung an arm around me, glanced back at the women, then kissed the side of my head. “You okay?”

  I leaned into his steady comfort. “Perfect.”

  The opening notes of George Michael’s “Freedom” kicked in and he tugged me onto the dance floor, squirming past the other dancers into the center. He caught me around the waist, singing into my ear about roads to Heaven and Hell as we grooved to the music, all rolling hips and sinuous arms.

  I was lightness and air, anchored to this mortal plane by the rasp in Rohan’s voice and the gentle bite of his fingers through the thin fabric of my tank top. I caressed his cheek and he nuzzled into my hand. “Did you get yourself happy, Snowflake?” I asked, referring to the lyrics.

  “I did. I am.” Still, when he sang along about freedom, the insistence in his voice was more than emotive karaoke.

  “Is that what it felt like to leave the band? Like you got your freedom?”

  He pulled me to him, making me ride his hard thigh in the dirtiest of dancing. Cuntessa de Spluge was in Heaven. “I thought all heavy conversations were banned tonight,” he said.

  “Yes. Heavy conversations pertaining to current Brotherhood-witch shit are banned during date night,” I confirmed, my hips in a slow, syncopated slide with his.

  “But prying into my past?”

  “A total go.” My breath quickened, a spark low in my gut bursting into flame.

  “Nice try. Pool?” he asked as the song ended, taking away my happy motion ride.

  “You callous bastard.”

  He leaned in, his lips brushing my ears. “I want you desperate for me.”

  “Your arrogance isn’t doing it for me.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He waggled his eyebrows at me in exaggerated fashion.

  I shot him the finger and sashayed off the dance floor.

  We passed Naomi, currently the filling in a boy sandwich. She’d shed her jacket, leaving her in a lacy camisole. Good time evidently unlocked. Christina smiled at her from outside the plastered-together bodies, but her expression was a bit strained. I didn’t blame her. Naomi had gone from “no” to “wheeee!” in record time and she’d been known to ditch Christina when there were more interesting–or dangerous–things around to play with.

  I raced off ahead to snag a pool table, practically flinging myself bodily over it until Rohan caught up. I handed him a pool cue. “Answer my prying now. Was it a relief ditching Fugue State Five? You ever wish you had that back or some new version of it?”

  Were you going to run away soon?

  His expression turned distant. “Sometimes… It felt like I was living with a noose around my neck. Writing music, even performing again, it wouldn’t be like that. I wouldn’t be like that.”

  “What changed?”

  He pulled some balls out of the corner pocket, rolling them over the green felt for me to rack up. “Time. Heals all wounds, right?”

  Rohan had always had a dark side, which had gotten worse with the twin fallouts of fame and the demon murder of his cousin Asha. His personal demons had been front and center pretty recently on our mission in Prague and only intensified on his gig in Pakistan, so I doubted he was suddenly a paragon of mental wellbeing, but I nodded.

  He bopped the tip of my nose. “Don’t worry, Sparky. I’m not going back down any dark roads.”

  I wasn’t convinced of that either. Not given the single-minded focus Rohan had shown in unraveling the mystery of what certain Br
otherhood members were up to these past few weeks. But that was part of tonight’s ban on serious Rasha topics, so I pushed those thoughts away.

  Maybe I was overthinking things. Besides, I needed my full concentration to kick his ass. Rohan was exceedingly competitive.

  The hour grew later, the music faster, the crowd drunker. Despite being jostled yet again by a stray elbow, I sank three balls in rapid succession. I chalked my pool cue, eyeing the eight-ball. “Need a safe word, baby? Because when I sink this and obliterate you for a second game, it might be more pain than you can handle.”

  Rohan slid his palm in a teasing glide along my belly. “Try me.”

  “My favorite dare.” I positioned my stick slightly off-center, and with a satisfying crack, sank the eight-ball. I handed Rohan my pool cue. “Does it chafe? Be honest.”

  He snapped both our sticks back into the mounted wall rack. “It’s a little raw, not gonna lie.”

  “Good. I want you to feel it in the morning. Remember who owns you.” I smacked his ass, laughing at the mock-scandalized expression on Rohan’s face.

  He caught my wrist, tugging me up against him and nipping my earlobe. “Isn’t this where you’re supposed to minister to me and take away the sting like a good girlfriend?” His voice ran over me like rivulets of honey.

  I mentally stomped on the memory of his ex, Lily, adjusting his scarf and quietly caring for him in a dozen small ways when we’d all been in Prague.

  Without having to be asked.

  In the Grease lens on the world, which was really the only useful metric, Lily was Sandy and I was Rizzo. Rohan claimed to want Rizzo, so he should have known that the idea of me on some Sandy scale of good was laughable. I gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes. “Got something in mind, O wounded man child?”

  “Since you asked.” He motioned for me to fan him.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “So hot,” he whined, taking my hands and moving them ineffectually up and down. It was so humid in the club, my skin was sticky where he held my wrist. “I know these are the wilds of Canada, but don’t you people know about A/C?”

  Laughing, I blew air on him. “Poor pampered L.A. baby.”

  Motioning for him to follow, I unclasped the chain blocking access to a small stairway and led him up. At the top was a small balcony overlooking the back half of the dance floor and one of the bars. The door behind it had been jacked open to the summer night. A siren cut through the alley below, its flashing lights bouncing off the building walls.

  “Befriending bouncers has its perks.” I sat down on the bench, snickering as Rohan turned his face to the breeze wafting over us like a dog sticking its head out a window.

  “Bootylicious” started up, and oh yes, I sang along. Rohan scoffed, with a “Figures you anthem’d this,” but I didn’t stop my beauteous phonetic rendition of the song.

  That is until the chorus when Rohan spun, breaking into moves worthy of Queen B’s backup dancers. Shimmying, he wriggled closer until, keeping out of touching range, he canted his hips up in a long slow roll, running his hand down along the hard planes of his stomach. His shirt rode up, exposing a stretch of brown skin I wanted to lick. Lower and lower, his hand slid dangerously along his waistline, then lower still.

  I sat there, gaping.

  Rohan jumped onto the bench, feet planted on either side of me. He tossed his head, flicked off each shoulder, grinning. Clutching the burnished gold railing behind me with one hand, he twerked his ass lower and lower, his falsetto singing note-perfect.

  Fuck. Me. Where had he been hiding this?

  Rohan ground against me once, twice, and I lunged for him, our mouths crashing together. He tasted of anise seed and gin, his mouth cool from the ice he’d been crunching all night.

  I opened my eyes, seeking a deeper connection. Seeking affirmation that he was here and this was real and that the voices trumpeting disbelief that we were a we could go screw themselves.

  A flash of something caught the light from the club area below and I stilled.

  Rohan’s eyes fluttered open. “Hey,” he murmured.

  I craned my neck, twisting around him to peer down at the bar.

  The bartender wrestled a bottle away from Naomi. One of Naomi’s hands was curled like a claw, and her expression was frozen in a snarl. She relaxed for a second, her shoulders slumping. The bartender eased up too, which was when she swiped the bottle and cracked him upside the head. He stumbled back against the bar, a few bottles cascading over his shoulder and shattering on the floor in bursts of light.

  Pushing Ro off of me, I scrambled to my feet and shot down the stairs.

  Most of the patrons were still caught up in their own dealings. They hadn’t had my eagle-eyed view of the club and the press of bodies was too thick for anyone not in the immediate vicinity of the bar to have witnessed the attack. I impatiently shoved my way through the chatting, flirting masses until I broke through to the bar.

  The clean-cut bartender pressed a bloody rag to one temple, his body angled as far away as possible from Naomi. Shards of glass speckled his shoulders and alcohol ran down his shirt in sticky rivers.

  Naomi sat on the bar top, legs crossed, swinging one slender ankle. She tipped a bottle of Bombay Sapphire back, its blue glass streaked with neon, one side smeared with the bartender’s blood. After a single disturbingly long swig, she shook the final drops into her mouth with a couple of violent jerks.

  Then, to my horror, she bit into the glass, licking off whatever remaining gin coated its insides, oblivious to the blood streaming out of her mouth along her psychotic smile.

  I stood there frozen, heart racing. Clueless how to process this fucked-up tableau. Naomi’s smirk was loaded with memories of every time she’d ever made me feel inadequate. I’d dealt with shit way worse than this, but there was such a cutting intimacy in her look, like she knew exactly who I was and that I’d never gotten over my weaknesses, that my past self had taken control of my brain. I froze up.

  Somebody screamed right as the music cut out, breaking the spell and sending the dance floor into chaos. I ran for Naomi, but my friend Max, one of the bouncers here at the club, reached her first.

  Naomi wore a matter-of-fact expression on her face as she calmly explained to Max, curling her bloody tongue around a razor sharp part of the bottle’s neck to catch an errant drop of booze, that the bartender had tried to cut her off and that wasn’t very “Full Tilt.”

  Max had never been anything other than an ocean of calm, even when breaking up a stabbing outside the front door. So when this 6’4” brick wall of a man drained of all color, clutching his phone so hard he cracked the screen, my blood ran cold.

  But if he couldn’t handle it, who could? My spine straightened. The past was just that, the past. I was Rasha and a hell of a lot stronger now on every level. I gave myself a mental shake and snapped into action. I pried the cell from Max’s death-grip, and called 911. Then I tossed him the phone back with a barked, “Talk to them.”

  Light glinted off the jagged bottle neck as Naomi ran her thumb over it, her eyes not leaving mine, blood and gin dripping from her chin and meandering down her collarbone to stain her camisole in a gruesomely pretty bloom. “Nava, Nava, Nava. Always killing my good mood.”

  I couldn’t use my magic. There were too many people around. I swallowed, hyping myself up to step closer. “Naomi, put the bottle down.”

  She wrinkled her nose at me, waving the broken glass. I stepped back out of neck slashing range. She took another sip, but finding it empty, dropped the bottle on the floor where it shattered.

  Shards flew. One stung my ankle and I cursed.

  Undeterred, Naomi picked up someone’s abandoned pint of beer and chugged some back.

  I reached out for the glass, my body turned somewhat, so she wouldn’t see the new bouncer slowly approaching from her right. Max, still on the phone, kept a wary eye on us all. “Okay, fine. Then how about you share?”

  Her expression ha
rdened. “Always gotta steal something, don’t you?”

  Screw this. I rushed her, jumping back as she vomited blood, swayed, and went down like a sack of rocks.

  The second bouncer caught her before she hit the ground, the beer mug rolling out of her hand onto the floor. “What. The. Fuck?” His pupils were dilated to the point of practically disappearing.

  I was willing to bet the answer to that was “demons,” because even with the fentanyl crisis ravaging my beloved Vancouver, this was too insidious to be human evil, but I needed proof.

  I left Naomi in Max and this other bouncer’s care and sprinted to the bathroom.

  Grimacing, I plunged my hand into the mound of wet paper towels in the overflowing garbage, praying that their sogginess was water-based versus something requiring a tetanus shot. I was fumbling in there shoulder-deep before my fingers closed on the vial. I pulled it out, relieved that despite it being uncorked there was still some of the drug inside. I twisted up some dry paper towel to use as a lid and sealed the drug in.

  Laying it carefully on the bathroom counter, I disinfected my arm with scalding water and a shit-ton of soap. By the time I hit the main part of the club again, the house lights were up and employees were directing confused patrons toward the front door, doing their best to keep them from rubbernecking.

  Two paramedics strapped Naomi’s prone form onto a gurney.

  Christina stood beside them, the orange shock blanket around her shoulders sliding half-off under the force of her hysteria. Rohan had his arm around her, his head close to hers, speaking. She clutched at his shirt front.

  I ran over, insides icy. Christina had taken the same drug Naomi had. The drug that had made her chew through glass and slice people. And Rohan was right next to her.

  When I reached her, I felt like an idiot. Christina’s eyes were hollow and wide, possessing none of the mania that Naomi’s had. She was just terrified and at the touch of my hand on her shoulder, she fell into my arms, sobbing and repeating, “I’m sorry,” over and over.