A scuffed navy backpack filled with cash sat on the kitchen counter next to a cell phone with no security code on it. Gotta love demon arrogance. There was no one listed in the contacts, and no data plan to check the browser history, but we found a text chain about some kind of drop in two days’ time, along with a time and place. I tried calling that number but it was disconnected.
I tossed the phone into the backpack and tiptoed down the hallway, grateful that the shag carpet muffled the tread of our heavy work boots. I hit the living room doorway and recoiled, the reek of hot copper and rotting meat thick even through my respiratory filter.
I’d stopped so suddenly that Rohan slammed into my back and I had to grab the doorframe to stop myself from stumbling inside the room.
The floor was slick with blood. Demon viscera glistened under the LED overhead lamp.
Two wreta sat there, unmoving. Or well, one sat there, oblivious to the puddle of piss at his feet. The other one had been ripped apart like a chicken carcass and what was left of the five and a half foot demon was being funneled into a giant gaping maw.
The demon eating the wreta had an amorphous blobby body with skin like an oil spill, and a smaller egg-shaped head that brushed the nine-foot-ceiling. The head was featureless except for that mouth which took up most of the real estate, a massive pit sucking back its victim.
The hungry demon turned, revealing a single, perfectly formed right human arm and hand. Its nails were painted bright red. It popped the wreta’s head in, its throat convulsing, and swallowed the head whole into its body that was expanding to accommodate the meal.
I’d always thought No Face from Spirited Away wasn’t that scary a villain, but this demon was making me reconsider that stance.
Next, the demon grabbed a wreta thigh, like one would a Chickeny Delight drumstick, and feverishly crammed it into its mouth.
We should have let the wreta set the damn ward. I pulled a crackling ball of magic into my palm and Rohan pushed past me, his feet squelching on the bloody tile, but the demon was faster. Slurping down another wreta foot, the demon disappeared.
The remaining wreta slumped over as if released from a trance. He was hyperventilating, repeating the same word over and over again.
Oshk.
Since that was all we could get out of the wreta, we killed him. There were no other demons in the house.
The stench and violence of the kill was pressing in on me, an almost physical presence lingering in the room. I grabbed the backpack and shouldered out the back door. The second I was outside, I ripped off my facial gear, breathing deeply. I itched to rip off my work boots too, because they stank from the blood coating them. Grisly bits were stuck to the soles.
“We have to clean up in there,” Ro said.
Damn. I’d managed to avoid clean-up duty so far and it figured it’d be a bloodbath that broke my lucky streak. I had no problem pulling my weight, so long as I didn’t puke and make things worse.
He’d brought cleaning supplies along in case we’d needed to scour off any wreta secretions. We didn’t want any humans who eventually came around to check out the residents’ disappearance getting hurt. Unlike Sweet Tooth, the wreta’s hallucinogens lasted indefinitely.
It took liberal amounts of sodium peroxide mix to remove all the bloodstains. Everything from the mops to our chemical suits would have to be burned.
“What’s an oshk?” I scrubbed at a stubborn patch of something dark on the wall, unconvinced my thick rubber gloves were enough of a barrier between me and the goo. Clean up duty was exactly as awful as I’d anticipated. “That thing that ate the demons?”
Rohan placed a fresh bucket of water on the floor. “No clue. But if something that scares demons is in town? Something that had them all hiding last night?”
“Fuuuuuck.”
“Yeah.”
6
If the library had been a disaster before, it was ten times worse after our pointless search for any information on the oshk.
In theory, I was now recording all the serial numbers of the cash so Orwell, the Brotherhood intel department so nicknamed by Kane, could track its source. In practice, I was keeping a wary eye on Rohan and his string of Hindi-English cursing that had risen from a mutter to a couple of stages away from a roar.
I ruffled the bills. “Did you know that there are one hundred hundred dollar bills in each bundle?”
No response.
“I’ve got a cool half a mill here.” I shook the backpack. “I’m thinking a quick Google search on countries with no extradition treaty, book a flight, and we’re living large on a beach with umbrella drinks by happy hour tomorrow.”
Holding this much cash was so surreal that it almost lost all meaning. Not gonna lie, I was tempted to rip open the bundles and roll naked on them, but considering we’d commandeered the cash from a demon home, refrained.
Rohan flung a book on the table; it bounced and crashed to the floor.
“Okay,” I said, retrieving the book–and the laptop for good measure–and placing them on the far end of the table, “you’re done.”
Rohan turned glittering eyes on me, clearly wanting someone to fight with.
I spread my hands. “We’re in a holding pattern and getting mad at your people isn’t going to change that.”
Expression thunderous, he left the room.
I zipped up the backpack, setting my list of serial numbers on top, and leaned back in my chair, my chest tight. Work, relationship, saving the world–for Rohan and I, it was all tangled up. We even lived at Demon Club. There was no space for us to breathe.
My ex, Cole, had recently told me that when my snapped Achilles had destroyed my tap dance dreams, he’d had no idea how to comfort me. He hadn’t felt like I was in the relationship. I didn’t think that about Ro, but the fear of watching someone I cared about revert into bad behaviors and shut me out was all too real these days.
If we didn’t live up to Rohan’s relationship expectations or I became the fallout in the implosion of his feelings around the Brotherhood, his pattern would be he’d dump me without another look back and waltz into whatever new identity he crafted for himself. There would be no fighting for us or working through things. We’d be us and then we wouldn’t be anything.
I exhaled, hard. There might not be a way out of the pressure cooker we lived in, but maybe there was a way to alleviate some steam. I pulled out my phone and started researching my brilliant idea, leaning my elbows on the library table. This was supposed to be our honeymoon phase and honeymoon it we would.
“Sorry.” Rohan reappeared in the doorway, sounding genuinely contrite.
“That’s– juggling.” I squinted at the four red balls in his hands.
“Yeah. One of our roadies got me into it as a stress relief.”
“I can see how hot and cold running tour sex wouldn’t have the same appeal.” That earned me the ghost of a grin. “All those nights in the Vault. You’ve been juggling?”
“No. I’ve been beating the shit out of the bag.” He switched up his moves, catching the balls underhand. “But I figured that if yelling wasn’t going to help, then storming off wasn’t either.”
“Progress.” I crossed the room and settled into one of the leather club chairs, my legs tucked underneath me. “You’ve unleashed a lot of talents on me in the past few days, Snowflake.” I ticked the items off on my fingers. “Dancing, skateboarding, juggling.”
“The dancing I learned to help with my stage presence, the skateboarding was from growing up in L.A., and we had a lot of downtime on tour. I’m also the undisputed champion of Crazy Eights.”
“A true renaissance man. Or was that renaissance nerd?”
He threw a ball up, spinning to catch it behind his back. The tension in his body eased a fraction. “Admit it, you’re impressed.”
“I am.” I bounced a ball of electricity in my hand, then divided them into two.
“Cute.”
“You think?” The two
balls became four, and I let them swivel on their own around my head while I scanned the page on my phone. This would do nicely. A couple of clicks and some expedited shipping and things were put into motion.
Ro laughed, the happiness I’d hoped for back in his eyes. “You’re a total shit. What are you looking at? Why the smug grin?”
I put the phone away and powered off my magic. “My other boyfriend wants to hook-up.”
“Great. I’ll call mine. Girlfriend,” he clarified, rolling his eyes at my crestfallen expression. “You’re so predictable.”
“You said it. Lots of downtime, a bus full of horny guys. Do the math.”
“That’s not–” His phone buzzed. Ro caught all of the balls one-handed, pulling the phone from his pocket. He scratched his jaw, reading the text, his expression cautiously optimistic. “Pretty up, Sparky. We’re going out.”
“Pretty is a step down for me, buddy. Wow. You really blew a compliment opportunity. Your other girlfriend can keep you.”
“Don’t want her,” he said, grabbing me in a headlock to kiss the top of my head.
“Ack.” I elbowed my way free. “What kind of pretty does the situation demand?”
“Mahmud’s in town.” Mahmud was the Rasha who’d recruited Rohan for the Askuchar job. Rohan quickly typed a response. “Told him to meet us at Lotus.”
Last time Rohan and I had eaten at Lotus, we’d had an incredible meal and a disaster of a conversation. The knives had come out on both sides. Whatever could I look forward to this time? Mahmud was Rohan’s friend, not just a fellow hunter. Had he told Mahmud he was dating me? Or had he left it out, since this was a professional meeting and not a personal one? What kind of look would even be appropriate for this dinner: badass girlfriend or hot comrade-in-arms?
Fuck appropriate. I jumped to my feet and snapped out a salute. “Prettying up, sir!”
“Hey.” He swung me back toward him, his eyes serious on mine. “I’m not going to break us, okay?” He stroked his thumb over my hand, radiating sincerity and the depth of his affection for me. This mattered so much to him. I mattered so much to him.
Rohan was an all-or-nothing kind of guy and getting the full weight of his absolute attention and care made me feel like I could reach for the stars. I was living the cheesiest of clichés where he was the first person I wanted to see in the morning and the last person I wanted to talk to at night. Rohan wasn’t my other half. I was a twin. I knew what other halves felt like.
He didn’t complete me; he complemented me and that was a zillion times better.
To be ripped from that would destroy me.
I cupped his cheek. “I believe you.” Well, I believed he believed it.
Fingers crossed that would be enough.
The outfit I chose was a curve-hugging black sheath with cap sleeves and a hemline that hit just below the knee. It looked almost demure until I turned around to reveal the plunging back, the fabric draping softly at the base of my spine. I paired it with red lips and red heels.
Rohan gave me a wolfish grin when I flounced into his room. He prodded me backward until my legs hit his mattress. “Show me how it comes off.”
“None of that.” My stomach fluttered; my push against his chest was more insistent. “I want you desperate for me.”
He nipped my bottom lip, his hand sliding over the stretchy fabric to cup my ass, and pressed his erection against my belly. “Done. Take it off.”
I allowed myself one inhale of his spicy, musky cologne with the underbite of iron that was all Ro, before sidestepping him. “Good and nope.”
I picked up the bluish-gray tie, similar in color to my eyes, that he’d laid out to go with his turquoise shirt and slid it around his neck. Fussing over my man, a quiet intimacy. It was nice.
“Nava.” Rohan gasped, his skin getting a tad purple and his eyes glassy.
I fumbled at the choking knot that got tighter the more I worked at it. Damn ties. My dad always made putting these on look so easy. What the hell was the stupid trick? Over, under–no. I tried again.
Rohan pushed my hands away, extended the blade on his index finger and sliced the thing off. The tie fluttered to the ground. He frowned. “I liked that tie.”
I opened his closet and, pulling out an identical one, thrust it at him. “Please. You buy your ties in pairs.”
He strung the tie around his neck. “Good ties are hard to…” He paused, his knot half-formed. “Did you snoop through my closet?”
I patted his cheek. “Of course I did.”
He slid the tie down through the loop he’d created and pulled it tight, making the whole “over/under” thing look like anyone could learn it. Shrugging into his suit jacket, Rohan escorted me out of the room, his hand on the small of my back. “Try not to gape too much when you meet Mahmud.”
“Is he horribly disfigured?”
Rohan shot me a what-is-wrong-with-you look. “No. He’s your type.”
“I have a type?”
He laughed.
I was determined to prove him wrong, but when we entered Lotus and Mahmud stood from his table to greet us? Yeah, I checked my chin for drool.
Tall, hot bod, suit tailored like a second skin–those were basic Rasha-issue. But his dark brown skin, intense black eyes, goatee, and black hair scraped back into a messy ponytail, all coupled with these full pink lips whose evolutionary function was to be sucked on? Let’s just say that other than Malik who’d had a couple thousand years to perfect tall, dark, and sexy, Mahmud, despite only having maybe thirty years to cultivate his hotness, was the first man to make Rohan look a little plain.
“Hi. I’m Nava.” I stuck my hand out for him to shake.
His grasp was firm, warm. “Mahmud.” His husky voice curled inside me like syrup.
“Pleasure,” I squeaked out.
Rohan snorted.
To be fair, my recovery time was pretty fast. This was work after all. Plus, the boyfriend standing right there.
Rohan pulled my chair out for me, and from Mahmud’s assessing look, he got our status.
The waitress came to take our order. Slender, with dark curly hair, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black cigarette pants, her dimpled smile lit up her whole face. Given that the majority of other customers were middle-aged couples and a couple of groups of business men, serving us was hitting the jackpot. Well, serving the men.
“I’m Olivia. I’ll be your server tonight.”
“Hi, Olivia.” Rohan turned his rock fuck grin on her. Power to the chick for staying upright.
I kicked him under the table. He covered the flinch pretty well, his knee brushing against mine, remaining there, connecting us. He trapped my hand loosely against his thigh as he told her which dishes we’d decided to share.
“So, Nava, what was your first impression of the Rasha?” Mahmud said.
I sipped my green tea. “You want the honest answer or the polite answer?”
His eyes twinkled as he leaned in. “Oh, now I definitely need the honest answer.”
I entertained Mahmud with my initial meetings of Baruch, Kane, and Drio, while Olivia brought out sumptuous sushi rolls plated on daikon and fat pieces of melt-in-your-mouth sashimi.
Mahmud’s single failing was that he was hopeless with chopsticks. Sushi wreckage was strewn across his plate. He licked off a couple of grains of rice that were stuck to his finger. “I’m a disaster. Apologies.”
“You’re fine. But you might want to hold the chopsticks down farther.” I held mine up to demonstrate.
He adjusted his grip and tried again with slightly better results. “Not that I’m not always delighted to see your hairy ass, Mitra, but I get the sense you invited me for more than my good looks.”
“Oh, he invited you for that too,” I quipped.
Mahmud laughed and Rohan kicked me under the table.
“Askuchar,” Rohan said. With that one word, all levity at our table fled. He topped up all our sake, serving himself last.
&nbs
p; “What about it?” Mahmud’s expression was bland.
I gripped my chopsticks, my eyes darting to Rohan’s.
A flash of impatience darkened his face. “Don’t play politics. This is you and me and no bullshit. There was no logical reason for those yaksas to have trekked from Nepal through India and into Pakistan. Why Askuchar? Conveniently isolated for burying evidence? That mission was all kinds of wrong, man, and you know it.”
“Yeah.” Mahmud scrubbed a hand over his face. “I keep seeing those villagers ravaged. Yaksas are bloodthirsty, but that? It was like they’d gone berserk.”
Or they’d been forced to attack. I shook my head at Rohan, willing him not to voice our suspicions.
“How did you hear about the four Rasha that had originally been killed looking for the demons?” Ro asked.
“Got a call asking me to track. They were missing, not yet confirmed dead at that point.” Mahmud held out his sake cup for Rohan to refill.
“Who called?” I expected him to say Rabbi Mandelbaum.
“Ferdinand Alves.”
Rohan jerked the sake back so sharply that alcohol sloshed onto the white linen tablecloth. I blotted it up, grateful for something that would keep my head down and not reveal how all the color had drained from my face.
“You know him?” Mahmud asked.
“Not personally,” Rohan said. “Heard he died.”
“Yeah. While we were still in Pakistan. Car crash outside L.A.”
“Demons?” I asked.
“Don’t think so.”
Rohan was staring at his plate, his tuna sashimi untouched, his brow furrowed.
“Do you know if he was in Prague in early April?” I said.
“No idea.” Mahmud’s gaze flickered between us. “You want to tell me what’s really going on?”
“Just trying to understand how it all went balls up,” Ro said.
“Okay.” Mahmud warred with a piece of ebi sushi, sighing as it fell apart on his plate.
“Nava?” Rohan’s voice was pitched low for only me to hear.
Nava Katz Box Set 2 Page 8
