Nava Katz Box Set 2

by Deborah Wilde

  “Why? Want to look your best for Zack?” Rohan turned the key and the Shelby purred to life. He shifted gears, his bicep flexing, and roared down the driveway.

  I looked at the paper again and squealed. “Zack is hosting this? You’re letting me meet Zack?!”

  “I’m letting you be in a room in which Zack will also be. Whether or not you actually get to meet him remains to be seen.”

  “Maybe he’ll autograph my fanfic binder.”

  “You are not to discuss your adolescent sexual fantasies of the dude.”

  “Little bit, yeah, I am.”

  We kept the windows down and the music loud. At my request, Ro took a circuitous route along the Sunset Strip. The West Hollywood end of it was pretty swanky, with lots of boutiques and restaurants. Billboards advertising TV shows, movies, and concerts that I’d never heard of were everywhere. Sunset got less intense the farther along we drove. There were entire blocks where I could forget this was the entertainment capital. I even got the occasional glimpse of old Los Angeles with 1950s neon motel signs before Ro swung us back on the highway.

  Any time he wasn’t changing gear, he was touching me, his hand resting on my thigh, cupping the back of my neck, absently caressing my cheek. Keeping us connected.

  I rolled down the window and turned up the music. “Going to Demon Club in the City of Angels. Ironic.”

  “Where do you think the Fallen Angels name originated? Go back. I like that song.”

  Making a face, I hit the button to return to the previous station playing the jangly indie guitar band song.

  “You’d like this album,” Ro said. “It’s called ‘Lolita Nation.’”

  I gave him a tight smile and shifted in my seat to look at him. “So,” I said casually, “from the interview you did it sounds like Ascending is coming together.”

  He made a frustrated sound, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I have to release the tracks on September 27.”

  “Why? Are you under contract?”

  “Something like that.” He drove another block before he spoke again. “I finally believe that Asha wouldn’t have wanted me to quit music, just be happy without losing myself to the industry, but I can’t get back to where I was creatively.”

  I scrolled through the myriad of satellite radio choices. “You haven’t forgiven yourself yet.”

  Ro braked at a light. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Maybe I can’t until I find Asha’s killer. Avenge her.”

  “You need to forgive yourself regardless because if you don’t, you won’t be able to move forward in all areas of your life.”

  Rohan was silent for a long time, during which I stared resolutely out the passenger window so he couldn’t see me biting my bottom lip.

  “Maybe,” he finally said.

  We crossed over a bridge.

  “What’s that?” I said, pointing out the window.

  The thing was tall. It was skinny. It had fronds. It was not a tree.

  “A cell tower doctored to look like a palm tree.”

  “Your hometown is weird, Snowflake.”

  The Arts District where the L.A. chapter was located was a mash up of reclaimed brick warehouses, trendy cafés, hip galleries, and works yards.

  I climbed out of the car. “Look. Pedestrians! And cyclists!”

  Cyclist, singular, but good to know there was at least one.

  I stared at the ground for most of our walk along Mateo Street, Ro guiding me by my elbow, because there was all this great art stamped on the sidewalk, like “Wake the Fuck Up” or the “I Heart L.A.” where the “I” was represented by a silhouette of a man standing and working on a laptop.

  Passing a café with a profusion of planters out front, we turned down a side street and there it was. Demon Club La La Land was a two-story, brown brick building with arched windows and accent tiles in a deco wave pattern that occupied an entire block. Cameras encased in plastic bubbles monitored the exterior–discreetly–while a tasteful plaque next to the front door read “David Security International.”

  Rohan hit the buzzer and the front door unlatched.

  I braced myself and stepped inside to a reception area with warm inset lighting, original brickwork, and white and steel furniture. The DSI logo was stamped on the concrete wall behind the reception desk.

  The angular woman about my mom’s age manning the desk smiled at Rohan, then held out her hand to me. “You must be Nava. A pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Helen.”

  We shook. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Helen manages DSI and our unruly bunch,” Rohan said. “Los Angeles is the world headquarters of the security part of our organization.”

  “Usually you’ll find me in the back,” Helen said, “but Louis, our receptionist, had a final exam today. I expect Rohan is going to give you the grand tour, but if you’re hungry there’s a fully stocked kitchen upstairs.”

  I thanked her and followed Ro through the single door to her left.

  “This floor holds everything DSI needs,” he said. “Offices, conference room. They do double duty for the Brotherhood.”

  This part of the warehouse looked exactly like an international security firm should with its corporate veneer and various workstations. Rohan nodded at a few people, men and women both, as we passed. None of them seemed particularly interested in me.

  “Not Rasha?” I said.

  “The DSI support staff are Rasha-affiliated.” Ah. They had family members that were Rasha or rabbis. “Some of our training rooms are also down here.”

  Ro slapped his hand on a sensor and a door swung open revealing a smallish indoor track.

  “Running? Really? Exactly how much have you forgotten about me this past month?”

  Rohan booped me on the nose. “Thought you might want to say hi.”

  A lone Rasha stood in the middle of the track in bare feet, a black Henley, and board shorts, his back to me.

  “Treeeee Truuunk!” I ran for Baruch and jumped on his back, pressing a loud kiss to the side of his head while pretending to dry hump him, and that’s when I saw the unfamiliar man.

  Kippah wearing, no Rasha ring, fit but “gym fit,” not killing-demons fit. Like he’d calculated the exact number of reps to get his lightly muscled physique, the perfect match to his tan, but not-overtly-so skin. This had to be the rabbi that ran this chapter.

  I slid off Tree Trunk, he of the Zen expressions, whose twinkle of amusement could be construed as outright hysterical laughter, steeling myself for the rabbi’s disapproval.

  “Nava, hi.” The rabbi extended a hand for me to shake. This was such unexpected behavior that I gaped until Baruch cleared his throat. “I’m Rabbi Wahl. Welcome to Los Angeles.”

  Everything about the rabbi was polished, from his business casual wear which projected a laid-back vibe of Mr. Reformed-Modern-Times-Jew, to his buffed nails. Overall, he presented the ideal snapshot of a shiny, attractive man who could have advertised modern California life.

  “Thanks.” I discreetly wiped my palm on the back of my cargo pants, positive he’d exuded an oily residue. “Happy to be here.”

  The rabbi made some small talk, offering up some sights I should take in if I had the chance. I kept my smile on my face, trying not to be distracted by the fact that I was hearing creepy clown music and imagining him offering cotton candy, all with that used car salesman smile of his.

  Baruch and Rohan chatted with him so familiarly that they were a breath away from breaking out a guitar and rocking out together to “This Land is Your Land.”

  Were my instincts that wrong?

  One more welcoming statement and the rabbi excused himself.

  I raised my eyebrows at Ro in question.

  He shook his head. “Keep your guard up around him.”

  “And the hand sanitizer close. So, Tree Trunk,” I said brightly. “How’s life? How was Ms. Clara’s visit last month? How come you’re in Los Angeles? How much did you miss me?”

 
; “Where’s the recording you made of Ilya’s confession?” Baruch packed a lot of displeasure into those eye blinks of his.

  “Your absolute disinterest in any type of small talk is one of your most charming traits. Also, a very specific question for someone whom I haven’t told anything to yet.”

  Baruch snapped an elastic off his wrist, tying back his shoulder-length black hair. He still looked like a surfer Special Ops. “Another thing to discuss,” he growled.

  Was Tree Trunk genuinely mad at me? Had my mentor become my enemy?

  “Nava!” Two unfamiliar men poured through the door.

  Baruch’s expression didn’t soften and the newcomers obviously had some kind of expectations around me. All this on top of today’s already ragged emotional journey. I wanted to back into a corner and take a freaking minute to regroup.

  Instead, I waved a hand at them, a teasing smile firmly in place. “Relax, boys. There’s more than enough of me to go around.”

  Rohan snorted, the men swept me away, and my talk with Baruch was thankfully put on hold. For now.

  10

  These two dudes were a riot. First to introduce himself was the cocky, Native American Cisco with the chiseled cheekbones and short ponytail, the oldest of the L.A. group in his early thirties. Then there was wisecracking Danilo from the Philippines, totally tatted up with a shaved head and built like an MMA fighter.

  As they toured me around upstairs, the men peppered me with questions: which demons had been hardest to kill, what my first gig as lead Rasha had been, and what I’d been doing when my power manifested.

  Cisco was bent double over the kitchen counter, howling with laughter at my hand job story, while Danilo rooted through the fridge proclaiming that we were going to need more beer.

  “Chama, you’re going to fit in fine with this bunch,” said a male voice with a Spanish accent. A dark-skinned man in jeans with ragged hems lounged against the doorframe, his black curls damp against his scalp. His startlingly green eyes were alight with amusement as he looked over the room.

  “Thank you?” I said.

  Rohan barked a laugh.

  Cisco straightened, wiping a tear from his eyes and pointed at the newcomer. “Bastijn, if Nava’s brother is anything like her, you’ll want to move in on that fast.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Yeah. Sorry. He’s not exactly single.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?” Bastijn grabbed a beer from Danilo’s hand.

  I tried not to track his ass, but damn, was it tight.

  “Where’s Zander?” Danilo asked.

  Bastijn mimed smoking a joint.

  Cisco and Rohan shared a concerned look, then Cisco suggested we move our party to the living room.

  Unlike in Vancouver, only Zander and Danilo lived here. The others had their own places. Considering this floor looked like a giant mancave, I was thrilled I’d landed a spot in the bungalow.

  We settled in and the guys asked me more questions, but from the darting glances they kept shooting at the door, I only had half their attention.

  I was about to suggest that we wrap this visit up and go see Gary Randall when Cisco clapped his hands. “Enough small talk. Give up the goods on Ro’s sexual prowess. Is he as good as he posts on his fan boards?”

  I grinned and took another handful of chips from the snacks they’d set out for my interrogation.

  “Coño. For a guy who claims to be straight, you’re awfully fascinated with Ro’s dick,” Bastijn said.

  “Exactly what I keep saying.” Ro had seated me on his lap, idly playing with my hair. I snuggled back against him.

  “For a guy who claims to be gay, you’re awfully uninterested in Ro’s dick,” Cisco fired back at Bastijn.

  “Also, exactly what I keep saying.” Ro stole my last chip.

  I smelled Zander before I saw him: a total surfer dude about my age with shaggy blond hair and red-rimmed eyes, reeking of pot.

  “Hey man,” Danilo said. “You good?”

  Zander blinked twice at him, like he needed the time to process Danilo’s words. “Yeah. Seen Ethan?” He had that Southern Cali drawl, way more pronounced than Ro’s.

  “He’ll be here soon,” Cisco said.

  Zander nodded and shuffled away.

  Bastijn watched him leave, frowning. “It’s out of control and he won’t talk about it.”

  “We’re gonna have to force the issue,” Cisco said. “He can’t keep this shit up.”

  The men fell into a contemplative silence.

  Gary could wait a bit longer. In order to buy Ro some time to speak with his friends, I stood up, brushing chip dust from my shirt. “More beer, anyone?”

  Danilo asked me to bring another couple of six-packs from the fridge.

  I made a note to ask Ro if any of them were aligned with Mandelbaum, though unlike with Rabbi Wahl, I didn’t get any bad vibes off them. Team Mandelbaum radar, though useful, was not yet a skill set I’d nailed, unlike my stellar gaydar.

  I rooted through the fridge, choosing one six-pack of pale ale and one of Guinness, and popped the tab on one of the lighter beers.

  A black-and-white blur smashed into the white cupboard next to me.

  “Shit!” I jerked, splashing beer at my feet. I grabbed some paper towels to mop it up.

  “You’re a girl.” A very young, Asian Harry Potter lookalike in a grubby Batman sweatshirt scooped up his soccer ball, tucking it under his arm as he regarded me gravely.

  “Yup. I’m also Rasha.”

  The Kindergartner sucked on his top lip as he digested this.

  I dumped the soggy clump of toweling paper in the trash. “Are you an initiate?” He nodded. “I’m Nava. What’s your name?”

  “Benjy.”

  I shook his pudgy hand while he stared at me with the fascination usually reserved for meeting an alien species.

  “You’re the first initiate I’ve met since I became Rasha,” I said, “so I’m very pleased to meet you.”

  All Brotherhood members in Western Canada, whether initiate, hunter, or rabbi, came through my Vancouver chapter. I’d been warned that sometimes we might have a handful of initiates training and studying for years or go months at a time without anyone there.

  It was weird and cool to meet a mini Rasha-to-be.

  The kid continued to stare at me.

  “You like Batman?” I asked, motioning at his shirt, and wondering if he and Ro had bonded.

  Not a big talker but he’d perfected his “d’uh” look. “I’m gonna be like Batman one day,” he said. “Helping people.” His eyes lit up. “Like Rohan.”

  Yup. They’d bonded.

  “Do you know him?” he asked.

  “He’s my boyfriend.”

  Benjy scrunched up his face in universal little boy “ick.” Whoops. I’d lost Ro some cred. “Are you going to be here long?”

  “Not sure.” I picked up my beer, cradling the other unopened cans.

  He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Okay.”

  Speak of the devil. Ro poked his head in the door. “We have an email from Orwell.”

  “Rohan, I printed all my letters properly.” Benjy held out his hand.

  Ro scratched his chin. “I dunno. Which way does the small ‘d’ face?”

  “Round part goes left of the stick.”

  “Good job.” He pulled out a tub of sour keys from a cupboard and dropped two into Benjy’s hand. The kid immediately sucked one into his mouth, thanking Ro through a mouthful of candy.

  Danilo called out for Benjy to hurry up because his dad was double-parked outside.

  “See you soon?” I said.

  “Uh-huh.” He turned to Ro with an expectant look.

  Ro crouched down to his level and fist-bumped him. Two dark heads bent in towards each other in total focus.

  “R-E-S,” he began.

  “P-E-C-T,” Benjy finished.

  Ro mussed up his hair. “All right, little dude. Be good.”

  Benjy nodded and flung
his soccer ball out the door, running into the hallway after it.

  “You okay?” Ro said. “You look weird.”

  Just unclenching my ovaries. “Cute kid.”

  I dropped the beers off for the rest of the guys and followed Rohan into a computer room, equipped with a couple of laptops and printers. One of the printers was chugging pages out.

  “What’s with this doc they sent?” Ro asked.

  I explained about cross-referencing these incidents with Gary’s to form a profile and narrow down which potential demon we were dealing with. Pierre had already sent me one batch of cold cases and these were the last ones he’d found.

  Rohan straightened some pages before they slipped off the printed stack. “Good idea.”

  “You know it.” I held my beer up in cheers. “Wait! Selfie!”

  “Jesus,” he groaned.

  I handed him a beer. “Okay. Clink. Again. Yeah, that did it. Now one for us and not the public.”

  We clinked cans…

  …and were rocked off our feet.

  Foamy liquid sprayed like blood across the white wall.

  We bolted from the room and sprinted down the stairs. It took us less than a minute to get there, but all was already chaos and bloodshed.

  And screaming. I’ll never forget the sounds of Helen’s keening. I peered over a desk to see what had set her off and gagged. It was a blackened lump, an adult burned past all recognition.

  My heart clawed its way up my throat. “Benjy!”

  I ran to Helen and tripped. Over another burned body, this one recognizable from his blond hair. Zander. I stumbled to my feet, trying not to hyperventilate. “Helen. Please. Where’s Benjy?”

  She’d pressed her fist to her stomach, rocking with low cries.

  I threw an arm around her. “Ro!”

  He couldn’t hear me over Helen and the panicking DSI support staff, who he was trying to herd to the front foyer.

  Danilo grabbed my arm. “Benjy’s safe. I helped him into his dad’s car five minutes ago.”

  I pressed a hand to my thundering heart. “Help me with her?”

  “The rabbi,” Helen sobbed. “He killed him.”