The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 | Ebook

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The Unlikeable Demon Hunter
Chapter 1

Mornings after sucked.

Walks of shame were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed shimmying back into the same trollop togs twice. I picked glitter out of my hair, then straightened my sequined top. I was officially decommissioning it. Multiple washings never quite managed to remove the lingering aura of bad decisions I made while wearing party clothes. My philosophy? Cross my fingers and hope for the most bang for the bucks spent on new outfits.

The surly cabbie evil-eyed me to hurry up.

I complied, rooting around in my clutch for some crumpled bills before handing them over and stumbling out of the taxi onto the sidewalk.

Fresh air was a godsend after the stale bitter coffee smell I’d been trapped with during the ride. I pressed a finger to my temple, a persistent dull throb stabbing me behind my eyeballs. My residual feel good haze clashed big-time with the glaring sun screaming at me to wake up, and the buzz of a neighbor’s lawnmower cutting through the Sunday morning quiet didn’t help matters. Best get inside.

Smoothing out my mini skirt, I readied myself for my tame-my-happy-slut-self-to-boring-PG-rating body check when a wave of dizziness crashed through me. Whoa. I brought my gaze back to horizon level, swallowing hard. That sea-sickness technique was doing dick-all, so I rummaged in my bag for ginger chews.

No puking in the bushes, I chided myself, letting the spicy smooth and sweet candy fight my nausea. My mother would toss my bubble ass out if I defiled her precious rhodos.

Again.

The rise and fall of my chest as I took a few deep breaths spotlit a slight problem. My spangly blouse was missing two buttons. And I was missing a bra. Hook-up Dude had been worth the loss of a pair of socks, maybe a bargain bin thong. But the latest in purple push-up technology? No. I allowed myself a second to mourn. It had been a good and loyal bra.

The sex, on the other hand? Total crap. The girls, who were normally perky, generous handfuls, seemed a bit subdued. I couldn’t blame them. What’s-his-name had started out with all the promise of a wild stallion gallop, but he’d ended up more of a gentle trot. I didn’t know if the fault lay with the jockey or the ride, but it had been a long time since I’d seen a finish line.

Since I couldn’t keep examining my tits on the front walk with Mrs. Jepson side-eyeing me from behind her living room curtains, I thrust my chin up and clacked a staccato rhythm toward my front door on those mini torture chambers that had seemed such a good idea yesterday.

Every step made our precisely manicured lawn undulate. I clamped my lips shut, willing the ginger chews to kick in while fumbling my key into the lock. Dad had screwed up the measurements on our striking cedar and stained glass front door and, being a touch too big for the frame, it needed to be shouldered open.

I crashed into the door like a linebacker. Once I’d extricated myself and my keys from the lock, I brushed myself off and stepped inside. Our house itself was comfortably upper middle class, but not huge, since my parents preferred to spend money on trips and books instead of the overpriced real estate found here in Vancouver. A quick glance to my left showed that the TV room was empty. I crossed my fingers that Mom and Dad were out at their squash game, my main reason for picking this specific time to sneak back in.

Really, a twenty-year-old shouldn’t have to sneak. But then again, a twenty-year-old probably should have kept her last menial job for longer than two weeks, so I wasn’t in a position to argue rights.

I kicked off my shoes, sighing in delight at the feel of cool tile under my bare feet as I padded through the house to our homey kitchen. No one was in there either. Someone, probably Mom, had tacked the envelope with my final–and only–pay stub from the call center that I’d left lying around onto our small “miscellaneous” cork board. The gleaming quartz counters were now free of their usual clutter of papers, books, and the latest gourmet food finds. That meant company. Come to think of it, I did hear someone in the living room.

A study in tasteful shades of white, the large formal room was off-limits unless we had special guests. Mom had set that rule when my twin brother Ari and I were little tornados running around the place and while there was no longer a baby gate barring our way, conditioning and several memorable scoldings kept us out.

Hmmm. Could Ari be entertaining an actual human boy?

I beelined for the back of the house, past the row of identically framed family photos hanging in a neat grid. I cocked my head, listening for more voices, but all was quiet. Maybe I’d been wrong? I hoped not. Both finding my brother with a crush–blackmail dirt–and helping myself to the liquor cabinet were positive prospects. What better way to lose that hangover headache than get drunk again? Oh, the joys of being Canadian with socialized health care and legal drinking age of nineteen. After a year (officially) honing that skill, I imbibed at an Olympic level.

The red wine on the modular coffee table gleamed in a shaft of sunlight like its position had been ordained by the gods. I snatched up the crystal decanter, sloshing the liquid into the glass conveniently placed next to it. Once in a while, a girl could actually catch a break.

I fanned myself with one hand. The myriad of lit candles seemed a bit much for Ari’s romantic encounter, but wine drinking trumped curiosity, so I chugged the booze back. My entire body cheered as the cloyingly sweet alcohol hit my system, though I hoped it wasn’t Manischewitz because hangovers on that were a bitch. I’d slugged back half the contents when I saw my mom on the far side of the room clutch her throat, eyes wide with horror. Not her usual, “you need an intervention” horror. No, her expression indicated I’d reached a whole new level of fuck-up.

“Nava Liron Katz,” she gasped in full name outrage.

My cheeks still bulging with wine, I properly scoped out the room. Mom? Check. Dad? Check. Ari? Check. Rabbi Abrams, here to perform the ceremony to induct my brother as the latest member in the Brotherhood of David, the chosen demon hunters?

Check.

I spit the wine back into what I now realized was a silver chalice and handed it to the elderly bearded rabbi. “Carry on,” I told him. Then I threw up on his shoes.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, I huddled on top of the closed toilet seat in my ensuite bathroom sucking the cheesy coating off Doritos while replaying my actions in grisly Technicolor. Even with all the lights off, the room was as bright and insistent as Martha Stewart’s smile. A dusty Costco-sized sanitary pad box lay open on the counter–the hiding place for my secret stash of arterial clogging happiness.

Now, though, the chips were less illicit joy and more bite-sized snacks of self-loathing.

I stuck my hand into the bag for another nacho, careful not to crinkle it and give myself away. Hard to say what had been the highlight of that little disaster: drinking the ceremonial wine, vomiting, or the wardrobe malfunction that had released my left boob into the world and caused my dad to strain his back jumping in front of me to block the view.

Go me.

Someone rapped on the door. Chip in my mouth like a pacifier, I froze, listening to the raised voices from downstairs–the rabbi yelling, my mother cajoling, and my father reasoning. That left Ari, and right now I was too chickenshit to face him. How could saying sorry cover wrecking the most important moment of his life?

“I know you’re eating Doritos,” he called from outside the door. “Let me in.”

“Nope.” I swallowed down the now-mushy chip and gave a lusty groan. “I’m making a hate crime.”

“If that were true, you’d be running the water because you’re paranoid people will learn you have an anus.” He jiggled the knob. “Let me in.”

I glared at the tap, assigning blame to the inanimate object for failing to carry out its part of my brilliant plan. Dumping the bag down on the counter with a sigh, I washed orange nacho residue off my hands before I tightened the belt on the fuzzy housecoat now wrapped around me, and unlocked the door.

“I’m so, so sorry, Ari,” I said, hanging my head. My fraternal twin deserved all the success and more. Ari never treated me like I was “less than” in any way, not even once. “I know you have no reason to believe me but–”

“Shut up,” he said, brushing past me in his navy-fitted suit. Very bespoke, except for the tired slump of his shoulders.

He lowered himself down onto the edge of the bathtub, knocking one of the many bottles of citrusy shampoo into the tub. With one hand braced on the mosaic shower tiles for support, he removed his kippah, tossing it onto the counter where its gold-embroidered Star of David winked among the chaos of makeup and hair pins.

“Damn, that itches.” He scratched his blond head with a relieved sigh, then jerked his chin at the Doritos bag still in my hand. “You gonna share?”

I locked the door, returned to my throne seat, and held the chips out between us.

We sat there in companionable silence, munching through the party-sized bag.

“These are so disgusting,” Ari said, stuffing about ten of them in his mouth.

I reached over and brushed orange crumbs off his suit. “Careful, bubeleh. Wouldn’t want you to get dirty. Oh, if the elders knew that their healthy-eating chosen one was up here taking years off his life.”

“Eh,” he said, spraying chips. “I’d just blame you, o defiler of innocents.”

“Useful having an evil twin, isn’t it?” My tone was light; my stomach twisted.

He wiped his mouth. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. You’re not evil. Just misguided.”

I drew myself up to my full height. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

We finished the bag, then elbowed each other for first rights of tap water. A quick sip later and I slid onto the brown cork floor, bloated and happy. Well, as happy as I could be.

“I don’t know how you’re not puking given you were still drunk an hour ago,” Ari said.

“These chips have magic properties. Plus, I got it all out of my system on the carpet.”

He shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I think Mom is angrier about that than your spectacular entrance. She was a fairly impressive mottled red when I left her.”

“Merlot or tomato?”

“Nava Red,” my brother replied. “A special shade named in honor of you.”

“Why were you doing the ritual anyway?” I snapped. “The induction is tomorrow. The sixth.”

“Or, today, the sixth.”

Shit! I hugged my knees into my chest. “Ari–”

He stood up, one hand raised to cut me off. “No. You really want to apologize? Take a shower and get dressed so that I have one person who wants to be at this ceremony for me. Not for status or whatever the hell I am to those people down there.”

“Ace,” I gasped, “isn’t this what you want?”

He affixed the kippah back on his head, staring at his reflection in the mirror above the sink for a long moment. “I’ve never had a chance to decide whether I wanted it or not. We were five days old when they determined I was an initiate. I didn’t get a vote.”

We’d both seen the photo of our parents’ stunned faces when a somewhat younger, yet still astonishingly ancient Rabbi Abrams had visited my mother–a descendent of King David–to check Ari out. Since the Brotherhood is top secret, my parents weren’t clued in to the true nature of the rabbi’s visit until after he’d determined Ari as an initiate: a chosen demon hunter. The photo in question had been taken after a lot of explanations and convincing that yes, this was all real, and yes, their son had a hell of an important destiny.

I went into my bedroom to grab some clean clothes to put on after my shower.

Back in the day, and by day I’m talking Old Testament, this shepherd called David took out the giant Goliath for King Saul. While that landed David his place in history, there was more to him than his crazy rock-slinging skills.

I don’t know if David was an adrenaline junkie or a major do-gooder, but when King Saul was later possessed by a demon, David was all “leave it to me,” and cast the hell spawn out. Guess David figured demon removal was a good public service to keep up, because once he became king around 1010 B.C.E., he gathered up his buddies to continue the work. Kick-ass Jews. Awesome.

Though it had never made sense why he called his hunters Rasha–the Hebrew word for “wicked.”

I tossed my clothes over the hook affixed to the back of the bathroom door. “Talk to me.”

My brother had spent his entire life studying and training in preparation for the day he was formally inducted into the Brotherhood. I cocked an eyebrow at Ari, annoyed when he shrugged off my question. “Don’t pretend you aren’t excited to see what magic power you’ll end up with.”

His eyes lit up for a second. “Telekinesis or light bender. Those would be cool.” He jerked a thumb at the shower and I obediently ran the tap, waiting for the water to hit blistering temperature.

“Slime generator or asphyxiation via lethal ass gas, more like.”

“Ha. Ha.” Ari gnawed on his bottom lip.

“You want out?” I cracked my knuckles. “You could totally take all three of them downstairs. I’ll help.”

He shrugged, the motion bunching the dark fabric around his muscles. “I don’t know what else I’d do. What else I’m good for.”

I poked his bicep. “Kill the pity party, Mr. Perfect GPA. I’m sure between your chem major and biology minor some giant pharmaceutical company somewhere will have a small fortune and loads of interesting problems for you to solve.” I wasn’t jealous. He and I didn’t roll that way. He may have been chosen and wicked smart, but the only thing that bugged me about him was that he had prettier lashes than me. It was always the boys with those camel eyes. So unfair.

I tested the water temperature, shaking droplets off my hand until satisfied with its magma level of hot, and pulled the knob up to send the water cascading full blast through the shower head.

Ari mussed my hair. “You’re gonna do something great some day, too,” he said. I smacked his hand off of my head. “You just need to find your thing.” He rushed that second sentence as if hoping I wouldn’t remember that I’d found my thing a long time ago and the chances of finding something else I loved as much were pretty slim.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” I pushed him toward the door. “Go keep them from cutting me out of the will. I’ll be there in ten. The picture of respectability.”

Ari snorted. “Don’t strain yourself. I’ll settle for clean.” He sniffed me, fanning in front of his face with a grimace. “Were you screwing in a dumpster again?”

“Frat house. Same, same.” I reached for the belt of my housecoat.

He unlocked the door, half-twisting back to me. “Would you care? If I didn’t do it?”

I paused, belt still tied. “God, no. The few Rasha I ever met were dick-swinging balls of testosterone. Though I’d hoped for your sake some of them were also dick-sucking. Like that smexy Brazilian they brought in last year to train you in Capoeira.”

He failed to appreciate my eyebrow waggle. “Why do I bother?”

King David had realized pretty early on that even if he rid Israel of demons, there was a reason they were part of every culture’s mythology. Demons were an international problem. Since Jerusalem was close to this trade route called the King’s Highway, David sent his band far and wide to find all the best specimens of manhood from various races and religions including Muslims, Egyptians, Zoroastrians, Phoenicians, Celts, and Thracians to fight the good fight. The Brotherhood was formed.

It was kind of cool to see how far-ranging those original bloodlines had traveled into present day. What wasn’t cool was how serious and stressed my brother was, so I smacked my lips, hell-bent on getting a smile. “Mmm. High quality Brazilian meat.”

Ari made a sound of disgust and whipped my loofah glove at me. I ducked, laughing, and it sailed into my shower. “What? You don’t want a boyfriend? It’s an all-male Brotherhood.” I eyed him up and down and shrugged. “Statistically speaking, someone in that crew would find you attractive. ”

His lips quirked, despite his best efforts to look stern. “I have no time for dating.”

“Me neither. But I have a whole bunch of sex instead. Something you, my dear older brother, could use. Regular doing of the nasty might loosen you up.”

“I’m loose,” he said, tightening his tie.

“Yeah.” I shoved him out the door. “A regular whore of Babylon. Now get outta here. I’ve got to pretty up.”

One thing I’d say in my favor, I was not one of those girls who took forever to get ready. I was showered and dressed in something practically Amish in the allotted ten minutes. I twisted my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, and fresh faced, headed downstairs.

Time for my close up, Mr. Demille. Bowing my head, I shuffled into the living room.

“Forgive me, Rabbi.” I prostrated myself like a wedding guest begging the Godfather for a favor. “I was involved in a car accident on my way home,” I lied. I stood up again. “It’s why I needed a drink. I was so rattled.” I infused as much pathos into my voice as possible while blinking up at him. Tricky, since I was four inches taller, but not impossible. “I’m sure you’ve never had that problem.”

Men, whether straight, gay, holy, or otherwise, could be such suckers. The rabbi patted my hand in forgiveness, his touch papery dry. “You need to show more respect, Navela,” he said, using the Yiddish diminutive of my name.

I nodded, side-stepping around the wet-yet-once-more-spotlessly-clean former puke site on the white, short-velvet-pile carpet. “You’re so right. I should come to schul. Isn’t your son the Cantor at Park West Synagogue? Such a beautiful voice when he prays.”

A look of abject horror contorted the rabbi’s features at the terrifying prospect of me getting my hands on his precious son. Trust me, the guy was a middle-aged balding chub. I had zero designs on his person.

“Start small,” Rabbi Abrams said.

While the rabbi had mentored Ari his entire life, having served as a head demon-hunter coach, my contact with him had been limited. In addition to coordinating training and fight instructors, he also taught my brother everything from demon types to creating wards and learning the various aspects of the Brotherhood itself. Ari tended to get pretty vague on those details.

“Shana,” the rabbi called out to my mother. “Now that the entire family is here, we can start the ceremony again.”

My mother handed him the newly washed chalice. “Of course, Rabbi.” Mom watched him shuffle off to prepare something, trailing a faint smell of mothballs in his wake, then, patting her sleek honey-colored bob, stepped past me with a murmured, “Carnage and lies? A busy morning.”

Mom was a lot harder to fool. A whip-smart, tenured history professor at the University of British Columbia with an annoying tendency to recall events best forgotten, she was also a best-selling author of, big surprise, a tome on King David.

My dad, Dov, dark-haired like me, was a prof, too. Law. Oy vey. Everything was fact-gathering to build a case with him. Case in point, he walked stiffly into the room, courtesy of his recent back injury, all pleated pants and sweater vest, the usual mug of coffee welded to his hand.

I gagged at the smell.

“What’s this about a car accident? Was this in the taxi? Did you get the information from him and the other driver?” His questions were gunfire fast. “You’ll need it for the claim.”

Shit. I hadn’t prepared for questioning.

Ace to the rescue. My brother tugged on Dad’s sleeve, leading him to his recliner. “Sit. Rabbi wants to start the ceremony.” Out of the corner of his mouth he muttered, “You owe me big time.”

I gave him a sheepish grin and sat in the brushed twill armchair at the far end like a good little girl, stuffing my hands under my butt.

Rabbi Abrams motioned for Ari to come stand beside him. While the rabbi was the picture of reverence as he lit the first candle, my brother’s hand jiggled madly in his pocket.

I threw him a thumbs up. Ari was going to be great.

The rabbi lit the last of the dozen or so large pillar candles on thick glass bases placed in a circle around the living room. The soulless space with its white carpet, white furniture and, wait for it, black and white brocade wallpaper was softened by their glow.

The ceremony involved a lot of singing prayer or chanting or something in Hebrew. I’d pretty much spent my Hebrew school classes reading Sweet Valley High so I didn’t understand it, but I’d been to synagogue enough that the singing and ritualistic gestures were familiar. The rhythms and cadence of the language lulled me, even soothing my grating headache a bit.

The old guy didn’t have a bad voice, probably where his son got his talent, and the ceremony itself was kind of lovely. Even my cold, dead heart couldn’t fail to be moved by the reverence and history of this ceremony.

All male descendants of King David–or of any hunter–were tracked as potentials. The first ritual, performed when they were a baby, determined if they could be bumped up to initiate–one who carried the Rasha make-up, versus the regular Muggle descendants. It weeded out about 98% of the potentials. If level two status was unlocked, they were labeled initiates and slated for training. Their second and final ceremony, the official induction to the Brotherhood where they became Rasha, happened at age twenty.

There were a couple of reasons for the wait. First off, it took initiates their entire childhood and adolescence to master the training and studying necessary to take on the gig. And, for more practical reasons, they needed to be inducted once they’d physically stopped growing and were in the prime of health for their body to accept the magic powers that this final ceremony would confer on them. After much trial, error, and loss of life, twenty had been hit on as the magic age.

Rabbi Abrams blessed the wine then handed the chalice to Ari. Once my brother had taken a sip, he dipped his finger in the wine and dripped three fat red drops back into the chalice. A reminder of the precious human blood that would be spilled if they lost their fight against evil.

I discreetly waved off some smudgy smoke, suppressing a tiny smile at my mom doing the exact same thing. If it had been up to my parents, they’d have rented a ballroom and invited every person they’d ever known to watch their little boy become a badass mensch. Let’s face it, a demon hunter induction had way more bragging rights than a Bar Mitzvah. Alas, the general populace was not to know the Brotherhood existed, so my parents had to keep quiet about Ari’s abilities and his big day today.

I’d always wished Ari’s induction would happen in a stone cavern with chanting, hooded members, but old David had mandated humility into Demon Club’s mission statement. The chosen one was supposed to selflessly devote his life to demon hunting for the greater good, not personal glory. Thus, it was always just a small ceremony with immediate family, if that, performed in the home.

The rabbi wrapped a small handkerchief around Ari’s wrist–white to symbolize piety. Yeah, right. Based on the very few Rasha I’d met, it would take more than a hankie to tamp down their enormous arrogance. Try a textile factory’s yearly output.

Rabbi Abrams held fast to the other end of the cloth as he lay his free hand on my brother’s head. More Hebrew.

I snuck a look at my parents. To their credit, they didn’t look disappointed. In fact, seated there, watching the ceremony with rapt looks, they pretty much glowed with delight.

My own chest warmed in tight mushiness and a tear leaked from my eye, streaking its way down my cheek.

Ouch.

I blinked against the sudden stinging. Everything took on a drugged, underwater quality as the room swam around me. I clasped my hands together, pressing them between my knees. Breathing through my nose. Determined not to mess up the ceremony.

Again.

Ari repeated some Hebrew phrases the rabbi gave him. Aww, look at that twin of mine, embracing his destiny. I focused on my excitement to be here with him as he stepped into his future.

Better him than me.

The edges of my vision flickered. The rabbi’s voice, harsh and far too loud, scraped over my skin. Clapping my hands over my ears didn’t help. My flesh broke out in goosebumps as whispers sounded around me. A million voices, a million Rasha spirits brought together to welcome the newly chosen.

Carpet fibers pricked the soles of my feet as I stood up. The room spun. Sweat dotted my brow, slid between my shoulder blades.

The rabbi had his back to me, but Ari glanced over, a flash of concern rippling through his serious expression.

Did I have delayed alcohol poisoning? I pulled at the neck of my shirt, fighting for air. Was that even a thing?

Rabbi Abrams opened a small, intricately carved box, revealing the fat gold ring that would mark Ari as one of the chosen. Gold from the ancient Judaic symbol for divine or celestial light, a holy blessing sought since David’s time.

Propelled by a force beyond my control, I opened my hand, reaching for the ring. Every atom inside me screamed out for that band.

“Sheli.” Huh? How did I suddenly know the Hebrew word for “mine?”

The ring floated free to hover in mid-air.

Every head in the room whipped my way. Mom tensed, her body straining forward to look at me. Dad’s eyes widened, his coffee mug falling to the floor, brown liquid pooling in a sludge.

Ari and Rabbi Abrams gaped, slack-jawed at me.

“Sheli,” I repeated, trance-like. My voice was a deep, rich, resonating command. Even though I was freaking out at my total lack of ability to control my actions, I also felt a deep sense of rightness in my gut as I spoke.

That freaked me out more.

The ring launched across the room to fit itself on my right index finger with the mother of all electric shocks. My hair blew back off my face. I snapped out of the trance, once more in full control of my faculties.

“Fucking hell!” I cursed, shaking out my hand while jumping up and down.

The candles snuffed out, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

Ari was the first to move. He reached over and snapped the ring box in Rabbi Abrams’s hand shut with a thud that cracked like gunfire. “It appears you had the wrong twin,” he said. He hefted the silver chalice. “L’chaim,” he toasted and slugged the whole thing back.