The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Fall

1 The five leaked song titles from Rohan’s upcoming album that I found on the fan boards were either A) written about me because Rohan wanted to publicly profess his forgiveness, B) not written about me because I was no longer lyric-worthy, or C) written about me but in a completely unflattering light. “Silver Lining” was the first title I learned about. A case for either scenario “A” or “C” depending on whether I was the silver lining to the tragedies Rohan had faced in his life or I was the tragedy. And if it was the latter, what was this silver lining’s name? Because she and I were going to have words. Next was “Tourniquet of Phrase,” which was just mean and suggested that he had to staunch the words that came out of my mouth. Another one for the “C” column. “Rhapsody in You.” As the Magic 8 Ball that I’d had for all of three days as a kid before Ari had dissected it to prove it contained neither magic nor science would have decreed in favor of the “A” column, “All signs point to yes.” Unless the “you” in the title wasn’t me. Moving on. “Asp.” Like the death snake that killed Cleopatra? Did he think I’d be the death of him? Seriously? I’d saved his sorry a*s from a magicless life. In fact, I’d probably saved him from a reality in which he moved to the top of a mountain in a fit of emo pique, went off-grid, and eventually ended up with a peg leg because he sucked at gardening and couldn’t produce a single fruit or vegetable. The point was, I’d fixed things. Badly, perhaps, but he also wasn’t a legless mountain man, so there. And he calls me the asp? And then there was the final leaked title. The title that no matter how I spun it, never left the worst-case column, and in fact added a subsection of “get ready to be dumped and hard.” “Age of Consent.” Because we all knew how he felt about consent. I decided to take it from the top again and see if perhaps reading them for a seventh time changed anything when a strange noise caught my attention. I slid my phone into my pocket and peered across the kitchen. Ari Katz, my twin brother, was humming. Sure, sunshine streamed in through the open glass sliding door, the late July sky was a picture-perfect blue with fat pillowy clouds drifting lazily by, and the pop song streaming off Apple Music was pretty catchy. It would have been plausible, nay, likely even, that another blond guy would bob his head to Katy Perry and hum while doing dinner prep, but my brother? The guy who’d been tortured, liked weird art, and whose magic was the literal manifestation of darkness? Not on your life. I dumped more oil and balsamic dressing on the salad in the large wooden bowl that sat on the counter in front of me, pondering that Sherlock quote about eliminating the impossible blah-blah-blah to get to the truth. And the truth’s denim-clad bubble a*s was currently bent over in front of the fridge. Kane Hashimoto elbowed the fridge door shut, holding by a pair of tongs a raw slab of T-bone that glistened with marinade. “Do you have…” he glanced around. “A plate?” “Because your meat is dripping?” Ari asked in a mild voice. “If it was?” Kane popped a hand on his hip, a cocky smirk on his face. This foreplay made no sense, since no one, and I mean no one, at Demon Club was getting laid. While Kane’s words sounded a sexy challenge, his arrogance was belied by a look of light panic in his eyes. It seemed unlikely to stem from needing crockery. Ari, to his credit and my astonishment, didn’t blush. He licked his lips. Slowly. Except again, less foreplay, more cheerful determination, like he was faced with a wild stallion he had to gentle and nothing was going to deter him from his path. Kane broke out in a full-body blush: from his razor-sharp cheekbones, across his bare sculpted torso, and down into his waistband. He ducked his head; even his spiky black hair looked flustered. My brother trained a fond expression on him and handed him a platter. “That’s it.” I threw down the salad servers. “What is going on with you two? Because ever since you came back from that mission in Osoyoos, you’ve been all…” I circled my finger around at the two of them. “That.” Kane transferred all three raw steaks from the marinade bowl onto the platter. “You need a life, babyslay.” “We kill demons, remember? Lives are overrated. What I need is cold, hard information so I can stop driving myself crazy.” Blue-gray eyes met dark brown as Ari and Kane shared a look. “When’s the last time you spoke to Rohan?” Ari said. I thunked the salad bowl into my brother’s chest, making his faded green T-shirt ripple. “Salt this. And don’t deflect.” “There’s nothing going on.” Kane tossed the words out over his shoulder, oh-so-cavalierly, and stepped outside. He had the platter in one hand and the BBQ tongs in the other. Ari shrugged and tossed a dash of salt onto our salad. “You heard the man.” If I had a twin sister, I’d have had the details ages ago. No matter. I’d break him. “If you two are dating, then tell me. Don’t pretend it’s not happening out of some kind of misplaced pity. Don’t want it. Don’t need it.” Ari set the bowl on the dark granite counter next to the forks and plates I’d already gotten out, then plucked Ro’s favorite purple guitar pick from between my fingers. I blinked, surprised to find that I’d fished it out of the front pocket of my shorts and had been rubbing it like a lucky rabbit’s foot. Again. I swiped it back before my twin confiscated it in some misguided Rohan intervention. Ari glanced outside at Kane on the flagstone patio by the stainless steel BBQ, grilling and singing away. “There’s nothing going–” An alarm blared from upstairs, startling us. “Mischa!” I yelled, sprinting for the foyer. The three of us ran up the curved staircase to Kane’s bedroom. Technically, the surveillance cameras we’d installed in Mischa Volkov’s townhouse weren’t legal. Neither was the B&E that had allowed us entry while he was at work. But what were pesky laws when the fate of humanity was at stake? I’d made the call and would make it again in a heartbeat. Kane dropped into his desk chair, tapped the keyboard, and shut down the alarm on our side that had been triggered by Mischa’s garage door opening. He peered at the various room views displayed on his monitor, Ari and I hovering at his shoulder. “Look at his bed. The top sheet is messed up.” Mischa wasn’t Rasha like Kane, Ari, and myself, but he’d spent some time in the military, given his hospital corners and blanket that was usually so taut you could bounce a quarter off it. “About the right size and shape for a suitcase,” Ari said. “The tracker,” I said. “On it.” Kane brought up another window, this one displaying the blinking light that represented Mischa’s car’s turning off his street. “Wherever are you going?” Over the past few weeks of watching Mischa, it had become clear he was a man of habit. Or a dude trying very hard to stay under the radar. He worked a boring nine-to-five job, shopped and did meal prep for the week on Sundays, and aside from the rare drink out with co-workers, didn’t socialize. Not once had he left his house on an early Saturday evening like now. Ari and I sat down on Kane’s mattress and settled in to learn his destination in tense silence. Well, tense silence and cramming as much steak into our mouths as possible to temper the excruciating wait while Mischa drove along the highway for the next forty-five minutes. Over the past month, we’d hit more dead ends in our investigation of what Rabbi Mandelbaum and his select group of Rasha were up to than a fairgoer in a house of mirrors. Ferdinand Alves and Tessa Müller were still dead, Sienna Powell was still missing, and we still had no definitive clue as to the rabbi’s agenda. I crossed my fingers for a much-needed break, perking up when Mischa took the turn off for the ferries at Horseshoe Bay. “He’s going to Bowen. Gotta be. What’s the wait time for the ferry line up?” Ari opened a browser on his phone. “He’ll make the one at 7:10. With the crossing that gives us about a sixty-minute window.” Kane nudged Ari’s knee with his. “You good to go?” My brother wiped off his mouth and tossed his napkin on his plate. “Yup.” Kane handed me an iPad mini, which I tucked into my waistband against the small of my back under my flowy blouse. “There shouldn’t be any buffering problems,” he said. They followed me into my bedroom where I stuffed my feet into runners, tugged on a pair of fingerless gloves, and pulled on a balaclava, carefully tucking all my hair under it. “You sure you don’t want me to take you?” Ari said. “My portal mishaps were so two weeks ago. I’m rocking Witch Magic 101. Later, gators.” “Just make sure you don’t end up in the duck lake at the petting zoo again. That was a hard one to explain.” Ari squeezed my shoulder. “And be careful.” “You, too.” I pulled them into a hug, rubbing my cloth-covered cheeks against theirs. “If this is the start of all hell breaking loose, I want you both to know how much you mean to me. And also that you’ll need to feed me second dinner later because I expect I’ll be hungry.” Kane pushed me off of him. “I feel like I’m being groped by Deadpool. Go.” I closed my eyes. Witch magic was based on the idea of infusion and elimination. All I had to do now was eliminate the spaces in between my start and end points. It was still somewhat surreal that I was now my own mode of long-distance transport, but I gotta admit, witches beat Rasha hands down in the magic department. I took a deep breath and vanished, landing in the small forest clearing out back of the single-storied, very rustic log cabin that Mischa owned on Bowen Island, and startling the crap out of the herd of deer grazing there. As I didn’t end up all Han Solo embedded in the damn animals, all was well. Most of them bounded off, but one snorted, turning its disdainful gaze on me. I flicked it the finger and strode into the press of Douglas fir. Ari and I had spent the past couple weeks unearthing everything there was to know about Mischa, including that he owned this property. He hadn’t tried to hide the fact or anything, but then again, he probably hadn’t expected to be under surveillance. I inched my way closer and closer to the house that was set well back in the woods. It had been cool under the tree canopy, but the temperature shot up pleasantly as I skirted the back lawn to the bushes under the living room window. I elbowed my way into the brush, doing my best to avoid any brambles, and cautiously raised my head to peer inside. A man with shaggy brown hair sat sprawled on a battered sofa, texting. One of Mandelbaum’s Not-So-Merry Men, this hunter had actually trained at the Vancouver chapter years ago. He tossed the phone onto the cushions, rose, and padded into the small galley kitchen. I slid my burner phone out of my pocket and fired off a quick text of my own. He’s here. My phone buzzed two seconds later with a thumbs-up emoji. I stashed it in my pocket, and portalled into the cabin. “Howdy, neighbor.” I’d never spoken to this man before, so he wouldn’t recognize my voice. Ilya Volkov’s double take and barked Russian profanity were priceless. I planted my hands on my hips and c****d an eyebrow. “Come on. I nailed that landing. That was a solid ten by anyone’s standards. Even the Russians. Get it. Russians? ’Cause you’re… Okay, do you speak English?” His furrowed brow got more slanty and scowly. “I don’t talk to witches.” Ten points for recognizing I was a witch, and a big sigh of relief that he hadn’t realized I was also a fellow demon hunter, since the exact total of all female Rasha was me. Those fingerless gloves hiding my Rasha ring had been an excellent idea.