The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave (Nava Katz #4)
Deborah Wilde
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter
“She's like Buffy from the wrong side of the tracks. And that's okay with me.” - Heroes and Heartbreakers “…a fun, funny, and unapologetically raunchy new urban fantasy series… a clever guilty pleasure at its best.” - Fine Print “The action sequences are terrific and the humour will have you smiling. Nava is the underdog you will cheer on…” - Uncaged Book Reviews “The story is emotional, action packed, and fast-paced… It’s an intoxicating and invigorating read.” - Angel’s Guilty Pleasures “Nava's like the fun-loving, dirty-talking, drink-tossing best friend you'd want to take to the bar. But you'd also want her around, because, you know, demons.” – Lady Smut “…an original entry into the genre…” - BrizzleLass Books
The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Sting
“I didn't think Deborah Wilde could repeat the success of book 1 in this series but somehow she did. Fantastic plot, characters, snarky dialogue and all. I'm actually giving 5 stars out two books in a row for a series and I don't remember ever doing that. Go figure. Better yet, go get these books.” – The Mysterious Amazon Customer “Chock full of complicated and total visual butt-kicking, sensual push and pull swoons, crass clever and crude hilarity ... STING -- book two in the Nava Katz series -- was a definite win for me and a solid follow up to book one. No middle book syndrome here, folks!” – HJ, Reviewer, Amazon “My favorite urban fantasy series so far this year.” – Uncaged Book Reviews
"Nava Katz is the funniest, bad-a$$, hot mess of a demon hunter you could ever want to meet." - Sunnyles, Reviewer, Amazon
1
Kissing Rohan Mitra, my delectable boyfriend of seventeen days, fourteen hours, and some miscellaneous minutes that I was above counting, was my new favorite addiction. Didn’t matter if it was a soft brush of lips, a quick, almost absent-minded peck to the corner of his mouth, a hot fevered embrace, or long, slow, drugged kisses like now, in a shadowy corner of Neon Paradise, our high bar chairs pushed close enough together for our knees to touch and one of Ro’s hands on the small of my back, pulling me toward him.
We’d mastered the art form under a variety of conditions: stolen in the hallway of the chapter house, between the order and pick-up windows of a Starbucks drive-thru, hell, even high off a demon kill. Those were especially delicious.
And sure, I’d been skeptical. Not being emotionally up for kissing anyone for over a year could do that to a girl. But Rohan Mitra was worth every second of waiting and more. I never wanted to break this kiss.
Oxygen, that demanding element, had other ideas. I pulled back and draped my arms around his neck, ruffling his locks that fell like dark silk through my fingers. Planning on a quick lungful before going in for more.
Then the darling boy spoke. “I didn’t think you’d be any good at kissing.”
I slapped the tall, lacquered table. “Boom. Officially hitting pause.”
Rohan raised an eyebrow. “On what?”
“Your boyfriend status. What could possibly have led you to believe something so deluded?”
He rubbed his nose against mine. “I figured the reason you were so dead-set against it was because of some deep-seated kissing insecurities. I was prepared to have to educate you on the subject. At length.”
I clicked my tongue, though hours of kiss education with Rohan honestly didn’t sound so bad. “My mouth is a marvel, Snowflake. It would behoove you to remember that.”
He leaned his elbows back over the top of his chair, pulling the fabric of his short-sleeved linen shirt tight around his biceps. “Behoove?”
“Yes. Not only am I astoundingly kick-ass, I am also highly erudite.” I’d gotten this Word of the Day app that I was putting to good use, unlike the running app the Brotherhood made me download for training purposes. A little intellectual self-improvement never hurt. Besides, Rohan’s last girlfriend was a hair away from getting her Ph.D in physics and I didn’t want to lower the bar too much. “Reiterating the marvel part now since that’s what you should be focusing on.”
His gold eyes crinkled in either confusion or amusement. “I see.”
“You doubt me?”
He rubbed his head. “One of those PDs we took out earlier really clocked me. My short term memory is spotty.”
“Apparently, since you’ve forgotten that we’re now calling them half-demons, not Practice Demons, out of respect for Leo. Also, shame on you. Blaming those poor spawn for your own shortcomings.” Tsking him, I slipped my fingers into his belt loops and tugged him close.
Five minutes later, I pulled away from his mouth with a nip. “Are my stellar abilities coming back to you yet?”
Wearing a slightly glazed look, his chest rising and falling rapidly, Rohan nodded like he’d forgotten how to form words.
I patted his cheek. “Good man.” I grabbed my emerald satin clutch off the table where it had fallen between his half-finished G&T and my glass of water and slowly edged myself out. Time for another circuit of the dance floor. “Be right back.” I pushed my water glass at him. “Drink this so you’re not all headachy tomorrow.”
“Hey, wait.” Rohan caught my wrist, eyes hot and insistent. “Restart the clock, Sparky.”
I smiled, then mimed smacking it again. He raised the glass in cheers. What a guy.
Leaving the boy to regroup, I skirted the packed dance area. The floor pulsed from the baseline of Jamiroquai’s “Canned Heat” cranked to eleven, with everyone pulling out their best Napoleon Dynamite moves. Glittery disco starbursts illuminated arms thrown up in abandon, the dancers having a blast with the “hits from the 90s to today” that were on tap tonight.
Along the far edge of the floor, pleated curtains framed by multicolored spotlights illuminated cozy booths. Suppressing a smile at the dismayed groan that went up from the dude-bro group over by the pool tables, I curved around the sleek bar, restroom bound.
I charged into the middle stall, locked the door, and sank down in sweet relief. This rare night out was so precious that I’d stayed totally sober to remember every moment of it. But all the dancing I’d done had required copious amounts of hydration and I’d drunk an ocean of water tonight. I peed for so long I must have been pissing out stored reserves. On the plus side, I was so well-hydrated that my skin glowed like I’d been airbrushed.
The marathon urination gave me a chance to catch up on the scrawled graffiti. In neat red ballpoint above the toilet paper holder, someone had written: You’re a solid 8. Underneath that in pink glitter pen it read: Fuck that. I’m a 12?. A sentiment I applauded. Red pen then chimed back in with: Your ego certainly is. To which glitter had replied: All women are a 12? out of 10. At least.