The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Crave (Nava Katz #4)

“Are you going to tell me what the deal is between you two?” Rohan shook his head. “Stubborn. What if you pulled back on investigating this from the Brotherhood angle? Let me try and step things up with the witches.”

“Like that’s safer?” He squeezed my hands. “I’ll be careful.”

“Promise?”

Rohan pressed his mouth below my earlobe, his whispered “I promise,” making me shiver.

I sighed. “Let’s get this over with.” Twenty-one had been my best birthday ever. Too bad I wouldn’t live to see twenty-two.





8





Drio stood at the kitchen counter applying Crazy Glue to a machete grip as Rohan warmed up with the Sweet Tooth case. Drio was framed by the window, the trees outside bent almost double and rain lashing the glass. When he heard what had happened to Naomi, his hands tightened on the handle so hard that he cracked it again.

I slipped the box of Kosher salt out of the cupboard. If Drio was mad about the drugs, a quick ward might be in my best interests when we got to the actual topic needing to be raised, since The Flash over there was holding a literal machete.

“You think this oshk is looking for Candyman as well?” Drio said.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Rohan said. “The wreta might have known.” He shrugged.

“We need to stop that shit hitting the streets. Addictions never end well.” There was an uncharacteristic edge to Drio’s voice.

“Never with demon drugs, but humans can beat addictions. If they get treatment in time…” I trailed off at the look of disdain Drio leveled at me.

He turned to Ro. “You want my help?”

“Nava?” Seated at the table, Rohan twisted around to look up at me.

I shifted from side-to-side.

Drio smirked. “You look uncomfortable. I can’t wait to hear this.”

“Tone down the delight,” I said. “This is um, really, really not to be shared.”

He sanded the handle. Its wicked blade glinted in the harsh kitchen light. “You know,” he said, “it’s unhealthy to keep things inside.”

I swallowed, standing behind Ro with my hands on his shoulder for support. Drio didn’t like having enemies. Between the torture, the flashstepping, and the fact he was a little murder machine capable of striking fast and dismembering painfully slow, he was a formidable ally.

But that was only if he took my side. We’d been through a lot together. We’d survived Prague and nearly hooked up, sure, but I didn’t kid myself for a moment that I couldn’t see the coldness creeping into Drio’s eyes.

“Tough,” I said, rolling the die. “Some secrets are meant to be a poison in your soul. So sit back and enjoy the rest of your truncated life. Welcome to Knowledge Club.”

I kept the Kosher salt close and Ro half in front of me as a handy shield for the entire sordid tale. I may not have been convinced that I could set a ward faster than Drio could move, but Drio wouldn’t hurt Ro to get to me.

Given how Drio had reacted when he’d learned the Brotherhood had its first female Rasha, I didn’t think he’d be particularly fond of witches. Especially ones that were binding demons with blood magic.

Silent fury rolled off his tense frame, so I wasn’t wrong. But he was as incensed about the possibility of the Brotherhood being on the wrong side of the fight as Rohan had been.

I edged that much farther behind Ro.

“You know I could kill you before you laid down a single grain of salt or hid fully behind him, yes?” he said, twisting the machete to examine the handle.

Eep. I jutted my chin up. “Good thing I decided to trust you then.”

Rohan crossed his arms. “Drio, come on. Put the machete down.”

“I knew something was going down in Prague. Why didn’t you tell me then?” He leveled a glare at me.

“Our mission with Samson–”

“You didn’t trust me.”

I looked away.

“When did you decide to trust me?”

“Ten minutes ago,” I mumbled.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He tossed the machete onto the counter with a clatter, making Ro and I flinch, and marched off.

Rohan pinched the bridge of his nose. “That went well.”

I hurried to catch up to Drio and tugged on his sleeve. “I’m sorry.”

Drio’s strides grew longer, forcing me to jog up the stairs behind him.

“You’re honestly only mad that I didn’t tell you? Why aren’t you disputing my theory or blaming me or something?”

“If it comes to it, I’ll assign plenty of blame.” His eyes glinted. “But not to you. You don’t blame someone for wanting to know the truth.”

“You’ve come a long way from wanting me dead.”

“Oh, I still want you dead, bella.” He chucked me under the chin. “Just for different reasons.”

“Should I consider you helping me as my birthday present?”

“No.”

I clapped my hands. “Because you bought me something?”

“No.” He turned his back to me and resumed climbing. “I’d have to like you to spoil you.”

“Like Leo.” I stuck out my tongue. “Yeah, yeah, I know all about your ways, Mr. Hand-Printed Scarf.”

He stopped in the doorway of his bedroom, momentarily stunned. “What?”

I saw my chance and took it. “If exposing corruption in the Brotherhood isn’t helping me, what would you call it?”

Drio’s features twisted with pain for a moment and I held my breath thinking that I’d finally get some insight into what made this guy tick. He was such a mass of extremes, but he kept having my back.

I caught his hand. “I’m really truly sorry.”

He stared at our connected hands like they didn’t compute, then gently shook free. “Forget it.”

He shut the door. One way or another, I was going to get to the bottom of the mystery that was Drio Ricci. And make it up to him for hurting his feelings, since I now resided in the bizarro-world where his feelings mattered.

“Nava?”

At the sound of Rabbi Abrams’ voice, I hustled back downstairs, pathetically happy he’d called but equally worried he’d told Mandelbaum and I was now going to be forcibly rehabilitated for my own good. “Yes, Rabbi?”

“Esther wants to see you.”

“You talked to her? Not the Brotherhood?”

“Navela.” Even his myriad of wrinkles frowned at me. “I didn’t speak to the Brotherhood about this. I wouldn’t endanger you and everything you’re doing to get to the bottom of this.” He sounded supremely cranky.

I rolled onto the outsides of my feet, a smile breaking free. “I didn’t doubt it for a second.”



The hospital ward fluorescents cast a cold, grim light over the pale green walls, painted with sunflowers in some misguided attempt at “cheerful.” The strained manic grins on their flower faces only achieved “constipated,” pairing well with the stench of antiseptic and misery permeating the place.

A warning sign in electric yellow proclaimed that the patient inside was in isolation and listed the conditions of entry, such as no flowers or fresh fruit.

Deborah Wilde's books