The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(42)
There was a flash of blue. A burning sizzle lit Cuntessa up in high-voltage agony. I screamed into the pillow in the way one does when one has fucking electrocuted her clit, doubling over into the fetal position. I was hyperventilating, swearing in breathy gasps.
I guess no one else was upstairs to hear my shriek of pain because thankfully nobody came to check on me. Tears streamed down my cheeks. This was so unfair. My body could be literally coated in electricity and it didn’t hurt but accidentally give myself one bad touch and I almost passed out. Shouldn’t I be immune from myself? One more stupid detail to master.
Eventually, the pain knifing through me subsided enough for me to catch my breath. I flung the pillow covering my head across the room then probed Cuntessa gently with a gasped wince. I offered my profuse apologies to her but could practically hear her snottily informing me that this was the last straw. Mentally slapping me with a restraining order until such time as her pleasure could be guaranteed without useless dicks or lightning strikes.
Damn you, Rohan Mitra.
Damn you, Rasha.
And damn you, destiny.
With pain and sexual frustration vying for control of my body, I rolled into a tight ball. Stupid me fixating on the worst choice in men imaginable. Rohan wasn’t hot stuff and he didn’t have me under his sway.
On the plus side, now that he was out of my system, I was free to focus on what mattered–Ari. My mind was crystal clear, even if the occasional tear still leaked from my eyes.
A rather brilliant thought occurred to me as I lay sprawled on the covers, blinking through the hurt. Not every demon was equal on the evil hierarchy, and while lots were big bads, many more were mostly bottom feeders. Like the araculum. Still capable of doing damage, sure, but trading on intel rather than brute force and malevolence to stay alive.
If Rasha were the cops of the demon world, then there were bound to be some snitches amongst the criminals. All I had to do was find one and have him pass a message up the food chain to Asmodeus that I was the one who’d killed Josh and his sister.
I was moving into the chapter house anyway, and by the time Asmodeus showed up, I’d be living safely behind the wards and the guys could help me take him out. Even Rohan wouldn’t be able to be mad at my outside-the-box thinking then, and he’d be honor-bound to help me. Of course if he wasn’t, then he sucked, but with a big win like that, I’d be useful enough to force contact with the Executive, protocol be damned.
I drummed my fingers against my mattress. The good little Rasha thing to do would be to go tell my babysitter about this idea, except in this case, it was better to seek forgiveness than permission. I toyed with the primer and my stack of notes. Based on my admittedly limited understanding, curupira fell into a kind of mid-level bad zone. I’d dealt with the one I’d met quite effectively. How hard could it be to deal with a snitch?
Hmmm. Tiptoeing to the window, I cracked my blinds just enough to peer out, considering my odds. No sign of Rohan, but he still had to be prowling around. Keeping well away from the window in case my shadow gave me away, I slipped into a little all-black number–low slung jeans and a fitted, scoop neck top–perfect for cat burglary and escaping a house undetected. The final touch? Stuffing my hair under a black knit cap. Okay, perching it jauntily on my hair but it really completed the look.
Rohan was probably watching my window for signs of life, so I crept out of my room in a low crouch which wouldn’t be visible from the ground. Once in the hallway, I exhaled, and strolled to Ari’s bedroom.
I rapped on his door before easing it open.
Ari sat on his bed against his wooden headboard, still-dressed, his legs stretched out on his brown comforter with its graphic blocky design. Surrealist prints like Dali’s Persistence of Memory with its melting clocks, Magritte’s painting of a pipe with “Ceci, n’est pas une pipe.” in script underneath it, and Gonsalves’ row of ships that seemed to turn into an arched bridge, framed his walls.
“Whatcha doing?”
He looked up guiltily from texting, fumbling his phone. “Nothing.”
“Or,” I amended, skipping toward him, “who are you doing?”
He placed the phone face down on the bedside table, leaving it free for me to scoop up. “Have you no respect for personal property?” he sputtered.
I didn’t bother responding to that ridiculous question, busy swiping the screen to get to the goods. I scrolled past a couple of flirty texts from whomever Ari had labeled as “Do Not Engage.” Then jackpot. “Your ‘nothing’ has an awfully familiar nipple ring,” I said, studying the well-defined naked chest in the photo that he’d been sent. “Thought you were mad at him?”
“I am. Which in his head means dial up the charm to get me to fall back in line.” Ari snatched the phone away with, what was for him, a pretty good glower, stuffing it under the pillow behind his back. “What do you want?” His expression was infused with all the pain and long-suffering stemming from having a bratty younger sibling.
Younger by twelve minutes, but I did my best to be exemplary in the annoying department.
I perched on the end of his bed, suppressing my urge to rip out his hospital corners. “While I could pester you with questions that you really don’t want to answer, I will skip that part because I am such a good sister.”
His eyes narrowed. “You want something else.”