The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(53)

My head swam from whatever bliss drug she was secreting. I clutched the top of a chair to keep from sinking onto that sofa with them and joining in. Rohan, on the other hand, slouched against the doorframe with his hands jammed in his pockets. Not an ounce of tension in him.

The dealer noted the affect the place was having on me. “Go on,” he murmured into my ear as he pried one of my hands off of the chair, “live a little.”

“Just say no.” I gripped the chair harder and blasted the demon back against the wall with mega-current shot from my eyes.

Oh my God, I had a literal death glare! It was official: I was a badass.

Blue Hair flicked the fingers of her free hand at me, prismic drops of her evil sweat flying through the air to land on me like a gentle spring rain. Well, a gentle spring rain that exploded light into trippy colors and amped oxygen into a liquid happiness rush. My knees buckled and I swayed toward her with a moan.

Rohan slammed the dealer up against the wall, stabbing him through the right palm with a finger blade. With a pop, the dealer dissolved into an oily puddle.

Blue Hair rose up, the man clutching at her leg, his mouth working uselessly, sucking nothing. Fury blazed in her eyes as she snatched her victim up in her arms and blurred past us into the night.

Rohan pulled me into the alley after her but she was gone. I sucked in a head-clearing breath.

“Remember that helplessness the next time you plan on taking off alone,” Rohan said.

“I accessed my power.”

“Yeah, but you still needed back up.”

“Still need babysitting. Got it.”

“Hey.” He ran his hand along my back, the tension in it lessoning at his touch. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

I nodded. “So? Why aren’t we hauling ass after them?”

Rohan leaned back against the alley wall. “Did you see how far gone he was? Those scum pimp a hallucinatory secretion that induces bliss while they drain the victim’s life away. That guy has maybe fifteen minutes left in him tops. And even if we did rush in, save him?” He glowered at the empty room. “Addicts always go back.”

I hoped dude’s death was painless. Then I blasted a dumpster into a brick wall hard enough to crack it.

Rohan placed a hand on my shoulder. “We don’t always win.”

Not wanting to go home on that note, I strode into a small urban park, headed for a narrow stream flowing along a concrete channel. It cascaded into a circular pool inset in the ground before gurgling up from a fountain in its center.

Four brick archways flanked the fountain–one at each corner. I picked one at random, sinking onto the bench underneath the overflowing foliage, which provided a thick leafy canopy. I stretched out my legs, looking up at the stars and focusing on their beauty so I wouldn’t lose myself to the ugliness.

Traffic in the background provided a soothing white noise.

I hoped that man had had a full life, short as it was.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Rohan said.

“Too late.” I dug around in my clutch. “Aha.” I pulled out my tiny black pot pipe and lit up, holding the smoke in past the initial burn in my lungs.

Rohan plucked the pipe from my fingers and took a deep drag. I was so shocked that I sputtered out all my smoke. I waved a hand in front of my face as he patted me on the back with one hand.

“Thought you were on duty,” I said, reclaiming the pipe and dragging on it again.

Rohan exhaled in a steady breath. “I’ve fought more wrecked than this.”

I offered him the pipe again but he shook his head. I placed it and the lighter on the bench beside me. “How rock star did you get at the height of things?”

He folded his hands on his stomach, looking up at the few stars visible through the light pollution. “Pretty much every cliché you’d imagine.”

That conjured up images of writhing, barely clad bodies that I was either too stoned or not stoned enough to handle. “Why’d you quit?”

He was quiet for a long time. I wasn’t sure if I’d pushed one too many times for an answer, or if he was zoned out. “Fame isn’t as cool from the inside.”

I flicked my eyes sideways at him, feeling every fraction of an inch that my eyeballs moved. So I did it again because shifting them in my head from side to side was a weirdly wonderful sensation.

It got me thinking about pinball, which morphed into the image of poor Rohan being batted around by giant flippers of fame. “It’s like you were a pinball.” I flicked my left hand like a pinball flipper. “Bam. Paparazzi.” I flicked my right. “Bam. Managers.”

“Bing! Full tilt. Fans,” Rohan chimed in.

“Exactly.” I wiggled my toes. What other profound insights might moving various body parts bring?

Rohan reached up to pluck a low hanging leaf, rubbing it between his fingers. “The need to keep racking up points, to stay in the game becomes addictive. But the machine isn’t sentimental. If you fall down the hole out of play, it’s got another ball ready to take your place. It did a number on me and I fucked up.” His eyes grew distant and haunted as he added softly, “Big time.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he reached inside his inner jacket pocket and removed a small, disc-like container. Twisting the clear plastic cover, he shook out a few candy-colored rice grains and popped them in his mouth. “Coated fennel seeds. Want some?”