The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(63)

“It is a nice car,” I said, ignoring his childish retort.

“Best ride I ever had,” Rohan said with a sly smile my way.

“You mean best wank.” I kicked off my flip flops. “It couldn’t be more of a jerk-off machine if you’d painted balls on the back tires.”

Rohan gave an amused snort. Ready or not, I was on my way.





17





We carted my things up to my new room in a couple of trips. The bedroom was serviceable, if somewhat masculine. Tolerable queen mattress, wood furniture on the heavy side. This crazy print of two people against a stormy sea sat atop the dresser, propped against the wall. The person on the left was merely a strip of face and neck, as if torn off the person on the right, whose missing strip revealed weird cables and balls. It was the kind of thing Ari would have dug, if not my style. At least the view to the backyard was nice.

The best part was the small ensuite bathroom. I would not have wanted to share with the boys and learn firsthand who missed the toilet seat when he peed.

Rohan took my laptop to give to Ms. Clara.

“Be sure to bring back a receipt,” I mocked.

He spread his hands in a “what are you going to do” way. “The Brotherhood is incredibly anal.”

“Well,” I deadpanned, “anal is the new black.”

He blinked slowly at me with a fascinated gleam in his eyes. I stumbled back a step, my knees hitting the mattress, but he simply held up the laptop. “Anything you don’t want people to see?” he asked.

I checked the heel of my shoe, as if that had been responsible for my lost footing, forgetting I wore flip flops. “You sound positively hopeful.”

“Just don’t want you to be embarrassed.” He paused in the doorway. “More embarrassed.”

I grabbed the closest thing handy, which happened to be a boot, and flung it at him. He rocked back on his heels, shaking with laughter, not even flinching as my footwear missed decapitating him by mere millimeters.

“Leave,” I ordered.

“Baruch wants you in the Vault,” he called back, my computer tucked under one arm.

I popped another Midol and hustled my ass downstairs.

“Yo, Tree Trunk. I’m–” I came to an abrupt stop at the sight of Drio waiting for me in sweats torn off at the knee and a white long-sleeved tee with perfectly placed holes that I swear he paid extra for. The overall effect was mouthwatering. Damn, these boys were annoyingly hot.

“Where’s Baruch?” I asked. My previous encounter with Drio had burned up my fear quota, leaving me irritated at his presence.

“You’re with me today.”

I crossed my arms. “Why?”

Drio cracked a smile at my suspicious tone as he pulled the door shut. “Because I scare you,” he said in a stereotypical vamp accent.

“Was that supposed to be a Count Dracula impression? Because you sounded more like Count Chocula.”

His brow creased in confusion. I opened my mouth to explain the difference. “No. I don’t care enough,” he said, crossing the room.

I was about to ask if I should follow but I got distracted by his pants sliding down his hip and the tantalizing glimpse of olive skin revealed. He caught them before things got interesting and tugged them up. Too bad. My dislike of him did not override my voyeuristic tendencies.

Though I hustled to catch up when I saw the vein in his forehead throb at my dawdling.

“Heard you ran into some trouble last night.” He flipped a small panel mounted to the wall open, revealing a flat black pad. “Good work pissing Asmodeus off, since it’s not like we have enough to do with Samson.”

I pulled off the elastic band I wore on my wrist and tied my hair up into a messy ponytail, choosing to ignore his sarcasm. “Here’s a question. Last night, Asmodeus compelled me. How do I fight back against–”

I gasped finding Drio with his hands around my neck. He wasn’t hurting me, but I hadn’t even seen him move. One second he was ten feet away, the next he was behind me.

“Against surprises?” he asked.

I screwed my eyes shut, my heart hammering. “Don’t flambé me.”

Drio dropped his hands.

I cracked open one eye to see him bring his thumb to the fingers of his right hand, shaking it in what even I recognized as an Italian gesture of frustration. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Your fire powers.”

He massaged his right temple. “What fire powers?”

I straightened my T-shirt with a sharp tug. “You know, your anger issues that manifest in some kind of elemental flame deal.”

His eyes narrowed. “My anger issues? Because I’m Italian, I must be a hothead? Got any other ethnic profiling?”

“Please. You being Italian has zip to do with it. You raging at me since day one on the other hand?” I spread my hands wide, encouraging him to make the tiny jump from A to B. My empirical evidence presented, I rocked back on my heels.

Drio glanced skyward with a pained look, as if seeking divine patience. Then he waved his hands at me. “No flames. Though I’d be happy to find some matches. My power?” He zipped across the room and back in a blink.

“Super speed?”

“Technically, I flash step. I’m not zipping across the city.”