The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(65)

“This isn’t about using her to get close,” I said.

“No. She’s going to share what she knows about King.” He pushed up his sleeves.

The demon’s eyes flashed red.

Time to go. I had no desire to watch his methods of fact finding.

“Pussy,” he snickered, pressing his hand against the scanner mounted inside the small room to open the iron door on this side.

“You ate your siblings in the womb, didn’t you?” I said, pausing in the doorway.

Drio licked his lips with relish.

Riiiight.

I stepped into the Vault, the wall sliding shut between us. On my way upstairs, I ran into Baruch, coming out of Ms. Clara’s office, clad in black nylon workout pants and a tank top.

Wonder if they’re tearaway. Bet Ms. Clara knows.

“Not interested in seeing Drio work?” he asked.

“I’m skipping today’s session of ‘Creative Sadism with Batshit Crazy.’” I jogged up to my room, finding a note from Rohan ordering me to the library for study time. First, I allotted myself a few minutes to shower off that unpleasant encounter and root through my still-packed clothing for skinny jeans and my navy tunic embroidered with a brilliant dragonfly. Rohan didn’t make an appearance in the library, though he’d set out some books on the long table for me to dive into.

I tried to study. I took notes and everything, in between glances toward the hallway at every footfall and voice. It’s not that I care if Rohan shows up, I told myself, as I read a particularly gruesome passage about the damage a se’irim could do, it’s just that he should be showing a bit more responsibility in overseeing my studying. What if I have a question about a demon that needs answering?

The hundreds of books surrounding me mocked me in response.

Adopting a less formal study position, away from the table and onto a couch, didn’t help me focus. Nor did twisting myself upside down, my head hanging to the floor.

Screw it.

Corralling a laptop I found in a cherrywood cabinet, I logged on, seeing what I could find on Samson King, wanting something that would help Drio. Samson’s bio before he hit big–which happened with his first role–was pretty sparse. That gelled if he was a demon, since it would be fake. Out of curiosity, I checked the meaning of his name. I was always curious if a person’s name meaning correlated to them. Like Nava meant “beautiful” so bulls-eye, Mom and Dad.

Samson meant “sun.” I leaned back against my chair. Sun King. Hang on. Leo had mentioned that King had spent time in France. During a trip with my family to France a few years ago, I’d learned that Louis XIV had called himself the Sun King. He’d been a live large, divine-right conferring narcissist and maybe Samson had modeled himself on this guy. Or, actually picked up few tips from him, since many demons had long life spans.

I drummed my fingers on the tabletop, waiting for the page to load in order to get verification for what I was thinking. Here it was. The original Sun King had been a ruthless bastard whose rule had established France as one of the pre-eminent powers in the world. I leaned back in my chair, fingers steepled together. Since it appeared this sun king had similar aspirations, maybe this tie to Louis would reveal what type of demon Samson was, or offer more specificity on the master plan.

I leapt out of my seat, sprinting down to the Vault, then back up the stairs with a frustrated growl, since I didn’t have access yet to open the door. Kane did though, and I dragged him with me, insisting that he had to get me to Drio now.

He let me in to the Vault and I pounded on the wall concealing the iron room until the angriest of all Rasha answered. Purple goo was smeared across Drio’s temple, and his hair was matted with sweat.

Not wanting Evelyn to hear, I whispered my theory into Drio’s ear.

The tight expression on his face sent my stomach plummeting into my toes, doubt at my brilliance slithering through me. Then he gave a sharp nod, his eyes glinting dangerously, and returned inside, the wall whooshing shut behind him.

“Nee?” Ari called out from upstairs.

I sped up so fast to meet him that I practically got lift off, throwing myself into his arms. Hugging him and the overflowing pile of bedding he carried.

“This way,” I sang, tugging him up the stairs to my room. “Guess what?” I nattered on about Evelyn and my Samson realizations. “Dump the bedding on the mattress,” I said.

He stood in the doorway, stock still, clutching the linens.

“What?” I glanced around in confusion.

“Your room.”

“Uh-huh.” I tugged him forward. “You’re not going to get cooties, bro.”

He flung the sheets down. “This was supposed to be my room. You got my room.”

“I did?” I screwed up my face in puzzlement. He’d never mentioned he’d be moving in.

Ari jerked his chin at the painting. “Magritte. That didn’t tip you off?”

I flinched at the anger threading his voice. Examining the art hadn’t been a top priority in my short time here. Not sure what I could say to make it better, I opted to go with the tried and true. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

I blinked at him.

“You’re enjoying this. Your training.” He waved a hand at me. “Your little realizations.”

“My little…?” I unclenched my fists. “I am sorry, Ari. But you know what? I can only apologize so many times. None of this is my fault. I’m doing my best here.” I picked up the fitted sheet, shaking it out to unroll it.