The Unlikeable Demon Hunter (Nava Katz #1)(8)
Case in point, the yoga-clad mommy mafia clogging up the tree-lined sidewalk, venti lattes in hand. I swerved to avoid their race car pricey strollers and the judgmental stank wafting off them as they eyed me. We all sought affirmation. That’s why, as a species, we were such hypercritical assholes. We wanted proof we’d picked the right career or married the right person, even if said proof was of the at least we’re not them variety. We wanted our lives to tally in the positives column.
Only the whackjob paranormal bloggers sometimes got closer to the truth than everyone gave them credit for. Ari and I had spent a bunch of late nights being highly entertained by their theories.
While membership had grown since David’s time, the formal structure of the Brotherhood wasn’t put into place until October 10, 1871 with the great fire of Chicago. With the city destroyed, hundreds dead, and the entire thing being blamed on a cow, the Brotherhood had stepped up and gotten globally organized to make, well, order of the chaos. No more pockets of hunters fighting demons under a loosely affiliated umbrella. They were now ruthlessly efficient in the war on evil with chapters all over the world.
Which was the second reason I wanted no part of this. “Ruthless” and “efficient” were not words to describe me. If humanity was depending on me to be part of some protector squad, they were screwed. I’d be dead within minutes of my first demon encounter, destiny notwithstanding.
A horn blared at me, jarring me out of my reverie.
I scrambled across the busy retail street, narrowly avoiding getting pancaked, and stepped onto the far curb in front of the dry cleaners, my heart pounding. “A little respect for the jay-walker here!”
Where was this magic I was supposed to have received? Had there been a glitch because I was female? Because I was glitch? If I really had some cool new superpower, wouldn’t I have sped after the Mazda and flipped it on its side, mashing it to a pulp with angry pounds of my fists instead of standing here shaking? And if my magic did show up, would I have some stupid or embarrassing power like I’d teased Ari about?
I made my way to the bank machine, opening my wallet to sort through my credit cards. The Visa was bunk. I was scared to even stick it in an ATM for fear some collection agency bruiser would appear to hustle me off. But the AMEX? I tapped it against my chin. This baby was my emergency card, paid in full each month by Daddy Dearest.
Sliding the card into the cash machine, I punched in the ten thousand dollar limit. It made a beeping noise that sounded suspiciously like laughter, informing me in neat print that my cash advance limit was $500. Bah.
The money got tucked deep in an inside pocket in the backpack. Then I boarded the downtown bus, unsure of my destination. What I needed right now was a best friend I could crash with. What I had were tons of fellow partygoers and acquaintances.
The bus driver slammed on his brakes. I stumbled forward, whacking my head on the guitar case of the dude next to me. I’d had an awesome best friend in high school. Leonie Hendricks. It wasn’t as if we’d had a fight or anything after grad. We’d still hung out. But Leo had jumped headlong into university while I’d bounced around for a few semesters before withdrawing.
My hand went for my phone. Maybe I could call Leo. I snorted. Yeah, right. We could catch up. Leo could tell me about her criminology classes and I could tell her that in an impossible twist, I was the first lady Rasha and newest member of Demon Club. Oh yeah, and that demons existed. Then she’d roll her eyes sadly at me making a joke of everything, finish our social call with polite small talk, and that would be that.
Well, that decided where I should go. A drink was in order. I headed over to my favorite business district pub for their pint and burger lunch special. A girl had to have a decent last meal, and the football-sized patties this place served would keep me full for a good twenty-four hours. Plus, the barkeep was adorable and amenable to flirting for free refills.
I sailed into the dimly lit interior with its multiple screens offering various sports replays set to classic rock blasting from the speakers, and seated myself at the scarred wood bar.
Josh, my barboy, grinned his hello. “Hey, beautiful,” he said, all white teeth, platinum hair, and that unnatural level of pretty attained by certain actors. It was enough to give a girl an inferiority complex. “Haven’t seen you around in a while. What can I get you and whatcha been up to?”
“Burger special and becoming the chosen one,” I replied with a breezy flip of my curls.
“Sweet.”
His attention reaffirmed my determination to stay far away from all things demon and huntery. I was young. I had my looks. Why would I want to mess that up fighting nasty creatures from the bowels of Hell? Or wherever they came from, since they didn’t exactly leave a home address and weren’t just a Christian concept.
I know Buffy looked good killing vamps, but come on, even I could separate fiction from fact enough to know that a team of hair, make-up, and wardrobe experts were not going to be a perk of my gig. Besides, hunting would cut in to my important to-dos like be adored and get free refills.
I waggled my pint glass at Josh as he placed my burger in front of me, noticing he hadn’t skimped on the fries. Salt and grease good. “Thanks, barkeep. What’s new with you?”
Turns out he’d landed a small but pivotal role in Hard Knock Strife, some big-budget picture shooting here in Vancouver. Something about childhood buddies caught up in the lure of easy money. “That’s worth celebrating,” I said, raising my new full glass in cheers.