The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3 (Nava Katz Box Set) Read online

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection

  Books 1-3

  Deborah Wilde

  Contents

  Praise for the Nava Katz series

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank you for reading

  Nava explains awesome Yiddish and Hebrew words used in this series.

  Get a free download!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Sting

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thank you for reading

  Nava explains awesome Yiddish and Hebrew words used in this series.

  Get a free download!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Need

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Thank you for reading

  Get a free download!

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2017 by Deborah Wilde.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout ©2015 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Cover design by Damonza

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter Collection: Books 1-3

  ISBN: 978-1-988681-09-2 (paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-988681-08-5 (epub)

  ISBN: 978-1-988681-07-8 (Kindle)

  Praise for the Nava Katz series

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter

  “She's like Buffy from the wrong side of the tracks. And that's okay with me.” - Heroes and Heartbreakers

  “…a fun, funny, and unapologetically raunchy new urban fantasy series… a clever guilty pleasure at its best.” - Fine Print

  “The action sequences are terrific and the humour will have you smiling. Nava is the underdog you will cheer on…” - Uncaged Book Reviews

  “The story is emotional, action packed, and fast-paced… It’s an intoxicating and invigorating read.” - Angel’s Guilty Pleasures

  “Nava's like the fun-loving, dirty-talking, drink-tossing best friend you'd want to take to the bar. But you'd also want her around, because, you know, demons.” – Lady Smut

  “…an original entry into the genre…” - BrizzleLass Books

  The Unlikeable Demon Hunter: Sting

  “I didn't think Deborah Wilde could repeat the success of book 1 in this series but somehow she did. Fantastic plot, characters, snarky dialogue and all. I'm actually giving 5 stars out two books in a row for a series and I don't remember ever doing that. Go figure. Better yet, go get these books.” – The Mysterious Amazon Customer

  “Chock full of complicated and total visual butt-kicking, sensual push and pull swoons, crass clever and crude hilarity ... STING -- book two in the Nava Katz series -- was a definite win for me and a solid follow up to book one. No middle book syndrome here, folks!” – HJ, Reviewer, Amazon

  “My favorite urban fantasy series so far this year.” – Uncaged Book Reviews

  "Nava Katz is the funniest, bad-a$$, hot mess of a demon hunter you could ever want to meet." - Sunnyles, Reviewer, Amazon.

  Copyright © 2017 by Deborah Wilde.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Cover design by Damonza

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Wilde, Deborah, 1970-, author

  The unlikeable demon hunter / Deborah Wilde.

  (Nava Katz ; 1)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-0-9920709-8-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-0-9920709-9-1 (EPUB).--ISBN 978-1-988681-00-9 (Kindle)

  I. Title.

  PS8607.A74M8 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-904599-6

  C2016-907806-X

  1

  Mornings after sucked.

  Walks of shame were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed shimmying back into the same trollop togs twice. I picked glitter out of my hair, then straightened my sequined top. I was officially decommissioning it. Multiple washings never quite managed to remove the lingering aura of bad decisions I made while wearing party clothes. My philosophy? Cross my fingers and hope for the most bang for the bucks spent later on new outfits.

  The surly cabbie evil-eyed me to hurry up.

  I complied, rooting around in my clutch for some crumpled bills before handing them over and stumbling out of the tax
i onto the sidewalk.

  Fresh air was a godsend after the stale bitter coffee smell I’d been trapped with during the ride. I pressed a finger to my temple, a persistent dull throb stabbing me behind my eyeballs. My residual feel good haze clashed big-time with the glaring sun screaming at me to wake up, and the buzz of a neighbor’s lawnmower cutting through the Sunday morning quiet didn’t help matters. Best get inside.

  Smoothing out my mini skirt, I readied myself for my tame-my-happy-slut-self-to-boring-PG-rating body check when a wave of dizziness crashed through me. Whoa. I brought my gaze back to horizon level, swallowing hard. That sea-sickness technique was doing dick-all so I rummaged in my bag for my ginger chews.

  No puking in the bushes, I chided myself, letting the spicy smooth and sweet candy fight my nausea. My mother would toss my bubble ass out if I defiled her precious rhodos.

  Again.

  The rise and fall of my chest as I took a few deep breaths spotlit a slight problem. My spangly blouse was missing two buttons. And I was missing a bra. Hook-up Dude had been worth the loss of a pair of socks, maybe a bargain bin thong. But the latest in purple push-up technology? No. I allowed myself a second to mourn. It had been a good and loyal bra.

  The sex, on the other hand? Total crap. The girls, who were normally perky C cups, seemed a bit subdued. I couldn’t blame them. What’s-his-name had started out with all the promise of a wild stallion gallop, but he’d ended up more of a gentle trot. I didn’t know if the fault lay with the jockey or the ride, but it had been a long time since I’d seen a finish line.

  Since I couldn’t keep examining my tits on the front walk with Mrs. Jepson side-eyeing me from behind her living room curtains, I thrust my chin up and clacked a staccato rhythm toward my front door on those mini torture chambers that had seemed such a good idea yesterday.

  Every step made our precisely manicured lawn undulate. I clamped my lips shut, willing the ginger chews to kick in while fumbling my key into the lock. Dad had screwed up the measurements on our striking cedar and stained glass front door and, being a touch too big for the frame, it needed to be shouldered open.

  I crashed into the door like a linebacker. Once I’d extricated myself and my keys from the lock, I brushed myself off, and stepped inside. Our house itself was comfortably upper middle class but not huge, since my parents preferred to spend money on trips and books instead of the overpriced real estate found here in Vancouver. A quick glance to my left showed that the TV room was empty. I crossed my fingers that Mom and Dad were out at their squash game, my main reason for picking this specific time to sneak back in.

  Really, a twenty-year-old shouldn’t have had to sneak. But then again, a twenty-year-old probably should have kept her last menial job for longer than two weeks, so I wasn’t in a position to argue rights.

  I kicked off my shoes, sighing in delight at the feel of cool tile under my bare feet as I padded through the house to our homey kitchen. No one was in there either. Someone, probably Mom, had tacked the envelope with my final–and only–pay stub from the call center that I’d left lying around onto our small “miscellaneous” cork board. The gleaming quartz counters were now free of their usual clutter of papers, books, and latest gourmet food find. That meant company. Come to think of it, I did hear someone in the living room.

  A study in tasteful shades of white, the large formal room was off-limits unless we had special guests. Mom had set that rule when my twin brother Ari and I were little tornados running around the place and while there was no longer a baby gate barring our way, conditioning and several memorable scoldings kept us out.

  Hmmm. Could Ari be entertaining an actual human boy? Le gasp.

  I beelined for the back of the house, past the row of identically framed family photos hanging in a neat grid, my head cocked. Listening for more voices, but all was quiet. Maybe I’d been wrong? I hoped not. Both finding my brother with a crush–blackmail dirt–and helping myself to the liquor cabinet were positive prospects. What better way to lose that hangover headache than get drunk again? Oh, the joys of being Canadian with socialized health care and legal drinking age of nineteen. After a year (officially) honing that skill, I imbibed at an Olympic level.

  The red wine on the modular coffee table gleamed in a shaft of sunlight like its position had been ordained by the gods. I snatched up the crystal decanter, sloshing the liquid into the glass conveniently placed next to it. Once in a while, a girl could actually catch a break.

  I fanned myself with one hand. The myriad of lit candles seemed a bit much for Ari’s romantic encounter, but wine drinking trumped curiosity so I chugged the booze back. My entire body cheered as the cloyingly-sweet alcohol hit my system, though I hoped it wasn’t Manischewitz because hangovers on that were a bitch. I’d slugged back half the contents when I saw my mom on the far side of the room clutch her throat, eyes wide with horror. Not her usual, “you need an intervention” horror. No, her expression indicated I’d reached a whole new level of fuck-up.

  “Nava Liron Katz,” she gasped in full name outrage.

  My cheeks still bulging with wine, I properly scoped out the room. Mom? Check. Dad? Check. Ari? Check. Rabbi Abrams, here to perform the ceremony to induct my brother as the latest member in the Brotherhood of David, the chosen demon hunters?

  Check.

  I spit the wine back into what I now realized was a silver chalice and handed it to the elderly bearded rabbi. “Carry on,” I told him. Then I threw up on his shoes.

  Forty-five minutes later, I huddled on top of the closed toilet seat in my ensuite bathroom sucking the cheesy coating off Doritos while replaying my actions in grisly Technicolor. Even with all the lights off, the room was as bright and insistent as Martha Stewart’s smile. A dusty Costco-sized sanitary pad box lay open on the counter–the hiding place for my secret stash of arterial clogging happiness.

  Now, though, the chips were less illicit joy and more bite-sized snacks of self-loathing.

  I stuck my hand into the bag for another nacho, careful not to crinkle it and give myself away. Hard to say what had been the highlight of that little disaster: drinking the ceremonial wine, vomiting, or the wardrobe malfunction that had released my left boob into the world and caused my dad to strain his back jumping in front of me to block the view.

  Go me.

  Someone rapped on the door. Chip in mouth like a pacifier, I froze, listening to the raised voices from downstairs–the rabbi yelling, my mother cajoling, and my father reasoning. That left Ari, and right now I was too chickenshit to face him. How could saying sorry cover wrecking the most important moment of his life?

  “I know you’re eating Doritos,” he called from outside the door. “Let me in.”

  “Nope.” I swallowed down the now-mushy chip and gave a lusty groan. “I’m making a hate crime.”

  “If that were true, you’d be running the water because you’re paranoid people will learn you have an anus.” He jiggled the knob. “Let me in.”

  I glared at the tap, assigning blame to the inanimate object for failing to carry out its part of my brilliant plan. Dumping the bag down on the counter with a sigh, I washed orange nacho residue off my hands before I tightened the belt on the fuzzy housecoat now wrapped around me, and unlocked the door.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Ari,” I said, hanging my head. My fraternal twin deserved all the success and more. Ari never treated me like I was “less than” in any way, not even once. “I know you have no reason to believe me but–”

  “Shut up,” he said, brushing past me in his navy fitted suit. Very bespoke, except for the tired slump of his shoulders.

  He lowered himself down on to the edge of the bathtub, knocking one of the many bottles of citrusy shampoo into the tub. With one hand braced on the mosaic shower tiles for support, he removed his kippah, tossing it onto the counter where its embroidered, gold Star of David winked among the chaos of make-up and hair pins.

  “Damn, that itches.” He scratched his blond head with a
relieved sigh, then jerked his chin at the Doritos bag still in my hand. “You gonna share?”

  I locked the door, returned to my throne seat, and held the chips out between us.

  We sat there in companionable silence, munching through the party-sized bag.

  “These are so disgusting,” Ari said, stuffing about ten of them in his mouth.

  I reached over and brushed orange crumbs off his suit. “Careful, bubeleh. Wouldn’t want you to get dirty. Oh, if the elders knew that their healthy-eating chosen one was up here taking years off his life.”

  “Eh,” he said, spraying chips. “I’d just blame you, o defiler of innocents.”

  “Useful having an evil twin, isn’t it?” My tone was light; my stomach twisted.

  He wiped his mouth. “Don’t give yourself that much credit. You’re not evil. Just misguided.”

  I drew myself up to my full height. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  We finished the bag, then elbowed each other for first rights of tap water. A quick sip later and I slid onto the brown cork floor, bloated and happy. Well, as happy as I could be.

  “I don’t know how you’re not puking given you were still drunk an hour ago,” Ari said.

  “These chips have magic properties. Plus, I got it all out of my system on the carpet.”

  He shuddered. “Don’t remind me. I think Mom is angrier about that than your spectacular entrance. She was a fairly impressive mottled red when I left her.”

  “Merlot or tomato?”

  “Nava Red,” my brother replied. “A special shade named in honor of you.”

  “Why were you doing the ritual anyway?” I snapped. “The induction is tomorrow. The sixth.”

  “Or, today, the sixth.”

  Shit! I hugged my knees into my chest. “Ari–”

  He stood up, one hand raised to cut me off. “No. You really want to apologize? Take a shower and get dressed so that I have one person who wants to be at this ceremony for me. Not for status or whatever the hell I am to those people down there.”

  “Ace,” I gasped, “isn’t this what you want?”