Demon at My Door (25 page)

Dad didn’t come home last night. He probably thinks I told Mom about our little conversation. I think she stayed up and waited up on him for a while. She doesn’t know I heard her crying in her room well into the night.

I can sympathize with feeling betrayed and heartbroken. 

My Converse shoes squeak on the hard tile floor as I walk to my Statistics class. Alicia would just die if she saw me mixing this skirt with my old sneakers and torn fishnets. I hate wearing the high-heeled shoes she picked out. They kill my feet and they aren’t exactly conducive to soul collecting.  

My neck burns with every slight little movement from lying in the fetal position all night. I massage the area with my fingers, but it’s not really helping the pain. 

“Did you eat anything?” Rick asks, startling me, as he walks beside me.

I roll my eyes. “When? You mean last night?”

“Yeah, then and breakfast.”

Pain shoots down my shoulders as I shake my head.

He frowns. “You really should eat. Before and after. It helps with the…” Stealthily, his eyes dart around. “Muscle aches. After. You know.”

Most eavesdropping people would assume he’s talking about sex, not killing two big time sinners, and then stealing their souls. 

I avoid the topic and continue to rub my stinging neck.

He readjusts his backpack and sets his charcoal gray eyes on me. “I can rub it for you, if you want?” 

His hands stretch toward me, but I steer away. “No thanks. I think I got it under control.”

“Come on, Nat. Let me help you. Please.”

I groan, thinking of how nice some kneading on my aching muscles might feel. And maybe if Rick rubs it a little, I can get through the day. 

Quickly, I glance around. The coast is clear. I nod and then toss my bag on the floor. I pull my hair back and expose my neck to him.

Rick lets out a little gasp, but quickly starts rubbing.

I throw a protective hand on my skin, knocking his fingers away. “Is there something on my neck?”

“No.” His voice wavers a touch.

My eyes narrow. “You’re lying.” 

I crouch down and dig in my bag until I find my compact. Standing slowly, I search out the view of my neck in the mirror. 

My eyes bulge and I gasp. “What the…” I inch mirror closer for a better look at the faint black lines squiggled on my skin. “What the hell is that?”

My fingers scratch at my skin in a desperate attempt to erase the lines.

“Do you remember the tattoo on my chest?” My hand stills and I stare into Rick’s face, looking for answers. My brain pulls up the image of a shirtless Rick the night I nearly had sex with him. 

I’d like to forget that scary-ass, demonic tattoo—slithering snakes that formed a perfect circle and came to life—along with everything else. I learned about him that night. “Yeah?”

His lips draw into a tight line. “Well, you’re kind of—”

My breath catches. “What? Getting one?”

He nods, his stormy eyes sad. 

I shake my head. “No. No, no. No! Why? I’ve still got one day.”

“Which is why you only have the outline. It’ll fill in as time gets closer.”

I stare at the lines in the mirror. “But if I succeed, it’ll go away right?”

He grazes his bottom lip with his teeth. “It should.”

“
Should?
” I growl and shove him away from me.

His brow crunches over his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s not like I’ve done this before. I only know what happens to a person changing into a demon. I’ve never actually helped a person back out of a deal. People usually die after I meet them, remember?”

My hair slides through my fingers and makes a black curtain over my neck, before squaring my shoulders. 

Great. One more way Rick’s completely ruined my life. 

I turn away and leave him standing there alone. My eyes burn, but I refuse to let my emotions take over right now. I need to be strong. All I have to do is help Rick collect one more soul and this nightmare will be over. I can do this. 

I head toward my next class. 

“Wait up.” Rick calls. I don’t stop, but he still refuses to go away. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a dick,” he apologizes as his arm rubs against me. When I don’t respond, he sighs. “Natalie, please. Will you just talk to me?”

I roll my eyes. “What do you want me to say, Rick? That it’s okay about the hideous thing on my neck, and it’s totally not your fault?” 

He touches my arm. “It is my fault. I get that. I’m trying to make things right between us. I need you to see that.”

I shake my head. Now is not the time to piss him off. It’s hard to be nice when all I feel is anger toward him, but I have to play nice until I get my soul back. I stop walking and show him a faint smile. “I know you’re trying. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m sure it’ll go away, right. What does it mean anyway?”

He smiles, but his eyes are still sad. “It’s the devil’s brand.”

I bite the inside of my jaw. “Brand? As in what farmers do to cows?”

He nods.

“That’s sick.”

“It is.” He shrugs and runs his hand through his hair.  “But what can you do?”

We walk to my classroom door. “Nothing, I guess.” 

He turns to leave, but stops like he forgot something. “Natalie, meet me in the parking lot after you’re done with classes today. We have work to do.” 

“You mean…” My eyes dart from side to side to see whose listening. “We can get the last one tonight?”

His eyes crinkle as he smiles at me. “So I’ll take that as you’ll be there?”

My whole body tingles with excitement and I fight the sudden urge to cartwheel down the hallway. “Hell yes.”

His throaty laugh echoes down the hall as he takes a step back. The light from the fluorescent bulbs catch his eyes and makes them sparkle.  “Then I’ll see you later.” 

Chapter Twenty Three

I rush into Art class and Mrs. Wood’s narrows her eyes. She hasn’t exactly been my biggest fan lately. You’d think she’d be over the whole paintbrush throwing thing by now.

A faint smile flirts across my lips as I take in our table. Stew’s been a busy boy. He already has all of our supplies laid out, and he’s working on his individual canvas. I’m actually surprised to see him considering Rick told him to stay away from me.  

“Hey,” I greet him casually, while my chair screeches across the floor. 

He doesn’t respond, really, just a quick nod, and back to business.

“Can you pass me the black?” Stew asks.

I locate the color he asked for. The black tube falls into his hand. 

“Thanks.” He says but doesn’t look at me.

I watch him work for a few seconds, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. “Are you alright?”

Stew shrugs. “Let’s not talk about it.”

I scratch my head, unable to concentrate on my art. “Are you mad at me?”

He blows a rush of air through his nostrils and scowls at his artwork. “I said I don’t want to talk about it. For once in your life can you just let something drop?”

His words practically smack me in the face and I flinch. “What the hell is your problem, Stew?”

He shakes his head as his eyes search the ceiling. He’s doing everything in his power not to look at me. “You didn’t wait for me, yesterday. I’m starting to think you like keeping me in the dark. I nearly killed Trevor yesterday because of all this. Killed him, Nat. And you can’t even wait for me like you promised to help me understand all of it. What if I killed someone else on accident while you were off alone with Rick?”

He looks me in the eye. Is he jealous? My teeth graze my bottom lip. Stew doesn’t need to know that Rick thinks we have some sort of history together. I need them to work together, not fight. We have to fix not only myself but Stew as well. 

When I don’t answer right away, Stew mumbles, “I should’ve listened to Dad and stayed away from you.” 

My eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means”—Stew gathers up his things from the table—“I want you to stay away from me. Dad told me you’re the reason this is happening to me. He says you’re pure evil. I didn’t want to believe him, but maybe he’s right. Maybe
you’re
causing this to happen to me.”

A tear slips down my cheek. “Fine.” I scoop my bag from the floor and throw it over my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll probably be dead soon anyhow. Problem solved.”

I head into the hallway. Dr. Woods looks up from her desk, but doesn’t bother stopping me. 

I duck into the ladies restroom, needing some space. My arms help me turn and pivot up on the ledge we collectively call The Smoker’s Nook then sit down. The smell of stale cigarettes lingers around me. The rhythmic drip, drip, drip, coming from the faucet keeps me company. 

I lean against the cold, green block wall and goose pimples cover my arms. I shiver. I don’t remember it ever being so cold in here. 

The temperature suddenly feels colder, and my breath puffs out like white fog. With wide eyes I look around. Nothing’s in here. It’s just me and my Frosty the Snow Man breath. 

I tighten my black sweater around me. The faucet stops dripping and it catches my attention. I whip my head to stare at the sink and panic shoots through me because the water is still steadily dripping. There’s no sound. Only silence.  

The lump I clear in my throat doesn’t make an audible sound, either. 

My eyelids are open so wide that I feel like they might fold back into my skull. I frantically search the tiny room for danger. My breath comes out in ragged spurts, but I can’t hear a thing. 

The deafness I fear is confirmed when I jump off the ledge and no sound comes from my shoes hitting the floor. Hard. Shoving my index fingers in each ear canal and wiggling them, isn’t helping. 

What the hell?

Slowly, I pull my fingers out of my ears and they pop like breaking the seal on a suction cup, but it’s still silent. 

There’s a sticky, stringy substance on my fingertips. I grimace and then wrinkle my nose as walk to the facet and stretch my hands toward the knob. They shake as I stare wide-eyed at what’s covering my fingers—nasty-yellow fluid oozing from the still bodies of a little brown roach. 

Quickly, I spin the knob and thrust my hands under the cascading water. The bug swirls down the drain as I scrub my fingers. Water still drips from my hands as I turn my head slightly to the side. I push my hair away from my ear. 

A silent scream erupts from my throat as I frantically bat at the constant stream of roaches crawling out of my ear and start covering the side of my face.  

I ram my head under the water and try to flush the bugs out. I squeeze my eyes shut as the water practically drowns me. Water blasts up my nostrils causing me to go into a coughing fit as I shift positions and start on the other ear. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Taylor Gee barks.

Startled, I snap my head up. 

I can actually hear her. 

I thrust my body toward the mirror and stare in shock at my completely normal looking ears. Frantically I turn my head from side to side inspecting each ear thoroughly. 

No bugs? 

A sigh escapes my lips as I close my eyes in relief. 

I reach for a paper towel and risk a glance at Taylor. She’s staring at me with her arms crossed, like I’m a total crazy person. 

This time, she has every right to look at me this way. What sane person sticks their head in the sink at school?     

I try to cover myself with a fake little laugh. “Haven’t you ever had such a bad hair day, you want to wash it and start all over?”

“You’re such a freak.” Her stance relaxes a little as she drops her arms. She walks to the paper towel dispenser, and then hands me one. “Of course, I’ve had days like that. But I’d never put my head in there.” She gestures toward the white sink bowl. “I mean, you don’t even have shampoo, do you?”

I shake my head. Cold water drips from my hair onto my shoulders, making me shiver.

She sighs as she runs her fingers through her hair, and stares at herself in the mirror. “God knows, I have lots of days I’d like to do over.”

My hands stop blotting my hair, and I stare at her. “Your life is perfect.”

She bites her bottom lip while she still gazes at herself. “Forget it. You’re right. What room do I have to complain?”

She spins around and strides toward the door, and suddenly I feel like an ass. Maybe she has her own demons to contend with—not the literal ones like me of course—and I shouldn’t be so judgmental. She’s been trying to help me. 

"Taylor, wait.” She pauses with her back still toward me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” she snaps. “It’s fine,” she says before she turns to face me. “I just came to let you know that I think I found the answer to your demon problem.”

Hope fills my chest. “You did?”

She nods. “In the book Grandma gave me, it says you have to sacrifice the demon who owns it.”

Great. That’s pretty much impossible. I’ve tried countless times to kill Rick without success. “Does it say how to do it?”

Taylor pulls a piece of folded notebook paper from her back pocket. “I wrote it down for you because I really didn’t understand it. Hopefully, this helps you.”

I take the note from her. “Taylor…” I open the note. “Thank you.”

She smiles.  “Good luck.”

Once I’m alone, I carefully unfold the note. 

To obtain a soul from a demon. The owner of the soul must sacrifice the demon that marked the soul. Meer mortal tools will not work on demonic souls. The sword of Michael the Archangel is the only weapon known to mankind that is fully capable of killing a demon. The exact whereabouts of the sword is unknown. Legend says the sword fell from Michael’s hand during the war in haven and landed somewhere on earth. 

      Sorry, Natalie. This was all I could find. 

      Taylor 

My heart sinks. Looks like there’s only one option since finding some lost, angelic sword doesn’t even sound remotely possible. 

I sigh and rub my face. Guess I might as well face the facts. There’s no way out of this deal other than getting one more soul to take my place.