The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) (10 page)

Dad books me a ticket for Monday, exactly a week from today, when the ticket prices are cheapest, and calls the school to let them know I’ll be gone for at least a week. This is good, he tells me, because it means I can get all of my homework in advance. The school will let me do what they call “independent study.” I don’t look forward to carting a suitcase full of schoolbooks to California, but I guess I can’t avoid it.

Nonna’s loss hasn’t really hit me yet. She’s so far away and I only ever saw her a few times a year, so while my brain registers the fact that she’s dead, I don’t feel the gap in my reality yet. Part of me still thinks I can call her and she’d answer. It’s not the acute stab in the chest that losing my mom was.

While Dad finalizes all of the travel plans, I shovel sesame chicken into my mouth. It tastes like burnt leaves, but I need to act like I’m not falling apart, for Dad’s sake, if not for my own.

Dad had to leave to catch his plane around four in the morning, so when my alarm goes off and I’m alone, I spend a few minutes debating whether to get up at all. Surely, grieving gives me some leeway to miss school if I’m too sad to handle it.

But if I skip, I’ll need a note, and I don’t want to have to call Dad and ask for one. I don’t want him to feel bad about leaving me, only to realize I’m too depressed to make it to class in the first place. Especially, because while I am sad about Nonna, it’s dread, not grief, that makes me want to play hooky.

I put on black leggings and an oversized gray sweater Dad bought for me last Christmas. It’s bulky and heavy and its weight makes me feel more solid.

After Spanish, Melissa surprises me by waiting for me. I’d stayed behind to let Cam, who said two words to me—“Morning” and “Here” when he gave me the day’s hand-out stack, get a headstart. He still bolted out of class like there was a fire.

“I’m sorry about your grandma,” Melissa says while I put my stuff in my backpack.

“How did you—“ I start, but then I remember my dad called her mom last night to let her know I might call her in the unlikely event I need an adult. “Right. Your mom.”

We walk into the hallway, which is emptying out as people head for their cars, nearby fast food joints, or the cafeteria. “Thanks,” I tell her.

She plays with a string that’s come loose from the blue lace on her dress. “I know you’re going through a lot right now, and I know you’re afraid to talk about it.”

I open my mouth to protest—doesn’t our talk the other day prove that I’m willing to put it all out there?—but she stops me with a look.

“Obviously, ‘demons’ is a metaphor for something.”

“I’m not doing drugs.”

“Not drugs. But whatever it is,” she yanks the loose thread free and drops it to the ground, “I can’t help if you won’t stop speaking in riddles.”

Tears warm the backs of my eyes. I race through things to tell her, ways to take back the truth, or come up with a better, more believable excuse for what “demons” could stand for.

“I should go,” she says. She hesitates, like she wants to say something else, but then shakes her head slightly, her black curls bouncing with the motion. “See you around.”

I don’t stop her. I don’t know how. There’s nothing I can tell her that she’ll believe. And I guess I deserve it. I guess when you lie all the time, eventually even your best friend stops believing you.

Amy sees me in the hall after fifth period. “I am so sorry, darling,” she says in her sickeningly sweet, Southern voice. She gives me a sideways hug. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

I tell her I’m fine and thank her for caring. It’s not until I’m sitting in class that I realize the sympathy hug was for Cam, not my grandmother, and I feel so sick I have to get the bathroom pass so I don’t puke all over the place. Once I’m alone in a stall, I cry like an idiot, smearing my mascara down my cheeks. I pull it together and wash my face with the dry soap and harsh paper towels. I go back to class, even though my face is still red.

I don’t mean to, but on the way to the bus stop, I catch myself looking for Cam’s car. It’s Tuesday, so he has jazz band and has to stay late. I wonder how lame it would be to leave a note under his windshield wiper, then dismiss the idea. He has my number. He’s gotten my texts. A stupid note won’t make a difference. I see Katrina standing at the edge of the parking lot, digging in her bag. She keeps looking around, then at Cam’s car, and then goes back to digging. I bet no one told her he has an after-school thing. “Going to be waiting a while,” I say to myself and smirk. But it doesn’t make me feel better. I wonder if she’ll wait the entire hour or give up. I wonder if he’ll think her waiting the entire hour is sweet.

“Stop it,” I tell myself.

I spend the entire bus ride and the walk home trying to think of anything but Cam and, of course, that’s like trying not to think of a red balloon, because as soon as someone tells you not to, it’s the first thing you picture. I wish there was a guide to fighting with your boyfriend. I need a chapter like,
How to Know if You
’
re Really Broken Up
, with information such as, can you break up without ever saying so, and if so, how soon should said boyfriend be waiting before giving Katrina Rogers rides in his car?

We’ve had little arguments before, but nothing that’s lasted this long. The only time we’ve even come close was when Azmos dragged me away in the middle of prom last year. Well, okay, more like at the start of prom. And Cam had to spend most of the actual dance alone, while I hunted down a house in Queen Anne to deliver one of the demon’s letters. But most of our fights end quickly, and even though he gets a little grumpy about the demon crashing our dates and chasing me away, it was always the demon’s fault.

This time, there’s only me to blame.

I swing open the door to the apartment and the silver glints like it’s winking at me. The envelope sits on the carpet, its sheen and handwriting familiar. It looks surreal without the demon attached to it. I simultaneously don’t want to touch it and have to know what it says, so I pick it up and walk into my bedroom.

My heart races. I take a deep breath. Panic and relief war for my attention.

The envelope is taped closed, not sealed, like usual, and there’s half an auburn hair stuck in the tape. Azmos has never used tape before, but the red hair is almost definitely his. No one else I’ve ever met has that shade of red, unless it comes from a bottle, and even then, the brilliance fades quickly. I pull the tape off and toss it into the wastebasket by my desk.

My heart pounds. I almost don’t want to look, but if it’s from Azmos and he needs me… I can picture Cam shaking his head at me. But he’s not here.

The card only has three words. Or, names, actually.

“Cameron Michael Walters.”

My blood turns to ice. I turn it over, but the back is blank. It makes no sense.

My mind reels and I try to remember everything Azmos ever told me about the envelopes. That they’re sort of invoices for services rendered. I remember seeing the time on Heather Bancroft’s. Azmos telling me I knew what it meant. That she was going to die. Her time was up. But this isn’t a time. And my account is settled, or so I was led to believe.

Cam wouldn’t have made a deal with Azmos. And even if he had, his name would be on the envelope, not inside on the card.

I don’t know what to do, so I pace around the empty apartment. Azmos is gone. Cam is mad at me. Melissa thinks… actually, I don’t know what she thinks, but she’s not going to believe this is a demonic letter.

It doesn’t feel like I pace for long, but when I finally collapse onto the couch and put my head in my hands, it’s hours later. The clock on the DVD player tells me it’s already almost eight.

I wonder if you can really summon a demon like in the movies, but somehow, I doubt it, or at least, not a specific demon. Then I remember that Xanan gave me his card. It’s still in the front zip pocket of my messenger bag, next to my bus pass.

I grab my phone and dial his number. It rings seven times, but finally, he answers.

“Nicolette,” he says. His voice even sounds cold over the phone. I shiver.

“Did you find him?”

“Azmos? No. Did you?” he asks. He speaks in a monotone, like he’s terribly bored.

“No. I haven’t. But I need to see him.”

“Well,” Xanan says, pausing for a long moment, “so do I. But that’s not really possible if neither of us know where he is.”

“Yes. I know. But it’s an emergency. Maybe you can help.”

“I doubt it. I am very busy—”

“I got an envelope,” I blurt, “like I used to deliver. I think it’s his handwriting.”

“That’s strange. Do you think he delivered it?”

“I don’t know. It was under my door. But I’m really freaked out and I need answers.” I pause, but he doesn’t try to console me or offer any help, so I add, “Maybe it can help us find him if you look at it.”

“Doubtful. But I suppose if you’re willing to come to me, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”

“Fine. Sure. Where are you?” He gives me an address and hangs up.

He’s in Lynnwood, which is North of Seattle and a good half-hour drive away without traffic. A cab ride up there and back is way out of my price range. I think there are commuter buses that go that far, but I have no idea which ones and I doubt they still run this late. I really need to get a real job that pays in money one of these days so I can save up for a car.

I pace some more and swear. I get a can of cola out of the fridge and chug half of it.

I need answers. I need to make sure Cam is safe, that this is some kind of sick, practical joke, and if it’s not, I need to set it right. So I need to talk to Xanan. I really don’t have other options, but if I’m honest with myself, I really want an excuse to call him, too.

I press Cam’s name on my phone screen, hold my breath, and hit call. He probably won’t even answer, I think sadly, but he does.

“What?” Not friendly. But he answered.

“I need a ride.”

Pause. Rustling. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a school night,” Cam says. Of course, that’s the first objection he has. Never mind that he’s technically not speaking to me. He has homework to do.

“It’s sort of an emergency.”

Another long pause. I can hear him breathing and tapping his pen against his textbook. I clutch the phone so hard it hurts my hand. Finally, he sighs. “Be there in ten.”

He hangs up. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. At least he’s not too mad to help me out. Unless he’s only doing it so he has a chance to officially break up with me. I rein in my panic and do my best to ignore the unease rolling around my stomach.

I stuff the silver envelope and the letter into my bag and then enter Xanan’s address into a map application. I put on my coat and go wait outside.

Cam’s car rolls up eight minutes later. I get in. Music is blasting, a horrible band I think is called Moon Landing or Moon Invasion or something silly. The singer’s voice sounds like he hasn’t hit puberty and the lyrics are about how love sucks. Cam makes no move to turn it down, so I let it go. The car smells like peaches, but not real ones, the fakey peach smell that comes in cheap lotion bottles. I cough and wrinkle my nose.