Brimstone (31 page)

Justin grabbed a chair and smashed a creature savaging a girl’s leg. She burst into hysterical tears, and he had to pry her loose before moving on to the next fight.

Three monsters down. Seventeen left. Eighteen, I amended, as the first re-formed beast leapt on a fleeing band geek. I quickly un-formed it again. At the end of the room, one of the light stands crashed to the floor in a shower of sparks. A speaker went next, conveniently squishing an eight-legged monster beneath it. Anything heavy, applied with enough force, could smash the things, but I noticed my brazier, perhaps because of its link to their master, made the smallest bits.

A few students tried to fight back. But the more the kids
screamed, the more blood that soaked the ugly carpet, the stronger the monsters became and the more quickly they remade themselves. Despite the numerical advantage, we were fighting uphill.

The demon-hounds herded and pushed with flashing teeth until the crowd stampeded like Irish fans at a soccer match; tables, chairs, and fallen students were only temporary impediments while the beasts picked off the stragglers. Feeding time at the watering hole, and survival of the fittest.

A heavy student, side-blocked by an even heavier dog-beast, crashed into the table in front of me. I jumped back as empty dishes and silverware catapulted into the air. I brought the brazier up like a shield; something clanged against it, and dropped at my feet.

I looked down. The salt shaker lay on the carpet, spraying my stocking-clad toes with white.

Something important lay in the memory of Azmael casually brushing aside the salt circle, something besides his new invulnerability to sodium chloride. It had cleared a path for the pack of minions, given them a clean way out.

So … what the Hell
, to use a fitting phrase. I picked up the shaker, unscrewed the lid and climbed over the table to get to the student, who screamed as the beast teethed on his arm. “Close your eyes!” I shouted over the din, and dumped the entire shaker over them both.

The Hell-dog disappeared in a puff of black smoke. No tiny droplets, no wet mist. Just a dry, clean ‘fffft!’ and then nothing. Even the smell vanished.

“Dude!” I turned my head to see Backstage Guy, the one
I’d met at play practice, his tux spattered with blood and black demon-goo, a mike stand in his hand, heavy-side up. “Yo, Glowing-ass-girl! What did you do?”

“Salt,” I said, clambering down from the table. In the wreckage of another setting I found two more shakers, handing both to Dude. “Unscrew and dump.”

I ran through the tables, gathering as many shakers as I could. Professor Blackthorne was holding his own with one of the beasts, standing over it with a chair leg and splattering it apart every time it re-formed.

“You will not”—splat—“defy”—squish—“the laws”—scrunch—“of nature.”

I dumped one of my saltshakers over the monster between squishings. The droplets fizzled out of existence, and Blackthorne looked at me, eyebrows shooting all the way up to his wildly askew hair.

“Supernatural creatures follow supernatural laws,” I explained, grabbing ammunition off the nearest table.

“Of course they do,” he said, smoothing white wisps out of his red face and regaining his sangfroid.

“Unscrew and dump.” I dropped two shakers in his hand and left him to it. I saw other students getting the idea, and felt the tide turning with every
poof!
Just like magic.

Jessica Minor was perched on a table, defending the high ground from a snapping beast by whacking at it with a paper-seaweed centerpiece. It was tempting to let a Hell-dog take down the Hell-bitch, but a blast of white from behind me ended my moral dilemma and obliterated the demonette so quickly that its mad snarl hung in the empty air.

“Viva Maggie!” called the guerrilla of the Spanish Club. Don de Chiclet raised a fist full of salt. “Viva la revolucíon!”

The stampede had ended. Jocks, band geeks and brains, preps, ropers and stoners stanched each other’s wounds and helped one another up. Thespica was sucking Backstage Dude’s lungs out—in a good, nondemonic way—with a pile of salt at their feet. Good for you, Backstage Dude.

I saw Justin and hurried toward him, limping barefoot through the carnage. He was bleeding from some teeth marks on his arm, and his face was streaked with sooty demon residue. “I’m okay,” he assured me, as the sound of sirens reached us.

“Come on.” I pulled him toward the back door. “They won’t let us leave once the authorities get here.”

“Hang on, Maggie …”

Seeing Professor Blackthorne directing the first aid efforts, I stopped. “Professor, there are three more students out back. One of them is … he fell over the terrace wall.”

The teacher gave me a level look. “That’s what I’m supposed to tell the police?”

“I … I don’t know.” I was out of lies. “I have to go stop the … the thing that started all this.”

Another stare, an instant’s examination that seemed eternal. Finally, he said, “Go. I’ll think of something. But your final grade is going to depend on your explaining the supernatural chemistry at work here.”

“I will, I promise.”

And if I live that long, I’ll make good … somehow.

t
he Jeep raced along Beltline. I hoped all the cops were at the Marriott, because I was way past the speed limit.

“How do you know where they are?” Justin asked me, one hand clinging, white-knuckled, to the roll bar. The wind whipped my hair around my face and I had to drive with the skirt of my dress tucked tightly under my thighs. I never found my shoes.

“I just know. It’s the way the quest always ends. Luke goes all over the galaxy, but he still has to come back to the Death Star to meet Darth Vader.”

“You know this isn’t a movie, right?”

“Yes. That ugly bastard has my best friend, and I have no idea how to fight it.” I zipped through a yellow light. “Now think. Why did the salt work before, but not tonight?”

“It might have to do with its solid form.” He shook his head. “All the supernatural traditions say it should have worked. Jewish folklore uses salt to bless a baby and keep the demons away. Chinese women take salt baths for the same reason …”

“So what do we use instead? Crosses? Holy water?”

“Azmael predates the birth of Christ. I don’t think either of those would affect him.”

I whipped onto the street that ran behind the school, my mind racing through the problem. If Azmael predated Christ, then he, it, also came way before Morton.

With a squeal of the tires I turned the Jeep in a tight U, changing directions as quickly as my thoughts. “We’re using the wrong salt.”

“What?”

“Azmael isn’t going to be afraid of easy-pour, iodized, table salt. We need the real unprocessed thing.”

“Where are you going to find sea-salt at this hour?”

I pulled up in front of a corrugated aluminum building and pulled the brake. “Landscaping shed. They keep fifty-pound bags for deicing the sidewalks in winter. Grab the bolt cutters in the back, will you?”

Justin stared at me, wasting precious moments on bewilderment and perhaps a little awe. “You were a Girl Scout, weren’t you?”

“Nope. But Nancy Drew was
always
prepared.”

My bare feet met the cold tile of the natatorium with a quiet slap-slap; the diving board loomed above, and I saw the man-shaped darkness waiting there.

It was all about knowing the rules. Quests were circular; Azmael held to tradition, obviously. The accident at the pool had been the first time I’d glimpsed the Shadow. Even if the accident had misfired because Stanley wrote my name down wrong, it was still where the demon had come for me.

And of course, the deep water terrified me. Lisa knew, so Azmael knew; there was simply no other place they could be.

The smell confirmed this, faint but distinct. Chlorine and brimstone and rotting flesh. It was a good thing I had nothing but dread churning in my stomach.

Outside the gym, Justin had helped me shoulder my backpack and balance the weight. “Can you carry all this?” His paladin’s face pinched with worry.

I grinned. “I’ve been in training for twelve grades.” Then sobering, I went over our hastily constructed plan. “I have to go in by myself, but once I have him distracted—”

“I’ll be there.” His hands rested on my bare shoulders as he looked down at me, a riot of emotions in his eyes. If this were a movie, he might kiss me now, or tell me to stay alive, no matter what, or vow to rescue me. And I might be wearing shoes and have less mascara running down my face.

Though come to think of it, “I’ll be there” had been the perfect thing to hear just then.

“Are you alone, Magdalena Quinn?” The demon’s reedy voice echoed in the big, empty gym. The water in the pool beside me shivered, then returned to placid lapping.

“Yes, I am, oh great and powerful Az.”

“You took your time. One would think you were leaving your friend to reap her own wickedness.”

Judge not, lest you be judged. I remembered that much from Sunday school. Lisa would have to answer for her ancillary role in the events of the past two weeks, not to mention tonight’s carnage. But not to me.

“Lisa is my friend. And I don’t let jumped-up, minor demon jackasses take my friends.”

The smell intensified with said jackass’s anger. “Then come up and try to rescue her, mighty demon-hunter. I’m waiting.”

I guess that was netherworld speak for “Nyah nyah nyah, I’d like to see you try it.”

Ahead, the diving pool glimmered darkly; diffuse light reflected on the surface, but did not penetrate the inky blackness at all.

“Leave the backpack on the ground,” Azmael said. “Do you think I’m a fool?”

An ominous growl rumbled out of the shadows. I saw the gleam of teeth. Great. Another doggie. We’d destroyed the ones at the prom, so the demon must have regained enough … power, mojo, whatever … to create more. Not the best news I’d had all evening.

“I’m leaving it,” I shouted up at him. “Call off your dog.”

“When you obey me, stubborn child.”

I had to get my burden to the pool, so I walked forward, the beast shadowing me, its claws clicking on the tile. The growl deepened as I reached the base of the diving platform, the claws sped, leapt. In a practiced move, I slipped one
shoulder from its strap, let the weight of the pack swing down, around, to meet the dog’s attack. The monster sank its teeth through the nylon and
pffft!
disappeared without time to whimper.

Whoa. It had barely touched the salt inside, hadn’t taken a dousing at all. I wish that had worked as well on the Jacobson’s dog when it had chased me to school every morning of fifth grade. I began to think this insane plan might actually work.

I heard another growl, and figured a second minion had come to ensure my compliance. But hell-dog number one had done me a favor, ripping a large hole in the fabric. In the blind spot beneath the platform I set the pack on the edge of the pool and let the big crystals of the unprocessed rock salt pour into the water.

“Okay. I’m coming up. No backpack.”

I hiked up my dress and began to climb the ladder to the high dive, another thing easily accomplished by heroines in movies, but a major pain in real life. In my next battle with a creature from Hell, I would definitely forgo the formal wear.

An eternity later, I crawled onto the wide platform, winded and trembling from fatigue and nerves. Turns out I like heights only slightly more than I like the depths. There’s irony for you. I stayed on all fours as I fought off the vertigo and tried to catch my breath. I was one scary demon-fighter, all right.

Azmael stood in the center of the dais. Lisa lay unconscious near me. If we survived this, she was going to be pissed that she’d been cast in the helpless female stereotype, getting kidnapped and fainting.

“No quip, Maggie Quinn? No witty repartee?”

I stared at the creature’s feet, as not-quite-right as the rest of its mistake of a body. “Just wondering if you shouldn’t have cloven hooves.”

“I am exactly as I should be!” Its voice rang against the steel beams and concrete. “Exactly as I have been for ten thousand years.”

Slowly, I got my legs under me. Movie heroines never have to hitch up their tops, either, but I’d be darned if I’d give Azmael a thrill by falling out of my dress. “Ten thousand years, huh? No wonder you go around with the veil-o’-stench. You must be pretty sorry to lose it.”

The demon lurched toward me, angrily. I sidestepped, letting it drive me farther from the ladder. Live and die by the wisecrack. Sir Justin had a gift for prophecy.

“No matter.” Old Smokey recovered its aplomb. “I’ll rebuild my form quickly.” Lidless yellow eyes burned more deeply with hunger. “How I love every neurotic, apprehensive, irrational member of your generation. I will feed on your kind until I have power to build an army of shadow hounds.” It looked down at me with an eerily human expression of distain. “Then we will see who is the
minor
demon.”

“Don’t feel you have to prove yourself on my account.”

“Insolent insect!”

Our dance of quip, lunge, and dodge drove me toward the pool. I thought I saw movement below, knew I heard a growl. But I couldn’t warn Justin about the hell-dogs without drawing their master’s attention to him.