In the Demon's Company (Demon's Assistant Book 2) (2 page)

I don’t spend a lot of time in Pioneer Square but Stone Grounds Coffee seems like a cool place. It’s open until midnight and even at nearly nine o’clock, it’s packed with an eclectic mix of clientele, from harried students in University of Washington sweatshirts bent over laptops to people with brightly dyed hair and goth style clothing. Rustic coffee sacks hang on bare brick walls. The tables and chairs are hard, uncomfortable-looking wood like they were culled from a cabin in the forest. The coffee counter is at the back and there’s a line five people deep. I decide to skip the mocha and get this over with.

I scan the crowd, instantly annoyed that Azmos failed to give me much in the way of physical description of Gabriel. And that I totally failed to ask.

My gaze lands on a young guy who sits alone in the front corner, near the window, his back against the wall. He’s reading a tattered copy of
Catch-22.
His full coffee mug looks untouched. He has brown skin and dark stubble on his chin and scalp, like he usually shaves his head but let it go for a day like his cheeks. He wears thin, wire-framed glasses and a black vest over a t-shirt that’s frayed around the neckline. He seems like the best candidate.

“Gabriel Price?” I ask. He looks up, scowling. His expression—irritated at the interruption but curious enough to hear me out—reminds me of Cam when the demon interrupts us. It’s probably the same one he wore while sending me those texts.

“Yes?” he asks, over his book.

“My name’s Nicki. Azmos sent me.”

“I see.” He gives me an appraising look, then shoves his book into a leather satchel next to him on the bench. He sips his espresso, and then looks at me expectantly. “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I answer automatically.

He sighs and taps his fingers on his table, looking me up and down. I’m dressed for the party I was planning to go to before I got Azmos’ call: black skirt, black boots, black eyeliner, with a black sweater beneath my purple and black raincoat. My short brown hair is pulled into stubby pigtails and I’m wearing dangly bat earrings—the kind they sell for Halloween but which I’m happy to wear all year—along with the studs and rings that travel up my earlobes. It feels appropriate for demon business so it hurts a little when he says, “You’re too young to be mixed up with this crap.”

“I am not,” I say. “And you don’t look old enough to be lecturing.” He looks barely out of high school himself.

He smiles faintly but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not. But I’m not in it by choice.”

That brings me up short, because I am. I had a chance to break free. Cam and I have been arguing about this for weeks. He doesn’t understand my desire to keep associating with demons when my life doesn’t literally depend on it. But it’s not like I can forget they exist. I can either deal with them directly and learn as much as I can about what’s lurking in the shadows or I can spend my life looking over my shoulder in fear of what might be there. It might be a choice but it’s not necessarily a good one.

Instead of arguing, I hand him the envelope. Gabriel tears it open unceremoniously and dumps it out onto the table. I’ve taken out my money, so all that’s left is a fat stack of cash rubber-banded together and labeled with his name in Azmos’ careful calligraphy.

“How many?” Gabriel asks me.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.

He sighs again. I’m starting to wonder if he’s a demon, since one of the only demons I know, Xanan, has the same attitude problem, like it’s a bother to interact with other people. But then Gabriel takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He has dark circles beneath them and he stifles a yawn. Xanan never looks tired. “How many does he want?”

“How many what?” I ask, increasingly annoyed at my lack of information. “Azmos told me you have a special ability. And that you’d explain what it is was. So I don’t know what you’re asking.”

“God, he’s an ass.” He shakes his head and takes another sip from his mug. “My ‘ability’”—the word drips with venom in his mouth—“is that I have visions of people dying in possible futures. I sell him their names so that sometimes, he can offer them more time. He has visions of his own, but I guess like mine, they’re unpredictable and sporadic.”

I swallow, trying to process this. I never even considered how Azmos finds the people he bargains with and I feel stupid. I guess I assumed it was part of his demonic power, which it is if he has visions of his own. But using the help of a psychic makes sense, too.

Gabriel counts the money, apparently unaware of some of the strange glances from other people. He gathers the notes together and stuffs them back into an envelope. He has a silver ring on his thumb that’s got what looks like a wagon wheel etched into it. I automatically bring my right hand to my left and rub the silver ring on my pinky. I wonder if Azmos gave it to him like he gave me mine.

“This will buy you three,” he concludes.

I don’t know if I’m getting played, because I don’t know the exchange rate for the names of the doomed. “Are three worth all of that cash?”

“No,” he says sharply. “Ideally I’d sell one name for a thousand dollars. The visions cost me.”

Given his haggard appearance, that doesn’t come as a total surprise. “Then why do it at all?”

“I don’t have a choice. The visions come no matter what I do, and there’s no way to stop them.”

“But you don’t have to sell the names. You could try and save the people. You could look them up and—”

“And what? Tap them on the shoulder and say, ‘excuse me, miss, but if you drive down this road tonight, a cement truck is going to smash into your car and kill you’?”

I reel back, like he slapped me, a memory of impact and twisted metal slamming into me. My heart pounds. I close my eyes and take deep breaths until I stop feeling like my body is going to split apart as it relives the memory of my almost-death. If Gabriel notices my reaction, he doesn’t show it. He sips his espresso, unperturbed.

“Why not?” I finally ask. I only realize I’m clenching my fists when my nails dig into my palms.

He rolls his eyes. “You think I haven’t tried that? Do you know what people do? They tell you to fuck off. And then they go and die anyhow. Maybe their last thought is ‘wow, should have listened to that dude in the green trench coat’ but it doesn’t matter, because it’s too late.” He picks up his mug and puts it back down again, letting out a breath. “Working with Azmos is the best way to pay my rent and give these people a chance they wouldn’t otherwise get. Besides, once you get twisted up in the arcane world, it’s hard to go back to normal. You probably know all about that.”

I sit, a little gobsmacked because he’s absolutely right. That’s not the only reason I took another job with Azmos—I like having something I’m good at, something that makes me special—but it’s part of it. How do you go back to worrying about algebra tests and what to eat for dinner when you know demons and magic exist? It’s why right now, instead of hanging out with my boyfriend, I’m sitting across from a bedraggled psychic.

“I do know,” I say. “But I’ve never heard it put like that before.”

“What can I say? I’m a philosopher at heart. So? Do we have a deal?”

“Yes.”

“Meet me here Monday and I’ll give you the information.”

“You can’t give them to me now?” I don’t relish the idea of having to come up with yet another reason to leave the house in the evening. Besides, Mondays are exhausting enough without having to sneak out to meet some psychic in a coffee shop.

“I don’t know them yet,” he says, tapping his temple. “I don’t control the visions. They come when they come.”

I suppose I can’t argue with that. I don’t know how the whole visions things works and if Azmos wanted me to do things differently, he should have given me clearer instructions. “Fine. Should I keep—” I reach for the envelope and Gabriel snatches it back.

“Payment upfront,” he says.

“What time? I can’t get here until after school,” I say. “Three?”

“School? Good god,” he says, with a sigh. “Three it is.”

“All right, then.” I stand and slip my messenger bag strap over my shoulder. “See you then.”

Outside, I check my phone. There’s only one new missed text message, from Cam again. “Get here. You’re missing out.” If I had to bus it, I wouldn’t bother. Amy’s sister’s condo—where the party is being held—is out in Ballard, which by bus would make the trip longer than it’s worth. But given that Az just paid me a wad of cash, I hail a cab and head to the party.

Amy’s sister’s condo is in a new building with triangular lines and an orange-and-green color motif to make it look hip and modern. The sister’s out of town and Amy’s cat-sitting, which gives her a place to host a get-together. The cat’s hiding in the bedroom but at least, for its sake, Amy has kept the party low-key. Only half a dozen other people crowd the living room. They’re watching a zombie movie but mostly talking over it while they play a drinking game related to people getting bitten on screen.

I find Cam on the balcony alone, staring out at a sea of buildings and Salmon Bay in the distance. His blond hair is stylishly messy and his glasses catch some of the moonlight. He wears a blue sweatshirt and leans against the bench, his arms extended over the back. He looks contemplative and thoughtful. He’s so impossibly beautiful it’s tempting to just stand there and stare at him all night. His phone is beside him and another pang of guilt resonates through me when I spot it.

“Hey,” I say, sliding the glass door behind me and muffling the sounds of his friends fighting over whether it’s cheating to bump someone’s controller.

“Hey! I’m glad you made it,” Cam says. He pats the bench beside him. He’s a little tipsy, a slur rounding the edge off his words, expected at this sort of thing. I sit next to him, close enough that I’m practically in his lap.

“I’m glad, too,” I say. There was a strong possibility that in taking the job with Az, I was going to lose Cam. I almost did. We hashed things out long-distance, while I was at Nonna’s funeral, arguing through text messages and late-night phone calls, and emails that made my heart race to send. I’m aware of what I might have lost and determined to hold onto it so I don’t even come close to losing it again.

Cam puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him. When we kiss, his lips taste like rum and root beer, but sweeter somehow.

The balcony is small, but Amy’s sister has managed to jam a barbecue and a wicker bench onto it. I cuddle against Cam, practically sitting in his lap even though the bench is long enough to comfortably seat two. His arms are solid around me, the warmth of him bleeding through both of our sweaters.

Cam holds my hand, his fingers lightly tracing the silver ring I wear on my pinky. The ring Azmos gave me to signify my connection to him. “It’s just a job,” he says, but the words are soft, as though he’s talking to himself. “You should get weekends off.”

“It’s not that kind of job,” I say. “I don’t punch in Monday through Friday, nine to five. It’s an on-call position.”

He lets out a breath and the warmth of it brushes over my neck, sending tingles down my spine. I squeeze his hand.

“I’ve been thinking…” he says, tone turning serious. I shift uneasily. “I’m starting to think UW is the better option. I mean, assuming I get in.”

I give him a you’ve-got-to-be-joking look. Not that the University of Washington isn’t a great school (one that’s way out of my league) but Cam could go anywhere he wants.

“Of course you’re going to get in,” I say, “but what about Stanford? That’s been your dream college since you were a kid.”

He leans forward, resting his head on my shoulder. “Well, sure, going to college in California, home of Disneyland, sounded awesome when I was eleven. Now that I’m looking at moving two states away from everyone I know and love, it’s less appealing.”

It’s selfish, but relief washes over me when I think of him staying close by. At the same time, I can’t let him give up such an incredible opportunity. I’m never going to be Stanford material but that I love that Cam is. “I thought you said the distance wouldn’t matter.”

He extracts one of his arms from around me to lift his drink to his lips. “If things were normal, maybe. But I can’t imagine being so far away and constantly worried about… things.”

A brick hits my stomach. We both know he’s talking about the demons. I take his drink from his hand and take a sip. It tastes like spiced poison but the warmth that travels down my middle is kind of nice. I almost get the appeal.

He raises his eyebrows. “I can make you a drink of your very own.”

I shake my head and hand it back. The sliding door opens.

“Hey, get in here,” Justin says, slurring way more than Cam and grinning sloppily. “We’re gonna play Cards Against Humanity.”

“Be right in,” Cam says and Justin drunkenly nods way too many times before going back in. “We should…” He gestures to the doors.

“Yeah,” I agree, even though having this time alone has been precious and I’m sad for it to end. My dad has been home a lot more and traveling a lot less lately, so between Cam’s busy schedule, my sporadic demon errands, and constant parental presence, we’ve been getting far too few of these private moments. I push off of his lap and he stands, grabbing my hand and pulling me into a kiss. “I love you.”