The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) (13 page)

I pull out my cellphone, look up Heather’s apartment complex, and call the number. A building receptionist answers, but when I ask for Mrs. Bancroft in 8D, claiming to be a delivery person, he informs me she moved out and left no forwarding address. Not surprising, but disappointing.

“Finding people is so easy in the movies,” I say.

“What about her sister?” Cam suggests.

“You’re a genius.”

“I know,” he says, smiling crookedly.

I look up Haley Bancroft in the Seattle area in an online phone directory and only one pops up. I smirk and dial the number.

“Hello?” Haley asks.

“Hi. I’m looking for Heather Bancroft,” I say, hoping that asking for her sister right off the bat will throw her off enough to get a real answer, or maybe it will convince her I already know Heather is there, which I don’t.

“Wrong number,” she says tightly and hangs up.

I use the number to look up an address, but the one listed is Heather’s old apartment. Of course it is. I shove the phone in my pocket. “This is useless. I’m not a detective.”

To his credit, Cam doesn’t say, “I told you so.”

His stomach growls and I realize I’m starving, too, so we drive down the hill to Dick’s Drive-In and get burgers and fries that we eat in the car. Having something in my system makes me feel better, but I’m still exhausted and a small headache pounds behind my eyes. “Maybe you should go back to school,” I say, crumpling up my foil wrapper and tossing into the empty fast food bag.

“For one period? I think if I’m going to ditch, I should commit to it. We could run by that magic shop up on Fifteenth.”

“And what, ask if they know how to track down a demon?” I say, although, actually, it’s not the worst idea I’ve heard. But then I remember the strand of auburn hair stuck in the tape that sealed the letter. I remember Xanan’s words about how it was meant to scare me. But what if it was meant to lure me. What if Heather Bancroft actually wants me to find her?

It’s possible. Likely, even. Why bother antagonizing me otherwise? I know she’s jealous of my contract that didn’t hang a sword over my head—that I know of, I remind myself—but it seems pretty petty to send an invoice just for the pleasure of making me squirm. Especially if she wouldn’t even get to see it.

“What?” Cam asks.

“Just trying to make sense of everything. I’m really tired. I didn’t sleep at all. I should probably just go home and nap.”

Cam’s phone buzzes. He reads the message and types a response. I watch him, curious who it is and not sure I want to know. I’m about to ask when he puts the phone down. “My mom wants me to come grab Cathy after school. Her allergies are acting up and she’s miserable.”

High school gets out in about an hour, but the elementary school goes until nearly four. “That sucks.”

“It happens when you’re allergic to every kind of dust and pollen. Where to?”

“I just want to go home.”

He drives me to my building and walks me to my door. I know he wants to come in and sit on the sofa while I nap or maybe even lie down with me, so I’m relieved he has to go. I have no intention of napping.

I touch his cheek and pull him into a kiss. His lips are greasy from the French fries and his arms snake around my coat, holding me fast against him.

It would be so easy to be honest with him right now, tell him that I’m planning to track Heather down and try to release the demon. But he’ll insist on coming with me. As much as I’d love to have him by my side, I’m not selfish enough to put him in the path of magic that can trap a demon, even if it means one more lie. Even if I have to risk losing him for good.

The thought curdles my stomach and I hesitate.

But if I’m really honest with myself, I need to do this alone. I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of handling this mess.

“Thanks,” I tell him.

He squeezes my hand and then looks over at his car, sighing. “Promise,” he says, his green eyes shining, “that you won’t do anything without calling me.”

“So, what, I have to get approval before I order pizza?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I’m just going to get some sleep,” I tell him. I peck his cheek and feel the stubble beneath my lips. I trace fingers over his cheek and smile at him. “I’ll see you tomorrow, unless you’re online tonight.”

I pull away and unlock the door. He hesitates, running his hand through his hair and holding it there like he’s trying to pull something directly out of his brain. “You can count on me, you know.”

It makes me want to cry, how much conviction he has. “I know that,” I tell him. “I’ll call if anything comes up.”

He nods and lets his hand drop to his side. “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

He heads to the elevator.

“Cam.” He turns to look at me. “I love you,” I tell him, because if this is going to be the last thing I say to him, I can’t let it be a lie.

He looks at me uncertainly. “Love you, too,” he says.

I find the strand of hair on the tape in my bedroom’s wastebasket among discarded school flyers, notes, and other assorted junk. I pull out the envelope from my backpack and carry everything to the brightly lit kitchen table.

I run my fingers over Azmos’ careful calligraphy. I pull the envelope apart and lay it flat. There’s no hidden writing or secret messages. I examine the card with Cam’s name on it in the same way.

Nothing. I flop down on a chair, disappointed, and stare at the strand of hair. If I’m supposed to use it in some way, I don’t know have the faintest idea how.

I look up magic shops on the Internet, and while there’re a good chunk of them in the city, most of them seem to be the sort that sell crystals and do tarot readings, not the kind with actual information about spell work, if such a thing even exists.

My phone vibrates and I dig it out of my pocket. It’s a number I don’t have in my contacts, so I answer dubiously.

“Nicolette, right?” The smoky, feminine voice has to be Heather’s.

“Who wants to know?” I ask.

“You called my sister. That was a bitch move.”

Definitely Heather. “Who is this?” I ask.

“Don’t play games with me.” There’s a deep inhale, like she’s smoking. “I trust you got your little invoice.”

“I got it.”

“Trying to involve my sister won’t help you. If you so much as touch her, I’ll—”

“I’m not,” I interrupt. She’s truly unhinged if she thinks I’d hurt anyone, especially an innocent person. Besides, her sister is older than me, and judging by Heather’s muscle mass, probably stronger. “I was trying to find you.”

I can almost hear the smile in her voice. “Well, took you long enough. All you have to do is say please.”

The fake sugar in her tone is scarier than her anger. I grit my teeth. “Please,” I say.

She rattles off an address and then, cliche of cliches, tells me to come alone. “You have got to be kidding,” I say to the empty apartment.

Also, I have got to talk Dad into getting me a pet.

I make one phone call, but it’s not the one I should make. At this point, I’m fairly sure my body is made up of more guilt than water.

Xanan sounds bored when I tell him the address and says I’ll have to do the heavy lifting, but promises to be there. Demon back-up has to be better than nothing.

It’s only when I’m standing in front of the abandoned church in Ballard that I remember the other call I should have made. But what would I have said?
Hi, Dad. I know you just lost your own mom, but now I
’
m walking into something I
’
m not sure I
’
ll walk out of, and I
’
m sorry you
’
ve had to lose so much.
Yeah. That would go over well.

The wooden church is small, the size of a single-family house, and it sits across the street from a larger, brick church. It has a single steeple made of wood that’s rotted through in places. It’s wedged between an apartment building and a house, on the corner of a residential street and across from Sparkle Sugar, which is closed for the day. A white board posted in the overgrown lawn reads “Notice of Proposed Land Use,” with legal codes and some indecipherable illustration indicating what will eventually sit in this lot. There are no signs of construction happening any time soon.

The front door is bolted shut. I walk around the building and find the wooden door at the back. It’s not even locked. If this were a horror movie, it would probably be booby-trapped, so I push the door open with a stick and duck around the building. There’s no explosion or gunshot. No axe comes swinging down. Not even a bucket of holy water.

The door leads to a hallway. The only light filters in from small windows high in the ceiling. I shut the door behind me and then listen for signs of life. There’s the sound of what I think might be rats or other small animals, but nothing human. The thought chills me and I pull my coat tighter.

I walk down the hall and push a door open. Inside is an empty office with built-in bookshelves covered in dust and cobwebs. I reach a set of double doors. I inhale a breath of the musty air and fling them open.

This is the heart of the church, with wooden pews and a stand for the choir. It’s only about a quarter of the size of my school gym, but it was probably a thriving neighborhood church once. Azmos is on the dais, next to the pulpit, duct taped to a chair. His usually spiked, auburn hair is flat, and his collared shirt is unbuttoned. One of the sleeves is rolled up and the other is just missing, like it was torn off at the shoulder. He has two gashes in one of his arms and a cut on his chin. He’s surrounded by a burned and blackened circle with a bunch of symbols chalked around it. Little gold bowls are placed every two feet or so around the circle’s edge.

He looks up when I come in. His snake-like eyes seem full of some message, maybe a desperate attempt to tell me that it’s a trap (duh), but he doesn’t speak.

The air crackles with electricity like it does right before a thunderstorm. When I touch the handle to pull the door shut, it shocks me. The air smells like must, copper, and two kinds of smoke: The spicy, sweet smell of incense and the toxic smoke of cigarettes.

Heather is sitting below in a pew with an ashtray and a cigarette in hand. She has a bottle of something dark, probably bourbon, and she’s surrounded by empty bottles. She practically cackles when she sees me. I’m surprised she’s not wearing a pointy hat and holding a broomstick. Her eyes are bloodshot and her clothes are rumpled.

“Nicolette,” Azmos says.

“Hi, Az,” I say, trying not to let my voice quaver. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

He starts to laugh and coughs. His voice sounds craggy and rough.

“You came!” she says, sounding genuinely surprised. She jumps up, but almost misjudges her landing and has to catch herself to avoid falling. Her eyes snap to Azmos, wide and frighteningly off, like she’s not entirely there. Her makeup is crusted near her eyes and her hair is a wild mane of black and blue around her face, unwashed and unbrushed, sticking up at odd angles. Her dark red blouse is covered in splotches and stains, and the vinyl of her skirt looks misshapen, stretched out.

“Do it!” she demands.

Azmos sighs, the sound of someone who has been over the same thing a few hundred times. “It’s not possible.”

“Do what?” I ask.

Heather looks at me like I’m a piece of meat. Dead meat. Her grin is malicious. She snaps her jaw at me like an angry dog. I flinch. “I said, do it!” she screeches at Azmos. She ascends the stairs up to the pulpit. “Now!”

She knocks over an iron candleholder and it clatters to the floor. The sound echoes. She pulls the familiar, dull dagger from her belt. I put my hands up, because it seems like the smartest thing to do even though a dagger isn’t really a long-distance weapon, and unless she’s sharpened it recently, it can’t do much damage.

“I said, do it!” she yells again. She reaches what used to be an altar. A moldy, frayed altar cloth is draped over it, and a cross is nailed to the wall behind it.

She lifts up a lumpy candle. It’s swirled crimson in places like a candy cane. She chants something, lights the wick, and rakes her fingernails through the soft wax.