The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) (4 page)

I burst out onto the street in front of a bike messenger, who swears and swerves, but doesn’t crash. I don’t stop to apologize. I run until I reach a bus stop with a bus at it and hop on, even though it’s not going in the right direction. I left my coat behind. I’m damp and covered in salt. I sit near the back of the bus and no one dares sit next to me.

I twist the knob on Cam’s front door, but it’s locked. Silently cursing, I ring the bell. Cam never used to lock his door until the demon started popping up at all hours. There’s no answer. A gust of wind kicks leaves up into the air and chills me to the bone. Shivering, I dig through the pockets of my backpack, hunting for the spare key his mother gave me when they all went out of town for two weeks in August and left me in charge of watering the plants and feeding the fish.

Cam is vacuuming the living room when I walk in. The instant he sees me, damp and still caked with salt, he turns off the vacuum and runs to me. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I shake my head, suddenly realizing what I must look like: Shivering in my damp clothes, salt crusted into my hair, mascara smeared down my cheeks. He puts his arms around me. It’s only against his steadiness that I realize how badly I’m shaking. After a few moments, he pulls back, so I tighten my arms, not letting him go. “Just… give me a minute.”

He stands there with me for a long stretch of time, staring at me with his worried, green eyes and then putting his chin on my head. Only now, in his arms, do I feel safe again. When I finally loosen my hold, he gets me a can of cola and I tell him about Heather, about the desperate look in her eye and the letters. What they mean. And then the dam of fear and sadness breaks open and I cry like an idiot, smearing the rest of my makeup down my face. Although the holy water bath did a good enough job of that.

Cam leads me to the sofa and sits me down, keeping his arm around my shoulders. The weight of his arm and his warmth are comforting. I cry and cry, but not just about Heather or the malicious gleam in her eyes. I cry about my mom, Nonna, my dad, everything, until I can’t cry anymore.

“Sorry,” I say stupidly.

“Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Cam’s jaw is set and I know he’s angry, but I also know it’s not directed at me. I bury my face in his shoulder and cry some more. “You have to stop apologizing all the time, Nic,” he says softly.

I don’t know what I’d do without Cam. He’s a senior and probably heading to Stanford after he graduates, and I’m pretty sure the distance will kill me, but Cam swears it won’t matter. Moments like this, I have no choice but to believe it. He’s my rock. I can’t bear to think about what would happen without him.

“I’m glad I have you,” I mumble into his shoulder. “It’s nice to have a person I never have to lie to.”

After a few moments, I sit up and dry my eyes. He kisses my cheek, which is hot and tear-streaked. He smooths my hair out of my eyes.

“I should go get cleaned up. Can I—”

“Steal whatever. But if you accidentally spill tomato sauce on another band t-shirt, I might start to sense a pattern.”

I laugh weakly. A few months ago, I jacked one of his favorite concert shirts after we got soaked by the rain on the walk from the bus. His mom had made spaghetti and invited me to stay for dinner, and I got a glob of sauce right in the middle of the shirt. Even Cam’s mom’s best efforts couldn’t save it.

I go upstairs to the bathroom Cam shares with his sister. I take a shower and borrow some of Cathy’s watermelon shampoo. Cam uses it when he runs out of his shampoo, and it makes his hair smell fruity, which I love.

I rub at the steam in the mirror. My eyes are still bloodshot, but I feel a lot better. I put my hair into a stubby little ponytail. Bruises are flowering on my ribs, just below my chest, an angry yellowish-brown. There’s a faint line on my neck where Heather Bancroft held the dagger. I check for marks or battle scares, but my oval face is unscathed and looks like it always does: My eyes a little too far apart and my nose slightly too big. I scratch my nose and the white scar on my arm stands out against my skin, a jagged, white line that runs from my elbow to the middle of my arm. A very small scar for an accident I shouldn’t have survived.

I take my bra into Cam’s room. It’s a little damp, but I’m not willing to go without one with people coming over. I dig out a pair of Cam’s gray sweat pants and a purple t-shirt for Elephant Zeppelin, a whiny, emo band Cam dragged me to see with him. The opening band was a violinist with a cellist, so that was good, but Elephant Zeppelin is another band I don’t get. Their songs are all about brooding at windows and making clever puns. I tug it on anyway. At least it’s dry and I’m feeling pretty ironic, besides. When I come back out, Cam’s pouring bags of chips into large mixing bowls.

“Well, at least I won’t be overly dressed for the party,” I say, attempting a joke.

He eyes the shirt. “I can cancel it. We can have a real movie night.” He tugs at the shirt and leans down to kiss me. His mouth is warm and I wrap my arms around his shoulders.

“No. It’s okay. I could use a little normal teenage deviance.” Assuming the demon doesn’t show up again. Twice in one day is unheard of, but before this month, so was five times in one week, so I can’t be sure. “Besides, if you convince Brian to come, Melissa will owe me major best friend points.”

“I bet if she’s willing to be his designated driver, he’ll be happy to.” Cam rubs my shoulder. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Fine,” I say. “Really. You worry too much.” I squeeze his hand and then let it drop from my shoulder. I go to my backpack and find my phone, which is miraculously dry and in working order. I text Mel to tell her the good news. It’s doubly good, because it’ll give her an excuse to call him and offer a ride. She owes me now.

Done playing matchmaker, I collapse onto the sofa. Justin and Amy arrive shortly after, along with the alcohol, purchased by Amy’s older sister. Amy’s dressed in jeans and a cute orange top that hangs off one shoulder. She smiles and gives me a hug.

“Don’t you just have the right idea,” she says, indicating my sweatpants-chic. “That’s how Saturdays should be.” She moved here from Georgia two years ago, but her accent is still heavy and it makes her words drip with sweetness.

“I fell in a puddle on the way over,” I say.

“Well, I think it’s great. Maybe we should start having pajama parties.”

“I’d be down with lingerie parties,” Justin says, waggling his eyebrows.

“You realize we’d have to wear underwear, too,” Cam says, but he’s grinning.

“Nah. We can make it a ladies-only dress code thing.”

“In your dreams,” Amy says, shaking her head and giving me a look that clearly says,
Boys!
“You guys drinking your regular?”

They both nod. Amy goes to work, unloading the booze she brought and mixing drinks in blue plastic cups. Brian and Melissa arrive, along with Ted, another member of the basketball team, and a guy named Josh and his sister, Sandra, come in right behind them. The guys head into the living room and put on some music.

Melissa takes one look at my clothes and pulls me upstairs. “You didn’t tell me there was a fashion emergency. I would have brought you something. I have that red dress I just finished.”

“It’s fine,” I lie. It was at first, but now that people are here, I do feel pretty self-conscious without makeup or my own clothes, even if they’re all people who’ve known me long enough to forgive one night of sweatpants. After all, Amy and Sandra wear sweats to school sometimes during track and field months. And it’s not like I’ve never forgone makeup when running late. Besides, Cam says I’m prettier without it. And I still have my five earrings.

“What happened?” Melissa demands.

I repeat my puddle lie and Melissa’s expression screams disappointment. Guilt claws at me. I think of Heather’s wild, desperate expression, her panicked pleas. Faces of people to whom I’ve handed similar letters flash in my mind. I think I’m going to be sick.

I force the images away and look at Melissa, her expression hard and teeming with unspoken anger about months of deception and disappearances. I’ve lied so much recently that she knows something isn’t right, but she can’t possibly know I’m lying about the puddle. Why else would I be in Cam’s clothes,
sans
makeup?

“You should talk to me,” she says. She crosses her arms over her Victorian-style blouse. Her black curls are up in a hairstyle that Lizzy Bennet would appreciate, and somehow, the old-fashioned attire makes her seem more severe.

“I
am
talking to you.”

“You know what I mean. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”
Sorry
and
fine
: Two words I’m getting very sick of saying.

She averts her eyes. “Are you pregnant?”

“What? No.” I shake my head to emphasize the point. “Why would you think that?”

“What am I supposed to think? You’ve been all secretive lately. You keep sneaking off and Cam seems to be in on it.”

“In on what?” My voice comes out louder than I intend and echoes down the hall, but there’s no disruption in the noise downstairs.

“Whatever’s going on with you. So I took a guess.”

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

We stand in the hall for an uncomfortably long minute, listening to the whir of the blender and the tinkling of ice mixed with conversation from downstairs. I stare at the white lace at her shoulder, avoiding her probing, brown eyes. I feel like I should apologize for being deceptive and vague, but that will only lead to questions as to what exactly I’m hiding and I’m not in the mood to deflect. For the first time since I drank five Coronas and threw up last Halloween, I actually want a drink.

“We should rejoin the living.”

“I guess,” she says. She walks back down the stairs and I follow, trying not to seethe. After all, I’m the bad guy here. I’m the liar.

Downstairs, the living room and kitchen are crowded with people who are spilling into the backyard. Melissa immediately attaches herself to Brian, who looks more interested in shuffling through Cam’s iPod, but he doesn’t push her away, either. Cam is laughing and talking to Justin, Josh, and a girl I know from my art class named Katrina, who wears the exact same purple band shirt I am, only in a very tight, smaller size.

I slip into the kitchen. Amy’s still there mixing drinks, and when she hands two cups off to Sandra, she turns to me.

“Whatcha drinking, sweetie?” Amy asks me.

“I don’t know.” I look at the bottles of booze. There’s a bottle of spiced rum. It’s what Cam and Justin prefer. Brian usually sticks to Hard Lemonade and Amy tries something new every week. I lift the white bottle of coconut rum. “This any good?”

“Oh, it’s great, especially in cola. Can’t even taste the alcohol.” She takes the bottle and mixes me a drink.

I can taste the alcohol, sharp and hot on my tongue, but it’s duller than most cocktails and it is pleasantly sweet. “Thanks.”

I wander into the living room. Melissa and Brian are gone and the whiny, alternative “rock” is back, but it’s drowned out by people talking and laughing. Josh is trying to juggle lemons out on the back porch, and people are cheering his name.

I join Cam, who’s now alone with Katrina, everyone else having wandered off. She takes one look at my t-shirt and beams. “Twins!” she says. “Isn’t that great?”

“Nicki hates EZ,” Cam says, putting his arm around my waist and pulling me against him.

Katrina frowns like she doesn’t know what to make of that and then spots someone she needs to talk to, running off.

“It looks sexy on you, though,” Cam says, leaning down to say it in my ear. His breath is hot, and while that’s usually sexy, it reminds me of Heather and I shudder.

“You have terrible taste,” I say, shoving him playfully away.

“You doing okay?” he asks. His face is the perfect picture of “concerned boyfriend.” I know if I said no, he’d shut off the music, kick everyone out, and end the party right then and there, which is why I love him. But being surrounded by people is comforting.

I nod and raise my plastic cup. “Even got a drink. I’m practically the life of the party.”

“Yeah? What’s your poison?” he asks.

“Malibu. It tastes sort of like tanning lotion, but it’s better than your spicy rum.” Cam makes a face, which plainly says I have lost several marbles, but doesn’t argue.

We end up joining some people in the den who are playing a round of
Apples to Apples
. I keep waiting to see that shock of auburn hair or see the gleam of sunglasses, but Azmos doesn’t show up. Conversation turns to college plans and the senior trip, and the game dissolves. I’m about to get up and get a glass of water when Amy asks me, “What do you want to be?”

It’s meant to be funny, because none of them are really sure, but it stumps me. I stare at her like she asked what color the grass is on the moon, like it’s a trick question. Finally, I mumble something about the exciting world of pizza delivery and everyone laughs except Cam, who looks at me thoughtfully, as though he’s seeing something in me for the first time.