The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1) (9 page)

I was in so deep that it was ready to kill me at any given moment. Backing out meant certain death. And I wasn't ready to die. I was ready to fight.

“Yeah,” I said, and meant it. “I do.”

Aralia made a
vague noise and didn't speak again until the city was a smudge in the rearview mirror. Without buildings to protect us, rain hit the windshield at machine gun velocity and thunder boomed so forcefully that I could feel it in my teeth. I'd have to get used to it, seeing as I'd be living out here.

Aralia turned the radio down. We'd been listening to Ella Fitzgerald for the past ten minutes. “You still have a choice. I can turn this car around.”

Honestly, her concern was as confusing as Dante's miraculous reversal. I thought she hated me. I told her so and she confused me again by laughing.

“Oh,
darling
,” she said, shaking her head. “
Hate
is a very strong word. I don't
hate
you. I think you are inexperienced and I think you have no idea what you're getting yourself into. Bravery is all good and well, but it will only get you so far. You have to know what you're doing if you want to survive.”

“Then I'll learn,” I said. Adapt or die. Survival of the fittest. Darwin. Stuff like that. I could learn. I had to.

The gathering of trees Dante's house was tucked away in appeared upon the stormy horizon. They leaned against the violence of the wind like a living thing and a flock of crows alighted from the dark in search of better shelter. Lightning flashed as we pulled into the drive.

Grumbling, Aralia parked. Shingles littered the yard and the disused fountain was filled with rainwater and pine needles. “We'll be lucky if the roof isn't ripped off.”

I was more worried about the outer door. Flimsy and old, it banged against the side of the house on a single rusty hinge. This was the sort of weather I liked sleeping through.

“We might as well get this over with.” Aralia sighed, less than thrilled by the prospect of getting her hair wet. “The day started out so nicely, too.”

“On three?” I asked.

She looked at me. Lifted her brow. I thought she was going to tell me I was being stupid again. But she didn’t. “On three, then.”

I braced the door. “One, two...”

“Two and a half...”

“Three!”

Together, we unbuckled our seatbelts and ran for the house as quickly as we could. Aralia made it there before me on account of my slipping on the porch, and when I got inside, she threw her head back like a shampoo model and laughed.

“Twist your ankle, did you?” She stripped her coat off and tossed it on one of the velvet couches between the staircases.

“
No
,” I said indignantly, crossing my arms to keep from shivering. My coats and hoodies were packed away in my fall/winter clothes tub and a Property of Stone Chapel High School t-shirt paired with some sweatpants wasn't exactly insulating. Neither was the house. I wiped my runny nose with the back of my hand before Aralia could see.

She started up the stairs. “Come along, Beatrice. I'll show you to your room.”

“Don't you guys believe in furnaces?” I asked. The amount of candles in the house had doubled since Aralia first dragged me here. Collectively, they colored the steps and corridors in a dim, soft orange. It almost seemed cozy if you ignored the cobwebs and the rain leaking through the roof.

“This house is hundreds of years old,” Aralia said. “The heating system is rather unreliable. The electricity works most of the time though.” She reached the top of the stairs and went down the same hall Dante's study was in. His door was shut and no noise came from within. Aralia shook her head. “He's been in there since we got back from your apartment this morning.”

“That press conference didn't sit well with him?” I guessed.

“It didn't sit well with any of us,” she said. We passed another door and a crookedly hung painting of some faceless avenging angel stabbing a demon with a flaming sword. How, uh...Poetic. “I would be lying if I said the Mayor has been our top supporter, but this outright denial is strange even for him. The evidence is there. We have proof.”

I shrugged. “Maybe he's trying to keep everyone from freaking out. A demon serial killer isn't something you go around announcing.”

Aralia stopped suddenly and I bumped into her as a result. I hadn't noticed, but we'd reached the end of the hall. And another door. She twisted the knob and pushed it open with a loud creak. “Here we are, darling. Your room.”

My room. What an odd little phrase. I hadn't had my own room in years. Not in a house, anyway. My apartment was a room, but that was different. I was by myself. But here? I'd be living with other people. In a
house
.

I hadn't lived in a house since my parents died. This was going to take some getting used to.

“Wow,” I said as I stepped inside. It was...huge. Bigger than my entire apartment. “This is great.”

Aralia smiled, clearly pleased with herself. “I've taken a few liberties. I hope you don't mind.”

Uh-oh. That didn't sound good. “
Liberties?
”

“You should be thanking me,” she said. She waved a hand at the solid oak armoire by the window. On top were a few framed pictures of her and Dante—he was actually smiling in them—posing in front of the Trevi Fountain in Rome. “For example, I got all your clothes out of those ghastly tubs and put them in there. Speaking of which, we really must take you shopping.”

“You what?” Oh, God, I hoped she didn’t find those thongs.

“Thongs,
darling?” Yep. She found the thongs. “This isn't 1998.”

Oh,
God.
“Those were a joke, I swear—”

“Moving on,” she said abruptly. She made a sweeping gesture toward the bed. “I trust you know what a bed is.”

I scoffed, though it was hard to keep pretending that this wasn’t completely amazing. The bed was massive. The wrought iron frame matched the bannisters on the staircases and the red comforter looked silky and soft despite a tear or two. And then there were the pillows. So many pillows. “I'm poor, not stupid.”

“I would never call you stupid,” Aralia said.

I faked my best British accent. “Are you
daft
, girl?”

Her eyes widened. “Well, you
were
being daft! You drew the seal the wrong way!”

“Now, I may not be British, but I'm pretty sure 'stupid' and 'daft' mean the same thing.”

“You are absolutely
insufferable
,” she said.

“Thank you,” I replied, choosing to take that as a compliment. “And, uh...seriously. Thanks for the help. With everything.”

Her sharp expression softened, but only for a quick second. She struck me as the type of person who never let her guard down for long. We had that in common. “Yes, well, all in a day's work. The rest of your things are in that closet over there. Feel free to make yourself at home.”

Home. Yet another odd word that didn't seem to belong in my mouth. I considered my apartment home, but it wasn't a forever place. The orphanage was a suffocating prison
masquerading
as a home. I never felt safe there.

I never felt safe anywhere.

But then Aralia left and I got the chance to catch my breath. I flopped down on my new bed, buried my face in the cool fabric of comforter, and listened. Listened to the clap of the thunder, the fall of the rain, the howl of the wind through the cracks in the walls.

No yelling, no opera, no sirens wailing in the distance. Just the house, the storm, and me.

I closed my eyes. Slept a dreamless sleep. And when I woke up, I shambled over to my window. Jiggled it open so that I could taste the fresh air, the salt from the sea. Miles away, the city loomed. Crickets chirped from unseen places, but I didn't mind.

I didn't mind because standing there at that window, in that room, in that house, there dawned a sudden moment of clarity: Nothing happened. Nothing happened while I slept, nothing happened when I got up. Nothing happened as I stood there, nothing happened when I closed the window.

Nothing happened.

I was...safe.

Nine

Feeling more well-rested than I felt in months, I decided there was no time like the present and went to do a little exploring. I tried to step lightly, but seeing as the floor creaked every time I so much as twitched, being quiet was next to impossible. Most of the candles were still lit, their flames rippling warmly in the musty air. I used their light as a guide of sorts, reaching out so that my fingers could skim the walls. I brushed door after door, pausing at Dante's study.

Max's voice echoed in my mind.
I don't think I've ever met anyone so dedicated to his job.

The urge to open the door hit me like any bad idea did. Abruptly and overwhelmingly. I didn't want to annoy him, though. I wanted to thank him for what he was doing. What he continued to do. I wanted to ask him what it was like being so famous. I wanted to tell him to go to sleep.

Did I dare open the door and risk his wrath? Or did I slink back into the shadows like the coward I was proving myself to be?

...On second thought, cowardice didn't sound so bad.

Sighing, I followed the candles out to the staircases and took a left instead of the usual right. This led me down a hallway similar to the one my room was in. The layout was the same―cramped, dank, decorated with damask and cobwebs―but
one
thing was different. Instead of a single door at the end, a set of double doors awaited me.

And they were open.

Soft light emanated from the crack room and if I listened closely enough, I could hear the faint crackling of wood.

I felt like an intruder as I crept down the hall. Even more so when I got to the actual doorway, because the room wasn't just a room. It was a lavish parlor with an elegant writing desk, another red velvet couch, and a―...A massive flat-screen TV mounted above the fireplace?

“Whoa,” I murmured, too distracted by the TV to pay attention to anything else.

“Beatrice?”

My head snapped up.

There he was, sitting at the writing desk, bringing a coffee mug to his lips and watching me with an unbridled intensity that made me want to melt through the floorboards. How he managed to completely undo a person just by looking at them was both baffling and
really
annoying.

I feigned surprise, pressing a startled hand to my chest. “Oh, Dante. Didn't see you there. Here I was, sleepwalking, and I see this light and think it's heaven and, look, here you are! Funny, right?”

He put his mug down, regarded me with the same one-note stare. “Did you hit your head?”

“No,” I raked a hand through my hair and caught a snag. “Ow.”

He had the grace to ignore that. “Do you need something?”

“Not really,” I said. “I mean, wait. Yes. I do. I need to talk to you.”

Predictably, he said nothing. Just waited for me to continue. That was something I really liked about Dante. Stupidly hot looks aside, he was an awesome listener.

I took a breath to calm my nerves. Let it out with a long huff. “I wanted to thank you,” I began. “For everything. For driving me around, for letting me move in, for that check―which I don't think I can accept, by the way―for coming over when I called...”

I trailed off.

Dante blinked.

This was beyond awkward, but I couldn't seem to stop the word vomit. All these
things
kept coming up and I couldn't hold them in. “I don't know what made you change your mind about me, but I'm glad you did. I'm not just some slacker burnout, you know? There's someone in my life who needs me and I feel like I've been failing her lately, but you're giving me a chance and I
really
appreciate it and I just want you to know that I'll do whatever it takes. Whatever
you need me to do, I'll do it. I promise.”

Word vomit over. I remembered to breathe.

Dante took another sip from his mug. Leaned back in his chair. This was beginning to feel like a meeting with a mob boss or something.

I forced a laugh, wiggling my fingers in his general direction.  “Do I need to kiss your hand, or?”

He didn't get it. “What?”

“Never mind.” I'd explain later. He’d obviously never been a mob boss.

He put his mug down. “You think that by moving here on the pretense of your former guardian's request means that I'm willing to go back on my decision?”

My cheeks grew hot. Was that
not
what he meant?

“I contacted her because, according to official records, she's the only living family you have left. I felt the situation was severe enough to warrant that. When I told her what happened, she begged for my help, and seeing as you were in dire enough straits, I saw very little reason to deny her.”

Well, that made me feel
great.
Despite my best efforts, I was still being reduced to a charity case again. “Okay, but—“

He stood, all six plus feet of him. His suspenders dangled loosely at his sides. “You made an assumption, Beatrice. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“I think you're being dramatic―”

“I'm not being dramatic, Beatrice.” He said “If there is one thing you need to learn during your stay here, it's this: Never assume. That is the first rule of hunting.”

The first rule of...Wait just a damn minute.

“Assumptions will get you killed,” he said again. The fire popped in agreement.

I swallowed the anxious lump in my throat. “Does this mean...You're going to…?” I couldn't bring myself to say it.

His severe expression softened. He rubbed his jaw. “There are
conditions
―”

In a moment of temporary insanity, I screeched and threw myself at him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

I felt his body grow taut as I wrapped my arms around his torso. He was probably super uncomfortable right now, but he'd have to deal with it. He earned this hug.

“I won't let you down,” I said, catching a whiff of his scent. Woodsmoke and spice. Like something you could curl up in and feel completely safe.

He cleared his throat, patted my shoulder a couple of times. “Good.”

Having tormented him enough, I let go and stepped back, giddy with excitement. Maybe things weren’t as bad as I’d convinced myself they were. Maybe they were looking up. For once.

***

I spent the next couple of weeks in a constant cycle of school, detention, and Rosie. Max drove me to school every morning and even to the sanatorium when I asked him to. I filled Rosie in on everything (though I left some of the more gruesome bits out) and she nearly had a heart attack when I told her about Dante. Her monitors went off in a beeping frenzy when I mentioned his name and a team of nurses ran in to see what the problem was, only to find her lying in bed, begging me for info about Stone Chapel’s favorite vigilante.

“You'll have to meet him some time,” I told her. Provided I could drag him out of his office.

“What's he like?” She asked, staring up at me like I just admitted to meeting Jesus.

I smiled.
This
was my Rosie. Excitable, sweet, always ready to gossip. We had yet to discuss her, uh...
episode
from last time, and honestly, I hoped we wouldn't. Reliving my best friend's possession rage wasn't something I was chomping at the bit to do. “Hot. Serious. Kind of awkward. I don't think he sleeps.”

She looked around her empty room, then leaned toward me, her voice a feather light whisper. “I can't believe you're living with him! That's,” wheeze, “crazy!”

“You don't have to whisper,” I said at a normal volume. “There's no one else around.”

“Still,” she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. It'd gotten longer. Duller. “It feels like some,” cough, “thing we should whisper about.”

“I guess.”

It hadn't hit me yet that I was living with an international celebrity. He seemed so normal to me, lack of sleeping patterns and knowledge of pop culture references aside. He did everything a regular person would. He woke up, ate breakfast, fed his dog, went for a run, read the paper.

...And then he shut himself up in his study for the rest of the day like a hunchback in a bell tower. Didn't have an explanation for that one yet.

“Bee?” Rosie said after a long while. She didn't have a TV in her room so we'd been sitting there in the evening silence, enjoying each other’s company.

I looked over at her. “Yeah?”

She coughed into the crook of her arm then laid back against her pillows, swollen eyelids fluttering shut. Her pale skin was blotched with big red spots and her gums started bleeding three days ago and hadn't stopped since. Her doctors said this was nothing to worry about, but I didn't believe them. She was fading and she was fading
fast.

“I―...” She stopped to catch her breath. The sterile air shuddered through her lungs and her chest arose shallowly underneath her teal hospital gown. “I'm sorry. About―about what I did. I didn't...I didn't mean it.”

I reached over and took her clammy hand in mine, giving it a gentle squeeze. She scared the hell out of me a couple weeks ago, but that didn't matter now. “I know, Rosie. You don't have to apologize.”

She shook her head. “And I―I don't―...You―”

“It's okay,” I said. I could tell she was having trouble keeping up.

She pressed her chapped lips together, her expression distorted into one of pain. “I
―
I don't want you dying for me.”

“Hey,” I said, trying to keep my demeanor light. “No one said anything about dying.”

“It's not fair.” Her trembling fingers clutched the fabric of her sheets. “You shouldn't―shouldn't have to...”

Ah, yes.
This
argument. We hadn't had it in awhile, so we were about due. I sighed. “Rose, we've been over this. You and me against the world, remember? I'm not going to run away just because you're sick.”

“But―but it's
dangerous
―”

“So is eating, but you don't see me quitting that, huh?”

“...
Eating?
”

“Yeah, y'know, you can choke.”

When she didn’t laugh like I wanted her to, I continued on.

“Don't think you forced me into this,” I said. That couldn't have been farther from the truth. I
chose
to take responsibility for her. I
chose
to pay her sanatorium bill. I
chose
to always be there, no matter what. Because that's what friends did. That's what
sisters
did. They didn't run when things got hard. They stayed. And for a couple of orphans, staying was the greatest act of kindness we could hope for.

Rosie was quiet again. Before, when her illness was manageable, she looked like one of those girls who could sell beauty products for a living on TV. Thick, curly hair, wide smile that put the sun to shame. Then she got sick.
Really
sick.

Now, she was all sharp angles and shuddering breaths. Dry skin pulled tightly over bone, sunken cheeks and too blue veins. The demon was killing her from the inside out, chipping away at her former self one day at a time. Watching her deteriorate was the worst thing I've ever had to experience.

“Bee?” She whispered.

I folded my arms on the side of the bed. “Yeah?”

Her eyes opened and she stared up at the ceiling as though she was seeing something terrible, a horror visible to her and only her. “I'm scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of what's going to happen when I die.”

My insides twisted themselves into dreadful knots. This was the first time she ever used the D word. Of the pair of us, she was the optimistic one. She may not have had her health, but she had hope. Hope for a cure, hope for the future. And now that hope had gone away. I wanted to get it back.

“What if you turn out to be immortal?” My voice cracked under the lame excuse for a joke. “What if this whole sickness thing is just a cover-up?”

She leaned over and coughed into her shoulder. “I doubt it.”

“C'mon, Rosie,” I gave her the tiniest of nudges with my elbow. “You're not going to die for a really, really long time.”

She just looked at me. And I looked at her. I was lying through my teeth. Putting on a brave face for the sake of false optimism. She knew it. I knew it. The nurses who kept peeking in to check on her vitals every ten minutes knew it.

She rolled over onto her side. “I'm tired, Bee.”

“Okay,” I said. That was my cue to leave. She'd gotten progressively crankier since she attacked me. Her mood swung from one extreme to the other. The old Rosie would have asked if she could have some time alone. This one just rolled over and mumbled. I guess I couldn’t blame her. I’d be pretty cranky if I had to eat hospital food for months at a time, too. “I'll try and come by after school on Monday, all right?”

Nothing. Not even a grunt. It was hard not to feel angry as I left her there to sulk. I
hated
demons. Hated them more than I hated Jason Clark and crickets combined. If it weren’t for demons, I'd have my best friend back and we'd be spending senior year together in my apartment, not a stuffy sanatorium that constantly reeked of rubbing alcohol and fatalism.