Thorn (3 page)

“Of course,” Thorn whispered.

“Of course,” Amy lied. “Gina’s really immature.”

“Exactly. I just don’t want to be all gung ho about avoiding her and have you or Kelly pussy out and not do it, so…” She tapped the dashboard. “You think we should just have the party at a club instead? Yeah, Gina doesn’t like cigarette smoke. Maybe she wouldn’t even come.”

“Yeah, good idea.”

“Yeah. And Kelly, don’t wear what you’re wearing now to the party. If Gina does show up I don’t want to give her the impression that it’s okay to dress like a bum around us.”

Kelly examined her clothing and bleated her apologies. Pleased with herself, Lexa checked her smile in the mirror again, still smacking her gum. Thorn had always been amused that no demon claimed her, and that none ever had. Lexa was all Lexa. Ever since Amy had met her at freshman orientation last summer, Thorn had encouraged Amy to have a high opinion of her. She was extroverted and Amy wasn’t. She was pretty and Amy wasn’t. She had friends and money and Amy didn’t. The constant comparisons Thorn kept in Amy’s mind sapped the few positive thoughts she did feel about herself, and Lexa, who kept outwardly inferior girls in her social circle so she could look better than them in public, was keen to reinforce Amy’s negative self-image.

“Okay, well, I guess I should get going,” Lexa said. “Just wanted to show you my new car. Ahh!” She made a mock-astonished face with wide eyes and mouth, then squealed excitedly.

“Yeah, super cool.” Ever longing for acceptance, Amy did her best imitation of enthusiasm. She’d become good at that imitation over the years. While Lexa fiddled with the radio, Amy leaned forward on the far side of the car and whispered to Kelly. “I think you look fine,” Amy said. Kelly smiled thankfully. Thorn frowned.

The girls exchanged goodbyes, Amy exited the vehicle, and Lexa drove off. Eight of Thorn’s follower demons waited near the apartment’s stairs, eager to one-up each other and impress Thorn should he need any assistance. He told them to wait there while he followed Amy inside.

Amy shut her bedroom door and stepped over the biology textbooks that cluttered the carpet. Thorn had tried to coax her into business school, or musical theatre like Lexa, but she’d resisted and started a premed track, which had troubled Thorn these last few months. She seemed quite fulfilled following her passions in the sciences, so Thorn had introduced her to friends he could use to prey on her insecurities, and kept her isolated from any sense of community she might find in college. This was easy, because she was poor, not girly in the slightest, and ugly to boot. Thorn reminded her how little she fit in whenever she met someone new, and her resulting shyness kept her depressed and alone. Still, he eyed the books strewn across the floor with distaste.

A mirror rose above Amy’s dresser—the same mirror to which Thorn liked to keep her glued for hours each week. She removed her shirt and gazed discontentedly at her wide hips, her flabby belly, and her square face. Demons had helped shape a culture in which most young women were kept quiet, their independence scoffed at and their bodies objectified, even by themselves. Many women realized the lies and dealt healthily with them by the time they hit thirty, but foolish adolescents like Amy fell into Thorn’s grasp time and time again. Body image lies were almost too easy now.

Thorn had known for years he would need to have Amy kill herself before she grew too old, but now, with her death imminent, he almost regretted having to do it. Not because he cared about the girl, of course, but because she was his home. He’d spent more time with her than with any living human, even Madeline or Jed. Most demons kept a pet human or two, and naturally grew accustomed to their emotional routines, but Thorn had even come to think of himself as Amy’s “guardian demon,” borrowing the term from the nonexistent angelic variety. Thorn would miss how easily he could incite Amy to skip dinner when she saw a thin model on TV, fight with her drunken mother when the reckless woman came home from a night out, stress about the money she’d borrowed from Lexa for her tuition, or cry herself to sleep after a taxing shift at the restaurant job where she slaved away to keep herself afloat. Amy was as predictable as any asinine young girl, and to Thorn, predictable was comfortable.

Thorn approached her in front of her mirror and moved his lips next to her ear.
What should I say?
This next whisper would be the first suggestion on the path to her suicide. He knew her so well that an idea came quickly.
Yes. The perfect beginning of the end.
Thorn opened his mouth to speak.

“You ugly,” Shenzuul whispered.

Thorn flinched and backed swiftly across the room. Wearing a faded old suit, Marcus’s associate drifted in the air by Amy’s other ear. He smirked at Thorn as he whispered to her again. “Boys never notice you. Maybe you’d be good for quick fuck but never nothing permanent.”

No. Not Amy. They can’t take Amy from me.
Anger rose inside Thorn.

But Shenzuul continued. “Look at fat arms. You disgusting. And cruel to poor mother. And too shy, with weird interests. No one ever want you.”

In spite of the strange accent, the whispered lies weren’t bad. Thorn could have done better, naturally. He eyed Shenzuul defensively as Amy slipped back into her shirt. The fool was short but powerfully built—Thorn was not sure he could take him in a direct fight. Thorn could always call his followers in to help, but at the risk of appearing weak and needy, which he couldn’t afford in his current wounded state. Not to mention that his followers avoided violence against their own kind, as many demons did, lest an accidental murder occur. So Thorn resorted to the same trait he’d relied upon to build his renown over the centuries: his cunning.

“Lexa is much more attractive than you,” Thorn called across the room. “Maybe if you stay with her, boys will notice you too.”
And if I show that you only listen to me, maybe Shenzuul will realize I’m his better.

Shenzuul countered as Amy grabbed a textbook from her nightstand and plopped onto her bed. “Maybe you be prettier if you slit your wrists.”

No, not violence. Never violence. She wouldn’t go for that.
Shenzuul’s statement didn’t even make sense. It was just brute savagery. Predictably, Amy ignored him and began reading her book.

A soft rattling came from the kitchen, which Shenzuul took as inspiration. He threw an arrogant grin at Thorn and said to Amy, “Mom in kitchen. You should go to her, tell her ’bout your problems. Maybe she understand.”

What an idiot.
No doubt he’d done some research on Amy and thought she would confront her mom as usual, but the mother was sometimes sober during the afternoon, and thus prone to occasional bouts of sympathy for her daughter. Thorn’s control over their relationship rested partially on the pair never having a chance to honestly express themselves to each other. So to appeal to Amy’s pride, Thorn said, “The only real pain is pain suffered alone.”

But she did go to her mother, and they did talk, and Shenzuul thus began to pick away at Thorn’s livelihood. Had Shenzuul been just another demon, Thorn would have viciously fought back. But he remembered the sharp intelligence Marcus possessed, and feared a trap. Thorn was still too injured to fight anyway. He decided that his best course of action was to leave Amy be, for now. He would return to reclaim her once his wounds healed. His work on Amy ran deep enough that no important damage could be undone in a mere few days…

So this is Marcus’s plan
, Thorn thought as he drifted down Lowery Boulevard in the heart of the Bankhead slums, toward Magnolia Park.
Ruin my work and discredit me, like I once did to Marcus, then get me alone somewhere and finish me.
On the bright side, this gave Thorn more time to escape, if escape was all he wanted. But his reputation would be ruined if he ran. And now the same would happen if he stayed. He could not directly fight or kill Marcus or Shenzuul, or he would be in violation of the First Rule and sentenced to death. Besides, both demons were stronger than Thorn, and he’d inevitably lose the fight, unless he could convince his followers to violate the First Rule with him, which was unlikely. Thorn also considered declaring loyalty to Marcus, surrendering his charges to him, and then subverting Marcus’s authority from inside his den of followers. This would have been a good last resort strategy for dealing with any other rival demon, but Marcus would never fall for it. Alternately, Thorn could hide and wait… but only cowards hid, and if Marcus still held his grudge after all these centuries, he would not likely forget it soon. Eventually, Marcus would come for him. Thorn’s followers would not voluntarily exile themselves with him, and he dreaded being alone when Marcus found him.

Long ago, in what seemed like another life, Thorn had been an Angel of Reason. He could no longer recall what his duties had been, but he liked to think he’d retained some of his original intelligence.
There must be a way out of this.

A new name, perhaps. Thorn’s only real option was an alias and a new city, where he would bide his time, study Marcus from a distance, and find a way to orchestrate Marcus’s death. But starting over with new humans from scratch? That would be tough to endure.

Thorn found himself wondering how many times this had happened before: a vendetta between two great demons. Devils often bickered, as brutal competition was their way of life, but they rarely held grudges lasting this long. And even if they did, few would dare discuss them openly, since all lived in the shadow of the First Rule and the Judges who enforced it.

Thorn drifted past a small group of demons working together to coordinate a drug deal in a back alley.
Shouldn’t that be our purpose?
Thorn thought.
Destroying the work of the Enemy, forcing misery and hollowness and lies into every human’s life until their ultimate deaths?
How strange it was that the struggle for glory and prestige always seemed paramount, at the expense of the fight that really mattered. Not that Thorn would trade his prestige for the meager lives of that scum in the alley. No glory lay in ruining the life of a person whose life was already ruined.

Thorn thus preferred to spend his time with people whom he could change from their essentially “good” beginnings. With greater difficulty lay more prestige, so Thorn had worked himself into a position where he could have any human he wanted. He even had power enough to swindle murders, suicides, and rapes (the three most sought-after of the base sins) from lesser demons—just as Marcus had done to him last night. Thorn would not, and could not, part with his current status in the demon world. He would just have to outsmart Marcus.
Beat him at his own game.
This thought plagued him as he entered Magnolia Park, “An Active Adult 55+ Living Community.”

Madeline’s death was just a matter of blood pressure. She was eighty years old, and Thorn had eased her into a sedentary lifestyle and a sugary diet. Perhaps he could add extreme stress to her life this week. Or persuade her to eat especially unhealthy meals, then scare her with a sudden shock. Thorn couldn’t decide. The stroke or heart attack could come from any number of setups, so Thorn would try them all.

Madeline wasn’t home, but Thorn found her at the grocery store next door, hunched over on her mobility scooter in line to check out. An unfamiliar demon hovered beside the cashier, a boy in his twenties who ran Maddie’s items through as she rolled up. Inspired by the teamwork he’d seen at the drug deal, Thorn nodded at the other demon, and the demon nodded back. They whispered in their respective charges’ ears. Thorn went with the classic, “He’s young, so he probably voted Democrat,” just to piss Madeline off.

“Would you like to donate to the Kids of America Foundation today to help kids with cancer and juvenile diabetes?” the cashier asked, holding up a golden paper star. Hundreds of such stars lined the store’s walls.

Thorn continued to rankle Madeline. “He’s probably a freeloader, sitting in his room playing video games all day, too lazy to get a real job.”

Madeline took the bait. “How about they donate something to me?” she said in her light southern drawl.

The cashier was taken aback at first, and appeared bothered by the old woman’s acrimony. He ignored her comment. The other demon continued to whisper in the boy’s ear, though Thorn could not hear the words. “Your total comes to forty twenty-seven.”

“No, no, I’ll donate. Give it here.” He handed her the paper star. “And a pen?” With slow old hands, she scribbled out her name.

The cashier glanced impatiently at his long line.

Thorn enjoyed ageism quite a bit, both the young-to-old variety and its lesser-known cousin, old-to-young. After witnessing successive generations of early humans, the endless advantages of pitting each generation against the others had become clear to demonkind. Such hostility inhibited the passing of morality and knowledge, so each generation remained isolated and immune to truths learned by the others. Many humans had eventually found workarounds for the demons’ ageism policies, but many were still ensnared, and shunned befriending those in other age groups.
Let their only interactions be in traffic, or in customer service situations, where tensions run high.
Today, Thorn hoped, maybe there would be enough tension to cause a stroke.

Madeline handed the cashier a food stamps card. He hesitated. “Uh, sorry ma’am, but you can’t pay for the donation with food stamps. Do you have an extra dollar?”

“No. That’s all I have.” She stared him down, as if staring would change the government’s policy.

“Okay, um, wait just a minute while I get a manager to refund the donation.”

“No, I said I wanted to donate. I already filled out the star.”

“But you can’t pay for the star with food stamps.”

“Why not?”

“Damn it.” He said it softly, to himself, but Madeline and the other customers heard him and gaped. The damage had been done. The cashier’s demon winked at Thorn.

“How long have you worked here?” Madeline asked the boy.

“Five years. Now if I could just—”