“Do you know—” I asked Oscar as I carefully took hold of the pin “—my mom would call me the Triple N. The No-Nonsense Nurse is out in full force, she’d say, when I forced her to update her medication log or drink another glass of water.”
“Ash…” Nabila sounded like a wet dog crying to come inside.
“What happened to your mother?” Oscar asked quietly.
I took a breath and pulled the pin out. “She died.”
His cheeks had inflated, like he’d swallowed the scream he’d wanted to make and was all puffed up with it. It wheezed slowly out of him as he met my gaze. “Thank you, Mis— Ash. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Me too, I thought.
Swallowing hard, I patted Oscar’s good arm. “There you go. We’ll disinfect it and find a Band-Aid when we get back and you’ll be fine.”
A long snort issued from beside me. Glancing over, I found a seriously disgruntled Nabila glaring at me. She was dabbing a handkerchief on an impressively scraped knee. “He’d be fine. He heals fast. We’ve got more important things to do, like talk more about this truth thing.”
“Not out here, Nabila,” Oscar pleaded in a low, desperate voice.
My gaze swung between them. Oscar was silly strong and healed fast? “This is one of those things you’re both going to have to explain to me. In detail. Let’s go home, I can patch you up there,” I added for Nabila’s benefit. “Then, we can discuss this truth thing further—okay?”
She scoffed. “I shrink heads, Freshy, I can patch a knee.”
Having no response to that, I led the way back to The Milton. Once we were in my apartment, I could ask them about Oscar, and to explain why Plant sounded so menacing when she told me the Principal was coming. Normally, I wouldn’t care. But normally, my teacher’s heads didn’t spin.
How was it, I wondered as my feet stepped across already recognizable sidewalks, that every answer only led to more questions?
Speaking of which…
“When the hell are we going to find time to practice?” I asked them. “I’ve got homework coming out my ears, but if we can put an hour aside each night to play in the courtyard we can—”
“Practicing at the Milton is not an option,” Nabila said, cutting me off.
“But—”
“Not a chance, Ash,” Oscar added. “Myrtle hates music, and she’s been gunning for you since that first night. There’s no way she’ll allow it.”
“Okay, fine.” I scrubbed my fingers through my hair, discovering my spikes were all over the place from my time with Nash. Oops. “What about my place? Jim’s never around, and we’ve got no furniture aside what the place came with. Will be easy enough to make room.”
Nabila sighed. “Freshy, I dunno. We can swing it for a bit. But making actual noise?”
Oscar shook his head. “We cannot. The noise will anger Mistress.”
“Okay, okay!” I waved my hands. “We do super quiet practice at mine for a bit. Then we figure something out.”
I swung my gaze from one to the other, silently demanding agreement.
“Alright, Freshy, it’s a plan.” Nabila flashed a grin, then sobered. Her gaze was fixed ahead, in the direction of the Milton. The pin she’d been flipping through her fingers disappeared into her fro. “Quiet, everyone. Out of time.”
“Oscar?” I hissed urgently. “You in?”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered, then bowed his head.
Good. For better, and probably for worse, both my friends were in this with me.
Lifting my gaze, I faced The Milton. More specifically, the square form standing sentry before the front gates like a gargoyle guarding a cave.
Myrtle had waited for us.
Gusts of Vegas wind pulled at my hair, my backpack, as if urging me to run, not walk, away from her. Easy for the winds to say, they had somewhere to go.
As we approached, a wide, menacing grin slashed across her face. I didn’t need Nabila cursing under her breath to know a happy Myrtle was a bad sign. Well, she could be as intimidating as she liked, we’d played perfectly by the rules—she was the one who’d screwed up this week.
Something brushed against my back. I twisted around, finding Oscar bunched up behind me, eyes downcast and hands tucked behind his back.
“We haven’t done anything wrong,” I whispered.
“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered.
“Fuck that.” Squaring my shoulders, I aimed straight for the gate. I didn’t need to look to know Nabila and Oscar had fallen in behind me. The Bulldog might have set me up to get in trouble at school, but her plan had backfired. She’d gotten in shit for not briefing me. So she could suck it.
She was probably also highly pissed she’d been told to leave me alone about my music.
Or that’s what Churchfield had implied.
Of course, trusting a demon’s word probably wasn’t a healthy choice either.
I’d just have to face whatever this new thing was. It wasn’t like I could escape it. Maybe I could ask Cat for some tips on how to deal with Keepers? This one, in particular. And as soon as we got inside, I was asking Oscar and Nabila a heap of questions about all the creatures in our lives.
Myrtle shifted, completely blocking the doorway.
I stopped, grateful my friends didn’t run into me from behind.
“Nice to see you, too,” I quipped.
Her lip curled. Black, beady eyes fixed on a point past my right shoulder. “Oscar, you’re late,” she rasped.
“I’m very sorry, Mistress,” he murmured.
The fear edging his voice shot rage into my veins.
I stepped more firmly in front of him, glared up at Myrtle. “What’s the problem? We came straight home after school.”
Black orbs flicked in my direction. Narrowed. For a moment, I swore a ring of flames circled her irises. Then her lips split into what might have been a grin. “Problem? No problem for you, Ms. Alcantara. You have no afternoon curfew with this house. But Oscar has responsibilities. He is not at liberty to exit the bus a stop early, especially now that the Principal will be joining us.”
The pained whimper from behind me had my stomach imitating a quivering steel drum.
“When?” Oscar whispered.
A long snort issued from Myrtle’s nose. “End of term. Your mother is home. You will, of course, dedicate yourself to preparing for the Principal. His favor is a great honor that has been bestowed upon your mother, and therefore your family.”
Oscar pushed past me to drop to the ground before Myrtle in a supplicating bow.
But his fists were clenched tight, knuckles white as they pressed into the pavement. “Of course, Mistress. I’ll see to my mother.”
Who was this Principal and why was his arrival such a big deal? And what did it have to do with Oscar’s mom? I fought to keep my confusion off my face, but I couldn’t understand why Oscar’s mom being home was an event—or why she’d have to prepare for this Principal.
Oscar flashed me a regretful look before he scuttled around Myrtle, heading to his apartment. Shit. There’d be no talking to him until later—and it looked like I could forget about band practice.
Damn it.
I swallowed my frustration and stared fixedly at the mole on Myrtle’s right cheek.
Nash had told me Keepers were mostly Minders that had been which meant Myrtle was literally a troll with too much power.
“Nabila, you are to check in with your Aunt. There is a list that will need to be completed before the Principal’s arrival.”
“Certainly, Keeper. I’ll see to that right away.” Nabila’s words were just as formal as Oscar’s, but like his fists, her voice was coiled tight with resentment. The sensation rolled off her skin in waves, yet she was impressively controlled as she stepped neatly past the Bulldog and into The Milton.
Guess we wouldn’t be talking tonight, either.
“Well, Ashley. It looks like you’ll have to find other… entertainments this evening.” The Bulld
og rubbed her meaty hands together with obvious pleasure, clearly waiting for me to retaliate.
The troll wanted a reason for me to be in trouble.
Too bad.
There was no way I’d let on how much she’d messed up my plans—or how unnerved I was by the talk of this Principal, and I sure as shit wasn’t giving her a reason to slap me with a curfew.
I shrugged. “I’ll just play my guitar.”
“Will you now.” Massive cheeks puffed in and out. Myrtle clearly wanted to tell me that I couldn’t, but wasn’t allowed. Nor had she gotten the reaction she’d wanted. I smiled, pleased to foil her plans.
Small victories, indeed. I owed Cat a thank you.
Blinking with fake innocence, I took pleasure in Myrtle’s obvious frustration. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk, get the vocals warmed up.”
“You do that, a nice long one,” Myrtle said, as if it had been her idea.
“Thanks. I will.” Grinning, I shifted my backpack to my other shoulder. Maybe I should have added some snark to my words, but I meant them. I needed to think, and I did my best thinking when I was walking.
Turning on my heel, I put my back to Myrtle and headed down the road. No destination in mind, just movement, air and the chance to keep breathing.
So much had happened in the past week. Moving here, discovering Jim’s contract, my contract by association, Nash and Nabila and Oscar and my classes. I’d been so busy catching up and surviving, I hadn’t taken a moment to sort through things. Take a breath and look ahead.
With every thud of my combat boots against the pavement, the vise squeezing my chest relaxed its hold.
Time to get my shit together and make some solid plans.
First and foremost: When to have proper, noise-embracing band practice.
Second: What the hell was I going to do about Sunglasses? He’d been willing to take me to LA—not here. Did that make him more powerful than the demon holding my father’s chip?
I blindly turned corners, hurrying through the neon shadows of the casinos.
The thought of confronting Sunglasses about what happened in Portland made me want to blow chunks, but avoiding it didn’t change what happened—or help me figure out who, or what, he was.
Or what he intended to do with me.
And third: Where did Jim fit into all of this? Was this truly a mistake, or had the father I barely knew set me up? Even behind the wall I’d built around it, my heart shuddered. I didn’t want to care about my stupid, loser father. And it pissed me off that maybe, in a tiny, stupid way, I did.
Tears blurred my vision, turning the darkening streets into a fuzzy photo.
Feet moving, driven faster and faster by my churning thoughts, I found myself charging down a familiar alley. Stopping in my tracks, I gaped in surprise at a discreet neon sign, glowing a deep purple against the brick walls of the alley.
The Ground Zero.
Somehow I’d walked straight to Cat’s doorstep.
Lip wobbling, I let out a breath. Finally, somewhere I knew and didn’t hate. Thanks, feet. I could use a friend right about now—a friend who wasn’t ruled by Myrtle and had a boss-level understanding of my insane new world.
I closed the distance to the unmarked metal door, lifted my knuckles to knock.
And froze.
It had been barely four days since Cat had scraped me off the pavement and set me straight—answering questions I knew she’d rather have avoided. And here I was, all torn up and wanting more hot chocolate and tough answers. Lather, rinse, repeat. She’d been kind and honestly felt like a friend. But she was also a tough Shifter who wore leather, drove a motorcycle and ran a demon bar.
What were the odds she wanted to deal with my sniveling ass twice in the same week?
Not great.
Not that she’d complain—out loud. She was way too decent for that. Still, I’d spent too much of the past week looking like the demon world’s biggest jackass to want a repeat performance with someone whose opinion I actually cared about. Besides, did I honestly want hot chocolate?
No. I didn’t. Not really.
Forcing myself to face the truth, I silently admitted that I’d wanted the closest thing to a parent I’d found in Vegas to hug me and tell me everything was going to be okay.
Way to set myself up for disappointment.
I’d know the lie when I heard it.
I sure as shit didn’t want to feel the lie, too.
Besides, what kind of shitty daughter went looking for a mom-substitute in the first nice Shifter she found? Anger twisted into shame in my chest. How dare I come here, to this person I barely knew, wanting that? My mother had been the best. And now she was dead and no one could take her place. Ever.
Cheeks burning, I slowly pull my hand away from the door, shoved it into my pocket.
I pulled up my hoodie and hurried out of the alley, away from the Ground Zero and back to the only option I had left: The Milton. Maybe, if I worked hard enough on my homework tonight, I could carve out more time on the weekend with Nabila and Oscar, find a way to practice our music and get some answers. Then, when I saw Cat again, it wouldn’t be as a stupid teenager seeking a stand-in Mom.
Nope. I’d have some information of my own, be able to ask better questions, get next-level information.
And I wouldn’t expect, or need, a hug.
I’d be calm and mature and prove myself worthy of an open invitation. Cat could help me fine-tune a strategy for dealing with Sunglasses and fill in any gaps about this Principal.
The Principal is coming, Myrtle’s words echoed in my mind.
Even though the Vegas winds were warm tonight, a chill swept through me.
Nothing about this Principal’s arrival made sense—not Oscar’s new level of fear, Nabila’s preparations, or Plant’s obvious joy when she’d practically skipped down the hall that morning, singing the news. But the fact that this Principal made Myrtle happy chilled my insides.
As I bowed my head and pushed my way home through the sand-filled evening air, I had a sinking feeling I was about to run headfirst into one of those big bad battles Cat had mentioned.
I knew in my heart and deep in the marrow of my bones that I wasn’t ready.
None of us were.
Chapter Twenty
Saturday night and I was finally going to play with my band. Both of them. Together. With me in the same room.
I’d spent the whole day plowing through my stack of paperwork and prepping my place, eagerly waiting for Nabila and Oscar to be free for practice. I’d meant to pepper them with questions, but whatever, I could talk about the incoming boss demon next time. They’d told me the Principal would be arriving at the end of term, at some demon party. That was enough for tonight.
Right now we needed to embrace the music.
Guitar in hand, I looked triumphantly at Oscar and Nabila. “Let’s do this.”
“Are you sure we’ll be quiet enough?” Oscar asked, glancing nervously around the room. No doubt reconfirming our sound-dampening measures—a.k.a. the comforter we’d laid across the floor, the blankets we’d hung over the windows, and the pillows we’d packed before the door. My apartment looked like a child’s fort gone wrong, if a kid was playing “stuffed prison.”
“Yes.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure.”
“Only way we could get quieter is if we played pillows,” Nabila muttered.
Everything inside my living room felt muffled, quiet. It was about time that changed. “Come on, Oscar, we’ve padded everything. And I’ve promised not to make Myrtle’s eyes bleed or anything. I’ll sing nice and softly. Cross my heart.” I marked a cross over my chest and skimmed my fingers over my guitar strings. It was a bit of a stretch, given I’d no idea how I’d made her eyes bleed. Still, if I didn’t want to hurt her, I wouldn’t… Probably. Well, I hoped not.
Intentions seemed to matter a lot in the demon world, so I figured my odds were decent.
“Uh, Ash. If you don’t know how you
did it…”
Shit. Sometimes his crippling fear made me forget how smart he was. “I’m good. Promise.” Forcing a confident smile, I motioned encouragingly at Oscar’s drums. “Seriously, don’t you want to play?”
His gaze dropped to the electronic drum set positioned before him. Longing flashed in his eyes. I’d been stunned when he turned up with the set, more so when I realized it still had price tags still on it—that model was over five years old—and the set was in pristine condition.
How long had he been waiting to play it? Probably way too long, knowing Oscar. I reached over and gave a mesh snare an encouraging tap.
He let out breath. “Maybe just a little…”
Nabila gave a little whoop. “Let’s rock!”
I laughed and high-fived her. “Alright. Get ready, Oya’s Blade, our first official practice is about to kick off.” I pulled out a list of songs, placed it in the middle of my comforter-covered floor. “I’ve made a set list of easy rock songs—you know, for beginners,” I added, with a wink at Nabila, who stuck out her tongue at me in reply.
“Bullshit, Freshy, I’m at the top of my game.”
“I’m not,” Oscar said morosely.
“Guess we’ll have to catch up to her,” I said, giving Oscar an encouraging grin. After our brief duo practices last week, I knew that despite Nabila’s bravado, we had to take it slow, find our feet as a band. “We’ll start with Zombie by the Cranberries. Roll into a little White Stripes’ Seven Nation Army after that. And end with Lightning Crashes by Live. Three songs.” Given the parameters of quiet and more quiet, I’d picked simple songs on the lighter side—some of the few I had. “Nice and simple.”
“Got it.” Oscar had hefted his drumsticks, holding them awkwardly, as if expecting them to turn into snakes.
I’d kept my sheet music from my previous band days, including the copies.
I’d felt like an idiot when I’d packed them—two copies of sheet music I knew by heart, what was I thinking? But now, as I propped the two copies in front of Oscar and Nabila, I knew my mom had been looking out for me.
“Sure, Freshy, we can play these,” Nabila said, gripping her bass as if preparing for battle, “if you want to be boring and white about it.”
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