Neon Blue

by E J Frost

  “Why d’you want to know what kind of demon I am?” he asks suddenly as we head up Mass. Ave.

  His question jerks me back to attention. “No particular reason.”

  “Thought you’da figured it out by now,” he says.

  That makes me feel particularly stupid. I wish I’d paid more attention in my Supernatural Creatures tutorial. Professor Uela would not be proud. “I told you, you’re my first demon.”

  He shakes his head. “The dead bitch had you all wrong, didn’t she? You’re more of a threat to yourself than you were to her.”

  I twist around to glare at him. “Stop calling her that. She had a name, Rowena Martin—”

  He meets my glare; his eyes flash neon. “Yeah? I wouldn’t know. I got the wheel if I called her anything other than ‘my beloved Mistress.’”

  “Why did she summon you, anyway?” I cry, feeling all the grief and shock and hurt at Rowena’s betrayal and death well back up. “She can’t have needed you just to get to Andrew Smith.”

  The demon raises an eyebrow, then pulls the car over into an empty parking space at the side of the street. “How fucking stupid are you?” he asks.

  I turn my face away.

  When I don’t answer he continues, “You think all the dead bitch was doing with the power she stole from me was snarin’ some frat-boy politician? Or that he was her only hump?”

  I rub my throbbing temples. My fingers are cold. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, here’s a thought. Before you go head-to-head with someone, find out as much as you can about them. Know thy fucking enemy.”

  I fume in silence. I’ll remember that.

  “If you’d bothered to find out anything about your old ‘friend’ before you delivered yourself to her door like a piece of sushi, you’da known she was screwing half the movers and shakers in the city.”

  “Sushi!” I have no idea what he means, but it’s clearly not meant to be a flattering comparison.

  “Yeah,” he scoffs. “All wrapped up and ready to be eaten.”

  I glare at the darkened storefronts beyond the car window. “She told me she dreamed of world domination.”

  “I can believe it. She was settin’ herself up for something big. She barely had a flicker of power, even with the ring, but she knew how to use it.” The demon twists his hands on the steering wheel. The leather scrunches. “An’ then there’s you. You don’t need the ring. You glow so bright it’s like staring into your sun. But you don’t have the first fucking clue how to use what you got.”

  “I can think of several ways I’d like to use whatever I’ve got.” All of them involve stuffing him back into whatever pit he crawled out of.

  “That’s it,” the demon says. His voice drops to a deep, rough purr. “When you get angry you flare like a supernova.”

  I snort. “Too bad you don’t burn.”

  “Yeah?” He turns in his seat to face me. “Try me.”

  God, I’d like to. I want to so badly my hands start shaking. I clench them together in my lap.

  “Do it,” the demon goads. “Fry me.”

  A rush of adrenaline makes my whole body shake. Laval heat builds inside me. My cheeks burn. Sweat pops out on my brow, slicks my upper lip.

  The demon leans forward. He flicks an impossibly long, forked tongue over my skin, tasting my sweat.

  I recoil with a scream and reach. My fingers touch the cool handle of my churi. I curl my hand around the grip, pull it from its shadow sheath and stab the demon in the heart with as much force as I can muster.

  The blade skitters down his chest. The edge carves a long crescent in his black t-shirt, but doesn’t even scratch the golden skin underneath.

  He catches the blade between his hands. Holds it so tight my hand vibrates on the handle.

  “Focus,” he growls. “Take all that anger and direct it right here. Into the blade.”

  I stare at him. Completely at a loss.

  “Look at it, not me!”

  Guiltily, I drop my gaze to the knife.

  “Direct it. Everything you’re feeling. Channel it into the knife.”

  I shake my head. I’m angry at him, not the churi.

  “Do it, you stupid bi—”

  “Fuck you!” I scream at him and everything I’ve felt over the last several days, all the disappointment and the hurt and the fear, pours into my knife.

  It glows, faintly at first and then so bright I have to squint against the glare. The demon cups his hands around the blade, no longer holding it still, just containing the energy flooding into it.

  “Now shape it,” the demon whispers. “Turn it into what you want most.”

  I close my eyes against the glare and, unbidden, an image of the blade I’ve always wanted pops into my mind. I inherited a family knife. Old and well-used, the peg handle worn smooth by many hands. Good for both magic and mundane uses. But I’ve always wanted a hand scythe, a kama. Better for gathering and chopping. And impressive as hell to look at.

  The handle shifts in my hand. Startled, I open my eyes. The churi’s grip emerges out of my clenched fist, lengthening and curving over my thumb. As it grows, it changes from wood to wrapped leather. At the other end, the blade curves between the demon’s hands, stretching into a long, double-edged arc.

  The demon watches it with satisfaction, his eyes glowing with reflected light. “Now that’s a decent blade.” He opens his hands and runs one palm along the curved edge.

  A thin, dark line appears on his palm. He holds it up to me. “If it’ll cut me, it’ll cut anything.”

  Trembling, I draw my arm back. It takes more effort than it should. Like dragging my arm through deep water. Finally, I clutch the blade against my chest. I cross both hands over it protectively.

  “Here.” He holds out his palm. “Have a lick.”

  I turn my face away.

  He catches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “That wasn’t a request.”

  I slant my eyes at him in what I hope is a disdainful glare. “I have enough of your blood inside me already. Thanks awfully.”

  “That ain’t all you’re gonna have inside you. Get used to it.” His grip on my chin tightens. “Now heal this.”

  I consider twisting away, but I’m afraid of him breaking my jaw. It wouldn’t take much, particularly not for a creature who ‘accidentally’ killed two people while burning down Rowena’s store. Slowly, reluctantly, I stick out my tongue.

  With a leer, the demon drags his palm across the tip of my tongue. He takes his time, so the taste of his not-blood builds in my mouth. Salty and sweet at the same time. It lacks that distinctive copper edge. Tastes more like some kind of cocktail. My tongue is dry by the time I reach the far edge of his palm, and I pull it back into my mouth to wet it automatically, instead of spitting out the trickle of not-blood that’s gathered on my tongue.

  “Swallow,” the demon growls.

  I obey grudgingly, glaring at him.

  He grins, dark and wicked. “Good girl.” He releases my chin and flexes his hand in the air between us.

  His palm is whole, smooth. Not even a line to mark the wound.

  “You got power to spare, witchy-poo,” he says. “Guess I’m gonna have to teach you how to use it.” He puts the car in gear and pulls back into the street.

  I hunch away from him, tasting demon blood, holding my new knife against my chest, blinking against the spots dotting my vision and the burning behind my eyes. If there’s anything worse than a demon who wants my soul, it’s a demon who wants to teach me how to use power I didn’t know I had.

  We ride in silence the rest of the way home. The demon parks on my unused driveway. I sit in silence for a moment, considering my options. I don’t want to go into the house with him. I have a weapon now. A weapon I know can hurt him. But would he really have let me keep it if he wasn’t supremely confident that he could take it away from me any time he wanted?

  I sigh.

  I want to know something, I say into
his head. Maybe he’ll be more honest with me this way.

  Yeah, what? He glances back over his shoulder, already half-way out of the car.

  I want to know what you’re planning . . . once we get inside.

  I’m planning on eatin’ dinner. I’ve been waiting for you for three fucking hours.

  Oh. How can he make me feel so stupid when I know what he is and what he plans to do to me? What about after that?

  The shark’s leer. After that I was thinkin’ about gettin’ laid.

  Not with me he’s not. I get a better grip on my knife.

  His wicked chuckle echoes in the confined space of the car. Don’t worry, sweet meat. You’re not on the menu tonight. I’m lookin’ for something purely recreational. Gettin’ you in bed’s too much like hard work.

  He slides out of the car. The door closes with a solid thunk behind him.

  I sit in the darkened car, feeling both relieved and, bizarrely, humiliated. Lights go on inside my house. I watch for a moment. Feeling like the outsider. Dammit, it’s my house. I drag myself out of the car. The tink of the blade against the car door reminds me that I’m still clutching my kama in my hand. I reach and tuck it away in its shadow-sheath, hoping that the magical sheath can accommodate the blade’s new dimensions.

  Only as it slides into shadow do I realize that the blade has turned as black as the demon’s heart.

  My house looks the same. Smells the same. But it’s not the same. As soon as I step over the threshold, I feel the difference. The presence of the demon. He’s done more than simply spend time here. He’s altered the aura of my house. He’s made it, somehow, partly his.

  I drift down the hallway, feeling angry, feeling lost. My house has been the one thing that I could call my own. I found it, bought it with my own money, decorated every corner, built my herbarium and hearth room with my own magic. Maybe it’s not the perfect home, maybe it’s never really felt like Home, but it’s mine.

  Except it’s not anymore. Now there’s a male presence in the house. A presence that has insinuated itself into the warp and weft of my house’s fabric. Subtly altering the pattern.

  I stop at the hall closet and take off my coat. It’s usually the beginning of my evening ritual. Taking off my coat, making dinner, summoning the Squire and walking the woods, or relaxing in front of the tube on the nights I don’t need to go gathering. Peaceful time. Quiet time. My time. Tonight, though, there’s no sense of closure. Everything that was wrong with my day is still with me. Roaming around in my kitchen.

  I open the hall closet and reach inside to hang up my coat. As I do, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror.

  I look bad. My eyes are puffy. My lips cracked and bruised. My cheeks hollow. The surgical tape on my forehead that’s holding a poultice on the gash from Rowena’s demon-wheel is only a shade or two lighter than my chalky skin.

  But that’s not what catches my attention.

  My hair falls in a straight, dark brown curtain to my shoulders.

  I touch it with a shaking hand. It was red this morning. Well, streaked black-cherry at any rate. And I’d just chopped it off below my ears.

  I throw my coat into the closet, slam the closet door and march down the hallway into the kitchen.

  “What did you do to my hair?!” I yell at the demon.

  He glances over his shoulder from the stove, where he’s stirring something with a wooden spoon. “Improved it.” He takes a thoughtful taste from the spoon. Rolls it around on his tongue. “That red shit didn’t suit you.”

  I clench my hands into fists. How dare he mess with my hair? That is the final straw. I’m going to kill him. “You have no right—!” It ends in an inarticulate wail of frustration and anger.

  The demon lifts the pot from the stove and heads through the pocket door into the dining room. “Simmer down. Dinner’s ready.”

  I do scream then. Loudly. Head back. Back arched. Fists clenched.

  The room rocks around me. A distant roll of thunder shakes the house on its foundations.

  I turn and run out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into the sanctity of my bedroom.

  His black jacket is draped across my bed.

  I pick it up and hurl it out into the hallway. It explodes against the bathroom door in a swirl of ash and embers. I slam my bedroom door behind me.

  Chapter 16

  A soft noise makes me lift my head from where I’ve buried it in my pillow.

  I wait, wiping my nose with my fingers. If he tries the door he’s in for the shock of his life. Only my hearth room is more heavily warded. And he said it: I may be shit on the offensive, but I cast a mean protective circle.

  A puff of mist around the bottom of the door coalesces into a wicker tray, set with a plate, a bowl of soup, a glass of wine, and, sitting in an egg-cup that’s been in my family since my great-grandparents came over from the old country, a single blue rose bud.

  With a sniffle, I climb out of my bed and cross the floor. The tray remains sitting on the floor, innocuously, like it didn’t just materialize there. There’s no noise from the hallway.

  I look at the tray for a moment. The demon’s made me dinner. Soup. Grilled fish on a bed of couscous. An artistically arranged pile of vegetables. The way I’d cook if I had more culinary ambition, and unlimited time.

  It’s a peace offering. Or he’s gone to great lengths to poison me.

  I pick up the tray and carry it over to the bed. Sitting cross-legged, balancing the tray on my knees, I sniff the food warily, but it just smells like food. Good food. And he couldn’t have gotten it through my wards if it was poisoned. I pick up the folded napkin and begin to spread it over my lap.

  A line of flame scrolls across the white paper napkin. I drop it onto my bedspread in surprise. When nothing further happens, I lean over and nudge the napkin open. The thin line of fire curls into neat, scrolling script.

  Less invasive?

  Yes, I think grudgingly.

  Good. The letters unravel, reknit. Try the vichyssoise.

  I do grudgingly. It’s excellent. Tiny salty bursts in each bite turn out to be caviar. I never would have thought of putting caviar into potato soup.

  Wow, that’s good for tinned soup, I think.

  A frowny face appears on the napkin, complete with glowering, flaming eyebrows. Point to me.

  I grin at the napkin. It’s good. Really good.

  I eat the soup slowly. Savoring it. When I try the fish, a thick piece of cod crusted with whole grain mustard, I find it’s just as good. Flaky and moist and delicately flavored with lemon and dill to offset the strong taste of the mustard. The demon can cook. Really cook. I hate to admit it, but he cooks way better than I do.

  It’s all good.

  The face on the napkin shifts in a puff of smoke, the frown turning into a smile. The flaming brows remain. A demonic smiley.

  Truce? appears below the smiley.

  Yes, okay, truce.

  I hear a car start outside and light washes across the window in the far wall.

  Are you going out? I ask.

  A chauffeur’s cap appears on the smiley and a new set of fiery letters scorch their way across the napkin. Want to come?

  Definitely not. I might even be able to get some sleep, knowing he’s out.

  You sure? You could use a little action.

  With a flourish, the smiley rewrites itself into two stick figures. One bends over, stick hands on stick knees. The other one stands behind the first and gestures at its groin. Genitals bigger than an elephant’s scrawl themselves onto the second stick-figure’s crotch. It grins a huge D of a grin and begins merrily humping the bent-over stick. A speech bubble that says, “Harder! Harder!” appears over the two figures.

  That’s sick.

  No, that’s stick. The demon chuckles into my mind. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Don’t wait up.

  As if I would. If I knew of a way to ward the house against demons, he wouldn’t be getting in when he returns, eit
her.

  I eat the rest of the meal, enjoying everything, even the oaky white wine, which gives me a twinge, thinking of Rowena. The fiery stick figures on the napkin provide me with entertainment, screwing enthusiastically in a variety of positions. Each one more anatomically implausible than the last. Finally, as I’m finishing the last of the roasted veggies, the male stick screeches in exhaustion, burning droplets of sweat flying from his head, and collapses. His elephantine dick deflates. The female stick stands over the exhausted male, puts her stick hands on her stick hips, and gives him a kick. I laugh into my wine.

  I wake to a loud groan. Blinking, I sit up.

  Two fifteen, according to the clock on my bedside table. I slump back into the pillows and close my eyes. Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.

  Another loud groan, and a man’s voice, “God, yes. Just like that. Oh, right there. Right there! Don’t stop.”

  I sit up again. Reach in my head for the demon. What on earth is going on?

  I’m getting laid. Told you I was going to.

  Not in my house!

  Where did you think? Can’t go back to his place. He’s got a roommate.

  I sputter mentally. There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t know where to start. I throw off my covers and begin to climb out of bed. A dim picture forms in my head, of bursting in like a vengeful fury on . . . whatever the demon’s doing.

  A massive weight pins me to the bed and the demon roars into my mind. Don’t you even think about interrupting me! That fucking bitch starved me for months and I AM feeding so you stay in your fucking room and keep quiet!

  Gasping, I struggle against the weight holding me down. It’s as heavy and immovable as the demon was when he had me pinned to Ro’s altar. I whine in protest, all the sound I can make with the little air I’m getting.

  Stay still and I’ll let you breathe, the demon thinks.

  Okay!

  The weight lessens, but doesn’t let me up. The sheets and blankets throw themselves back over me and I huddle under them.

  The noises from my guest bedroom grow louder. The rhythmic creak of bedsprings. The man’s voice, gasping, “Yes, yes, oh, God! Oh, yes! Do me! Don’t stop! God-god-god-god, yes!”