In the Demon’s Company
(Demon’s Assistant Book 2)
Tori Centanni
Published by Enigmatic Books
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Copyright © 2015 by Tori Centanni
Cover art by Yocla Designs, 2015
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
For Benjamin Woodall,
the best possible partner in crime
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements:
CHAPTER ONE
The demon’s warehouse is a nondescript concrete box in SoDo, South of Downtown Seattle, surrounded by similar and equally unremarkable warehouses. In the dark, it looks sort of like a set from a police procedural.
The entrance is a single door with a single light hanging overhead. Above the intercom, a small plaque reads “Elysian Sculpture & Garden Supply. Ring for assistance.”
I slam my fist against the big red intercom button, ignoring the text message chimes emanating from my coat pocket. This isn’t exactly my ideal way to spend Saturday night, either, but it can’t be helped, and no amount of pleading text messages is going to erase my obligation to come when Azmos calls. Working for a demon means no set schedule and I knew that when I signed up.
No one answers and I hit the buzzer again. Azmos hasn’t seen fit to give me a keycard, even though technically I’m an employee.
Moments later, the door opens. Cold air wafts out and there stands Xanan, glaring down at me. He’s a demon, similar to my boss Azmos, although they’re different species or whatever. I’m still figuring out how demons work.
“What do you want?” Xanan’s shaggy black hair is flat on one side like he slept on it and his lip ring catches the streetlight. His blue eyes rake over me and I shiver.
“Azmos asked me to come,” I say, which he has to know. It’s not like I ever show up to have tea. “Did you just wake up?”
Xanan opens the door wider, stepping back to let me inside. He doesn’t answer my question. He locks the door behind me, waves vaguely at the second floor that overhangs the first, and says, “He’s up there,” before trotting off into the shadows.
The main floor of the warehouse is covered in statues and garden sculptures in different colors and sizes. I navigate through a forest of stone angels, marble dolphins, and clay gargoyles, all meticulously sculpted. Price tags dangle from their wrists and tails, and they are not cheap. Off to the side is a work room with giant windows, through which I see half a mermaid jutting out of a block of red marble, a table of sculpting tools behind her.
I head up the metal stairs to the second floor. A metal walkway leads to three offices that look out over the sea of statues, and to the right is a door with another keycard reader. I’ve surmised it’s where Xanan and Azmos live although neither one will verify this is true, like they’re afraid I’m going to suggest a sleepover or something.
I turn left and knock on the door to Azmos’ office, even though I see him inside through the glass, sitting at his giant, pristine wooden desk. His hands are folded, like he’s been sitting there waiting for a while even though he only called me twenty minutes ago and I made it here in near-record time. He’s wearing business clothes: a collared gray shirt and black jacket. With his spiky red hair, he looks like some young professional who embraces the dress code but keeps his funky hairstyle. The faintest hint of gold pokes out from his sleeves. Most people would guess he wore a watch, but I know there are small golden marks in his skin that look vaguely like lizard scales. He also wears his sunglasses, which cover his snake-like eyes.
“Nicolette, come in,” he says. “I have a job for you.”
I sit down in one of the black faux-leather chairs in front of his desk. My phone chimes for the tenth time and I reach into my bag to turn off the ringer.
“Is it another invoice delivery?” I say. “Because they have this thing called the post office. It’s pretty nifty.” Azmos raises one eyebrow over the black rim of his glasses. “Or you could even start sending the invoice with the delivery drivers.” Azmos has been sending me out to deliver invoices to people who’ve purchased sculptures and fountains, which is not exactly what I signed up for when I asked the demon to give me a job.
“We charge for installation and delivery. Invoices get prepared after the fact,” Azmos says seamlessly, pulling another manila envelope out of his desk. This one is fat and lumpy unlike the invoices, which are usually flat.
“Az, come on. I’ve been your assistant for weeks and you’ve yet to send me on an errand you couldn’t hire a paperboy for.”
“I was under the impression paperboys didn’t really exist anymore.”
“Beside the point,” I grumble.
Azmos slides the envelope over to me. “As it so happens, this evening I need you to run an errand than involves my other business.”
I sit up straighter. “Being a demon?”
His smile is tight. “There’s a young man named Gabriel Price who assists me from time to time.” Before I can ask how many assistants Azmos has, he holds up a hand. He wears silver rings on nearly every finger. “He has a special ability I utilize. There’s cash in there for both of you. Go.”
“Special ability?” I ask.
“No doubt Mr. Price will be more than happy to explain it himself,” Az says. He opens the razor thin laptop on his desk. This is my cue to leave. I don’t. Azmos pushes up his sunglasses. His golden green snake eyes meet mine. “Is there a problem, Nicolette?”
I hesitate, but then I remember the past three weeks’ worth of mundane errands and decide to come out with it. “When do I get promoted up from errand girl?” I ask.
Azmos looks surprised. “Would you prefer coffee runner? Xanan can drink a lot of iced lattes.”
I stare at him, unaccustomed to him making jokes and unsure how to react. “I just mean, I wanted to work for you so I could learn more about magic and demons. And instead, I’m handing out bills for gaudy lawn ornaments.”
“They may not be to your taste, but they’re not gaudy,” Azmos says, dropping his sunglasses back over his eyes. He leans over the desk and conspiratorially whispers, “And don’t let Xanan hear you say that. He’s quite proud of his art.”
Wait, what? “Xanan’s art?”
Azmos nods.
“He makes the sculptures?”
He nods again.
“Holy crap.” It’s nearly impossible to picture Xanan patiently working stone to make meticulous
statues of animals and mythical creatures. Then again, he does sort of seem like a walking statue himself. I shake my head. “But seriously, shouldn’t I be learning magic or something?”
“Human magic isn’t really cost effective.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. It seems to me that using magic would be worth any cost.
“The energy it takes to perform a spell usually negates the benefit.” It’s easy for him to say that, but he’s not walking around powerless against whatever other supernatural forces are out there.
“Heather’s magic seemed pretty effective against you,” I point out.
Azmos winces. A small pang of guilt travels through my gut. I hadn’t meant to phrase it quite so callously.
“Power that strong is rare,” he says. “I have no expertise in human magic but from my understanding, it’s often a worthless pursuit.”
“How do you know that if you’re not an expert?”
“As I said, it’s my understanding from speaking with others.”
“What about your magic?” I ask. Azmos gives me a tired expression that reminds me of a substitute teacher who really wanted to put a movie on and call it a day but is forced to lecture on a subject they don’t understand and keeps getting corrected by an obnoxious student in the first row.
“My magic is unique to my species, the Vitas. It cannot be taught.”
Frustrated, I start to ask about other demonic magic. Not that I want Xanan’s power, whatever it actually entails besides the ability to turn any room into a walk-in freezer by standing in it. But there has to be some kind of magic I can learn. “What about —”
Azmos holds up a hand and I close my mouth. “There is very little demon magic that a human can learn while remaining human.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. That sounds ominous, even for a demon, but his phone rings before I can ask anything else.
“Gabriel will be waiting for you,” Azmos says, before picking up the receiver.
“Yeah, yeah,” I stand, shove the envelope into my bag, and head back through the statue forest. It’s only when the door to the warehouse clicks shut behind me that I realize Azmos totally avoided answering my question.
Outside, I zip up my coat to guard against the December chill and then pull out the envelope and my phone. I glance at the six text messages from Cam. They say exactly what I expected them to: that he wants me to come to Amy’s party, demon business be damned (knowing Cam, pun probably intended). I close the window without replying, ignoring the pang of guilt that worms through me, and open my map application.
I type in the address on the envelope. It’s a coffee shop and it’s blessedly not far from here. If it doesn’t take long, I’ll be able to make it to Amy’s party after all. Given how infrequently I’ve been able to spend time with my boyfriend lately, I’d actually like to be there playing card games with his friends while they all get drunk. I pause to send Cam a text saying I’ll do my best to make it and then head toward Pioneer Square to find this Gabriel person.
CHAPTER TWO
I don’t spend a lot of time in Pioneer Square but Stone Grounds Coffee seems like a cool place. It’s open until midnight and even at nearly nine o’clock, it’s packed with an eclectic mix of clientele, from harried students in University of Washington sweatshirts bent over laptops to people with brightly dyed hair and goth style clothing. Rustic coffee sacks hang on bare brick walls. The tables and chairs are hard, uncomfortable-looking wood like they were culled from a cabin in the forest. The coffee counter is at the back and there’s a line five people deep. I decide to skip the mocha and get this over with.
I scan the crowd, instantly annoyed that Azmos failed to give me much in the way of physical description of Gabriel. And that I totally failed to ask.
My gaze lands on a young guy who sits alone in the front corner, near the window, his back against the wall. He’s reading a tattered copy of Catch-22. His full coffee mug looks untouched. He has brown skin and dark stubble on his chin and scalp, like he usually shaves his head but let it go for a day like his cheeks. He wears thin, wire-framed glasses and a black vest over a t-shirt that’s frayed around the neckline. He seems like the best candidate.
“Gabriel Price?” I ask. He looks up, scowling. His expression—irritated at the interruption but curious enough to hear me out—reminds me of Cam when the demon interrupts us. It’s probably the same one he wore while sending me those texts.
“Yes?” he asks, over his book.
“My name’s Nicki. Azmos sent me.”
“I see.” He gives me an appraising look, then shoves his book into a leather satchel next to him on the bench. He sips his espresso, and then looks at me expectantly. “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” I answer automatically.
He sighs and taps his fingers on his table, looking me up and down. I’m dressed for the party I was planning to go to before I got Azmos’ call: black skirt, black boots, black eyeliner, with a black sweater beneath my purple and black raincoat. My short brown hair is pulled into stubby pigtails and I’m wearing dangly bat earrings—the kind they sell for Halloween but which I’m happy to wear all year—along with the studs and rings that travel up my earlobes. It feels appropriate for demon business so it hurts a little when he says, “You’re too young to be mixed up with this crap.”
“I am not,” I say. “And you don’t look old enough to be lecturing.” He looks barely out of high school himself.
He smiles faintly but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not. But I’m not in it by choice.”
That brings me up short, because I am. I had a chance to break free. Cam and I have been arguing about this for weeks. He doesn’t understand my desire to keep associating with demons when my life doesn’t literally depend on it. But it’s not like I can forget they exist. I can either deal with them directly and learn as much as I can about what’s lurking in the shadows or I can spend my life looking over my shoulder in fear of what might be there. It might be a choice but it’s not necessarily a good one.
Instead of arguing, I hand him the envelope. Gabriel tears it open unceremoniously and dumps it out onto the table. I’ve taken out my money, so all that’s left is a fat stack of cash rubber-banded together and labeled with his name in Azmos’ careful calligraphy.
“How many?” Gabriel asks me.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
He sighs again. I’m starting to wonder if he’s a demon, since one of the only demons I know, Xanan, has the same attitude problem, like it’s a bother to interact with other people. But then Gabriel takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. He has dark circles beneath them and he stifles a yawn. Xanan never looks tired. “How many does he want?”
“How many what?” I ask, increasingly annoyed at my lack of information. “Azmos told me you have a special ability. And that you’d explain what it is was. So I don’t know what you’re asking.”
“God, he’s an ass.” He shakes his head and takes another sip from his mug. “My ‘ability’”—the word drips with venom in his mouth—“is that I have visions of people dying in possible futures. I sell him their names so that sometimes, he can offer them more time. He has visions of his own, but I guess like mine, they’re unpredictable and sporadic.”
I swallow, trying to process this. I never even considered how Azmos finds the people he bargains with and I feel stupid. I guess I assumed it was part of his demonic power, which it is if he has visions of his own. But using the help of a psychic makes sense, too.
Gabriel counts the money, apparently unaware of some of the strange glances from other people. He gathers the notes together and stuffs them back into an envelope. He has a silver ring on his thumb that’s got what looks like a wagon wheel etched into it. I automatically bring my right hand to my left and rub the silver ring on my pinky. I wonder if Azmos gave it to him like he gave me mine.
“This will buy you three,” he concludes.
I don’t know if
I’m getting played, because I don’t know the exchange rate for the names of the doomed. “Are three worth all of that cash?”
“No,” he says sharply. “Ideally I’d sell one name for a thousand dollars. The visions cost me.”
Given his haggard appearance, that doesn’t come as a total surprise. “Then why do it at all?”
“I don’t have a choice. The visions come no matter what I do, and there’s no way to stop them.”
“But you don’t have to sell the names. You could try and save the people. You could look them up and—”
“And what? Tap them on the shoulder and say, ‘excuse me, miss, but if you drive down this road tonight, a cement truck is going to smash into your car and kill you’?”
I reel back, like he slapped me, a memory of impact and twisted metal slamming into me. My heart pounds. I close my eyes and take deep breaths until I stop feeling like my body is going to split apart as it relives the memory of my almost-death. If Gabriel notices my reaction, he doesn’t show it. He sips his espresso, unperturbed.
“Why not?” I finally ask. I only realize I’m clenching my fists when my nails dig into my palms.
He rolls his eyes. “You think I haven’t tried that? Do you know what people do? They tell you to fuck off. And then they go and die anyhow. Maybe their last thought is ‘wow, should have listened to that dude in the green trench coat’ but it doesn’t matter, because it’s too late.” He picks up his mug and puts it back down again, letting out a breath. “Working with Azmos is the best way to pay my rent and give these people a chance they wouldn’t otherwise get. Besides, once you get twisted up in the arcane world, it’s hard to go back to normal. You probably know all about that.”
I sit, a little gobsmacked because he’s absolutely right. That’s not the only reason I took another job with Azmos—I like having something I’m good at, something that makes me special—but it’s part of it. How do you go back to worrying about algebra tests and what to eat for dinner when you know demons and magic exist? It’s why right now, instead of hanging out with my boyfriend, I’m sitting across from a bedraggled psychic.
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