In the Demon's Company (Demon's Assistant Book 2)

by Tori Centanni

  “I do know,” I say. “But I’ve never heard it put like that before.”

  “What can I say? I’m a philosopher at heart. So? Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meet me here Monday and I’ll give you the information.”

  “You can’t give them to me now?” I don’t relish the idea of having to come up with yet another reason to leave the house in the evening. Besides, Mondays are exhausting enough without having to sneak out to meet some psychic in a coffee shop.

  “I don’t know them yet,” he says, tapping his temple. “I don’t control the visions. They come when they come.”

  I suppose I can’t argue with that. I don’t know how the whole visions things works and if Azmos wanted me to do things differently, he should have given me clearer instructions. “Fine. Should I keep—” I reach for the envelope and Gabriel snatches it back.

  “Payment upfront,” he says.

  “What time? I can’t get here until after school,” I say. “Three?”

  “School? Good god,” he says, with a sigh. “Three it is.”

  “All right, then.” I stand and slip my messenger bag strap over my shoulder. “See you then.”

  Outside, I check my phone. There’s only one new missed text message, from Cam again. “Get here. You’re missing out.” If I had to bus it, I wouldn’t bother. Amy’s sister’s condo—where the party is being held—is out in Ballard, which by bus would make the trip longer than it’s worth. But given that Az just paid me a wad of cash, I hail a cab and head to the party.

  Amy’s sister’s condo is in a new building with triangular lines and an orange-and-green color motif to make it look hip and modern. The sister’s out of town and Amy’s cat-sitting, which gives her a place to host a get-together. The cat’s hiding in the bedroom but at least, for its sake, Amy has kept the party low-key. Only half a dozen other people crowd the living room. They’re watching a zombie movie but mostly talking over it while they play a drinking game related to people getting bitten on screen.

  I find Cam on the balcony alone, staring out at a sea of buildings and Salmon Bay in the distance. His blond hair is stylishly messy and his glasses catch some of the moonlight. He wears a blue sweatshirt and leans against the bench, his arms extended over the back. He looks contemplative and thoughtful. He’s so impossibly beautiful it’s tempting to just stand there and stare at him all night. His phone is beside him and another pang of guilt resonates through me when I spot it.

  “Hey,” I say, sliding the glass door behind me and muffling the sounds of his friends fighting over whether it’s cheating to bump someone’s controller.

  “Hey! I’m glad you made it,” Cam says. He pats the bench beside him. He’s a little tipsy, a slur rounding the edge off his words, expected at this sort of thing. I sit next to him, close enough that I’m practically in his lap.

  “I’m glad, too,” I say. There was a strong possibility that in taking the job with Az, I was going to lose Cam. I almost did. We hashed things out long-distance, while I was at Nonna’s funeral, arguing through text messages and late-night phone calls, and emails that made my heart race to send. I’m aware of what I might have lost and determined to hold onto it so I don’t even come close to losing it again.

  Cam puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me against him. When we kiss, his lips taste like rum and root beer, but sweeter somehow.

  The balcony is small, but Amy’s sister has managed to jam a barbecue and a wicker bench onto it. I cuddle against Cam, practically sitting in his lap even though the bench is long enough to comfortably seat two. His arms are solid around me, the warmth of him bleeding through both of our sweaters.

  Cam holds my hand, his fingers lightly tracing the silver ring I wear on my pinky. The ring Azmos gave me to signify my connection to him. “It’s just a job,” he says, but the words are soft, as though he’s talking to himself. “You should get weekends off.”

  “It’s not that kind of job,” I say. “I don’t punch in Monday through Friday, nine to five. It’s an on-call position.”

  He lets out a breath and the warmth of it brushes over my neck, sending tingles down my spine. I squeeze his hand.

  “I’ve been thinking…” he says, tone turning serious. I shift uneasily. “I’m starting to think UW is the better option. I mean, assuming I get in.”

  I give him a you’ve-got-to-be-joking look. Not that the University of Washington isn’t a great school (one that’s way out of my league) but Cam could go anywhere he wants.

  “Of course you’re going to get in,” I say, “but what about Stanford? That’s been your dream college since you were a kid.”

  He leans forward, resting his head on my shoulder. “Well, sure, going to college in California, home of Disneyland, sounded awesome when I was eleven. Now that I’m looking at moving two states away from everyone I know and love, it’s less appealing.”

  It’s selfish, but relief washes over me when I think of him staying close by. At the same time, I can’t let him give up such an incredible opportunity. I’m never going to be Stanford material but that I love that Cam is. “I thought you said the distance wouldn’t matter.”

  He extracts one of his arms from around me to lift his drink to his lips. “If things were normal, maybe. But I can’t imagine being so far away and constantly worried about… things.”

  A brick hits my stomach. We both know he’s talking about the demons. I take his drink from his hand and take a sip. It tastes like spiced poison but the warmth that travels down my middle is kind of nice. I almost get the appeal.

  He raises his eyebrows. “I can make you a drink of your very own.”

  I shake my head and hand it back. The sliding door opens.

  “Hey, get in here,” Justin says, slurring way more than Cam and grinning sloppily. “We’re gonna play Cards Against Humanity.”

  “Be right in,” Cam says and Justin drunkenly nods way too many times before going back in. “We should…” He gestures to the doors.

  “Yeah,” I agree, even though having this time alone has been precious and I’m sad for it to end. My dad has been home a lot more and traveling a lot less lately, so between Cam’s busy schedule, my sporadic demon errands, and constant parental presence, we’ve been getting far too few of these private moments. I push off of his lap and he stands, grabbing my hand and pulling me into a kiss. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too,” I say, and hug him tightly before letting him go join the party.

  CHAPTER THREE

  On Monday morning, I’m in Cam’s car on the way to school, scribbling answers into my English vocabulary book. I totally spaced that the next chapter was due today until ten minutes ago, sending me into a panic spiral. I’m not exactly queen of turning in homework on time, but vocab due dates also mean vocab quizzes, so I need to at least look it over and try to memorize the meanings.

  “You had all weekend,” Cam says, as he stops at a red light and glances over at me, amused.

  “I can’t believe Mrs. Grater still uses those books,” Brian, Cam’s friend, says from the backseat. His car, a mid-90s hatchback that’s older than we are, is getting a new muffler and will be out of commission for a couple of days, so Cam is also driving him to school. “I had her Freshman year. All of the answers are on the company’s website.”

  Cam gives Brian a dark look via the rear view mirror. “Do not tell her that.”

  Brian shrugs and leans back. He’s shorter than Cam by maybe two inches and little stockier. He wears the school letterman jacket in shades of green and gold, our school colors. Cam only wears his on game days, preferring sweatshirts or his navy blue parka instead.

  “I already know about that,” I say. “But I still need to learn the words long enough to pass the quiz.”

  “I miss vocab quizzes,” Cam says.

  “You are officially insane,” I say, teasingly.

  We pull up to a red light and Cam grins at me. “You love it. You think
my giant brain is sexy.”

  “Sure, giant brain,” Brian mutters.

  I laugh and kiss Cam quickly before the light changes, pulling away in time to see Brian rolling his eyes. I stick my tongue out at him. He shakes his head. But honestly, it’s nice that Brian is talking. He’s been less shy around me lately. Cam says he usually is when they’re alone but in groups, he tends to keep to himself.

  “Hey, I hear Mrs. Crane is back,” Brian says, reading something on his phone. “Justin says he ran into her in the cafeteria.” Mrs. Crane is my Chemistry teacher. Cam and Brian have her for Physics. But she’s been out for over a month, after a nasty accident at some small town carnival where the Ferris wheel broke. Apparently some important support screw rusted apart and sent the Ferris wheel crashing to the ground. A lot of people were seriously injured and two people died. It was all over the news, usually with ridiculous headlines like “Horror at the Fair.”

  “I’m glad she’s feeling good enough to come back. I can’t imagine how scary that must have been,” I say. She was in one of the cars near the top when the Ferris wheel toppled over and crashed into the field adjacent to the fairgrounds. She was lucky to have survived. The two people in the car above her weren’t so lucky.

  “That is exactly why I don’t ride roller coasters,” Cam says.

  “You are no fun at all.” I punch him lightly in the arm. “One these days, I’m going to drag you to a theme park and make you have a good time.”

  Cam shakes his head. “I’d like to see you try.”

  I manage to finish the vocab unit by first bell and do decently on the quiz, which puts me in a pretty good mood for a Monday. As a bonus, Spanish is easy since we get to watch more cheesy ¡Hola, amigos! videos to introduce our new unit.

  So I’m in good spirits when I walk into my fourth period class, Chemistry, and see Mrs. Crane standing at the front of the room. After a month with a substitute, it’s jarring to see her again.

  I know from the news after the accident that Mrs. Crane’s arm was shattered. Her arm is still in a sling but given the photos I saw online of the Ferris wheel after it crashed and burned, she looks really good. Her hair has been sheered off—possibly with actual garden sheers. It’s choppy and uneven, nothing like her usual neat, dark blonde pony tail. She’s dressed like she used to—slacks, nice blouse, minimal makeup—but there’s something unsettling about the way she fidgets at the front of the room, snapping the cap on and off a marker with her good hand.

  I catch her eye to wave but her eyes are glassy and she doesn’t acknowledge the gesture. I take my seat near the back. Chemistry is hard for me since it involves a lot of math and calculations, things I have trouble getting my brain around. Melissa has no trouble with it and Cam breezed through it like it was nothing. He’s taking Physics this year, which isn’t even a required science class. I will not be taking Physics. But Mrs. Crane is awesome. She clearly loves her subject matter and she makes it, if not fun, not totally miserable. Plus, I hear she has the class make peanut brittle class day before Christmas Break. That’s chemistry I can live with.

  Other people file in, all taking note of Mrs. Crane’s return, but no one says anything until Melissa walks in. She went to grab coffee between Spanish and Chemistry and holds the paper cup in her hand. I swallow a lump of frustration at the sight of it. A quick trip to the cafeteria between classes was something we used to do together.

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Crane,” Melissa says, smiling. “How’s your arm? Did you get our card? The whole class signed it.”

  Mrs. Crane stares at Melissa like she doesn’t recognize her. And staring through Melissa, in her cherry print Gothic Lolita dress, is a feat. Mrs. Crane is rigid as Melissa tries a few more times but when she gets no response, she takes her seat at a lab table in the front. She glances back and I give her a that-was-weird look. She nods, brow furrowed.

  Mrs. Crane is probably still in pain. Possibly even on drugs for the pain. After the car accident, the doctors sent me home with Vicodin. I didn’t like it because it turned my mouth into a cotton field and it made me sleepy, but when the pain got bad enough, I took it. It made me feel kind of blank and out of it. She could be taking something similar.

  “Mrs. C!” Jay Hernandez, another of my classmates, says as he walks in. “I heard you’d be back but I refused to believe it until I saw it for myself.” He waits for a reaction but she only gives him an icy stare. He sits down next to Melissa and they start whispering.

  The rest of the class files in, some greeting our returned teacher and getting no reaction. When the bell rings, Mrs. Crane sits down at her desk and pulls out her cell phone. There’s no assignment or page numbers to read written on the white board like usual.

  A murmur of whispers travels through the room. Mrs. Crane doesn’t look up or seem to notice. Instead, she pulls her purse out of a drawer and sets it on her desk with a thud. It’s a brown purse, kind of like a saddlebag, and she plays absently with the fringe.

  Finally, Melissa raises her hand. “Mrs. Crane?” she asks. Her voice is quiet. Mrs. Crane looks up. She scans the room like she isn’t sure who spoke. “Is there something you want us to work on?”

  Mrs. Crane opens her purse, reaches in, and then lets out a long breath. And then she meets my eyes. The glassy sheen is gone. They’re clear. They’re full of terror. My heart hammers. Mrs. Crane pulls her hand back out empty, like she couldn’t find what she was looking for. She zips the purse back up but it takes several tries because her hand is shaking. “You shouldn’t waste your precious time in classrooms,” she says finally. “Life is too short and it can all end in a flash when you least expect it.”

  “Oh-kay,” Jay says, sounding skeptical. We all exchange glances, unsure what we should do.

  Mrs. Crane stands, putting her purse over her shoulder. It sags with the weight of its contents. “Fine. You want a lesson? Here’s a lesson. Don’t have regrets. Whatever choices you make, make them carefully. Because one day you’re going to face death and you don’t want to do so while wishing you had more time, and hating yourself for all of the missed opportunities and lost chances.”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up and cold washes over me. Mrs. Crane tears up but keeps speaking.

  “Desperate people make desperate choices. Don’t be desperate for more time. Use the time you have now before you end up—” She stops and shakes her head. She clutches the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles turn white. She starts crying in earnest. “I can’t do it. I thought I could but I just… I’m so sorry.” She lowers her voice. “Please forgive me.” The words are a whispered plea to the universe more than an apology to us.

  She walks out of the room. The minute the door closes, conversation explodes. Everyone is wondering aloud what she’s on or what part of her brain got damaged by the accident. Melissa sounds afraid. Jay leaves to get someone.

  I sit there, uneasiness rolling like waves in my gut. Mrs. Crane’s rant sounds familiar. It lacks the hatred and vitriol, but it sounds like the ravings of Heather Bancroft, desperate to cling to more time than she was going to get.

  But it’s not like it’s unheard of for people who almost die to realize they can’t waste any time. Life is precious and no one knows it better than those of us who almost had it pulled out from beneath our feet. And if she’s still on pain medication, it might be messing with her emotions or keeping her from sleeping. She came back to work too soon is all.

  I replay her words in my head. Maybe she made a deal with Azmos. In my time delivering demonic invoices for Az, I once had a grown man cry and tell me he was sorry for making the deal and he didn’t want to go Hell. Then he dropped to his knees and started praying. I ran away. I didn’t tell him it was okay, that Az wasn’t that kind of demon, because I didn’t know that at the time. And it freaked me out. Maybe Mrs. Crane made a deal and is now scared she’s offended God, if she’s religious.

  I mull it over until Jay returns with a woman from the administration offi
ce. She tells us Mrs. Crane has decided not to return to work at the moment and to read the next chapter in our textbooks. A couple of people argue over which chapter that is, since we’d been working on a unit outside the book on worksheets printed out by our substitute. I open my book to a random page and stare at it blankly until the bell rings.

  As we’re leaving the classroom, I stop Melissa in the hall and pull her aside. I’m so distracted and disturbed, I don’t even care that we’re not exactly on great terms.

  “What was that?” I ask.

  Melissa shrugs, but her expression is troubled. “It’s probably too soon for her to try and work. You know they made her come back way before she was ready. I say good for her.”

  “I guess,” I say, but something about Mrs. Crane’s words sticks in my head and makes me feel itchy.

  “Sleep deprivation does strange things to people,” Melissa says. The warning bell rings. “I should get to class.”

  “Yeah.” Uneasiness slides through my stomach. I need to check on Mrs. Crane. Talk to her. If she did make a deal with Azmos and that’s what’s upsetting her, maybe I can reassure her. Explain what he is, that he’s not some minion of hell and damnation. “Do you have plans after school?”

  “Not today.” Melissa looks surprised, but in a pleased way. “Why?”

  “I think we should check on her.”

  She folds her arms over her chest. “Mrs. Crane? She’s fine, Nic.”

  “I know,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure her monologue proves that’s not true. “Let’s just go by her house and make sure. See if she needs anything.”

  Melissa chews her lip for half a second before she catches herself and stops. “Will you relax a little if we do?”

  “Promise,” I say. “And after, I’ll buy you a cupcake.”