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

by Tori Centanni

  “I will,” I say. But the words taste sour on my tongue and I know it’s a lie.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  From the whispers and tears in the halls the next morning, it’s clear word about Mrs. Crane’s death has gotten around. Cam is somber. He holds my hand tightly until we get to his locker and he has to let go to unload his books. He chews his lip as he organizes his books by period so they’re in order and easy to grab. Meticulous organization is practically his middle name.

  I called him last night to tell him what had happened, including the part about Xanan’s insistence Mrs. Crane was under a demon contract and the weird blue-haired demon from the coffee shop. Cam’s barely said three words today, which irritates me, but I remind myself I have to let him grieve in his own way. Which is apparently in silence. Cam is good at dealing with things when the parts are all laid out in front of him and he can see how they all fit together. But there’s nothing neat about death. There are no equations that you can solve to come to terms with it.

  When the bell rings, he kisses me lightly. “Meet me at my car at lunch,” he says. His lunch plans are all over the map so I’m glad today they involve me. I really don’t want to be alone.

  I pass Melissa in the hall. She pulls me into a hug, catching me off guard. She’s glassy-eyed and her eyeliner is smudged despite obvious effort to repair the damage. Her outfit is mournfully subdued: black circle skirt with a black blouse, her hair tied back with black ribbons. Mel is always dressed like life is a movie and she’s in charge of wardrobe.

  As soon as the bell rings, an announcement comes over the intercom that first period is cancelled for an assembly in the gym. My stomach churns and I follow my class down the hall. I spot Cam in the bleachers, leaning back on his elbows between Brian and Katrina. Despite instructions to stay with my class, I climb up to where he is. Brian scoots over to make room for me. Cam puts his arm around my shoulders.

  “This is fucked up,” Brian says.

  I can’t argue with that.

  “It’s so sad,” Katrina says. “I had her for Bio Sophomore year. She was such a great teacher.”

  Cam nods, but doesn’t speak.

  Principal Chander comes to the podium. She’s a tall woman of Indian descent. She wears a black skirt-suit and has her dark hair tied into a neat bun. Even from this far away, her eyes are bloodshot. I doubt she slept last night. That makes two of us.

  “As many of you probably already know, yesterday we lost Mrs. Leslie Crane.” A few gasps prove not everyone had heard. Mrs. Chander pauses to let that sink in. “It is tragic and unfortunate to lose such a bright mind and passionate teacher. Grief counselors are on site for anyone who wants to speak to them.” She gestures to a row of chairs off to the side filled with professional-looking people. “Classes are cancelled for today. The library and study hall will remain open for students who wish to use them. This space and the cafeteria will serve as places to express your grief and feelings. Upperclassmen may leave campus if they choose. Lower classmen must get permission from a parent or guardian.”

  “Oh, thank god,” Katrina says, shaking her head. “I would never be able to focus today.”

  Mrs. Chander talks a bit longer, listing a time and place for a school-wide memorial this Saturday, and I tune her out. I listen to Cam’s shallow breathing beside me and focus on his arm holding me tightly. He looks over at me, his jaw tight, eyes moist with tears. Then he leans down and rests his chin on my head. I snuggle against him.

  “She had a gun,” I say softly, sorting my French fries into piles based on size because my appetite is nonexistent. My stomach is a pit of acid. Cam stops mid-bite of his second cheeseburger to give me a questioning look. “Mrs. Crane. I saw it in her house.”

  “So?” he asks, wiping mustard off the corner of his mouth. “A lot of people have guns.”

  “She brought it to school.” I’m sure of it. That’s why her purse clanked against the desk so heavily. It’s what she was reaching for. I shiver at the implications. Was she planning to shoot herself in some dramatic way? Was she planning to shoot us? None of that seems in line with the fear on her face the last time I saw her.

  Cam takes another bite and considers while he chews. “If she made some kind of bargain with a demon, whether he was like Az or not, she might have had it for protection.”

  “She was acting really strange.”

  “I know you like to pretend running around with demons is normal, but to most people, it’s kind of terrifying.”

  I look up from my fry stacks. “I don’t pretend.”

  “No, of course not,” Cam says, his voice low. “Because to you, it is normal.” He finishes his burger and crumples the blue Puget Pete’s wrapper onto his tray.

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “It’s sort of my job.”

  “I know,” he says, his eyes flicking back to the ring. He lets out a breath and then takes a long drag from his soda. “I don’t suppose you want to go back to school to do homework for the rest of the day?”

  “Do you?” I ask. I mean it to be teasing but it comes out short and snippy.

  “Yes, actually. I have a lot of stuff to get done before finals.” He stands and buses his tray. I put a fry in my mouth but it tastes like salty paper. I bus my tray, too, tossing the fries in the garbage.

  “Are you mad at me or something?” I ask.

  He runs his fingers through his hair and tugs agitatedly at the strands. “No. I’m scared.” The bell over the door chimes as we leave. “If something strange is going on with the demons, we all should be.” He spits the word ‘demons’ like it tastes bad. “Aren’t you?”

  “A little,” I admit. “Xanan looked a little scared. And that’s more frightening than anything I can think of.”

  Cam stops at his car and grabs my arm. He pulls me into a kiss. The air is freezing but he’s warm and solid, and I kiss him back. It tastes like mustard and salt.

  “You know,” he whispers, his lips against mine, “my house will be empty until five.”

  I smile. “That’s definitely better than homework.”

  Two hours later, Cam shakes me awake. I’m in his bed, beneath his blue bedspread. His hair is damp from the shower and he’s wearing jeans with no shirt. It’s a very sexy look. “Hey. It’s three,” he says, sitting on the bed next to me. I sit up and rub my eyes. The past hour and a half of sleep was the best I’d gotten in a while. Cam’s sheets smell like him. I want to wrap them around me and make a cocoon and never leave. “Next year I’ll have my own place and we won’t have to worry about parents or siblings barging in.”

  “Won’t you live in the dorms?” I ask.

  “No way,” Cam says, tilting my chin up and putting his lips close to mine. “I need a clean, quiet study environment. Brian and I are getting a place. If we both go to UW, I mean.”

  “Cam, you can’t pass on Stanford if they accept you.” I might be selfish but not enough to ask him to pass on his dream school just for me. It feels like I’ve practically become a Stanford cheerleader, the way I’m advocating for them. (Do they even have cheerleaders?) Which is ironic, given how I don’t want him to move two states away.

  “I absolutely can,” he says. “Besides, when I told my mom was I seriously considering UW, she practically did a jig. She’s thrilled at the prospect of me staying in the city, even though I threatened to bring my laundry home on weekends.” He kisses me, his palm running over my back. It sends a tingle through me. He pulls away like it takes a major effort. “Get dressed.”

  I get out of bed and find my clothes. My bra is on the nightstand and the rest are in a neat pile by the door. Cam’s room is immaculate. The books are alphabetized by author (fiction) or subject (nonfiction) on the shelves like a bookstore. The only thing on his desk besides his laptop is a stuffed dragon I won for him at the arcade during our first date and a photo of us at prom last year. There’s not so much as a stray sock on the floor besides my quickly discarded clothes. Even Cam’s clothes from earlier have
made it to a hamper. My room is never this clean. I love how neat and organized he is, and marvel at his ability to control chaos in all aspects of his life.

  I pull on my black sweater dress over my purple leggings. Cam digs through his dresser for a clean shirt. I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye, his head turned slightly so he can see through his glasses. Love and affection for this beautiful, smart, organized boy swells through me. He and I are so fundamentally different. He is definitely my better half.

  “I love you,” I say.

  He smiles. “I love you, too.” He shuts the dresser and tugs on a bright green t-shirt with cartoon turtles on the front. He leans over the mirror and messes up his hair a little.

  I dig a hair tie out of my bag and pull my short hair into a messy, stubby ponytail. “What’s your plan for the rest of the afternoon?” I ask.

  Cam shrugs. “Homework, probably. Crap. I didn’t even check if yearbook was cancelled.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I say.

  He grabs his phone and texts someone, probably to check on that. “They’ll want to talk about a memorial page,” he says as he types.

  “I’m sure they can wait a few days.” I sling my bag over my shoulder.

  “You’re leaving?” he asks, a small crease appearing on his brow.

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “Always am.” He smirks. “About what this time?”

  I roll my eyes but don’t stop smiling. “There’s another demon, Cam. And if Xanan is preoccupied and Az is shutting me out, then I need to figure out what she wants and why Mrs. Crane…” I trail off, but I don’t need to finish. Cam nods in understanding.

  “Okay, sure,” Cam says. “But where are you going to find that information?”

  “The only other person I know who knows anything about demons. Gabriel.”

  “The psychic?” Cam asks, sounding unsure.

  “It’s worth a try.” I run my palm over the stubble on his cheek and stand on my toes to kiss him. “I’ll see you later.”

  “No way,” Cam says. He grabs a sweatshirt out of his closet and pulls it on. “I’m going with you.”

  “If you insist,” I say, secretly relieved I don’t have to go alone. Gabriel doesn’t scare me but if a new demon is running amok causing trouble, I don’t want to be out wandering alone in the dark.

  “I can’t believe you’re willing to do demon homework but not your Spanish vocab,” Cam says ruefully, shaking his head as he pulls on a coat. I punch him lightly in the arm. He feigns pain and rubs his shoulder. “You’re mean.”

  “No. I’m adorable,” I say.

  He punches me lightly back. “Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The only address I have for Gabriel is the coffee shop. I do a quick search on my phone but there are hundreds of Gabriel Prices and none of them look like him on the few social media profiles I find. Cam orders us drinks while I snag a table. It’s less crowded here than it was the first two times and there’s plenty of space. I pick the table I found Gabriel squatting at both times.

  “This is definitely your kind of place,” Cam says, putting a ceramic mug of caramel mocha in front of me. “The barista is wearing red contacts and little black horns.”

  I glance over to the coffee counter. The barista is a pretty college-aged girl with a pixie cut and tiny black horns jutting out of her head. I’ve seen similar horn headbands at Hot Topic but I highly doubt hers are fake. I decide to not tell Cam she’s probably a demon or that this is actually an arcane hangout, at least not until we’re somewhere private and he can freak out without causing a scene.

  “No sign of Gabriel,” I say, watching the door like I can will him to come through.

  “Can you get his home address from Azmos?” Cam suggests, putting a ceramic mug of caramel mocha in front of me.

  “Maybe.” I call Az’s number but he doesn’t answer. He never does. What’s the point of having a phone if you just ignore it?

  Cam, Boy Scout that he is, has come prepared with homework. He pulls out his physics text book and gets to work. I doodle in a notebook while I go over everything I know, but it’s not much: there are different types of demons. Xanan helps protect the balance between our realm, the demon realm, and the spirit realm. Azmos’ power is giving people more time. If someone made a deal with him or a creature like him, why would they cut it short?

  Unless Cam hit it on the nose and Mrs. Crane was just freaked out by the existence of demons. A split-second decision to save your own life doesn’t mean you’ll automatically be comfortable with the idea of magic. Some people might have trouble accepting the reality of demons, especially that their life is owed to one. Some people might think it meant they were damned.

  Gabriel arrives an hour later. He spots me immediately and raises his eyebrows, and then he glances at Cam. He sits down in the chair next to Cam even though there’s more room on the bench seat next to me.

  “Hello,” he says, sounding more cheerful than usual. He still looks ragged, like he got caught in a typhoon on the walk over. His coat is slick with rain and his short black hair is pushed up in all directions. The dark smudges beneath his eyes remain. But he smiles and it reaches his eyes.

  “Hi,” Cam says.

  “Gabriel.” He extends a hand. He was not this friendly when he met me. “And you are?”

  “Cameron,” he replies, shaking back. He closes his book and sets his notebook on top of it.

  “Since you’re with her,” he nods at me, “can I assume you work for Azmos as well?” Cam looks scandalized by the accusation but Gabriel doesn’t seem to notice. “And by the way, why exactly does he have a penchant for working with teenagers? That’s a bit twisted, isn’t it?”

  “Cam is my boyfriend,” I say. “He’s just here to keep me company.”

  Gabriel deflates a little. “Of course. Let me go grab a coffee.”

  “He’s…friendly,” Cam says, watching Gabriel head to the register.

  “No,” I say, smirking. “He’s not. I think he likes you.”

  Cam winks at me and smiles mischievously. “Not surprising. A lot of people love the smart, rugged type.”

  “And exactly which part of you is rugged?” I ask, teasingly. Cam might be an athlete, but he’s not climb-a-mountain-and-ski-down-it sporty. Of course, I’m not one to talk. My version of sports is getting off the couch and doing a few jumping-jacks when my legs fall asleep.

  Gabriel returns with a paper cup and sits next to Cam again. “He want more names? Because I don’t have any.”

  “No, actually,” I say. “You know a lot about demons, right?”

  “Yes,” he says, suddenly wary. He taps his fingers against the coffee cup. “Why?”

  I’m unsure how to phrase it. Cam jumps in. “Because we only know two demons and not very well. We were hoping you could answer some questions.”

  Seeing the two of them next to each other, it’s striking how they look like two parts of the same set. Both are tall and thin, though Cam is thin in an athletic way and Gabriel looks more like he’s been eroded down to his bones. Cam’s skin is pale white and Gabriel’s is a rich brown. Cam’s hair isn’t curly like Gabriel’s but it would be if it grew a few inches longer. They both wear thin wire-framed glasses and have strong jaws. I’m not thin or tall, myself. I’m short and have big hips and couldn’t be called skinny. They are two sides of a coin and I’m a crumpled dollar bill.

  Gabriel considers. Finally, he stands. “Well, then.” He chugs the contents of his cup, and squeezes the paper in his fist. “Come with me.”

  Cam and I exchange a look. We’re thinking the same thing: after months of trying to get answers from the demons, this sounds a little too easy.

  Gabriel leads us several blocks and turns down an alley. He pauses at a grate and fishes in his pockets for something. He pulls out a pocket tool and extends it so it’s almost a foot long. It looks like a miniature, expandable crowbar. He h
ooks it into the grate and yanks it up out of the street.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Cam says, staring down the square hole.

  “Where did you expect it to be?” I ask, because frankly, I’m not surprised. The fact that wherever he’s taking us is underground seems about right. It makes total sense that demons and monsters would carve out spaces for themselves down here, below the street.

  Seattle’s Underground is famous. After a fire in the late 1800s, the new city was built on top of the old, a story or two above where the old city sat. Many old buildings have basement floors for that reason. Some of the Underground is open for a historical tour. My eighth grade class went here on a field trip. But much of it is closed off to the public. I’m pretty sure if the wrong person saw us hovering over the open grate, we’d get into trouble, but I can’t deny that it’s thrilling to be able to ignore the rules.

  Gabriel climbs down the ladder and I follow. Cam hesitates at the top, hand on the grate. “Should I close it?” he asks.

  “Yes,” Gabriel calls, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and not counterintuitive to shut yourself in the Underground.

  Cam pulls the grate down over his head.

  It takes me a few moments to get used to the low level of light filtering down from the street above through colored glass panels in sidewalks and more grates. Brick facades line the passageway. I stay close to Cam, more afraid of spiders than anything else. Gabriel leads us around a corner to an old metal-lined wooden door that looks like something from a medieval castle. An illuminated streetlight hangs next to it. Words etched into the stone above read ‘The Repository.’ He knocks.

  “Come in,” someone calls.

  Gabriel pushes the door open. It takes some effort because it’s so heavy. We step over the threshold and into what looks like a small library. Rows of bookshelves line the walls and fill the center, and continue back until they’re swallowed by the dark. A table sits at the front. Not a reception desk, just an ordinary table you’d find in any school library. Lanterns hang on the ceiling above it. A boy sits at the table. He’s probably around Gabriel’s age, nineteen or twenty. He has pink hair and more earrings than me (which is a feat - I have three in one ear, two in the other). He wears a fishnet shirt over a black tank top; I have the same outfit. A pink laptop that matches his hair sits in front of him and a stack of books sits off to the side, one of them open like he’s referring to it as he works.