The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1)

by Tori Centanni

  “You are wasted,” I say, gently moving his hands back down to my hips. “You know the rule.” The rule is that we don’t have sex when he’s drunk.

  He grins sloppily. “Can I at least have a kiss?”

  I pretend to consider. “I suppose. One.” I hold a finger up to his lips and he kisses it, and then leans down to kiss my lips. He tastes like rum and salt, but it’s a passionate kiss, warm and reassuring. When we break apart, he stumbles a little and then laughs.

  “All right, buddy. Time for bed.”

  Even drunk, he manages to put on pajamas and brush his teeth before falling into bed. I pull off my bra and slide in next to him.

  He turns over and puts his arm around me, holding me a little more tightly than usual. “Promise me something,” he says softly. His warmth against me makes me sleepy and his arms make me feel safe.

  “Sure,” I say, already fighting the pull of sleep.

  “If he comes here tonight, wake me up. Don’t run off alone.”

  He doesn’t have to specify who “he” is. “Okay.”

  Satisfied, Cam drifts off, and soon, he’s snoring softly. But now I’m wide awake, expecting the demon to tap on the window, even though we’re on the second story. Although, come to think of it, I don’t know if that would stop him. I wonder if Heather Bancroft had the right idea with the holy water and salt, or if that was a shot in the dark.

  I get up and double-check that the front and back doors are locked before getting back in bed. Surely, though, locks can’t keep him out, can they?

  Seven months I’ve worked for the demon, Azmos, and the amount that I know for certain is pathetically small. Now that people are attacking me when I play delivery girl, it’s time to demand some real answers.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The next few days pass without a single visit from Azmos, which is a relief until Wednesday, when I start to worry. Not for him. I’m sure he’s fine. After all, demon. He’s probably been forcing innocent teenagers to skip class to do his bidding for the last two millennia.

  Instead, I worry that he’ll show up at any second. Any flash of auburn or sunglasses throws me off balance. And then I start to worry he might never show up again, and somehow, that freaks me out even more. I lose the thread of conversations and my class notes start to turn into doodles of little envelopes and spikey-haired demons. I’ve never been a stellar student, but by Thursday, I’m starting to wonder what it would actually take to flunk out of high school.

  I’m so pathetically relieved to see Azmos leaning against the stone wall that lines the path to my apartment building that I nearly run to him. He’s wearing a prep school jacket and pants and has a red backpack slung over his shoulder.

  “Nice outfit,” I say.

  “Long story.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s one you want to tell me.”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Not even a hint?” I push. Normally, I’d let it drop, but I’m tired of knowing so little about something that takes up so much of my life.

  “You don’t need to know.” He reaches into his jacket and I expect him to take out the usual envelope, but instead, he pulls out a silver cigarette case and lights a smoke. He offers me a cigarette and I wave the case away.

  “Maybe I want to know.” He doesn’t respond. “Smoking’s disgusting.”

  He blows the smoke away from me, but some of it lingers and makes my nose itch. “I find it relaxing.”

  I lean against the stone with him. “Are you immortal? I mean, can you get cancer?” He laughs and chokes a little on the smoke, and it takes him a second to stop coughing. “Okay, point made,” I say. “Stupid question.”

  “No, it’s a good question. Such a basic one that I fear I take the answer for granted. No, I cannot get cancer. As for immortality,” he rubs the butt of the cigarette against the stone, leaving a trail of black ash, “that’s a matter of perspective.”

  It’s an answer, which is more than he usually gives me, so I try another. “What happens to the people I give the letters to?”

  “We both know you’re not that naive, Nicolette.”

  “No. I mean. I know. Sort of. I mean, do they get dragged off to hell? Is there a hell?”

  “Are you asking me if you’re damned?” He’s grinning, but it’s not his usual, snake-like smile. This is a casual, friendly grin. He’s teasing me. He’s amused. The urge to punch him fights with the rational part of me that knows punching a demon is probably unwise. And worse, I realize that is exactly what I’m asking. Am I damned?

  I swallow, hard. “Am I?” He tilts his head, thoughtful, and considers. I almost don’t want him to answer.

  “Human mythology gets a lot of things wrong. Not surprisingly. You work with what you’ve got. Sometimes, it’s not nearly enough.” He turns the cigarette over in his fingers. “You’re not damned. What I know of the Spirit Realm is limited, but I don’t believe there is such a thing as damnation, not really. And if there is, I am not the sort of demon who doles it out, if such demons exist.”

  “Oh,” I say, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I can’t decide what stuns me more: That my definition of demon has a lot of room for expansion or that he actually answered a question. But I’m relieved to know I’m not headed for a fiery eternity. “Then what are you?”

  He straightens and takes off the backpack. “Demon is close enough. I believe the last civilization to come up with a more accurate word perished a long time ago.” He pulls out the familiar, silver envelope and I groan theatrically like I’m taken by surprise. His smile doesn’t waver. “I don’t bargain for souls.”

  I take the envelope. It’s weightier than normal, but there’s still only one name and address. “So you bargain for lives?”

  “It’s not that simple,” he says, zipping the backpack up. “But I guess you could say that.”

  I tap the envelope against my leg. “Do you know beforehand who’s going to need your services?”

  Azmos tilts his head and examines me. “Sometimes. Sometimes, it’s merely a case of good timing.”

  “Which was I?”

  “An exception.” He pulls the backpack on over his other shoulder. “You should get going.”

  “What do you mean, exception?”

  “I mean yours is a unique case.” Which explains exactly nothing.

  “Could you have stopped it?” I ask. “Could you have saved my mom?”

  He stares, but his hands clench and unclench into fists. He takes a breath. “No.”

  “So it wasn’t a choice between me and her?”

  He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. “No, Nicolette. It was never you or her. She was already lost.”

  I take in a shuddering breath. I had no idea how much that question had weighed on me until this moment and now I feel a sense of relief. A little bit of guilt dissolves inside me.

  “You should go,” Azmos prompts, dropping his hand.

  “When I hand these people the letters, am I—“ I don’t know how to phrase it. Killing them? Handing them their death warrants, like Heather said? “If I didn’t, would they live?”

  Azmos is clearly surprised by the question. “No,” he says. “I bargain with people who are out of time. But there’s only so much I can give them.”

  Which is what Heather said. I swallow. “So how much time do I have?”

  Azmos lights another cigarette. “As I said, you’re an exception.” I let out another breath. Before I can ask what that means, Azmos taps the envelope in my hand. “Now hurry along. That’s urgent.”

  I put the address in my phone. I know it’s in Ballard, but the bus app will tell me if there’s a faster way to get there and back than the usual bus line. “Thanks,” I say, looking up at Azmos. He raises an eyebrow over the rim of his sunglasses. “For actually talking to me. I mean, a little.”

  “You caught me at a good time.” He walks to the sidewalk. By the time I get my directions and look up again, Azmos is nowhe
re in sight.

  The house is easy enough to find, a block away from a main street and a bus line. It’s a blue rectangle, built so the first floor sinks into the ground. The name on the envelope is Harold Nunez. I stand out front on the sidewalk, wondering if Harold is watching me and preparing to attack. Heather knew I was coming, and she wasn’t the first. For every person who looked dazed by the delivery, there were five who seemed to be on edge and expecting something, just not a teen girl with a shiny envelope.

  I count to ten and then march up to the front door. I knock and then step back, listening closely for any sound that might indicate a gun or weapon.

  But Harold is not threatening. I’d peg him at over thirty, with graying, black hair and high cheekbones. He wears a collared shirt and jeans and there’s a sadness in his eyes that tells me he’s well aware his time is almost up. If he’s angry, he doesn’t show it. He takes the envelope and I bolt, not waiting for him to open it.

  No matter how at ease he seemed, I don’t want to risk it.

  Errand done, I get on the bus, going the other way, and slump into a sideways seat near the back. I pull out my current assigned book for English class, Beowulf. It doesn’t hold my attention, and two stops later, I shove the book back in my bag and pull out my phone. I text my Dad, who sends back a short message that he’s okay and Nonna’s okay, but to call him later. My stomach twists at the prospect, because if he has news, it’s probably not good. Then I start to wonder what would happen if Azmos needed me to deliver something if I were out of town. I make a mental note to ask him, because it’s likely I’ll be flying to California sooner rather than later.

  I feel oddly uneasy, like I’m being watched. I look up and the guy across the aisle is staring. He has inky-black hair, vampire-pale skin—it’s still light outside or I’d wonder—and his blue eyes are trained directly on me. There are flecks of silver in his eyes and cold seems to waft off of him, but maybe it’s because he’s wearing a black t-shirt without a coat in fifty-degree weather. His skin is way too smooth. He can’t be human. Which means he has to be a demon.

  A demon who is staring at me.

  My heart picks back up again and a cold sweat breaks out on my upper lip. I wipe it away.

  “You must be Nicolette,” he says. His breath puffs out into the air of the heated bus. I nearly stop breathing.

  “Who are you?” I narrow my eyes and try to act unruffled, as if demons appear in front of me all the time and know my name.

  “I’m called Xanan,” he says.

  We’re alone at the back of the nearly empty bus. But there are mirrors and the driver can see us. I’m not actually alone and this would be a bad place for him to try anything, assuming he cares about witnesses. That thought chills my blood.

  “What do you want from me?”

  He smirks. A silver lip ring gleams on the side of his mouth. “I want nothing from you. Sometimes I exhibit unfortunate tendencies toward curiosity.” He gives me an appraising look. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, my mind racing. I swallow, but my throat is dry. He must know Azmos, and Azmos wouldn’t let another demon hurt me, would he? It certainly wouldn’t do him any favors.

  “This is my stop,” I lie and pull the chord.

  I stand near the door, ducking out the moment it opens, hoping he doesn’t follow me. After the bus pulls away, I glance back and see Xanan still on the bus as it rolls away, and I let out a breath. I wish I had an easy way to contact Azmos, because that was seriously creepy.

  At home, I dial Dad from my cellphone. I’m relieved when it goes to voicemail, putting another notch in the “Nicki is a terrible person” column, because I’m too tired for bad news. I pull out a spinach-and-garlic pizza from the freezer. The apartment is too quiet. I decide that when Dad gets back, it’ll be time for another round of the “Let’s Get a Pet” conversation. I’m not even picky. I get that it’s a small apartment, but anything is better than nothing. I’ll take a hamster or a gerbil, anything with fur.

  I flip on the television just to have noise. I’m unwrapping the plastic around the pizza when I hear the anchor say “—this tragedy at Yesler Preparatory. Back to you, Carol.” I stop and look over to the television on the living room wall. Our apartment has an open floor plan, which means the kitchen is only separated from the living room by a waist-high counter. The anchor says something about how sad it is and then pastes a smile on her face to cut to sports.

  I slide the pizza into the oven and then go to my laptop on the kitchen table. It’s easy enough to find, because it’s the headline on all of the local news sites. “Two students killed, one injured in tragic accident at Yesler Prep.” I read the article and then flip to another site and read their version of the same story.

  Today at Yesler Preparatory School for Boys, three students were driving off campus to ditch class and take an early lunch when a garbage truck slammed into the side of the car at a speed far too high for a parking lot. Two witnesses saw it happen, a school janitor and a student running late, and both reported the garbage truck was going way too fast. Updates to the article indicate the garbage truck driver has a disciplinary record for bad driving and that he may have been driving impaired. Two students were killed, and one, in the passenger seat, survived and was taken to the hospital. The only name released is of the survivor, a junior named Bradley Liang. His school photo, in which he smiles dashingly at the camera, is posted alongside the article.

  I sit back in my chair and stare at the grisly images of the smashed car. I half-expect the photos to trigger memories of my accident, but they don’t. It just makes me unbearably sad. I miss my mom.

  The accident that killed her, and nearly me, happened when I was thirteen. I’d been at jazz dance at Miss Tracy’s, where I’d been taking dance classes since I could walk or so it seemed. I wanted to quit. I’d wanted to quit for months, but my mom insisted I finish out the year and see how I felt. She thought it was good for me to have hobbies that didn’t involve the computer or those “terrible horror movies.” I was tired of spending two nights a week learning dances—more when recitals were approaching—and trying to do all my homework, while still squeezing in time to read books that weren’t for school.

  I usually got a ride home from a neighbor whose younger daughter took ballet at the same time, but that night, the girl was sick and skipped class. My mom had to make a detour to come pick me up, because I refused to ride the bus with my backpack and dance bag. The minute I got in the car, she was in a mood, overworked like always. I tried telling her it wouldn’t be a problem if she just let me quit. We started arguing. It was the same fight we’d had a hundred times in the past few years. Finally, I plugged in my iPod and blasted music she hated, and we sat playing Radio Chicken to see how long until she gave in and turned it down.

  It was still blaring when the drunk driver’s SUV slammed into our sedan. My memory of the rest is a hazy series of images and sounds. I remember the crunch of metal and the feeling of the car sliding in the wrong direction. I remember being cold. I remember searing pain in my arm and chest and then numbness. I knew I was going to die and I was strangely okay with it. Not because I wanted to die, but because it seemed inevitable. I sort of remember Azmos, but that bit is mostly a hazy shadow. I remember him asking if I wanted to live, if I’d work for him if he saved me. I remember parchment and blood.

  And then I woke up in the hospital.

  The logical part of me knows it’s not my fault, not really. But I also know that if I’d taken the bus, she’d never have been there in the first place and she’d still be alive. Maybe if I hadn’t blasted the music, she’d have swerved in time. I know teenagers fight with their parents. I know I’m lucky I’m not dead, too, and I know what saved me. It wasn’t luck or a seatbelt or which side of the car I was in. And remembering Azmos’ Prep School uniform earlier, I know what saved Bradley Liang.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On Friday afternoon, I’m lef
t to my own devices. Melissa has costume fittings for the school’s upcoming play, a Steampunk version of Romeo and Juliet, and Cameron has a Debate Club meeting. Amy invites me to the mall with a group of her friends, but I decide against it. Even though I don’t have a lot of spare cash, I’d normally go with them and pick up a new pair of earrings or something, but I have this weird determination to see Bradley Liang.

  Harborview Hospital is on First Hill. It’s walkable from my apartment. Getting there isn’t a problem. Getting in to see a patient, however, proves to be as difficult as it is in the movies. The moment I get there, I know I won’t be able to see him. For one thing, he’s probably still in the ICU, which is “family only.”

  And even if he’s allowed visitors, I can’t claim to be Bradley Liang’s classmate, because Yesler Prep is an all-boys school. I had planned to say I was a neighbor, but it’s no use. The nurse apologizes and confirms that only immediately family is being admitted. I go to the gift shop and buy a plush giraffe with a brace around its neck. It has a tiny card attached, so I write, “Get well soon,” and hand it to the nurse. I’m in the doorway when she calls after me that I forgot to sign it, but I pretend I can’t hear and keep walking.

  I don’t even know why I want to see him. I see people who’ve made deals with Azmos every time I make a delivery. It’s not like Bradley is any different.

  Cam texts me to tell me he’ll come over after Debate so we can hang out until he has to get home, although his curfew isn’t until midnight, and his mom is pretty lenient about it as long as he keeps up his near-perfect grades. He adds that he’ll grab Thai food from the place that makes the awesome yellow curry.

  So I’m in a good mood, practically gleeful and skipping, when I see Azmos on the street corner near the community college. He’s changed out of the prep school attire, back into jeans and a tailored coat. And he’s not alone. He’s talking to Xanan, the guy from the bus.