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

by Tori Centanni

  The next morning, I meet Melissa at a coffee shop downtown. At first, she wants to go to her house in West Seattle, but I talk her into middle ground. I love her house and her family, but the bus ride is unpleasant.

  “I need you to pick one,” she says, pushing a notebook across the table at me as soon as I sit down with my mocha.

  “Pick one what?” I ask.

  “A dress.”

  I open the notebook and see that she’s printed photos of three different Gothic Lolita dresses on her familiar blue dress form and taped them to the page. One is black and purple, one is pink and white, and the third is a peach top with a printed skirt with little peach colored dots on it that I’d bet are actually cartoon peaches. Melissa likes themes, or maybe that’s the Gothic Lolita style. I’ve flipped through a few issues of the “Gothic Bible,” a Japanese magazine Melissa has stacks of, and fruit themes are common.

  “They’re all nice,” I say.

  “They’re all about your size. So pick one.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  Melissa doesn’t roll her eyes. She’s too proper for that in her mint green blouse with her tiny white bowler hat nestled in her black hair. “For tonight.”

  “What’s tonight?”

  “I knew you weren’t listening,” she says and shakes her head. She might as well “tsk” at me for all the subtlety.

  “When?”

  “Yesterday in Algebra. I was telling you about the tea party and you were staring out the window.”

  “Tea party?” I ask. It rings a few bells, but I thought she was talking about something her sewing circle was doing. I hadn’t realized I’d be expected to participate.

  “Sometimes I think we’re only friends because I need a sidekick,” she says. Her tone is light, but the words hit me hard. I get the feeling that it’s not actually a joke, and it stings. I know this past year has been hard on our friendship, what with me running off all of the time to do things for the demon, but it hadn’t dawned on me how strained our friendship has become until now. Melissa taps the notebook. “Pick one and I’ll have it finished by this evening. The party is at six o’clock sharp and we’re not going to be late.”

  I don’t want to go to whatever this is, but Melissa’s dresses are really cool, and anyhow, I’ve blown her off enough for a lifetime, thanks to my now-defunct demon contract. “Fine. The black and purple one.”

  “Predictable, but it’ll look nice on you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Cam texts me. They’re driving back up from Portland this morning. Mr. Collins, the Debate Club teacher, will drop him off downtown in about ten minutes. I tell him where we are and he says he’ll meet us for coffee. “Need caffeine,” he texts. According to his social media feed last night, David, the guy he shared a room with, snores. Loudly.

  “Cam’s meeting us.”

  “Think I can get him to come to the tea party?”

  “Not if you’re going to try to dress him like the Mad Hatter,” I say.

  Melissa smiles. “He’d look great in Victorian wear.”

  “Maybe.” It’s not actually too hard to picture Cam in a top hat and riding jacket. “But you’ll never convince him. Besides, I think Amy’s sister is throwing some big party tonight.”

  “Figures,” she says. Her tone is wistful. She daintily sips at her tea.

  Cam comes in, waves, and stands at the counter. He arrives at the table moments later with a coffee mug and a plate of mini-donuts. “Starving,” he says, popping one in his mouth.

  “What, didn’t they feed you?”

  He rolls his eyes. “Mr. Collins wanted to make good time and, apparently, taking five minutes to hit a drive-thru would have ruined that. You try arguing with the Debate teacher.”

  I steal one of his donuts. Cam playfully tries to slap at my hand. I stick my tongue out at him. I’m biting into the sugary dough when the door opens with a little ding from a bell and the room temperature drops a few degrees. I know it’s Xanan before I look. I close my eyes and count to three and open them again. The room is still cold and his presence is still there.

  Melissa is telling Cam about the tea party and showing him photos of the dress she’s making me wear. Cam is saying something about how hot I’ll look, and normally, I’d kick him under the table or smack him in the shoulder. When I don’t, he looks at me, his smile fading.

  “Are you okay?” Cam asks.

  “Nicolette,” Xanan says. He pulls up a chair from the table next to us and sits in it backwards. He’s wearing a black sweatshirt and black denim again, his lip ring gleaming as it catches the sunlight filtering in through the window.

  “Xanan,” I say, imitating his tone.

  Cam gives me a questioning look and Melissa smiles at the newcomer. She puts out her hand and opens her mouth to speak, but Xanan keeps his blue eyes fixed on me and she eventually drops her hand into her lap, looking miffed. She’s not used to being ignored, but I’m glad a demon isn’t paying close attention to her.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt.”

  “I doubt that,” I say. “Why are you here?”

  “I know Azmos terminated your contract, but he seems to have vanished. Have you seen him recently?”

  Cam stiffens and furrows his brow.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, tilting my head toward Melissa as surreptitiously as I can manage, which I’m sure is about as subtle as waving a flag and blowing a whistle in her direction.

  Xanan looks at Melissa, then at Cam, and waves a hand dismissively. “This is urgent. There’s no time for discretion. Have you seen him?”

  “No. Not since last week.”

  “The day he broke your contract.”

  “Yes,” I say, wishing he would stop saying that. “Why can’t you find him? Don’t you guys have”—I start to say “some kind of demon link” but stop myself because Melissa is here—“methods of tracking each other?”

  “Something is preventing me from locating him.” His fingers tap on the back of the chair. I shiver and pull my sweatshirt on. He pulls a black card out of his pocket and hands it to me. My fingers brush his and they’re like ice. On the card is only a phone number printed in white. “If you see him or hear from him, call me.” Xanan stands and swings the chair back where he found it. “Got that?”

  “Yes, I’ve got it,” I say. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “No. But people do idiotic things all the time.” With that, he leaves. As soon as the door closes behind him, heat fills the air again, vanquishing the cold.

  Cam doesn’t hesitate, even though Mel is right there. “He terminated your contract?”

  “Sort of. It’s complicated.”

  “I bet. Let me guess. You’re no longer his errand girl, which is why he hasn’t been around.”

  “I guess so.”

  “You guess? You don’t know? Because that’s the sort of thing even you would think to clarify.” His voice has gotten too loud and the barista is staring at us. Cam takes a big breath and lowers his voice. “Well?”

  “He fired me last week,” I admit. “What do you mean, ‘even me?’”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Fired you? When did you get a job?” Melissa demands. She’s frowning, but Cam is fuming, so I turn back to him.

  “I meant to, but—”

  “But what?” He stares at me, his green eyes blazing.

  “I—“ I reach for an explanation that will make sense. To explain that I wanted to, but I wasn’t ready to make it official. And even as I think it, I know it’s not a good excuse. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah. You should be.” Cam stands. “I’m the person you don’t lie to, remember?” The words hit me with the force of a slap. He walks to the door. He pushes it open and hesitates, making a frustrated sound. But then he leaves, the cheery dinging of the bell signaling his departure.

  I feel raw. My insides feel like ground meat and my throat feels dry. I want to close my eyes and tr
ansport myself home to my bedroom, or better yet, go back in time and fix it.

  “Are you all right?” Melissa asks. Her voice is soft, her brown eyes wide and sympathetic. But there’s an edge to it, too.

  “Great,” I say. “Peachy.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d like to fill me in on what’s happening.”

  “You don’t want to know,” I say, and her frown deepens. “I’ll tell you everything if you want. But you’re not going to believe it. And then you’ll hate me, too.”

  She considers. “It didn’t sound like that was about disbelief,” she finally says. “It sounds like you lied to him.”

  “Omitted information. But I guess it’s all the same.”

  “It’s hurtful, either way.” I know she’s talking about her. About us. About all of the secrets I’ve kept. “Are you on drugs?”

  “No, god. I’m not on drugs.” The question shouldn’t surprise me, because thinking back on it, it’s the most logical conclusion, what with the mysterious people showing up and my tendency to disappear at odd times. But it does surprise me, because I hadn’t even considered it might look that way.

  Melissa’s hard look makes it clear she doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame her. If our positions were reversed, I’d probably be in the middle of planning an intervention. It doesn’t matter how many horror movies you watch, a drug problem will always seem more likely than a demon problem. I toy with the idea of admitting to a drug problem as a cover, but immediately dismiss it. Too many complications could arise, like Melissa telling my dad and actually staging an intervention.

  “It’s not drugs,” I assert. “But I meant it. You won’t believe the truth.”

  “We’ve been friends since preschool. Why can’t you trust me?” Her eyes glisten. My stomach does flip-flops around the guilt that radiates through me. I almost wish she was mad, because seeing her hurt—seeing how I’ve hurt her—is worse.

  “Fine. I’ll spill. Let’s walk.”

  We walk up Capitol Hill and all the way to Volunteer Park. By the time we reach the empty koi ponds in front of the Asian Art Museum, I’ve told her the whole story. The hazy memories of Azmos after the accident, the way I thought I’d dreamt him up while on hospital drugs. How he turned up on my sixteenth birthday with a contract and a delivery. I tell her about the more colorful errands—the woman who chased me with a knife, the man who tried to sic his dog on me, Heather Bancroft’s salt-and-holy-water defense system. I explain how I was fired and how oddly crappy it makes me feel. She listens. She doesn’t ask questions. She hardly reacts. But I know what she’s thinking. That it sounds like the plot of one of those anime shows she’s always watching.

  “So,” I finish. “I bet you think I’m totally mental.”

  “It is a little hard to swallow,” Melissa says slowly. “You’re saying that hot guy at the coffee shop was a demon?”

  “He’s not hot.” Of course, from her perspective, Xanan is totally her type: Aloof and goth. I thank my lucky stars he doesn’t seem to have any interest in people and barely looked at her. I don’t want her getting mixed up with demons, whether she believes in them or not. Besides, Xanan creeps me out. “And, yes, he’s a demon, which means he’s not good date material. Only, Azmos said they’re not demons the way we think of them. It’s just the best word.”

  “Right. I’m sure this ‘demon’ friend of yours is completely trustworthy.”

  “He wouldn’t lie about that.”

  Melissa quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what demons do?”

  “Not Azmos. It’s complicated. He’s not a bad guy.”

  “Look, Nicki, this is a lot to take.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say, mostly under my breath.

  There’s a very long gap in our conversation. I stare at the waterless rock bed where koi used to swim. Melissa picks at a loose thread in the hem of her skirt. Finally, she speaks quietly, without looking up. “You really believe this? That a demon visits you?”

  The disappointment hits hard. I knew she wouldn’t believe it. It’s why I haven’t told her yet. Cam is practical. He believes when there’s evidence. But I have no evidence to present to Mel right now, and even if I did, I strongly suspect she’d still think I was making it up or exaggerating or something.

  “I know he does. Or did. Like Xanan said, he ended the contract.”

  Melissa chews her lip, which she never does consciously, because it ruins her lipstick.

  “You don’t have to say anything. I know how it sounds, okay?”

  She shakes her head and the mint green ribbons in her hair bounce around. “It sounds like you’re overwhelmed and stressed out and involved in something complex. You should go home and get some rest, okay? I’ll talk to you on Monday.”

  “What about the tea thing?”

  “I think maybe that’s a bad idea.”

  For some reason, the fact that I’m now un-invited to the tea party I didn’t want to attend in the first place feels like the biggest blow. I knew she wouldn’t believe me, but it still stings. “Yeah. Okay.”

  She starts to hug me and stops and then gives me a pained look. Then she heads back down the hill toward the coffee shop and her car. I sit and replay the conversation, wondering how insane it sounded. I have no idea what she thinks I’m mixed up in—I’d bet money the drugs theory is still high on her list—but clearly telling her the truth was a mistake.

  I fight back tears as I walk toward my apartment. People always say the truth will set you free, but they don’t mention the part about how much that freedom might cost. In this case, it might have cost me my best friend.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The black envelope sits in the center of my bed on my faded purple bedspread. I watch it like it might suddenly speak or grow legs and do a dance. Or at least explain why Azmos made my deal at all. Why was he there when the car crashed? Why did he save me of all the people who probably died that day? Why am I, as he put it, an “exception,” and an exception to what?

  After hours of debating whether or not I should make the first move or let him do it, I text Cam a short apology. It’s already six o’clock, so no doubt Mel is at her tea party, and Cam is probably on his way to Amy’s sister’s booze-filled bash. It’s probably a good thing my dad is home and watching television in the living room. If I were alone, I might be tempted to steal one of his beers.

  Thinking hurts. The gaping chasm in my stomach throbs like a physical wound.

  The dreary, violin-backed music I play on my iPod swirls around me. I turn off the overhead light so my room is illuminated only by the white and red Christmas lights I’ve hung up near the ceiling. At least I can set the mood for my misery. I sit against my headboard and stare at the envelope some more.

  The singer on my stereo belts a lyric about being left alone. I check my phone. There’s nothing from Cam or Melissa or anyone else. I toss it aside and pull my knees up to my chest.

  Cam has every right to be mad, which only makes me feel worse. I let him think I was still in danger when the danger had passed. Why didn’t I just tell him? Because I didn’t want to say it and make it real. I didn’t even want to believe it. And I really didn’t think I could take seeing his elation in the face of my misery about the whole thing. But it’s more than that.

  I stare at my name in swirly, silver letters on the black envelope. It wasn’t merely shock and disbelief that kept me from wanting to move on; it was fear. I’m scared of being nothing. Of being unimportant and left behind. Of having no purpose. If nothing else, working for Azmos gave me meaning. And it gave me a place outside the normal rat race, which I never had any aptitude for anyway. I was a square peg who finally found somewhere I fit.

  I liked having a secret identity, a secret purpose. I could fail my math test and know that, even though I wasn’t cut out for Mathletes, I could be somebody.

  There were times the job was a hassle, sure, but it connected me to a world most people will never know exists. Azmos may have anno
yed me when he had a job for me at a bad time, but if I’m honest, I never wanted him to stop showing up completely.

  I remember why Xanan came to the coffee shop in the first place: Azmos is missing. Not just from my life, but entirely. The thought scares me more than Cam being mad at me or Mel thinking I’ve completely lost my marbles. How does a demon disappear?

  Maybe he wanted to, I tell myself. Maybe he’s moved on. Maybe that’s why I was fired, and whatever he said about having issues with contractees isn’t really important.

  Not for the first time, I look up demons and demonic deals on my laptop, but all I get are hits for fictional television shows, legends about crossroad demons, and a lot of stuff about Faust. Dad calls me for dinner. I close the computer and try to act like I’m not falling apart.

  For a girl whose life has literally revolved around demons, I am not prepared for the hell that is school on Monday. Against my better judgment, I sent Cam four more texts on Sunday. I know it’s a no-no to keep bombarding him with text messages when he’s not replying, but it was like I couldn’t stop myself from hitting “send.” He’s never ignored me for this long and I don’t know how to handle it.

  Ironically, no force on the planet could make me text Mel, even though I should have, if only to assure her I was sitting in my room doing homework and reading comic books, not strung out on whatever drug she thinks I’m using.

  Cam is my usual ride to school, except on Wednesdays when he as a Zero Period tutoring appointment—he’s the tutor—and it doesn’t even occur to me to make other plans until seven o’clock in the morning. Dad is sound asleep and I have no cash to pay a cab, so I end up walking. It’s not a hard walk, but if I wanted to make it before first bell at seven-ten, I needed to leave earlier.

  By the time I get there, check into the tardy office, and get my tardy slip, first period is nearly over. Instead of walking in at the end of the class, I hide in the girl’s bathroom until the bell rings. I’m about to leave the stall when the bathroom door swings open and I hear Amy’s familiar Southern voice saying how great the weekend was. I hesitate.