by Eliza Nolan
Failure is not an option. My eyes fall to my feet.
“We won’t need elephants.” I reach down for the jumbo shaker of salt. “I’ll be right back.”
The cold stings my cheeks as I trudge through the snow around the car and trailer, shaking salt in front of each of the tires, one by one, saying a little prayer to the god of snow-covered roads, then pop back into the car, putting the container on the floor once more. Eva is still paralyzed with the horror that she’s ruined our getaway, so I press the four-wheel-drive button for her and guide her leg towards the gas again.
She snaps out of it, shaking her head. “I’ve got it.” She shoos me away.
“Easy now. Don’t slam on the gas,” I say calmly.
“Why don’t you just drive?” she yips.
“Eva!” I say. “Cops.” I point back towards our house. “We can argue later.”
She eases her foot onto the gas and the car rolls out through the intersection. We both sigh at the same time and share a nod of solidarity.
On the next block, a man dressed head-to-toe in winter spandex jogs down the sidewalk ahead of us. I hold my breath as we pass, praying that we don’t know him. He looks up and waves, and I sigh as I wave back at the stranger. We have to get out of this neighborhood and on the road before someone we know see us.
Luckily, our neighborhood is residential and quiet during the work week. There’s hardly anyone on the roads, and we drive several more blocks in four-wheel drive without stopping at stop signs. Finally we turn onto a freshly plowed street and head towards the freeway.
My phone vibrates in my pocket and I dig it out. A wave of intense joy and relief floods through me.
“It’s Mom!” I squeal and grip Eva’s arm.
Eva’s brow presses together, and then she swipes my phone from my hands before I have a chance to answer it.
“Wait,” I say. “It’s Mom!”
“It’s not.” She cracks the driver’s side window and shoves the phone out, pushing me back with one hand as I dive over her lap.
“Yes, it is. Stop!” I yell. Not only is she throwing away a phone call from Mom, but I have all my contacts and my music in there. All my photos.
She somehow grips both my hands in one of her own and continues driving, eyes on the road.
I struggle against her. She shouldn’t be allowed to use her martial arts skills against me. It’s not fair.
“Don’t,” she says. “Will you stop?” She glances across with a look so severe it’s almost parental. I shrink back, but immediately want to take it back. Who put her in charge? I glare at her.
She sighs. “That wasn’t Mom.”
“But maybe she has her phone with her…wherever she is. We have no way of knowing how any of this works. Maybe the demon world has cell service.” Or maybe this is all just a bad dream and our parents are fine.
“Her phone is back at the house. It started ringing just as the police arrived. It’s probably the police using her phone to locate us.”
My shoulders fall, but I cross my arms. “That doesn’t give you the right to throw away my phone!”
“Grace,” Eva says, her voice trying to be calm—though her face is red as if she’s exasperated. “I had to get rid of mine too. They can trace us with our phones. We have to get new ones. And we have to be careful who we contact, at least until we get our parents back.”
She’s way over-thinking this. Paranoid much? I huff out a breath—she’s probably right though.
I switch on the radio and find the one pop station I can tolerate.
Eva groans in exaggerated protest, but then smiles and we both bob our heads to the beat.
I reach into the mass of bags in the back seat, fishing around until I find what I want. I open another one of my chocolate chip protein bars, curl up in the front seat, and take a bite.
5
Eva
I put the gas nozzle in the car’s tank and open my new phone as I wait for Grace to pay and the attendant to credit our pump. We got the phones a few towns back; they were cheap, and thus the operating system sucks. I resist the temptation to download apps and log into all my social networks, and instead open the browser and search the news back home.
We’ve only been on the road—and on the run—for five hours, but already the news story has been updated. There’s a photo of Grace now, and me further down. They’ve found pictures of our parents too. Jenna’s name is mentioned in the article. She must have talked to the police. But, our family’s only people of interest in a possible incident. They’re not exactly clear on what happened, which bumps our story to local news, and not even the top local news. The serial arsonist struck yet again—this time at an abandoned factory south of town—and appears to be dominating regional news. It’s a relief to not be anywhere near the top of the news. I feel bad that I’m thankful for the serial arsonist, but at least nobody was killed—not this time anyway.
Still, having our photos in the news is super not good. I scan the nearby gas pumps. One guy has his back to us, another guy swears under his breath as he repeatedly swipes his credit card. Nobody even notices us. I can’t help worry at how large and obvious our white retro camper with the red racing stripe is. It’s a blessing it isn’t mentioned in the article, but the police could still be looking for it.
Grace’s head pops up over my shoulder.
“Anything good?”
“Luckily, the arson guy is stealing our spotlight. But Jenna’s been talking to people. They have our photos.”
I angle the phone towards Grace, and she tosses her hair back over a shoulder as she crouches closer to take a look. She frowns. “They could have at least found better photos of us.” She sighs. “Jenna. I should have called her. I guess we know why the police were at our house.”
I want to say I told you so—because I totally saved us. If we hadn’t been getting ready and on our way out when they arrived, we’d probably have been scooped up by the cops. But I don’t say I told you so. Grace has been through enough without having me rub her nose in this. And it is kinda partially my fault. God, I never thought I would see the day I’d feel bad enough for Grace that I would hold off on teasing her. It makes our situation even more real somehow.
The gas flowing into our car clicks off, and I return the nozzle to the pump.
“You okay to drive, still?” Her eyes are glossy and hopeful. A plastic bag filled with colorful labels of junk food dangles from her fingers. She finished off the last of the Christmas cookies and protein bars in record time. The way she’s been inhaling sugar isn’t like her, and it’s scaring me, but I’m not going to question the one thing that seems to ease her stress in all this.
I nod, and we pile into the SUV. I toss my coat in the back. We’ve made it far enough south that there’s still a chill in the air but the snow’s almost gone. I should be excited to go to Florida in the middle of the freezing winter, but I can’t get excited. Not in a good way, anyways. My stomach is tied up in knots. I turn on the car and try not to think about what’s next. Avoiding the police, the search for Mom’s friends, or the search for Mom and Dad—the struggle to find out what Grace really is. Do I need to be afraid for her? Do I need to be afraid of her? Because I think I am. Both. I’m not sure my stomach can take it, which is why I’ve hardly had anything to eat all day. But Grace has checked out once more, a bag of some sort of red-hot gummy candy open in her lap.
Just as we drive through the last intersection before the entrance ramp, I spot woman in a long, black skirt with curly, red hair, pulled back in pigtails. She’s about our age, standing on the side of the road holding a sign: “Florida or Bust.” On a whim I pull the car over, not sure exactly what I’m doing.
Grace snaps out of her haze. “What are you doing?”
“She’s going the same way we are,” I say. And maybe she can fight demons or something, I think. Because, just in case.
Grace wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Picking up hitchhikers is illegal.” She reaches
out to press my knee down on the gas, but I slap her hand away.
“Stop doing that,” I say. “We’re on the run from the police, and you’re worried about picking up a hitchhiker?”
“Don’t stop,” she orders. “We don’t know who she is. She could be some creepy, axe-murdery chick.”
I relent and continue on down the entrance ramp.
“That only happens in the movies, and even then, they’re always guys,” I say.
“Oh, so now movies don’t mimic real life? Whatever, you don’t know who she is.”
I frown, but she’s right. “I guess. The serial arsonist is still at large.”
“See,” she says. “I probably just saved us from a fiery death. She was going to burn us alive in our car. You’re welcome.” She pops another red gummy in her mouth as if to cut off any further argument.
I glance at the nearly empty bag on her lap. When had she started eating so much?
∞∞∞
A semi rumbles down the roadway just beyond the trees. The cool night air is heavy with dew. It wants to rain. My body buzzes from driving all day, and I fumble through the keys on Mom’s keyring in the dim streetlight of the rest-stop parking lot.
“Hurry up!” Grace whines. Ever since I turned the radio off a few hours ago—because I was getting a headache—she hasn’t stopped pushing my buttons. I’m trying to be kind to her, but she’s not making it easy.
“Just give me a second,” I grumble. I’ve hit the exhaustion wall. My legs hurt, my back aches, and I want to sleep. But first we have to get the trailer open, and Mom’s keyring is thick with keys. So thick, Dad would jokingly call them “The Warden’s Keys.” Of course we’d all laugh, including Mom.
Mom and Dad...
I wipe a tear from my cheek. God, I miss them. I keep seeing the last moment, before Inanna stole them away. Dad looked so lost, like he would have done anything to change what was happening, but he had absolutely no control over it. Mom will look out for him—wherever they are now.
Across the dark parking lot, a woman scolds her child as she scoots him from the back seat of their car and into the rest stop bathrooms. The brick building is lit up with streetlights, a solitary building, and the rest of the lot is surrounded by trees. I finally locate the small, copper key with a round head and startle, holding it up to the light where we can both see it. There’s a faded geometric design carved into the top, a simple, sloppy engraving done by someone with a shaky hand. It’s always been there, but I’d never paid it much attention.
Only now I recognize it, and I dig out the necklace Mom left for me. “It’s the same design we have on our jewelry. I knew I’d seen it somewhere.”
Grace holds up her ring with the same symbol. Is it some sort of family crest? Or maybe Mom’s trying to protect the trailer as well?
I yawn. We can worry about what Mom’s symbol means later. I slip the key in the lock and open the door, then reach around the side and switch on the overhead light. My shoulders wilt as we stand at the entrance.
Grace recoils. “This place is a disaster.”
Normally I don’t share her aversion to messes, but several boxes have been upended, and papers and books are strewn across the floor. We hadn’t had time to secure anything before we left, and I’m regretting that now. The couch is also covered in papers and bags of who knows what Mom’s been keeping in here. The table and small kitchen are the same. It’s like a miniature tornado has torn through the place. Complete chaos.
Grace climbs up the first step and toes a few books to one side to make a path, and then ventures inside, immediately getting to work on sorting and organizing things as she clears off the sofa.
I climb in after her, hop over a pile on the floor to the table, and slide into one of the seats. I drop my head on my folded arms and wonder if I might actually be able to sleep at the table.
The polite thing to do would be to help Grace clean up the mess, but I know her. She’s my sister after all. Cleaning is something she finds therapeutic. How can I possibly rob her of her joy?
My feet throb in my boots under the table, but I don’t want to expend the energy to untie them, and I definitely don’t have it in me to help.
Grace rescues an empty box from the floor and begins stacking books inside. She’s still wearing her yoga pants and baggy sweatshirt, with her hair back in a lumpy ponytail. Normally she wouldn’t leave the house in this state, but I remind myself she was in the middle of a mini-spa day when we left. She’s not wearing any makeup either—a rare sight for her to be out without at least a touch of eyeliner and lipstick. Now she’s so pale. There’s a touch of crusty goop on the side of her face near her ear. Probably left over from her mask this morning. Her eyes are tired and look a bit sad, but all in all she still looks like Grace. My sister.
“Stop staring at me like I’m about to grow horns or something,” she grumbles.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She glares at me as she picks up a full box of books and puts it on the kitchen counter, then finds another box, turns her back to me, and begins loading it up.
She looks so innocent. She’s my big sister; a jerk at times—well, most of the time, lately—but she’s family, and if I have to admit it, I love her. But do I still know her? Could she grow horns again? I know who she was. She was mean to me sometimes, but otherwise wouldn’t hurt a soul. The Grace I know…is she still that Grace? What does it even mean to be a demon? Could she turn into something else and attack me? No. Last night, even with her pitch-black eyes and bloody horns, she’d cowered and sobbed—terrified.
My eyes dance around the tiny camper. The blue-flowered curtains have been drawn across the windows which wrap around the front and one side. The flower color matches the blue theme of the place: blue pleather seats, blue accented table, blue shelves. Even the pull-out couch is white with blue accents. And the place is so small. The tiny vinyl patch of floor between me and Grace—my own personal sister-demon—is hardly anything.
The necklace Mom and Dad gave me feels hot underneath my shirt. I pull it out. A black crystal wrapped in simple wire, and a silver pentagram in a circle with Mom’s symbol etched on the other side. The whole thing looks like something you would pay way too much for at an art fair from some lady who knows way too much about crystal magic. It’s warm to the touch. Warmer than me. I almost expect it to glow or something, but it doesn’t. Did they give this to me for protection? And if so, is it supposed to protect me from Grace? Mom was prepared enough to have these necklaces made for us. Maybe she didn’t want us to know, maybe she was hoping this day would never come, but why didn’t she at least leave us a note, or a hint on where to start?
Mom has so many books in this trailer. One of them must have answers, but between driving, packing, and catching a few zees last night, I haven’t had time to crack a spine. “If you see any books that look helpful, will you set them aside?”
Grace leers at me from where she squats on the floor, a book in one hand. “Do you really think now is the time to inventory Mom’s books?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Don’t you have questions? Don’t you want answers?”
She shoves the book she’s holding into a box, and then picks up another slamming it in next to the first book. “You know I don’t like to read non-fiction.” Her jaw tenses and her cheeks turn red as she continues to forcefully box books.
Oh God. I bury my face in my arms as a wave of guilt washes over me. Of course—she doesn’t want to know. Why didn’t I see it before? She’s had all this time while I’ve been driving to wonder, to search the internet, to dig through the stuff we brought with. All this time I’ve been driving, and she hasn’t even opened a web browser to search the term “demon.” I hadn’t even noticed until now. She’s in denial. Of course she is. That’s why we’ve hardly talked about it.
I peer over my arm at her again, my poor sister, terrified of the truth and of what she might learn about who she is—what she is.
“If yo
u’re not going to help me with this mess, would you at least grab the sleeping bags out of the car,” Grace says, brutally shoving more books in her box.
“Sure.” I venture across to the door and let myself out.
I crawl in the back seat of the car and dig out the sleeping bags. I also find the bag Fiona gave me with her encyclopedia of the occult. If Grace is too scared to learn about this stuff, it’s up to me to make sense of it all. An encyclopedia of the occult sounds like a good enough place to start—if I can keep my eyes open. I back out of the car and gasp, fumbling, and then dropping the sleeping bags. A solitary guy in a parka sits on a park bench underneath a streetlight across the lot. The woman and child who came to use the restroom are gone, and ours is the only vehicle here. Where did he come from?
The guy is several yards away, and he doesn’t look menacing—maybe it’s his crooked, wire-rimmed glasses, or the fact he’s so thin. I could probably take him without breaking a sweat, but he’s facing me, looking at our car as if he’s contemplating something. This is why Mom and Dad let me train in Krav Maga, martial arts classes with Fiona. But I wish I’d trained harder. I wish I’d trained longer. At least I have the basics down, and this guy looks like he’s never fought a day in his life. I let out a small giggle. My God, I’ve become so paranoid that I’m fighting this guy in my imagination. A guy who never would have worried me before.
I shrug on Fiona’s occult backpack and scoop up the sleeping bags from the ground, all while keeping the guy in my peripheral. Because it’s better not to underestimate your opponent—if that’s what he is.
I slam the car door, a sleeping bag under each arm. He makes eye contact with me and nods. I nod back and scurry to the camper, climb inside, and scramble to lock the door, thanking the gods Mom had the good sense to reinforce the trailer. She must have really cared a lot about all the research in here; not only is the door lined with locks, but she’s reinforced the door hinges too. After locking the fiftieth lock, I turn to Grace. She’s finished clearing off the floor of the hallway that leads back to the small bedroom, and now organizes the papers and books covering the table.