Dancing With Demons

by Trudi Jaye

  Freddy shakes his head, his eyes black. “This isn’t voodoo. We don’t deal in demons. But someone else might. There’s all kind of idiots out there in the world who think they can control demons, or that it’s a good idea to make them gather.”

  “You don’t think it’s possible to control demons?” I ask quickly. Connor’s ideas for creating energy from demons is foremost in my mind.

  “Demons aren’t creatures you can reason with. They run on desire and emotion. They’re not… like people. They’re more like a plague. They infect the people they take over, and the only way to get rid of them is people like Blade here. Death merchants.”

  “I don’t appreciate being called a death merchant,” says Blade, his voice a growl. He doesn’t look in my direction.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s not entirely accurate anyway, because demons aren’t alive, exactly. And when they take over a super’s body, that person is already dead before Blade comes to finish the deal.”

  I go cold at his stark reminder of what it is that Blade does to supers who have been possessed by demons. I clutch at my glowing hand under the table, and try not to think about Blade stabbing me in the leg.

  “That’s enough. She doesn’t need to hear any more about that,” says Blade. “What else do you know about demons or chalices that might be helpful?”

  “Demons aren’t predictable. They can’t be reasoned with. They only care about themselves, and their own pleasure. The biggest reason for chalices dying in the past was losing control of their demons and being eaten alive by their own creatures. You need a heart of steel to be a chalice.”

  I don’t think I have a heart of steel. I could maybe make a heart of steel. I could be like Iron Man, with a false heart beating in front of my chest. Maybe I could weld protective armor into some kind of a shield. Does any of that count?

  “Is there anyone you know who might know more?”

  “Your family? You’ve always worked with demons. I would have thought you’d know more about the chalices.”

  Blade shrugs. “Maybe they were considered the competition? I don’t know. It’s before my time.”

  “What else?” I ask impatiently.

  Freddy takes a sip of his drink. “You’re not going to find the information you want around here. You’re going to have to go down south. The chalice line was from the Five Cities area. Pismo Beach I think.”

  “They were building a West Coast empire from Pismo Beach?”

  Freddy shrugs. “Maybe they liked the clams?”

  I shake my head. “There must be more to it than that. Perhaps there were some natural metal deposits nearby?”

  “Perhaps,” agrees Blade noncommittally.

  Freddy leans back. “Now that I’ve given you my information, I’d like information from you.”

  Blade just looks at him, waiting. I take a sip of my sugary confection filled with bubbles and smile hazily.

  “What’s happened to Damien Walker?” asks Freddy.

  I choke on my drink. “You know Damien?” I keep forgetting how small the supernatural world is.

  “Everyone knows Damien,” says Freddy with an amused shrug. “But he just up and disappeared on me not long ago.”

  “Official word is that Damien went rogue,” says Blade, his expression blank.

  “Bullshit,” says Freddy, echoing my thoughts exactly. “At least, not unless he had a good reason.”

  I squint at Freddy, trying to determine if he’s a friend of Damien’s, or if my old boss owes him money. He seems to be genuinely concerned.

  Blade nods carefully. “Something’s up. But I haven’t heard from him, so I don’t know any more than that.”

  “Damien wouldn’t go dark unless there was something wrong.”

  “I agree. I just don’t know what that something is.” Blade rolls his shoulders and drinks back the last of his beer. “How come you know him so well?”

  “He used to spend a bit of time here. Relaxing.” Freddy’s expression says it was more than that, but he’s not going to tell us.

  I take another sip of my drink, letting the smooth flavor glide down my throat. It tastes like strawberry flavored magic. I let out a sigh and let the magic flow through my body, closing my eyes for a moment. Then I remember that I’m supposed to be here for a reason. I open my eyes again and force myself to focus on the conversation.

  “Did he say anything to you when you saw him last?” Blade asks Freddy. “Was he acting strangely?”

  “No more than usual,” says Freddy. “He liked to keep people on their toes, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know,” says Blade with a rueful smile.

  “You believe this “gone rogue” story?” asks Freddy.

  Blade shakes his head. “Nope. I think there’s something seriously wrong at SIG headquarters.”

  I hiccup.

  24

  “Come back anytime. I’ll help where I can,” says Freddy, his charisma not in the least dimmed by being outside in the sunlight. We’re standing on the front steps of the country club, and he looks like he’s the king of his world. Perhaps he is.

  “Thanks,” says Blade, shaking his hand. “I just might take you up on that.”

  I nod at Freddy and give a wave, not sure that I can make it back to where he is for the handshake. I’m swaying a little, and the whole world is looking a little twirly-wurly.

  I blame the Strawberry Betty.

  “It was a delight to meet you, Hazel,” says Freddy with an amused smile. “I look forward to seeing you again.”

  The words seem slightly ominous, and I give him a wavering smile. I’m about to place a wobbly foot on the first step down toward the parking lot when Blade takes my arm. “You’re drunk,” he says, his voice a mix between grim and amused.

  “I do believe I am,” I say, aiming for haughty. Given that I’m pretty sure I’m slurring, it probably didn’t work. Blade is nice and warm, so I snuggle up to him as he walks me down the steps. I trip over my own feet a couple of times, and if he wasn’t there to hold me steady, I would’ve landed on my face. All I can smell is strawberries, and Blade’s unique scent of cedar, citrus and magic.

  We get to the bottom of the stairs, and I glance back up at Freddy. He’s standing at the top, his expression taut, his eyes back to being bottomless pools of darkness. He looks strange and otherworldly, and suddenly I can see why he’s the voodoo king.

  I shiver. “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” I ask Blade.

  “Freddy? I think he’s giving us one version of the truth. He’s got more layers than an onion, and he’s juggling more balls than a circus clown.”

  “I hope it wasn’t a mistake to mention the existence of a chalice to him,” I say, chewing on my lip. “He did promise to keep it between us.”

  “I’m sure he’ll do that for as long as it’s practical,” Blade says.

  “So maybe five minutes?” I mutter, wishing we’d never said anything to him. I’m starting to realize that the fewer people who know about me, the better. My stomach feels like it’s trying to take up a new career as a washing machine on spin cycle, and the world is looking a little less bright. It’s only my connection to Blade’s warmth that keeps me taking steps forward.

  He half carries me back to the truck and then helps me up into the cab, although I manage to stop him from doing up my seatbelt. “I can do it,” I insist, the words coming out heavy, like I’m speaking through cotton wool. But I’m still trying to put the seat belt into the annoyingly pesky clip when he gets in the other side and puts his own seat belt in.

  “Here, give that to me,” he says, pushing my hands out of the way. I briefly consider resisting and insisting that I can do it, but some vein of common sense is still hiding inside. I manage to sit still as he clicks the seat belt into place on the first try.

  “It’s one of those belts that only works for your fingerprints, right?” I say.

  “Sure,” he replies, his expression bland, but his
lips quirk up at one corner in amusement.

  I shake my head as we head out the driveway of the country club. “You’re such a secret squirrel. I thought I was good at keeping secrets, but you might just be my superior.”

  “What secrets do you keep, Hazel?”

  I touch my nose like I’m being super subtle. “That’s for me to know, and you to find out.” I hiccup and the taste of strawberries fills my senses.

  “Is it something to do with your family?” he asks. “I understand family issues. You can tell me about it if you like.”

  I lean back my head into the head rest and close my eyes. The aching heaviness that’s a constant in my life fills my chest. The fear of being caught and sent back to Ravenwood lingers in my consciousness at all times. “That would be nice,” I whisper. “To tell someone about it.”

  “You can you know. I wouldn’t tell anyone else.”

  “What if it was illegal?” The words slip out before I’ve even thought them through. I try not to show how afraid I am as I wait for his answer.

  “Is it illegal?”

  Everything inside me is telling me to run, to take it back, to tell him I was just kidding. Anything but to let him know anything more about me. “I asked you first,” I whisper, opening my eyes and staring at him.

  He’s quiet so long, I wonder if he’s going to even answer. He’s not looking worried or stressed out, he’s just… not answering me.

  “If you have to think that hard about it, I think the answer is no, I shouldn’t tell you,” I say. I’m starting to feel more sober again. The adrenaline provided by this conversation is pulling me out of the delightful haze.

  He shakes his head. “No, I’m considering the ramifications. I’m making sure I can keep my promise… if I make it.”

  “Then I’m definitely not telling you anything.” I make a motion like I’m zipping up my mouth, locking it, and throwing away the key. Okay, so maybe I’m still a little drunk.

  “Throwing the imaginary key away seems a little extreme, don’t you think?” says Blade. “You might want to talk about it again later.”

  I shake my head. Nope. I’m not telling him anything. If he needs to think about it, then his loyalties are divided. And I can’t risk him letting his detective buddy know that I’m an escaped mental patient, ripe for being incarcerated back in the loony bin.

  Not that I need to tell him anyway. I’m fine, I’ve always been fine. I’m a locked vault, a secret keeper extraordinaire. I don’t need to whisper my secrets to a best friend. I haven’t had a best friend since I was fifteen and watched a demon rip her apart. It’s just the alcohol talking, suggesting stupid ideas to me. I cross my arms over my chest and put my chin down. The faint smell of strawberries tickles my nose, and I rub it roughly before recrossing my arms.

  The rest of the drive is a quiet one. I think I might’ve even fallen asleep, because I jerk my eyes open when we go over a bump in the road and find we’re home. There’s a little drool on the side of my mouth, and I have to blink my eyes to get them focused. And my head now feels like it’s filled with cotton wool. Or maybe steel wool, the kind that scratches at you and rubs you raw.

  “I wasn’t snoring, was I?” I ask blearily, rubbing my eyes, which feel like they’re full of grit.

  “I shall neither confirm nor deny your snoring,” says Blade, now openly amused. He climbs down from the truck, just as I try to smack him on the leg. The seat belt slams into my front, keeping me in place and forcing me to sit back properly. My chest feels sore, and the sudden movement has made my head feel like my brain is bruised. I fiddle with the locking mechanism, finding it just as difficult to unlock and get myself out. Scowling, I dare the mechanism to try not to work for me a second time.

  This time, Blade stands well back from the truck, perhaps guessing that I’m still in the mood to smack him if he tries to unlock it. My fingers feel like sausages, and my brain is like a fog in the middle of a San Francisco summer. But eventually, after a bit of swearing, I manage to undo the clip.

  “They’re probably designed for men’s hands,” I mutter. “It’s a known fault in car design.”

  “Do you need any help climbing the stairs?” asks Blade, wisely ignoring my words.

  I glare at him as I head into the hallway. I put one hand on the rail of the stairwell and put all my energy into climbing the steps. I can do this, especially if he’s going to be smug about me being a little tipsy.

  I can hear him behind me as I climb the stairs. I keep myself focused on the next step, holding tightly onto the wooden railing for dear life. Despite being about as steady as a pensioner on a tightrope, I’m determined not to let him win. I’m not entirely sure what he’ll win if I don’t climb the stairs, but it seems very clear that he will.

  My breathing is labored and I’m struggling to lift my legs by the time I get to the last three steps, but I manage it. I let out a shout of victory, lift my hands into the air, and promptly trip over my own foot, falling backwards. My scream is cut short when I fall into something hard and solid behind me. Hands grasp me under my arms, and I’m suddenly aloft, up against Blade’s chest like I’m a cuddly newborn lamb.

  Instead of fighting him, like I probably should, I lean into him, my head nestling into the crook of his neck. I take a sniff, intoxicated all over again by the scent of cedar and citrus.

  “Where are your keys, Hazel?” he says softly into my ear.

  “In my purse.” I fumble inside it and manage to pull out the key. He holds me high, and puts it in the lock, pushing the door open all in one movement.

  Inside the apartment, the noise of cars zooming around on my PlayStation is the first indication that it’s after school hours, and Nelson is at my place again. I lean my head back on Blade’s shoulder, unable to even be upset about his continuing invasion of my privacy. It’s not like I get much of that anymore, with my constant SIG shadow.

  Blade carries me into the room and sets me down on the sofa.

  Nelson turns off the game. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, peering at me.

  “She’s drunk,” says Blade baldly.

  “I’m not drunk. I’m just a little tipsy,” I manage.

  “Oh. Well, I’m gonna go home.” He stands up and goes into the kitchen. “My mom baked you some cookies.” He’s holding out a plate of chocolate chip cookies, his expression eager. “I told her I’d eaten some of yours, and that you were annoyed.”

  Considering I never said anything to Nelson about being annoyed about the cookies he ate, this is high-level considerate from the kid. I don’t know what to say. He’s a good kid.

  “Um… thanks Nelson, that’s really sweet of you. Of her.” My demon is bouncing around in my stomach, and my eyes are aching. Having Nelson hanging out at my place never used to seem like a problem before, but now I know he’s in danger. If I’m the most powerful supernatural in the world, and if demons flock to my side, where does that leave a Nelson? Demon fodder, that’s where. My chest starts hurting. Does that mean I’m having a heart attack? I rub the ribs between my breasts, trying to ease the tightness. I don’t think my legs will actually carry me, so I don’t even try to stand up.

  Nelson doesn’t notice my sudden symptoms. Puts the plate of cookies down on a side table and heads to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. When you’re feeling better.”

  He shuts the door behind him, and I flop my head back into the softness of the couch and close my eyes. Nelson doesn’t know how to fight demons. He might be unusual, he might not blink at carrying a bloodied Blade into the apartment building, and be great at helping me fix up demon wounds, but what kind of defenses does he really have? My thoughts spin inside my head—blood and fear and terror warring for supremacy.

  “What if he gets hurt?” I whisper. “Just from being around me?”

  Blade crouches down in front of me. “I won’t let that happen. You forget, I’ve been fighting demons my whole life.”

  “Not like this. Not this many.”


  “Didn’t you hear what Freddy said? A chalice is the most powerful supernatural in the world. That’s you.”

  My chest feels tight, and suddenly I’m struggling to breathe. “It didn’t help my parents. Or Becca.”

  “You hadn’t developed your abilities. You hadn’t been taught anything about who you are. It’s not your fault they died, Hazel.”

  I open my eyes and look at him, searching his expressive green eyes for the truth. “You really think so?”

  “I know so.”

  25

  The next morning is like a blurry, pain-filled horror movie where I’m one of the main characters (maybe the teenage cheerleader who goes down to the basement?), and my death is quickly looming.

  Or maybe that’s just the hangover talking. It’s pounding through my head like a thousand nails are driving directly into my skull. So much for supernaturals having a higher tolerance for alcohol.

  Maybe it’s just jaguar shifters.

  I’m pushing a broom around the junk room at the lab for the third time, trying to concentrate on finishing the last of the cleanup from the break-in, despite feeling like I’m about to vomit. I’m eyeing up the wastepaper basket fondly. Every particle of my being just wants to curl up around it and go to sleep—once I’ve thrown up enough to stop feeling sick.

  Across the room, Blade is whistling as he cleans. No hangover at all, damn him. He’s being helpful, but his presence here is distracting me more than it should. I can feel his eyes on me every now and then, and I have to force myself not to look over. I’m unsettled and awkward, and it’s driving me nuts.

  The Professor texted to say he was sick, which I took as code for “too upset to come in.” I give the broom another unenthusiastic push. He’s not exactly a big help right now. It makes me wonder why I’m even attempting to keep Connor on our side, so he’ll still give us the grant. Habit, I guess.

  In the corner of the room is the device I’ve been trying to work on for Connor. He texted me early this morning to say he wanted to meet with me later today in the lab. I’m hoping that it’s because he’s happy to move on from what happened last night, and not because he wants to tell me he’s giving me up to the authorities.