Demon High (3 page)

I didn’t bother correcting her. You didn’t have to gossip to know what Brittany did. It was just one of those things you knew, like knowing that having a back-to-school wardrobe compliments of Goodwill wasn’t going to get you nominated for homecoming queen.

I shoved my hands deeper into my hoodie’s pockets and shrugged.

She twisted her mouth to the side. “Is it true?”

I blinked. “What?”

“Are you a witch?” She sidled closer and leaned against a nearby tree.

The question surprised me. Witches had power. Witches, if they existed, wouldn’t try and blend into the background. “Is that what people think?” I asked.

She wrinkled her nose. It was cute. The kind of affectation that sucked adults in and got Brittany what she wanted. “Not really. Just talk. People’ve always said it—about your mother too.”

I was shocked, but a ghost of a smile curved my lips too. I’d never realized people talked about me at all.

“Your mother—” I started.

She waved her hand. “Not her. She never talks about your family. I think my father warned her.” She slid onto the rock next to me. I didn’t move to make room for her; I made her perch on one corner. “They had a fight once, a long time ago. I heard your mother’s name mentioned. It was around then we stopped coming over.”

“I thought it was because my mother left.” I never said
disappeared
to anyone, not even Nana. It was one of our little pretenses, that my mother had packed her bags and left.

“It was around then, I think. I don’t remember. Anyway, I just wondered. You don’t look like a witch, but most of us don’t look like what we are.”

It was a strange statement. I thought most people looked exactly like what they were. Certainly Brittany. No, she didn’t look like a black marketer, but she looked cute, rich and popular. And all of those things were true.

We sat for a second, both staring up toward the school. Me feeling awkward and mulling over what to say next. I don’t know what Brittany was thinking. She seemed a little sad suddenly.

Someone opened a window and tossed something out. It disappeared into the long grass.

Brittany laughed. “He’s such a dolt. He’s going to get caught.”

Glad she had broken the silence, I glanced at her. “Who?”

She laughed again. “You
don’t
gossip, do you? Shane Bollock. He’s buying ‘roids from some townie. Good lord knows where that loser gets them. Shane throws the cash out the window and the other guy picks it up. He should be by soon.”

“Shane use steroids?” It surprised me she would say something like that. Shane was huge, and strong. I think he was undefeated last year, but he was also “the” boy in our class. Good looking and smart. I’d never had the courage to talk to him myself; just being around him made my stomach flutter.

“Pokes himself in the ass.” She nodded toward the school. “See.”

A skinny guy wearing a feed cap and torn jeans shuffled along the side of the building. At the spot where the bag had fallen, he bent over. When he stood, his gaze went straight to us.

Brittany gave him a little finger wave, and then blew him a kiss. “Scum,” she muttered. She twisted her body toward me. “I don’t deal in drugs. You know that, right?”

It seemed important to her that I agree, so I nodded. I really had no idea what Brittany did or didn’t deal in. Besides I was still caught up in her revelation about Shane.

I felt her gaze on me.

I kept mine low so the man wouldn’t see me watching. “It doesn’t worry you that he saw us?” I’d never seen a drug dealer before, but I assumed they wouldn’t like being recognized.

She snorted.

When I looked back, the man had shoved the bag in his pocket and was high-tailing it around the corner of the building.

“He’ll slip one of those magnetic boxes with the steroids in it into the tire well of Shane’s car. Shane must have about a hundred of those boxes by now.” She shook her head. Then as if suddenly remembering my question she sat straighter. “Why, you aren’t worried are you? I thought you were a witch.” She arched one brow. I wasn’t sure if she was mocking me or not.

“I’m not a witch. Living in an old house and wearing old clothes—”

“Vintage,” she interrupted.

I checked to make sure she wasn’t poking fun at me and my hand-me-down wardrobe. She raised her brows as if daring me to question her. Still unsure, I continued, “Does not make someone a witch.”

“How about calling demons? Does that make someone a witch?”

She had me there. I wasn’t sure how to answer. Mum hadn’t been a witch, at least I’d never seen her do anything witchy—except the whole demon thing. I frowned. “What makes someone a witch?” I asked.

She let out a short laugh. “You’re asking me? Closest thing I’ve ever been to witchcraft was being forced to watch that awful movie with my mother. You know the one where the main character wiggles her nose?”

I hadn’t seen it, but I’d also never seen my mother’s nose so much as twitch. “That doesn’t sound like Mum,” I replied.

Brittany snorted. “Of course not, it was a movie—a bad movie. Anyway…” She drew the word out. “Can you really do it?”

“Call demons?” Now that I had her interest, I was nervous. I hadn’t actually called a demon myself yet. Her laser-like gaze made me twist a little on the rock. As if she knew the truth of my inexperience.

“Yeah.” Her tone was verging on annoyed. I knew I was losing her.

I took a deep breath. I could do this. I put both hands flat on the rock beside me and twisted my body so I could stare her in the eyes. I tried to look confident. “What do you think someone would pay to see it? To see an actual demon?”

A line formed between her waxed brows and her eyes went distant. “Depends. Are we talking just seeing or will he do something? Will he grant wishes?”

“They aren’t genies.” Now I sounded annoyed. “They’re demons. You ask them for something, they’re going to want something in return.”

She tilted her head. “Sounds fair enough.”

I shook mine, hard. “No, it isn’t. Demons aren’t
fair
. They’re tricky and dangerous.” My adrenaline surged again, but this time it was pushed by the reality of what I was saying. I could feel blood rushing to my face. I pressed my hands harder against the rock. Suddenly my plan didn’t seem so smart.

“This isn’t a joke. If you’re going to treat it like one, the deal’s off.” I moved, ready to leave, ready to run away and recede back into the scenery of Caldera High.

“Did we have a deal?” She hopped off the rock blocking my retreat and crossed her arms over her chest. “Listen, before I can give you a price, I have to know what we’re selling. You aren’t giving me anything. I don’t even know if you really
can
call a demon.”

“I can.” My jaw tightened. She doubted me, but I knew I could call a demon. I just wasn’t sure if I could control one, once I got him or her to this plane.

“Okay, prove it. Tonight. I’ll pick you up at, what? Eleven? Give us an hour to get you set up?”

My lips parted. I’d thought she was going to tell me to forget it, but now that she’d agreed, I couldn’t back out. “It doesn’t have to be at midnight.” In fact according to Mum’s book it would be better if it wasn’t. The veil was thinnest then. A strong demon could use that. I wasn’t sure for what, but I didn’t think I wanted to find out.

I opened my mouth to tell Brittany as much, but she was already walking away.

“But it will be so much more fun,” she called and gave me the same finger wave she’d given the townie.

I let her go. She didn’t understand; she’d just think I was afraid, or hiding the fact that I couldn’t really do as I said.

So I’d call the demon at midnight. Everything would be fine. I’d be careful.

I’d be one step closer to saving my home.

As long as nothing reached through the veil and pulled me into theirs.

I spent the evening in my room perched on my twin bed and poring over Mum’s book. The initial tingle I had felt when I first took it out of the box hadn’t returned. I’d pretty much decided the sensation had just been in my head, from knowing what the volume contained. I didn’t remember any such feeling when I had first put the book in the box. Of course, I’d only been six at the time.

Whatever, the feeling was gone now, and any trepidation I’d felt had been replaced by curiosity. I propped the book on my lap and settled in for some educational reading.

The book shared a lot of theories on demons, where they came from and what they did. According to its author, whoever that was, some demons had always been one; they were made that way. By whom the book didn’t say. Others didn’t start out as evil; they might have been good, or just indifferent, but then something happened that made them fall. Examples included angels and old gods, beings that had had powers, but got tempted or angered and somehow transformed and not in a good way—at least from my perspective. The book seemed non-judgmental.

But what fascinated and disturbed me the most involved humans; we could become demons too. Selling your soul was one way. Nothing surprising there, except how dispassionately the author of the book seemed to view this decision, outlining ways to find a demon, and requests the seller might make. As if it was a business decision with payoffs for both parties.

But the second method was new to me and more disturbing, because it didn’t seem to be a matter of choice. It could occur when a person had gone through some kind of personal tragedy and given up on life. They were a shell of sorts, their soul still part of them, but empty. If a person died in this state, energy from the demon world could slip inside them and fill that void, making them a demon.

I’d never heard of it, but it made sense. It fit with churches banning people who had committed suicide from being buried on hallowed ground. If you were empty enough to kill yourself, perhaps you were empty enough for a demon to fill.

I let that thought soak in for a minute, then, with a shiver, continued flipping. The pages were thicker than normal. They felt heavy, almost sticky as I turned them. As if they were clinging to the pads of my fingers. I shook the disturbing idea off and kept going.

The following few pages were mainly pictures—rough pen and ink sketches of various demons. I ran my finger over each, searching. I wasn’t sure for what until I found myself pausing over a muscular demon with horns. Horned, but not the demon portrayed by the statue. These horns were straight and short, not curved and long—more like a kid goat’s than a ram’s.

I let out a breath. Not the demon in the basement.

My hand lifted to turn another page, but the ragged edge of old vellum stopped me. A page was missing. I could see where it had been torn out. I flipped forward then back. There was no doubt a page was gone. A page with more pictures, I guessed.

Wondering what had been ripped from the book and why, I hesitated. But whatever the page had contained, it had long ago disappeared, probably lost with my mother that night ten years in the past.

A light shone on my window. I dropped the old Scooby Doo pillow I’d been using as a lap desk and edged closer so I could peer out. Brittany stood on my front lawn, holding a Coleman lantern. She pointed it directly at me, blinding me. I blinked, cursed and considered tossing the heavy book I still held down on her head.

I’d told her I’d come down when I heard her car, that Nana slept like a log, but she’d insisted we be more clandestine. As a kindergartener, Brittany’d had a love for the dramatic. Apparently that hadn’t changed.

I slid the book under my mattress and grabbed a piece of paper I’d found tucked inside the book when I’d first opened it.

It was a note with two columns of what I assumed were demon names written in my mother’s handwriting. A third of the page had been torn off. Right at the tear I could see the bottom loop of a circle. As if Mum had made a list of demons then circled one, I assumed to call. I also assumed all the names on the list were demons she had considered. Which seemed a good starting point when selecting my own target demon.

I’d looked for all the names in the book and only found a couple. One was a trickster demon who liked to shift from goat to human to pig, then back again. Another cried blood. Neither appealed to me. Then I’d referenced my friend Google. Only one name showed up there, but I thought he was a winner—an old vaudeville star, Theodore Thornton. He’d hit the big time despite widely held opinions that he was a lazy hack. Rumors spread that he had sold his soul to Kobol, archangel of laughter turned demon. His name on my mother’s note seemed to confirm this.

If the rumors and note were right, he would be about as low a ranking demon as I could find and a good target for a first-time effort. Plus I knew his full name and was able to print off a picture of him. Those would both strengthen my call.

I shoved the note and the picture into my backpack. My hand hesitated over the book. I’d already memorized everything it had to say about the actual ceremony, and I really didn’t want Brittany to think I needed a crib sheet. I shoved the book under my pillow and headed into the hall.