The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) (15 page)

“And how does it work?” I ask. They both look at me, startled, as if they forgot I was there. We stop at the corner of a busy street. Xanan isn’t wearing a shirt in the middle of a frigid October evening. But people bustle by without so much as a glance back. Guess Azmos’ magic is still on.

“That is none of your business. As you said, you are no longer indebted to me,” Azmos says.

“Right,” I say. My heart slams into my ribs and I can feel the world shifting beneath me. Azmos and Xanan are going to walk away and never look back. They’re going to go on with their lives and demonic magic and I’m going to be left wondering about all of the things I don’t know. I’ll be stuck trying to live a normal life without staring into the shadows, looking for magic or demons, and that is the scariest thought in the world, even after everything.

I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to go on like none of this happened. I don’t want to. Now that I know these things exist, I can never be satisfied at some desk job, pretending that they don’t.

I open my mouth, not even sure what I’m going to say until the words come out: “About that. I don’t suppose you have another job opening?”

Xanan glares. “You’re human.” He says it like he means “cockroach.” I ignore him. He shakes his head and walks away, hopefully to find a shirt and an attitude adjustment.

“If nothing else, you owe me now,” I say. “And I think I’ve proven that I’m driven and determined. Give me a job. Any job.”

“Why on Earth do you want to be bound to the arcane world, Nicolette? You’re young and you have your entire life ahead of you. You should seek freedom, not obligation.” Azmos stares at me with his green-gold snake eyes.

“Because it’s the only thing I’m good at,” I say. But it’s more than that. It gives me purpose, meaning. I’ll never be a sports star or an academic prodigy like Cam. I’ll never be a creative fashion maven like Melissa. My life isn’t meant to be one of greatness. I’ll go to community college, get a job somewhere, and maybe start a blog about bad horror movies. I’ll be in the audience when Melissa has a major fashion show at New York Fashion Week, and I’ll be there when Cam passes his BAR exam or gets into medical school or whatever amazing thing he finally decides to do. But I’ll just be on the sidelines. None of that stuff is for me.

But this, working for Azmos. This isn’t just something I can do. It’s something I can excel at. It makes me special. And it’s something I actually want to learn about, the way I’ll never care about chemistry formulas or the dates of historical battles.

“I no longer require the services of a delivery girl,” he says.

My heart sinks. Fatigue and blood loss are catching up with me as the adrenaline wears off.

“But if you’re interested in a long-term commitment, I could use an assistant.”

“Really?” I perk up.

“Really.”

“Does it pay?” I ask, thinking of how much easier my life would be if I could buy a car.

“We can arrange something in the form of payment.”

He extends his hand and I shake it.

“Done,” I say.

He pulls one of the many rings from his right hand. It’s a thick, but blank, silver band. He closes his palm around it and whispers something in a language I don’t recognize. He opens his palm. An inscription has appeared inside the ring. He holds it out to me. The letters are oddly formed, like a mix of Arabic and Chinese and maybe even a little Elfish. “What’s it say?”

“It’s the demon word for ‘apprentice,’” Azmos says. “Pick a finger and put it on. It will adjust itself to fit.”

I’d put it on my ring finger, but I’m pretty sure Cam would pry it off. I put it on my left pinky, the same side as my scar, since I feel like it deserves decoration. The ring shrinks until it fits snuggly on my finger. A gust of wind blows down the street. It hits the damp shirt and sends chills down my spine. I zip up my coat to hide the wetness and the blood.

“I should go. I need to call my dad and get proper bandages.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Azmos says. He walks away.

I stop at a drug store for bandages and disinfectant, hoping the clerk doesn’t notice the blood caked under my nails as I dig out cash to pay for them.

Once I clean the wound, it’s obvious the dagger didn’t go far in. It barely made it past my skin and fat and probably held itself upright, defying gravity, by sheer luck. But it’s still a gaping wound about an inch-and-a-half long. Once I rewrap it, it stops bleeding through the dressing. It probably needs stitches. I cannot get stitches. I toy with the idea of going to the hospital and telling them I fell on a knife while cooking, but I suspect that’s the type of story they don’t believe. The type that leads to questions and investigations. I decide to see how it looks tomorrow, and if necessary, convince myself I can just sew myself up like someone on TV. I hope it doesn’t come to that.

I wash my face. There’s a big brown and purple bruise expanding on my chin, but there’s nothing I can do for it. That will lead to enough questions on its own, but at least I can say I walked into a glass door or something.

I call Dad and he changes my flight to one at ten the next morning. “I’m really sorry, kiddo,” he tells me. “I shouldn’t have left you alone like that.”

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “We’re both going through a lot.”

He sucks in a breath like he’s expecting bad news, like maybe that I’m pregnant and he’s going to have to come back up here to kill Cam. “I miss her,” I say, but I don’t mean Nonna. I miss her, too, of course, but I really miss my mom.

“I do, too,” he says, and I think he knows whom I mean.

I hang up and call Cam to tell him the change of plans. He curses himself for ditching school today, because it means he can’t ditch to drive me to the airport, unless I want to go at six in the morning.

“I don’t mind being early,” I say. “If you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I did,” he says without hesitation. “See you at six on the dot.”

I have the best boyfriend in the world. He’s going to kill me when I tell him about Heather, and I decide I’ll tell him a very short version of events and find another word for “stabbing.” Small puncture wound, maybe. And then there’s the issue of my new job. I could always tell him I was going to die if I didn’t take it just like last time, but I don’t want to lie to him anymore. I need someone I can tell the whole truth to, even if he’s not thrilled about it.

I remember the copper-scented candle and the way Heather’s nails raked through, cutting open Azmos’ demonic flesh. I shudder. I drink a glass of water and try to push the images of gold bowls full of blood and desperate eyes out of my mind. I wonder what else magic can do. And then I decide to put that thought aside.

My alarm goes off at three-thirty in the morning. My side is still sore. I change the bandages, hoping I won’t get patted down at the airport, and decide to come up with a good cover story, just in case. I put on leggings, a plain blue skirt, and a black t-shirt.

I’m tossing socks into my suitcase when there’s a knock at the door. Azmos stands there in black slacks and a blue silk shirt, rolled up to his elbows. His sunglasses are back and his hair has been cropped a few inches, making it look neat and not shaggy. There’s no sign of the gashes on his skin, not even scars.

The look on my face must be fearful, because Azmos quirks a smile and says, “I’m not here to put you to work. Not yet. I’m here because I owe you something.”

“You don’t,” I say, but I let him in.

“How’s your—“ He points to my gut.

“Fine. The bleeding stopped. I guess it wasn’t fatal, after all.”

“No. Xanan wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

I wait. He stands there. Nothing happens. “I have to pack,” I say. “I’m flying to Los Angeles tomorrow for my grandma’s funeral.”

He looks thoughtful. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“
C
’
est la vie
. Want a soda?”

He laughs. “No. I merely wanted to settle things between us for the time being. I won’t be needing your services for a week or two, while Xanan and I travel.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere you’ve heard of,” he says. He waits, and when I don’t ask more questions, he continues. “When I told you that your contract was terminated, I meant it. You are completely off the hook for that particular transaction.” He eyes the ring on my finger. “If you’ve changed your mind about the new job, I’m giving you a chance to back out.”

I consider, rubbing the metal band. But I know deep down it’s what I want. Instead, I decide to ask something that’s been bothering me.

“You keeping saying I’m an exception. What does that mean? Why wasn’t I only given a certain number of years?”

“Can we sit?” he asks. I shrug. I pull a can of lemon-lime soda out of the fridge and follow Azmos to the living room. He sits on the edge of the sofa cushion, back straight. I climb on the easy chair and cross my legs.

“Remember when I told you that it was never you or your mother? That there was never a choice?”

“Yeah,” I say. All too well.

“You weren’t supposed to be in the car. I try to minimize collateral damage, but circumstances changed too fast for me to stop it.”

I absorb that. I wasn’t supposed to be in the car. My mom wouldn’t have been there if she hadn’t had to pick me up. I always assumed that I’d indirectly caused the crash by needing a ride. So what, Azmos is confirming my worst fears? “I don’t understand.”

“The accident was going to happen. She was going to die. But she was supposed to be alone in the car.”

I stare. I explain that if she hadn’t picked me up, she’d never have been on that road or crossed paths with the drunk driver. Azmos shakes his head. “She would have. It was destined. Her time was up.”

The words hit me like a slap in the face and I feel the lump rising in my throat. I swallow soda to push it down. “You mean she—”

“When you were three, she was in a bad car accident. She would have died, but I gave her ten years. It was all I could do.”

“I—she would have died when I was three?”

He nods solemnly. “Life isn’t fair, Nicolette. You mortals suffer inexorably and without cause. I do my best to mitigate it when I can, but I’m only an aspirin for a headache. Some people see their contracts as a blessing and some as a curse. But I try to give more time to those who deserve it. Obviously, I can’t help everyone, and I can only do so much. I’m very sorry.”

I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I wipe at them with my hand and then dot my eyes with my t-shirt. Azmos stands and looks out the window at the view of downtown Seattle, buildings against the night sky, with Puget Sound a black gap in the background. I try to imagine not knowing my mother. Not having those years. I stand and I hug Azmos. He stiffens at first, but then he hugs me back. I can’t speak or I’ll start crying again, so I just hug him as hard as I can until he gently pulls away.

“You are why I started the letters,” he says. “I thought if people knew exactly when they were going to die, they could avoid involving others. They could be sure to be alone in their cars, for example. But Xanan was right. That kind of warning only serves to cause problems.”

There’s no good response to that, so I just stand there. He smiles weakly. “Anyhow. I thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” I manage.

The knowledge that I got more time with Mom than I deserved, than either of us might have gotten, doesn’t fill the aching chasm inside me that misses her. But nothing can. It eases the pain a little. And that’s something.

“It’s funny,” I say, wiping my eyes again. “When you first showed up, I never thought you were the good guy.”

“There’s no such thing as good guys and bad guys, Nicolette. Everyone—mortals and creatures like me—we all merely do the best we can with what we have.”

For the first time, I feel like I can really see Azmos, the not-quite-demon, how he really is. He takes off his sunglasses, rubs his eyes, and puts them back. “So about that job…”

“Keeping it,” I say, smiling. “You’re stuck with me.”

“No, Nicolette,” he says, his lips quirking into a crooked smile. “It’s you who’s stuck with me.”

I walk him to the door and watch until he disappears behind the elevator bank.

When he’s gone, I take the photo of my family from the fireplace mantle to the sofa. It was taken on my tenth birthday at Disneyland in front of Cinderella’s castle. All three of us are smiling. I’m holding a Mickey-shaped balloon and grinning. For the first time, I see something darker lurking beneath my mom’s radiant smile. She knew how much time she had left.

I cry, but it’s more out of exhaustion and relief than anything. My mom is gone, but we had that birthday and nine others we might not have.

I finish packing and drag my suitcase to the door. Then I open a can of cola and sit at the kitchen counter, scrolling through my social media feeds as I wait. I read three mentions of an “occult murder,” and ice slides down my spine. I look it up, and sure enough, there are news posts about a church fire set by “ritual candles,” with a body found inside. There’s no mention of a stabbing, so I guess Azmos’ healing worked. I skim several articles to see if anyone mentions a teen girl and two guys coming out of the church, but no one does. I try to find comfort in that. The only witness quoted is someone from a building across the street who reported seeing smoke and called 911.