ARC: Crushed (11 page)

Chapter 13

I let Armand lead the way so I can keep an eye on him. He takes us up through my attic, putting his arms out and hopping playfully across the rotten spot in a way that reminds me of Uri. Then he levers himself out the window, turning around to stick an arm down for me. I ignore it and climb out myself. We start across the slanted roof, staying low. The night is heavy and dark, riddled with secrets.

“Where are we going?” I whisper.

“You’ll see.”

I stop in my tracks. He notices within a few steps and returns.

“I’m not in the habit of following my enemies to undisclosed location for mysterious purposes.”

“I’m not your enemy,” he says, but I don’t move. “Alright, fine.” He runs his hand through his hair. “There’s this guy I came across, not far from here. I thought we could, you know,” he makes a short slashing motion across his neck. “He seems like the kinda guy you’d go for. In a homicidal way, I mean.”

“You arranged a murder?” Awww, that’s so sweet.

“Nothing elaborate, of course.” He grins slyly. “Didn’t want to overdo it on a first date.”

And he ruins it.

“What else would we do?” He shrugs. “I thought the murder part would be obvious.”

“Oh, the murder part is – the problem is that the obvious victim is
me
.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? I am not here to kill you.”

“You really expect me to take you at your word?” I point a finger at him. “Agent of evil, remember?”

He points right back at me. “Princess of Hell – remember? We belong on the same team.”

“No, we don’t. And we aren’t.”

“Not yet.”

“And since when does Hell have royalty? I thought they were all bureaucrats.”

“Oh, sweetie,” he says, patronizing. “That’s cute.”

“What’s cute?”

“That you think celebrity children of powerful people aren’t royalty.”

“Are you accusing me of being a Hilton?” I sputter. “Or a, a–” my head might explode “Kardashian?”

“The hellish equivalent.” He pauses, then adds thoughtfully. “You know I don’t think it needed the qualifier.”

I growl at him.

He holds up his hands. “Kidding, kidding. Sort of. Your dad is more like a senator – high up but not quite at the top. Enough power to get you out of a DWI, but not quite enough to–”

But my brain stopped a while ago. “What do you mean ‘
is
’?” I grab him by the throat. “What do you mean my dad
is
like a senator?”

He peels my hand off his throat, but keeps hold of it. He doesn’t answer.

“He’s still alive,” I say. It’s not a question. Those bloody damn demons and their bloody rebirth, it’s not bloody damn fair. “Un-effing believable.”

“Daddy issues?”

I glare at him.

“Oh come now, don’t let it spoil our night.”

“He wants to kill me.”

He shrugs and points out the obvious. “A lot of people want to kill you.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better?”

“I’m just saying, what difference does it make? He’s not any more alive than he was a minute ago.”

“But now I know.”

“But that should just cheer you up.” He says, teasingly, still trying to get my head back in the game. “Knowledge is power,” he clarifies.

“Did you just quote a public service announcement at me?”

He sticks his nose piously in the air. “Just doing my civic duty.”

I point at him. “Agent. Of. Evil.”

He grins.

But it did help actually, as he has a good point. Already my sneaking out has unintended benefits. I eye him.

The Crusaders know pathetically little about demons. The types of people who sell their souls are not known for loyalty and self-sacrifice – really, they’re quite known for the opposite – so their pact with Hell includes a proscription against speaking of certain things – like Ariel selling her voice to the Sea Witch. Even under torture a demon can only reveal what Hell wants it to.

As someone who Hell wants dead, I find this lack of information disturbing. And here stands a boy who hasn’t sold his soul, who knows a great deal about Hell.

And, as he said, knowledge is power.

My punishing grip on his hand loosens, but I don’t let go. Instead I give it a little pet. “You’re right,” I allow. “It doesn’t matter, not really.” I shrug. “What’s one more demon?” I flick a glance at him from under my lashes.

His eyebrows are a little high. My mood changed too quickly and he’s on to me.

“But I’m still not going anywhere with you.”

They come back down.

“Anyone ever tell you you have trust issues?” he says in a groan, then drops fluidly and pats the moonlit shingles next to him. “Here we stay then. Or is this too dangerous? There is a ledge like, oh, ten meters away.”

“Keep it up and I’ll let you decide,” I say sweetly, but I sit.

My big exciting escape to… the roof. Wow, I’m a badass, let me tell you. I sure showed those Crusaders! I muffle a groan of self-loathing as I drop down next to him.

Armand sprawls back on the roof, leaning on his elbows, but I stay sitting up, my arms wrapped loosely around my knees. With the lack of light pollution up in the mountains, stars litter the sky like confetti in Times Square on New Year’s Eve, hidden only by the occasional cloud. Stars like these are the type to hypnotize a girl. They make bad boys seem like good ideas. I slant a look at where he leans back on the roof. His thin, faded T-shirt is washed-a-thousand-times-soft and clings to his chest and abs. I swear to god, I can see the outline of muscles. Through the shirt. In the dark. Not that I’m looking.

Get him!
My hormones scream.

Don’t fall for it,
my brain cautions.

Pretty!
They whine. Stupid hormones.

Calm down, hormones. We are just pumping him –
(really brain, you chose the word
pumping
?
) – for information. He is
literally
evil. We need to keep our distance.

A pause.

Get him!

Sigh. I peel my eyes of him and look at the scenery instead.

In the moonlight, the trees are etched in soft silver, and even the cement-and-rebar mess of the half-constructed school looks somehow magical. It’s pretty. Romantic, even, if I were another girl. But I’m not; my heart doesn’t cling to moon-bright clouds or silver-traced trees. Mine revels in shadows. The dark places created by the contrast, places meant to sneak and hide. A pretty night, meant for ugly things.

I sneak another look at Armand from the corner of my eye. His expression suggests he might be thinking the same thing.

And yet we sit, tethered to this roof.

I shift my eyes back to the view. “So… how many amulets like yours do the demons have?” I ask. He doesn’t answer immediately and I twist to see him looking at me, eyes slightly narrowed.

I need to be careful. Lying to a Crusader is like taking candy from a baby. I suspect, in the art of subterfuge, I’m the infantile one in this relationship.

Fortunately, I’m a bit of a child prodigy.

“What?” I ask. “You could have an army stashed in those woods for all I know. So, how many?”

He laughs quietly. “Not an army’s worth, I assure you.”

That’s not an answer. I stare until I get one.

He groans. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

“‘Like’ has nothing to do with it. I don’t
trust
you.”

“Oh, so you
do
like me.” He grins.

Clever subject change, Monster boy.
But not clever enough. “Answer the question.”

He groans again and pats his pocket. “This is the only one. At least that I know of.”

I study him for the lie. I can’t tell, but I’m unwilling to beat the truth out of him. At least, not yet. I change the subject. “So what do you do for Hell, exactly?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice a little too innocent.

“Surely they don’t let you just muck about all day.”

“Why do you say that?”

I roll my eyes. “You wouldn’t have run away if that were the case.”

He slants me a look, calculating. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off.

“Bullshit,” I call.

He sits up. “I didn’t even say anything.” He wears outraged innocence well, and I take note of how he does it. It’s a look I’ve yet to perfect, judging by how often Jo calls me on it. “How could it be bullshit?”

I just look at him knowingly. “It was, though wasn’t it?”

He holds the expression a second longer, then he relaxes back in his bad-boy slouch. “Caught.”

“So what do you really do for hell?”

He hesitates before answering, and his head tips back and forth, as if weighing the pros and cons. He clears his throat awkwardly and cuts me a side glance. Finally he answers. “I’m, ah, an incubus in training.”

“An
incubi
?” I burst out laughing. According to my demonology professor, their purpose is to inflate hell’s ranks “naturally”, AKA make half-demons like me. “You knock up girls for a living?” I snort. “No wonder you like fighting for hell. Talk about an assignment.”

He sticks his chin up in mock superiority. “I don’t ‘knock girls up’.” He quotes me, faking an American accent – or at least he tries. It’s terrible. Then he levels his eyes at me, and his lids lower. His voice gets husky, his accent a little stronger. “I seduce.”
Get hi–
Oh for freak’s sake, hormones!

His voice gets lighter again. “It’s an art.”

I laugh again, though there’s a little catch in it. “I bet.” I say dryly. Then something occurs to me. “So is that your plan, eh?” I nudge him obnoxiously with my elbow. “Work your incubi magic on me until I swear undying love?” I move into a falsetto. “Oh Armand! You handsome piece of eye candy!” I flip over onto my hands and knees, straddling his long legs. “Whatever you want!” I crawl towards him, slowly up his body, until my face is inches from his. I look at him through my lashes. “Anything you want, like…” I let the word trail off softly and he swallows. “Kill Crusaders!” I perk and he barks a laugh.

“Rotten girl.”

“Don’t you forget it,” I grin then resume my position next to him. “So you plan to charm me into spilling all my Crusader secrets, aye?”

“Not anymore” he says sourly.

“Aw, that’s too bad,” I tease. “I’ve never been seduced by a professional.”

He rolls his eyes.

“So are there a lot of baby Armand’s running around?” I ask.

The question startles another laugh out of him. “No. Not that I know of.” He shrugs. “Unlikely, really.”

I raise a brow at him. “Bad at your job?”

He gets a wicked look in his eye, then his face softens, and he traps my eyes in his. He swallows and that muscle on the edge of his jaw flexes. I gulp. Then he raises his eyebrow, mirroring mine from a moment before. “What do you think?”

Sorry, what were we talking about?

He keeps talking, thank God. “Demons aren’t very, ah,
potent
, being mostly dead and all. Neither are half-demons, generally.”

Huh, good to know.

“And even if we manage to impregnate someone, there are few women strong enough to carry a baby to full-term, even if they wanted to – which most don’t.”

Makes sense. At best, it’s an unplanned pregnancy, at worst – well, the dad
is
evil. Even if the mothers don’t figure it all out, they probably notice enough to know it’s not normal.

“And, really, we’re forbidden to impregnate women anymore.”

I look at him curiously. Kinda makes his job worthless.

“Too much medical intervention these days,” he explains. “Too much about the fetus that needs to be hidden. Your mother knew enough to hide the truth from a doctor, but no normal woman would. It’d ruin our cover.”

“Then what, exactly, do incubi do?”

He falls back on his back, staring at the stars. He’s quiet for a long moment, then he answers softly. “I give a girl something she thinks she wants more than anything else in the world.” There’s another pause. “Then I take it away.”

“Why?”

“For her soul.” He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “It’s what we do.”

“You steal their souls?”

“No,” he says firmly. “I steal only their hearts. They trade their souls willingly to get them back.”

Sounds like a pretty thin justification to me, but I leave him his lie. He’s still looking at me, as if waiting for me to pronounce judgment. I do. “Sounds mean.”

He looks away with a sharp laugh, wrapping his arms loosely around his knees. “I’m an agent of evil, remember?” He doesn’t say anything more, but stares out at the moonlit nightscape.