The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) (6 page)

“What do you want from me?”

He smirks. A silver lip ring gleams on the side of his mouth. “I want nothing from you. Sometimes I exhibit unfortunate tendencies toward curiosity.” He gives me an appraising look. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I say, my mind racing. I swallow, but my throat is dry. He must know Azmos, and Azmos wouldn’t let another demon hurt me, would he? It certainly wouldn’t do him any favors.

“This is my stop,” I lie and pull the chord.

I stand near the door, ducking out the moment it opens, hoping he doesn’t follow me. After the bus pulls away, I glance back and see Xanan still on the bus as it rolls away, and I let out a breath. I wish I had an easy way to contact Azmos, because that was seriously creepy.

At home, I dial Dad from my cellphone. I’m relieved when it goes to voicemail, putting another notch in the “Nicki is a terrible person” column, because I’m too tired for bad news. I pull out a spinach-and-garlic pizza from the freezer. The apartment is too quiet. I decide that when Dad gets back, it’ll be time for another round of the “Let’s Get a Pet” conversation. I’m not even picky. I get that it’s a small apartment, but anything is better than nothing. I’ll take a hamster or a gerbil, anything with fur.

I flip on the television just to have noise. I’m unwrapping the plastic around the pizza when I hear the anchor say “—this tragedy at Yesler Preparatory. Back to you, Carol.” I stop and look over to the television on the living room wall. Our apartment has an open floor plan, which means the kitchen is only separated from the living room by a waist-high counter. The anchor says something about how sad it is and then pastes a smile on her face to cut to sports.

I slide the pizza into the oven and then go to my laptop on the kitchen table. It’s easy enough to find, because it’s the headline on all of the local news sites. “Two students killed, one injured in tragic accident at Yesler Prep.” I read the article and then flip to another site and read their version of the same story.

Today at Yesler Preparatory School for Boys, three students were driving off campus to ditch class and take an early lunch when a garbage truck slammed into the side of the car at a speed far too high for a parking lot. Two witnesses saw it happen, a school janitor and a student running late, and both reported the garbage truck was going way too fast. Updates to the article indicate the garbage truck driver has a disciplinary record for bad driving and that he may have been driving impaired. Two students were killed, and one, in the passenger seat, survived and was taken to the hospital. The only name released is of the survivor, a junior named Bradley Liang. His school photo, in which he smiles dashingly at the camera, is posted alongside the article.

I sit back in my chair and stare at the grisly images of the smashed car. I half-expect the photos to trigger memories of my accident, but they don’t. It just makes me unbearably sad. I miss my mom.

The accident that killed her, and nearly me, happened when I was thirteen. I’d been at jazz dance at Miss Tracy’s, where I’d been taking dance classes since I could walk or so it seemed. I wanted to quit. I’d wanted to quit for months, but my mom insisted I finish out the year and see how I felt. She thought it was good for me to have hobbies that didn’t involve the computer or those “terrible horror movies.” I was tired of spending two nights a week learning dances—more when recitals were approaching—and trying to do all my homework, while still squeezing in time to read books that weren’t for school.

I usually got a ride home from a neighbor whose younger daughter took ballet at the same time, but that night, the girl was sick and skipped class. My mom had to make a detour to come pick me up, because I refused to ride the bus with my backpack and dance bag. The minute I got in the car, she was in a mood, overworked like always. I tried telling her it wouldn’t be a problem if she just let me quit. We started arguing. It was the same fight we’d had a hundred times in the past few years. Finally, I plugged in my iPod and blasted music she hated, and we sat playing
Radio Chicken
to see how long until she gave in and turned it down.

It was still blaring when the drunk driver’s SUV slammed into our sedan. My memory of the rest is a hazy series of images and sounds. I remember the crunch of metal and the feeling of the car sliding in the wrong direction. I remember being cold. I remember searing pain in my arm and chest and then numbness. I knew I was going to die and I was strangely okay with it. Not because I wanted to die, but because it seemed inevitable. I sort of remember Azmos, but that bit is mostly a hazy shadow. I remember him asking if I wanted to live, if I’d work for him if he saved me. I remember parchment and blood.

And then I woke up in the hospital.

The logical part of me knows it’s not my fault, not really. But I also know that if I’d taken the bus, she’d never have been there in the first place and she’d still be alive. Maybe if I hadn’t blasted the music, she’d have swerved in time. I know teenagers fight with their parents. I know I’m lucky I’m not dead, too, and I know what saved me. It wasn’t luck or a seatbelt or which side of the car I was in. And remembering Azmos’ Prep School uniform earlier, I know what saved Bradley Liang.

On Friday afternoon, I’m left to my own devices. Melissa has costume fittings for the school’s upcoming play, a Steampunk version of
Romeo and Juliet,
and Cameron has a Debate Club meeting. Amy invites me to the mall with a group of her friends, but I decide against it. Even though I don’t have a lot of spare cash, I’d normally go with them and pick up a new pair of earrings or something, but I have this weird determination to see Bradley Liang.

Harborview Hospital is on First Hill. It’s walkable from my apartment. Getting there isn’t a problem. Getting in to see a patient, however, proves to be as difficult as it is in the movies. The moment I get there, I know I won’t be able to see him. For one thing, he’s probably still in the ICU, which is “family only.”

And even if he’s allowed visitors, I can’t claim to be Bradley Liang’s classmate, because Yesler Prep is an all-boys school. I had planned to say I was a neighbor, but it’s no use. The nurse apologizes and confirms that only immediately family is being admitted. I go to the gift shop and buy a plush giraffe with a brace around its neck. It has a tiny card attached, so I write, “Get well soon,” and hand it to the nurse. I’m in the doorway when she calls after me that I forgot to sign it, but I pretend I can’t hear and keep walking.

I don’t even know why I want to see him. I see people who’ve made deals with Azmos every time I make a delivery. It’s not like Bradley is any different.

Cam texts me to tell me he’ll come over after Debate so we can hang out until he has to get home, although his curfew isn’t until midnight, and his mom is pretty lenient about it as long as he keeps up his near-perfect grades. He adds that he’ll grab Thai food from the place that makes the awesome yellow curry.

So I’m in a good mood, practically gleeful and skipping, when I see Azmos on the street corner near the community college. He’s changed out of the prep school attire, back into jeans and a tailored coat. And he’s not alone. He’s talking to Xanan, the guy from the bus.

I nearly duck behind the side of the building before I remember my life is not a spy movie. Anyhow, I’m in a crowd who’re waiting for the light and no one else is looking around. I can’t hear anything, but it looks like they’re arguing. Azmos keeps rubbing his temples and Xanan shakes his head. Xanan’s height dwarfs Azmos and proximity to Xanan’s pallor makes his skin look darker in comparison. Neither of them look entirely human to me, but Xanan could have come straight from filming a vampire movie.

The stoplight turns. People move around me. Some rude jerk shoves me when I don’t walk with the crowd, so I step back and let them pass, watching as Azmos and Xanan go back and forth. I wait through two light changes. Xanan finally puts his hands up and walks off, getting on a bus that’s stopped nearby.

Azmos leans against a tree. For a few seconds, I consider walking right past him or even going around the block. I try to think if I’ve ever seen Azmos when he wasn’t sending me on a job, and I realize I haven’t.

“Hey, there,” I say. He starts. His expression is sullen and dark from what I can see around the sunglasses. There’s a cold spot near him, too, like Xanan’s iciness has remained behind.

“You have very strange timing,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say. “Who was your friend?”

“No one important.”

Then Azmos does the last thing I expect: He takes off his sunglasses. He runs his fingers through his hair, displacing the spikes, although they spring back into place right away. Then he lifts his head. He meets my eyes head on. His eyes aren’t pure black or burning red. They’re a nice shade of green. Not emerald, like Cam’s, but pale and specked with gold, and his pupils are slits, like a snake’s. It takes me a minute to stop staring.

“I met him yesterday. On the bus.” I tilt my head in the direction Xanan walked.

“So he said.” Azmos smiles in a tight line. “What are you doing here?”

“Who is he?” I demand, not letting him change the subject. “He’s creepy and he was stalking me. I have a right to know.”

“He’s an acquaintance. He works with me. He’s of no consequence to you.”

“Then why was he creeping around after me on the bus? He said he was curious, but about what?”

“About the people I involve in our business,” he says.

“Which is what, exactly? I know you offer contracts and years to the soon-to-be-departed, but if you’re not buying their souls, what are you buying, and what does Xanan do? Stalk people and freak them out?”

Azmos shoves the dark glasses back on. “As I said, that’s of no consequence to you.”

“Yes, it is. Like
you
said, I’m involved. I have a right to know what in.”

He shakes his head once, side to side. It’s a slow gesture and something about it feels oddly inhuman. It’s too controlled, too meticulous for such a small gesture. “Answer me first. What are you doing here?”

I debate lying, but decide against it. Maybe if I lay my cards on the table, Azmos will show me some of his. “I went by the hospital to see that prep school student who was in the car accident yesterday.”

“I do not recommend you do that.”

“Why not? Would your little contract factory explode if two of its employees became friends?”

Azmos sighs. “Funny you should mention that. Can we go somewhere?”

This is new. I want to go with a sarcastic, “Are you hitting on me?” but the look on his face is too severe for sarcasm. His jaw is set in a way that reminds me of Cam when he’s angry. “There’s a good coffee shop a few blocks from here.”

My throat feels dry and my heart races. I get the distinct impression I’m in some sort of trouble. We walk to the coffee shop in silence. He holds the door open and gestures for me to go first. I order a cola in a can. Azmos orders a shot of espresso. We take our drinks to a corner table. Azmos unwinds the scarf around his neck. I keep my coat on.

The place is pretty much empty, except for a guy in the corner who is reading the paper, and the barista, who turns back to his cellphone the moment he’s done ringing us up.

“So, what’s up, boss?”

He winces. It’s so unlike him, so human, that it makes every cell in my body scream with discomfort. My arms erupt in gooseflesh. He withdraws an envelope, but it’s black. And it has my name on it in silver pen.

I feel bile rise in my mouth, and I swallow it down with another swig of cola. “What is that?” I choke out. My voice is too high. The possibilities race around my mind and none of them are good.

“Calm down, Nicolette,” he says. I do, a little, because his voice is too damn soothing to ignore. “This is a termination notice.”

“I don’t understand.” The word, “termination,” has never sounded so sinister, but then, it’s never been applied to me.

He slides the envelope across the table. I let it sit there, a black hole in space-time. “In layman’s terms, you’re fired.”