Read Online One Hundred Candles [2] by Mara Purnhagen - Free Book Online Page A

you heard your mother and me downstairs earlier.”
    I looked at my hands. “It was hard not to.”
    “Right. Well, I want to apologize. If your mother and I had known that you and Avery were up here, we would have been more careful.”
    “You mean careful to fight more quietly?” I was surprised by how bitter I sounded, but Dad didn’t look fazed at all.
    “Your mother and I are going through a stressful time right now,” he said. “It happens. We’re working on it, though.”
    “Can you work faster?”
    Dad gave me a tiny, tense smile. “We’ll try.” He pointed toward my arm sling. “How are you? Managing all right?”
    I didn’t like that he was changing the subject. I wanted him to promise me that everything was going to be fine, that their problems were all just one big misunderstanding. Instead, he was focused on my injury.
    “I’ll be fine. It only aches a little.”
    “Good. Try not to move it much. And don’t worry—I haven’t forgotten who’s responsible. He’s not going to get away with this, I promise.”
    “Dad, I honestly don’t think Marcus meant to hurt me,” I started. “I mean, he didn’t—”
    Dad held up a hand. “Enough. Let me handle this, Charlotte. You don’t need to worry about it.” He got up to leave, but before he reached the door, he paused. “We’re conducting an investigation next month. You interested?”
    “Sure.”
    Dad smiled. “That’s my girl.”
    He left my room, and for a split second it almost felt like everything was back to normal.
    Almost.

six
    When most people think of a demon, they probably picture a large, horned creature writhing in a fiery pit deep within the earth. Maybe they imagine a face composed of a cruel and twisted sneer with deep, swirled scars and blood-red eyes. Or perhaps they envision claws and teeth and the growling voice of a lumbering creature hungry for innocent souls. These are the features most people probably associate with demons.
    Not me.
    I was raised to believe that demon was simply a word given to a type of unique energy. My parents theorized that throughout history people had named the different forms of residual energy that the living left behind. For example, ghosts and apparitions were simply terms assigned to some things that couldn’t yet be explained, occurrences such as phantom footsteps or disembodied voices.
    A demon, they said, was a more intense form of residual energy. It was stronger than typical residual energy because it was not the result of repetition or anger or even grief. It was stronger because it was the remnant of something much worse: evil. People might not believe in the paranormal, but they didn’t have to look much further than the local news to hear all kinds of true horror stories. Encountering real demonic energy was, thankfully, a rare experience. My parents took it seriously, and Annalise and I had never accompanied them to an investigation in which there had been any kind of documented violence. They knew how strong that energy could be and they did not want to risk exposing us to it.
    So while both Mom and Dad believed that some residual energy could manifest itself in powerful ways, it was still simply energy, not an animated creature with a personality who set out to hurt specific people. It was something to be handled carefully, documented and studied, and then, possibly, diffused.
    Demon was merely a word. But it was one I’d been thinking about a lot lately. It was on my mind as I carefully removed books from my locker before lunch, which may have explained why I was so preoccupied and lost my grip on my chemistry textbook. It hit the floor with a solid thud. “Great,” I muttered. It was the first day back at school, and I’d had problems all morning as I’d tried to balance books with one arm. I was becoming more and more frustrated with the amount of time and effort it was taking me to get to class. As I bent down to pick it up, I lost hold of my English textbook.