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Authors: Emmie Mears
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the demons were going to come spirit her away and give her a gift. Something she wanted more than anything else in the world."
"Was that why she needed all the money?" I've never met a capitalist demon, but there's a first time for everything.
Hazel heaves a sound like air escaping a whoopee cushion. My burger arrives before she can answer me. She starts talking as I eat.
"She said she needed the money for food and clothes and to take care of Remy while she was gone. Said she'd be away a while, but that she'd be back to bring the band to glory."
I choke on my lettuce. It sounded like something on a reality television program. That one with a witch who makes you pay seven grand to spend two months in a meditation school and promises you success in everything after. They only take on silver-spoon suckling trust fund psychics and the kind of witches and humans who got a Lexus for their sixteenth birthday. Not tough to guarantee success when you've got a multi-million dollar safety net under your daring leap of faith.
Take care of Remy. I snort, recalling Remy's giant stash of smack.
One important thought is wedged between Hazel's words. "So Lena thought she'd be back."
"She didn't think she'd be back; she believed it. She knew it."
"And you believed her."
Hazel shifts her bony shoulders. "I thought she might be lying. She had thousands of dollars saved up. I thought she might be going to Bora Bora or some exotic castle in Moldova to be a musician-in-residence and that all the demon talk was just for show. If she came back after a few months and told people she'd been playing princess in the underworld, who'd tell her she was full of it? I figured she had a plan to fool the idiots in her band."
People tend to think that, but sane folk don't joke about consorting with demons. If people are willing to talk about it, they're serious. I'm liking this less and less.
"How long exactly has she been gone?"
"About seven weeks." Hazel slurps the rest of her soda, moodily gnawing on the straw when no more comes through.
Nothing new there. "And you have no idea where she could have gone? If she met someone?"
"No, but she gave me this." Hazel holds out a small disc of metal about three inches across. It's almost an exact replica of the one Gryfflet found. The one the Summit confiscated from an apartment filled with thirty-two gallons and change of human slushie.
My heart does a sideways jump, and I catch a breath and smooth it out just before it becomes a gasp.
"Hazel, I need to call the Summit. What she gave you could be extremely dangerous."
"Why do you think?"
"Because I think one of those is how the demons found and mulched the members of The Righteous Dark."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I only saw one of the talismans before this week, and now two have turned up interspersed with a demon conference, three smushed musicians, and one mystery female exploded from the inside. And hair necklaces. When I add all those things into Gregor's little hunch, I grudgingly admit to myself that he might be on to something.
I like Gregor. But why does he get to be right all the time?
My two o'clock meeting goes by in a blur of yellow legal pads and nodding uh-huh's at my boss, and I spend the rest of the day wishing I'd eaten a salad instead of a cheeseburger.
That might be the talisman in my pocket talking. If the acid bouncing off my stomach lining is any indication, it probably is.
I don't feel much better having taken it from Hazel. It's good that she doesn't have it burning a hole in her pocket like dumping slummoth chum on your doorstep at twilight, but it's not something I want anywhere near me either. I'm amazed she's still breathing. I touch my fingers to the cool metal of the talisman. I go looking for demons. They don't go looking for me.
I try to space out my visits to the Summit as far as possible, but if I don't take it in tonight, I'll have to put it in my safe, plush, demon-free apartment. And I like my carpet just
"Was that why she needed all the money?" I've never met a capitalist demon, but there's a first time for everything.
Hazel heaves a sound like air escaping a whoopee cushion. My burger arrives before she can answer me. She starts talking as I eat.
"She said she needed the money for food and clothes and to take care of Remy while she was gone. Said she'd be away a while, but that she'd be back to bring the band to glory."
I choke on my lettuce. It sounded like something on a reality television program. That one with a witch who makes you pay seven grand to spend two months in a meditation school and promises you success in everything after. They only take on silver-spoon suckling trust fund psychics and the kind of witches and humans who got a Lexus for their sixteenth birthday. Not tough to guarantee success when you've got a multi-million dollar safety net under your daring leap of faith.
Take care of Remy. I snort, recalling Remy's giant stash of smack.
One important thought is wedged between Hazel's words. "So Lena thought she'd be back."
"She didn't think she'd be back; she believed it. She knew it."
"And you believed her."
Hazel shifts her bony shoulders. "I thought she might be lying. She had thousands of dollars saved up. I thought she might be going to Bora Bora or some exotic castle in Moldova to be a musician-in-residence and that all the demon talk was just for show. If she came back after a few months and told people she'd been playing princess in the underworld, who'd tell her she was full of it? I figured she had a plan to fool the idiots in her band."
People tend to think that, but sane folk don't joke about consorting with demons. If people are willing to talk about it, they're serious. I'm liking this less and less.
"How long exactly has she been gone?"
"About seven weeks." Hazel slurps the rest of her soda, moodily gnawing on the straw when no more comes through.
Nothing new there. "And you have no idea where she could have gone? If she met someone?"
"No, but she gave me this." Hazel holds out a small disc of metal about three inches across. It's almost an exact replica of the one Gryfflet found. The one the Summit confiscated from an apartment filled with thirty-two gallons and change of human slushie.
My heart does a sideways jump, and I catch a breath and smooth it out just before it becomes a gasp.
"Hazel, I need to call the Summit. What she gave you could be extremely dangerous."
"Why do you think?"
"Because I think one of those is how the demons found and mulched the members of The Righteous Dark."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I only saw one of the talismans before this week, and now two have turned up interspersed with a demon conference, three smushed musicians, and one mystery female exploded from the inside. And hair necklaces. When I add all those things into Gregor's little hunch, I grudgingly admit to myself that he might be on to something.
I like Gregor. But why does he get to be right all the time?
My two o'clock meeting goes by in a blur of yellow legal pads and nodding uh-huh's at my boss, and I spend the rest of the day wishing I'd eaten a salad instead of a cheeseburger.
That might be the talisman in my pocket talking. If the acid bouncing off my stomach lining is any indication, it probably is.
I don't feel much better having taken it from Hazel. It's good that she doesn't have it burning a hole in her pocket like dumping slummoth chum on your doorstep at twilight, but it's not something I want anywhere near me either. I'm amazed she's still breathing. I touch my fingers to the cool metal of the talisman. I go looking for demons. They don't go looking for me.
I try to space out my visits to the Summit as far as possible, but if I don't take it in tonight, I'll have to put it in my safe, plush, demon-free apartment. And I like my carpet just
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