“I saw the way he was looking at her. Don’t tell me they’re just friends. And that attitude? Where did that come from? Him?”
“Really, Rich? That’s perfectly normal teenage girl behavior, especially after what you insinuated. We raised our daughter better than to go off and boink the first boy she meets.” I shuddered at my mother’s use of the word boink, especially in relation to me.
“We’re going to support her new friendship—” My mom’s voice got louder—meaning she was coming closer to the door—and I scurried off to the bathroom, slipping inside just as I heard their bedroom door open.
I rested my back against the bathroom door, my head lightly thunking against the wood frame even though a thick yellow towel was hanging on the back to cushion the blow.
“Better get this over with,” I muttered, grabbing the jar out of the pocket of my robe. I popped open the lid and skeptically sniffed the gelatinous goo. It had a faint odor, briny and slightly sour, like stagnant water near a beach.
I dipped a finger in the mix, half expecting it to burst into flames or melt my skin off. Maybe Rego added a dose of som—whatever that hypnosis spell was. Instead, my fingertip met a slightly oily cream, thick like butter only bright blue. I slid out of my terrycloth robe and swabbed my fingertip at the center of the burn, which tingled at my touch.
And then I heard a slight fizzing sound as the cream began to bubble on my skin.
Frantic, I grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed at the spot, making the surrounding skin even more tender. And then I stared at my rib cage in shock.
There, in the center of the burn, was a dime-sized section of perfectly healed skin.
Chapter 5
I SHOULD HAVE been asleep. My day should have left me exhausted, passed out in my bed with my cat at my feet and my pillow covered in drool. But instead, I was eating Hershey’s Kisses and sitting on the hardwood floor of my room, my back resting against the pink and pale yellow comforter on my bed while a mix of my happiest songs played. Usually, the music put me in a better head space. At the very least, it helped mask the grating voices of the slightly drunk people who often walked down our block, headed home from the bars on Ninth Avenue. The slurred conversations wafted into my second-floor bedroom because my street-facing windows were open, letting blasts of wintry air cool my fire-demon-heated skin.
I wanted to talk today over with someone, but I didn’t know who. Dottie was my go-to, but she couldn’t exactly pick up a phone. My dad seemed to think that a boy walking me home was a federal offense—no matter how many times my mom had scolded him over dinner. My mom was rooting for Team Normal Paige—hell, she was the captain of the cheerleading squad—so how could I tell her everything I’d learned today? I had cousins in Long Island and Jersey, but they were all older and had dismissed me as some attention-seeking kid going through a phase. Every year for Christmas they gave me their old goth CDs and bell-sleeved lace tops, calling them “vintage.” I knew they meant well, but it felt like they thought I was depressed. And, apparently, trapped in the nineties.
And I couldn’t exactly talk to Logan—not that I had his number. But part of what I wanted to talk about was Logan. I felt my cheeks get hot as I thought about what my father had said. How did Logan look at me? What was he talking about?
“Ugh, don’t you lose your mind over it. Dad would freak out if a boy so much as breathed in your direction. That’s it,” I whispered, even though I couldn’t stop the indulgent smile that crept across my face as I thought about the sweet way he held my hand to comfort me.
What are you doing, Paige? Swooning? I banged the back of my head against the mattress. I couldn’t find one legitimate reason not to trust Logan, and yet, part of me was skeptical. I had to be. Even though, if it weren’t for him, I’d be doing push-ups in a demon army or whatever it was demons made you do when you were drafted into service. Or, I’d be dead, a floating spirit with Dottie in a grotesque Dark World version of Holy Ass.
Stuck in high school for the rest of my natural life. Talk about hell.
“Maybe you’re just naturally suspicious. Just like your kitty,” I muttered, staring at my cat as he gingerly approached me, cautiously smelling my sock-covered foot before jumping five feet in the air when my phone rang. I grabbed it from my nightstand while Mercer retreated into the closet, hiding behind an old acoustic guitar that I’d never quite mastered, no matter how much I practiced.
I stared at my phone, puzzling over the unfamiliar number. It was a New York area code, but I didn’t recognize it.
“Hello?” I answered, switching off my music.
“Hey, it’s Logan.” I could barely hear him over the sound of clattering plates and canned music in the background.
“Logan?” I called, not sure if he could hear me.
“Logan—um, Logan Bradley,” he replied stiffly, sounding slightly official, as if he were talking to someone’s parents.
“I know who Logan is. I just— Where are you?”
“A diner. I snuck behind the counter because I don’t have a phone.” He said it casually, as if it were inconsequential—something that would have been a dark source of shame to everyone I knew at school. Then again, Logan wasn’t exactly like everyone else. “Hey, what’s your roof like?”
“My roof?” I repeated, standing up from the floor and pacing around my bedroom. I could barely understand him with all the background noise.
“Yeah, the roof of your apartment building. Can you get up there?” His voice was difficult to hear—his words rushed, drowned out by shouting.
“The super locks it during the winter.” I kicked a fuzzy blue sock that Mercer had earlier claimed as his into the closet, trying to bait him into coming out, and was rewarded with an evil kitty death stare.
“Then it’s probably a good spot. Want to meet me up there tomorrow morning?”
“We can’t get up there,” I reminded him. “It’s locked.”
“Locks aren’t a problem for me.” Even with the background noise, I could detect the slightly smug tone in his voice, and I remembered how he had no problem getting access to the roof of Holy Assumption. Jeez, he really was arrogant when it came to all things magical.
“Show-off,” I muttered, and I heard him chuckle before returning to his businesslike tone.
“The manager’s coming, so want to meet up on your roof tomorrow or not?”
“Um...okay,” I said. Crap, I hadn’t cleared this with my parents. “If I can’t, how can I reach you?”
“If you’re not there at eleven, then I’ll know you—” It sounded like he said, “can’t come,” but the cacophony in the diner increased, drowning him out.
“Okay.” I paused. “Um, thanks, Logan.”
“I’m getting kicked out,” he nearly yelled. “See you tomorr—”
The call disconnected, leaving me staring at the slightly warm phone in my hand as I sank onto my bed, puzzled by Logan’s abrupt goodbye. Why didn’t he have a phone? Did he seriously just get thrown out of a diner for calling me? And what does someone even wear to learn to fight demons?
I was glad I had a plan—even a plan as basic as Demon Defense 101 with Logan. It made me feel less weak, less powerless, less a victim of what was happening. The memory of Travis’s brutal last moments flashed in front of my face, and I shut my eyes, trying to mentally force the image out as I took a long, deep breath.
“You saw some horrible things today. But you cheated death again, and you’re still alive,” I reminded myself aloud. “If you want to stay that way, suck it up, get some sleep and learn how to kill demons tomorrow.”