I curled up on one end of the sofa with a heaping bowl of soup, trying to sip it as slowly as someone recovering from a stomach bug would while my dad camped out on the other end. He’d changed out of his work suit so it wouldn’t wrinkle, opting for jeans and a bulky, neon-blue sweatshirt from some travel website that had already gone out of business. We’d just finished watching some breaking news report about a sudden drop in the stock market and joking that “It’s time to sell the yacht, Jeeves,” when my dad asked in a practiced casual tone, “So, this Logan kid...I’d like to know what the story is.”
You and me both, Dad. I glanced over to my father, whose cheeks turned slightly pink as he waited for my answer. I decided the best defense was a good offense.
“Dad, you’re blushing. With the blue sweatshirt, pink face and red hair, you’re rocking a serious snow cone vibe.”
“Really, Paige? A snow cone?”
“Just saying, your interrogation tactics are anything but subtle,” I observed, turning back to my soup as I fished for a piece of chicken.
“Well, back in my day, you didn’t spend all weekend with a girl, or walk her home from school, or give her your clothing to wear, unless you were courting her,” my father huffed in reply. Oh, Dad, if only you knew my clothing had been wrecked by demons.
“Dad, really? Courting? I didn’t know your day was the day of the Pony Express.”
“And now you bring out the ‘Dad’s so old’ jokes. Nice, Paige. You’re wounding your dear father’s delicate heart,” he said, placing a hand over his chest as he pretended to sniffle.
“You’re the one who said the word courting,” I countered, pretending to gag. “Dad, I’d bet five bucks that when you were in high school, you never said court unless it was preceded by the word basketball.”
“We courted young ladies in our day,” Dad insisted, his face serious.
I snorted like the delicate flower I was, holding my soup with both hands so I didn’t spill it as I shook with laughter. “Right, Dad,” I said dryly. “I can just picture you saying, ‘Yeah, I really want to court that girl. I want to court her so hard!’”
“Paige, watch it,” my dad warned me. “Just because you’re not feeling well doesn’t mean it’s a license to mouth off.”
“Sorry,” I huffed, frowning. Mom would have laughed.
We watched a few more minutes of the movie before my father tried again.
“Your mother tells me that Logan moves around a lot. Do you know how long he’s here for?”
I stirred my soup, watching the chicken and rice as it swirled in a whirlpool.
“No,” I admitted, adding, “but neither does he.” That much was true. It’s not as if we knew when Aiden would finally be killed.
“So, I take it he makes a lot of, um, new friends in every new city?” My father emphasized the words.
“Dad, seriously?” I asked, shaking my head, even though I had also wondered just how detailed Logan’s romantic history was.
“Well, Paige, put yourself in my position.”
“Not if I have to wear that blue sweatshirt.”
My father threw his hands up in the air, exasperated, and pushed himself off the couch, pacing the small living room. “I’m trying, Paige. I’m trying to have a regular conversation with you. Your mom insisted that we treat you like you’re normal—”
“I am normal,” I retorted through clenched teeth, making an effort to keep my voice even. But my hands were another story, the green and white bowl clattering as I set my soup on the coffee table.
“I know you are, Paige,” Dad relented, the cushions sinking under his frame as he settled back onto the navy couch. “But I’m your father, so I’m going to give this guy the third degree. And your situation makes me worry that someone will take advantage of you. I can’t help it.”
Dad patted me on the shoulder. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, honey. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I’ve seen the way that Logan kid looks at you.”
“Oh? So, how does he look at me?” I asked with forced casualness. He’s just being overprotective. Dad hates the way everyone looks at you, right?
“Like the sun shines out of your—” Dad grumbled, stopping short when he realized he was speaking out loud. “Just be careful, honey,” he repeated, giving me a quick hug. He held me tightly before releasing me to my end of the couch, where I curled up again with my soup. I ate it quickly, hoping I could squeeze in a quick nap before Logan came over after school—opening portals between worlds was pretty draining, and I didn’t want to face “the talk” with shadows underneath my eyes.
I flopped on my mattress, half dreading his arrival, and half desperate to see the one person who knew everything. Logan knew the real me, knew I wasn’t crazy. He was the one person I didn’t have to constantly lie to. I still had some questions for him, so I pulled my sketch pad out of my closet and turned to a fresh page, writing down every random question that popped into my mind. Serious questions about the concept of demon families followed curious questions about the variegated color of demon blood, but the biggest questions were ones I couldn’t bring myself to write down: How did he end up in this life with Rego? What happened to his parents?
And then there were the questions I was afraid to ask him. Like, what happens to us once Aiden is killed? Is there even an us to worry about? The way he’d left things made me think there wasn’t...but he had definitely seemed like he was about to kiss me in the music room.
I put my pen down and bunched up my comforter, burying my face in it as Mercer curled up between my ankles. I knew I’d have to find out these answers, and soon.
My father woke me with a gentle shake on my shoulder. I rubbed my eyes as I blinked up at him, confused.
“Hey, kiddo, are you ready for dinner?” Dad asked, his eyebrows pulling together with concern. “Your mom will be home soon.”
“Dinner? I just had lunch. It’s still early,” I replied with a yawn, even though my stomach rumbled at the thought of more food. I scratched my head, trying to remember when I fell asleep. I’d been writing questions for Logan and shut my eyes for one minute....
My sleep-bleary eyes tried to focus on the clock. That time can’t be right.
“Early? Paige, it’s a little after eight.”
“But Logan—he was supposed to come by after school....” I stammered, feeling the color drain from my face as I gripped my comforter in my fists. What could I say to my father? That I was worried Aiden had shown up, full of rage and vengeance, and attacked Logan? That I was terrified he was no match for Aiden’s murderous devices, like those vicious slice-and-dice coins that could torture and kill? Or that my dad had completely misread “how Logan looks at me,” and he’d decided there was nothing to talk about?
“No one came by. He probably caught the flu,” Dad said when he saw my pained expression. “It sounded like you did everything except vomit on him yesterday.”
“Right. The flu,” I repeated dully, nodding my head.
“Don’t feel guilty, kiddo. I don’t think that’ll exactly drive him away,” my dad said, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I need a shotgun and a front porch.”