Turning away, I collected my guitar and shared a fearful look with Nabila. She tipped her head toward the stairs and I gave a slight nod. Myrtle’s gaze was burning a hole between my shoulder blades, but I made myself take slow, measured steps in time with Nabila.
“And little girl?”
Gritting my teeth, I stopped and glanced reluctantly over my shoulder.
“Don’t go looking for your friends again tonight,” Myrtle said. “They have work to do. I’d hate for them to get in trouble on your behalf.” She eyed Nabila. “We’ll just see about this band, won’t we?”
“We will,” I said. “Bournival gave us permission.”
“We’ll see what the Principal says about that.”
“I guess we will, won’t we?” I lifted my chin and Nabila’s fingers dug into my arm so hard it felt like she’d been gripping her pins.
Unwilling to acknowledge Myrtle—or her threat—any further, I headed upstairs with Nabila.
Neither of us said another word as we returned to our respective apartments.
As much as I needed to talk to Nabila and Oscar, I wouldn’t get them in any more trouble. Not tonight. What had happened when my voice merged with Nabila’s had been nothing short of a miracle.
That power would
I wasn’t going to let the Bulldog, this Principal, or anyone else stop us from doing it again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The smell of well-cooked sauce and the sounds of movement greeted me as I entered the apartment.
Jim was up.
I stopped, hovering in the doorway. He was finally going to tell me how he sold his soul—and mine. No more lies. No more waiting. I pressed a hand against the knot in my stomach.
I could do this.
At least his head wasn’t going to spin around.
Carefully putting my guitar away in my room, I went down the short hallway to find Jim hovering over the pot on the stove, staring inside with a fascinated expression on his face.
I grinned at the sight. I hadn’t made spaghetti in a long time and, despite everything, the enticing aroma made me hungry.
“Make sure you don’t drool in the pot,” I said.
Jim leaped straight into the air. His feet hit the linoleum with a thud and he stared blindly at me for a moment. I knew he’d processed it was me and not whatever he’d been thinking of as his horror-stricken features tried to rearrange themselves into a smile. The pallor of his skin and the tremor in his fingers as he lifted them in a weak hello sent snarls of alarm snaking through my middle.
Jim wasn’t like Oscar’s mom, but I still had to fight the urge to wrap my arms around him and make sure.
“Guess I shouldn’t sneak up on a hungry Jim, huh?” I forced a laugh, and he joined me with a paltry attempt that was more wheeze than chuckle.
“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair and a more genuine smile curled his lips. “I was distracted by the wondrous contents that appeared on our stove. Did you do this, honey?”
“Yeah, well, healthy meals are important.” I shrugged and studied the gray floor, rubbing at a spot with my toe. Mom used to call me honey; Jim saying it made me feel disloyal. “Go. Sit.” I pointed at the other side of the counter where two stools were parked. “I’ll serve.”
Switching places with him to enter the small kitchen, I started pulling plates from the cupboard.
I knew he knew that I knew.
Ouch.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. This kind of thinking hurt. But not nearly as much as being lied to.
I smacked a plate onto the counter with way more force than needed. How on earth was I supposed to start this conversation—So, Dad, how exactly did you sell my soul?—shouldn’t the awkward opening be on him?
I glanced over as Jim slid onto a barstool.
His back was hunched, head drooping as he stared at the counter. Was he really going to make me start this? Of course, he was. It was up to me to be the grown-up—again. Anger bubbled in my chest and I bit my lip. Fine. I’d serve the spaghetti. We’d sit down and have an entirely adult discussion about this contract and—
“You’re my dad!” The words blasted out of me.
“I know.” His voice was so low it almost blended into the boiling pops of the pot. His gaze lifted, eyes meeting mine with dismay boiling in their depths. “I hadn’t… I’m sorry, honey. I thought I’d have time to tell you.”
“Really?” I slapped pasta onto a plate. “When?”
“Of course, I—” He shook his head and placed both hands, palms down, on the counter. “No. I wasn’t going to tell you. You’ve had far too much on your shoulders these past few years. I intended to handle it—I still intend to handle it. It’s just one year. Just to get me on track so I could take proper care of you.”
I clicked off the stove burner, blinking away tears.
The sense of betrayal threatened to choke me. I was afraid to look too closely at him, that there’d be nothing in his eyes but soulless grey smoke. “But it’s not just you. It’s me, too—my soul.”
“I know… now.”
Face tight, I stared at him.
“Ash… I was in trouble.” He cradled his head in his hands. “When your mother’s message reached me, things were bad. But no matter what, I wouldn’t have taken this deal if I’d known what it meant for you.”
“Liar,” I whispered, wishing my lips weren’t trembling.
“No.” He spoke with such surety that I met his gaze again before I could think better of it. Instead of smoke, I found only remorse. “No, Ash. I’ve lied and cheated for most of my life. But I swear to you, I wouldn’t have knowingly sold my only child’s soul. Not for anything.”
It felt like he was telling me the truth.
Turning away, I spooned a generous helping of bolognese sauce onto Jim’s spaghetti and shoved the plate at him. I didn’t know what to say. I was still mad at him for landing us in this shit hole, but I also believed that he hadn’t known he’d sold my soul.
Silently I carried my own plate around and sat next to him at the counter.
“Thank you for making dinner, Ash,” he said solemnly before tucking in with obvious appreciation.
Shoveling in a mouthful, I decided at least dinner was a victory. As for Jim and me, I wasn’t so sure.
After swallowing another mouthful, I forced myself to ask the question that was eating me alive. “Did you do it for Mom’s funeral money?”
He carefully placed his fork to the side of his plate.
Drawing a deep breath, he said, “You didn’t make me do this. Yes, I knew what the money for Maria’s funeral meant to you. But that wasn’t what made me take the deal. It was the promise of a steady job—a future. A place for you in a fancy school. I lied to your Mom, Ash. I told her I was doing well. That I could take care of you.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Actually, I was flat broke and in debt to some bad men.” Shaking his head, he lifted his hands in helpless apology. “I never thought I’d hear from Maria again, no matter how many letters I sent to her damn, pardon my language, PO Box—”
“What?” I cut him off. “What PO Box?”
“You know. The one she set up when we parted ways.” He waved a hand as if this box was old news and not an earth-shattering statement. “So I had a place to send messages, money when I had it.”
Whoa. My mouth dropped open.
Questions buzzed in my head, an angry swarm all demanding to be asked first.
Somehow my hand had curled around Jim’s arm and was squeezing. Hard.
He shot me a look, brows pulling together. “How else do you think I sent things? Maria never could stay at the same address long—neither could I, just then—so we agreed to keep that line of communication open no matter what.” He patted my hand. “I’m not mad you didn’t write me back, kiddo. Didn’t expect you to.”
I was trying to speak, but shock sealed my throat.
This couldn’t be possible.
Fork hovering over my food, I
stared at him.
“Then out of the blue, Maria calls me and says she’s dying and you need a home,” Jim continued, casually, as if he hadn’t just shaken my world. “So I told your mother I had a good job. Money. A house. That I could provide for you. Everything I’d managed to build before I lost it in the economic downturn a couple years ago.” He sighed and inhaled a large forkful of noodles and sauce. “Mmmm, loff thith spagethi.”
“What!” My voice cracked.
He swallowed and regarded me apologetically. “I meant good spaghetti, kiddo.”
“No, no, no.” I waved my fork frantically. “The other part. You wrote me letters? You remembered?”
“Of course, you’re my little girl. I wouldn’t just…” He gave me a long, searching look and slowly put down his fork. His hand covered mine, gripping tight. “She didn’t tell you, did she?”
“Jim…” Shock and loss wrapped around me.
If he was telling the truth, and I believed he was—knew he was—then Mom had lied to me. For years. I felt like I was losing her all over again. She’d let me think he’d forgotten me. She’d let me hate him. “I— She— No. I didn’t know.”
He gave me a lopsided smile and tucked some of my hair back behind an ear. “Don’t be mad at her. Maria had her reasons. I gave her some rather good ones.” He looked down. “Guess I proved her right, in the end. Dragging you here. Lying. Accidentally selling your soul. Not exactly father material.”
“She should have told me,” I whispered fiercely. “We promised never to lie to each other. Promised! How could she keep your letters from me?”
“She had her reasons,” Jim repeated. He hesitantly patted my back. “Can’t say I understood all of them, or that I agreed, but Maria always seemed to know what needed to be done.”
I bit the sides of my cheeks harder and forced myself to swallow. “So, um, who owns us?”
“Don’t know.” Jim held up his palms when I shot him an incredulous look. “Honestly. I don’t. I dealt with what’s called a representative. And what I know about that person, I can’t tell you. I agreed to… certain conditions, when I signed the contract.”
“Jim…” I let out a breath. “I can’t believe you signed it.”
“Me either. Now.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even believe it at the time—just thought it was some crazy Vegas casino owner with a weird flair for hiring people. I figured there was nothing to lose.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Wrong.”
That I understood—I hadn’t believed it either. “But why sign it during Mom’s funeral?”
His head tipped to the side and he studied me carefully. “How do you know when I signed it?”
Oops.
I hadn’t meant to reveal that. “Uh. Well, um, you made your big announcement right afterward, so I assumed…”
He gave me a considering look. “I was with your mother for seven years, Ash.”
Was he saying he knew I was different, just like Mom? It would be such a relief to talk to him about this. My lips curled up, then froze. My hands were sweaty and my heart was imitating a heavy bass rhythm in my chest. Apparently, my body thought talking to Jim about my sixth sense was a really bad idea right.
Lips clamped together, I shook my head at him.
Jim let out a sigh. “Maria always said some things are better left unspoken. Guess that type of father-daughter bonding will have to wait.”
The mental boa constrictor wrapped around my chest uncoiled.
“I’d thought that we could get to know each other again—properly,” Jim said. “I was supposed to have time with you. But the hours at this job are terrible. And I hate you having to go to that school with those—” He gripped the fork like a weapon and plunged it violently into his remaining pasta “—things!”
For some reason seeing Jim so mad about the demons and all their monsters made me feel better. Jim wasn’t lying to me—and he’d never forgotten me. The shreds of my anger fell to the ground.
I wasn’t ready to lose my father again.
Even if I wasn’t ready to tell him everything.
“The other kids aren’t all bad,” I said over a mouthful of pasta. “Some in our building are even kinda nice. I might actually have friends.” I offered him a quirky grin. “At least you know I’m not lying when I tell you my teachers are head-spinning freaks.”
Jim shook his head. “That’s not funny.”
“Nope,” I agreed. “Nor is the fact that my lunch ladies are trolls—real trolls. But the food’s edible, as long as you don’t ask what the surprise is.” I tried to blink innocently at him, but a giggle escaped my mouth.
“That’s not better!” Jim started to chuckle. “God, I’m a terrible parent.”
“Yup,” I grinned at him. “But you’re my terrible parent.”
“Well, as long as you’ve decided to keep me.” He draped an arm companionably over my shoulders. “Guess I’ve decided to keep you, too. Guess I could do worse. Heck, you already cook better than me.”
“It’s true; you’re a terrible cook.”
“Brat,” he said affectionately. “We’ll get through this. It’s just a year. So, tell me all about your monstrous teachers and weird fellow students while I demolish the rest of my gourmet spaghetti and go back for seconds.”
I did, and for a while, I had a place out of time. A place where I had a father and I wasn’t alone. A place where I didn’t have to be the parent anymore.
It was too good to be true.
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something terrible to happen while we talked and ate and laughed. For Jim’s face to be pulled back, revealing Churchill’s pallid face or Sunglasses’ lenses.
Yet nothing emerged. Nothing but a normal family dinner.
Bizarre.
Almost unsettling.
The sheer normalcy of it seemed to cut into me. I missed my mother. I missed what I thought we’d had. Learning she’d lied to me about Jim left me torn up inside. I was so angry she’d lied to me, and that betrayal cut deeper than I could say. Still. I had to believe my mother had done it for a reason.
I just wished I could ask her what that reason was.
Over spaghetti and conversations ten years too late, I forgave Jim. Mostly because I wanted to—he was my dad. I didn’t want to hate him, not really. Besides, my strange power assured me he was telling the truth about that PO Box.
Not that a PO Box and some letters replaced his being an actual parent.
My mother had been the one who had raised me—almost entirely on her own.
As mad as I was, I decided to trust the parent who’d been there. Who’d held my hair when I was sick. Who worked two jobs sometimes just to make sure I had what I needed. Who gave up everything just to be my mother. Whatever her reasons for leaving, for hiding Jim’s letters from me, they had to have been good ones.
I’d have to figure those reasons out—and fast.
But for now, I gave myself permission to spend this time with my dad. To enjoy this meal for what it was.
In this moment, it was enough.
Of course, I was sure it would all get back to shit and fans directly. Just because he hadn’t turned into a monster at the counter didn’t mean trouble was over. In fact, I was pretty sure things were about to get far, far worse.
That’s what happened when demons owned your soul, after all.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Three days later and demon school was starting to feel normal. That probably should have worried me.
Whatever. I had bigger fish to mentally fry.
It was the end of the school day on Wednesday, and my window for procrastinating had officially run out.
I still didn’t know what the Principal was or why Oscar was so strong. But it didn’t look like I’d be getting any more answers until the weekend—the Bulldog had made it clear Nabila and Oscar were off limits while they “prepared” for the Principal. Which was okay, because right now, I had to convince Cat to give me a job at
the Ground Zero. Or at least legitimate some kind of arrangement to save me from having lied to the Bulldog.
And heaven help me—or more accurately, hell—I had to talk to Sunglasses.
But first, Cat.
No point in starting with the nightmare when I could start with a friend. Besides, I could use her advice on handling Sunglasses.
I’d spent the past three days dodging both Myrtle and playing actual music in music class—I’d even started avoiding Nash out of fear I’d let the truth of my situation slip and Myrtle would get wind.
I missed my friends, my who-knew-what guy friend, and playing my damn guitar.
And there was nothing I could do about any of that until I backed up my claims for band permission and a job.
Which was why I was heading to the Ground Zero.
Somehow I had to convince Cat that, even though I hadn’t figured things out and I might still get sniffly if asked about my mom, she should take a chance on me. Maybe we could call a daily cup of hot chocolate a job? Ugh. What super cool Shifter would be interested in that? She was nice, not stupid.
Wracking my brain, I stared out the dusty school bus window.
The sights and smells of the faded mile between Saint Damon’s and the family enclaves along the shadowed fringe of the Vegas strip had begun to feel familiar. The man in a worn denim jacket was still sitting on the same bench he’d been on this morning, an expression of dazed horror carved into his face. I wondered what he’d done, whether he’d gambled away his house or his soul. A few steps away stood a cardboard-armored superhero, either protecting the man on the bench or wishing he had something worth stealing.
All around us, neon casino mouths gaped, ready to suck passersby into their slot-machine bellies.
Three stops before The Milton, I exited the bus alone.
I sent Nabila and Oscar a rueful wave as my feet hit the pavement. Today they were stuck going straight home after school, tomorrow hopefully, I’d change that. Sand-scented air greeted me. It felt ridiculously warm for November. I grinned at the Vegas natives with their heavy coats and looks of disgust directed towards the sky. They wouldn’t understand how grateful I was that the daylight lasted a bit longer here than it did in the north.
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