by Devon Monk
I was standing at the foot of the bed in my underwear and bra when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ryder.
6:00 followed by a smiley face.
I tapped the thumbs up icon and went back to scowling at the clothing spread on the end of the bed. Jeans, a clean white tank top, that soft gray sweater.
Or the damned white and blue dress Cheryl had shoved in the bag, and charged me for, when I wasn’t looking.
I rubbed at my forehead. The dress was too much, right? It was pushing things, maybe hinting at things we were not talking about. Rings. Vows. Marriage.
But my eyes kept going to the dress, to the memory of how I’d pulled it out of the bag muttering, “You have got to be kidding me,” over and over again. And when I’d thrown it onto the bed, it had landed in pretty little folds and swishes of fabric.
“No. I am not going to make some kind of statement at the first nice meal we’ve had together in weeks. Nice try, Cheryl.”
I scooped the dress back into the bag and put on the tank top, sweater, and jeans.
Eight minutes left. I ran the brush through my hair, patted the dragon pig, patted the dog, then strolled out of the house without a care in the world.
But that soft fog surrounded me, filled my mind again.
I drifted up, still tethered, but somehow outside my body. I watched as I opened the Jeep, got behind the wheel. I watched myself start the car and checked the mirrors before putting it in gear.
What was I doing? I wanted to scream. Tried to. But the me behind the wheel drove safely and conservatively until I pulled up in front of my childhood home, where I’d lived until I’d started staying with Ryder.
It was built on top of a hill where tough coastal pines held out against the sandy soil and hard winds, their branches twisted and frozen in an easterly direction as if there were phantom breezes forever pushing them that way.
The steep concrete stairs were carpeted with pine and leaf debris, soft and familiar under my shoes as I walked up.
At the top, I unlocked the door and stepped into the house.
“Disable the alarm,” the voice said.
It was still weird to even have an alarm, but my sisters had gone out of their way to make sure I stayed safe by locking the door when I was home.
See how well that worked out?
I punched in the code.
“Perfect,” he said. “Come into the living room.”
The living room was tiny. A small table had been set up in the middle of it with a piece of chalk, a candle, and a brass bowl on top of it.
I’d seen enough spellcraft in my life to know something—something bad—was about to go down.
“This isn’t…there will be no harm done to you, Delaney,” the voice said. “This is so we can talk. Get to know each other better. You can set the crate on the chair.”
Crate? I looked at my hands and snapped back into my body and mind, no longer adrift.
The crate wasn’t heavy, but I’d carried it awkwardly. I’d also rucked up the sweater sleeves, so bruises were already starting on the inside of my arms.
I tried to resist his command, but couldn’t stop myself from putting the crate on the kitchen chair.
There were a thousand things I should be thinking about. A hundred fears, worries, plans I should manage. But only one thing rose to the forefront of my mind.
Had I come up to the house and arranged all these things and not known it? When? When had I done that? How long had I been doing things and not been aware?
What other things had this voice made me do?
The horror of being controlled against my will again, sent me rushing to the kitchen sink, where I ran the water and breathed heavily, trying not to throw up.
“You are thinking too hard, Delaney. You are making this a horror when, really, it is something else. Something much…better.”
I spat in the sink, ran the water over my hand, and wiped my mouth. I didn’t want to speak. Not yet. I knew words had power. And I was not about to give that away. I stared at the coffee cup at the bottom of the sink.
“You may have just realized that you and I have been together for some time. I regret to inform you, those memories have been hidden…”
I picked up the coffee cup and, in one smooth motion, turned, intending to heave it at him.
But he was close. Too close. He caught my wrist before I could release the cup and crowded into me, pinning me against the cupboard.
Eyes like tarnished gold sparked with light, and one black eyebrow rose. He was old, older than I’d originally thought. An old demon. Perhaps even an ancient one.
“I have overestimated how much of this situation you understand.” He smiled, and it was rueful. “That is my fault. One of the drawbacks of selectively erasing your memory, I’m afraid. I am never sure what you might recall in dribs and drabs.”
He shifted his hold on my wrist. I still couldn’t move it. Couldn’t move my body.
I glared at him.
“This is a nice cup.” He carefully took it out of my frozen fingers. “You may have sentimental attachment to it, so let’s keep it safe.” He placed the mug back in the sink behind me then stepped back, not only away from crowding me, but all the way out of my space.
I got a good look at him. Again, maybe, if the whole erasing memories was a real thing. He was in uniform, black and gray. Black gloves. He looked refined, tailored, almost like an actor playing the part of a dangerous man.
“How did you get into my town, demon?” I asked.
His face lifted with surprise, then he nodded and clasped his hands together in front of him.
“I’ll tell you. But first, I want to give you my gratitude for having been key to making this happen, Delaney. You will find that I am generous in showing my appreciation.”
“How about you keep your appreciation and get the hell out of my town?” I said. I could make him do it. I knew I could. I was the Bridge to this town, and demons were not allowed unless the contracts were signed. But when I reached for the part of me that could shove a creature such as him out of this space, there was nothing.
Blackness where a kindling of fire should be. Quiet where once I contained a storm.
“Hush,” he said, and it sounded kind. “I haven’t taken anything from you. You are unchanged, you are as you ever were, but this hold I have on you necessitates a certain leverage. Come this way.”
I was powerless not to do so. I walked back into the living room, stopped on one side of the table.
“Now, I could ask you to do these things, to cast this spell of your own free will, but I am fairly certain you would not. However, once this spell is cast, you and I will be on a much better footing. Then we will have time to discuss the crime I’d like to report.
“You look surprised. Oh, it is not just because you are a Bridge to Ordinary that I’ve gone through extensive difficulties to bring us to this moment. I have a crime I’d like to report, and I have decided it will take the law enforcement of Ordinary to bring this crime to justice.
“Convincing you to see my side of things could have been done differently, perhaps, but there was so little chance, so little hope, and I have waited so long…” He stared out the window beyond my neighbors’ roofs at a swath of the churning Pacific Ocean.
“I’ve been inspired by you, Delaney Reed. And by Ordinary. I really had no concept of what it was. Of what it could be. A town like this.” He shook his head and the smile was back, softer this time.
It was past six o’clock now. Ryder would know something was wrong when I didn’t show up. He’d come out here looking for me.
Or would he?
He’d been staying out until three in the morning without checking in. He’d missed countless dinners. Hell, I’d missed dinners, too.
This wasn’t unusual. If I missed our date by a half hour, by an hour, it wouldn’t be unusual. I didn’t even think he’d worry if I missed our date by two hours. He’d just assume work kept me away. Or worse
, that I was staying away because I was angry.
Okay, who else might know something was wrong? Jean? Myra? Not unless their gifts clued them in.
And that was it. Everyone would assume I was where I was supposed to be—off work, with Ryder, on a date.
There would be no one riding to the rescue. This damsel was gonna have to un-distress herself.
Chapter Fifteen
“Pick up the Feather, please.”
The demon stood directly across from me, the table between us. Since demons could choose to appear any way they liked, he was no longer in a uniform but instead wore a plain brown suit trouser with a white T-shirt tucked into it. He’d rolled the sleeves on the T-shirt, and instead of a belt, black suspenders buttoned at his waistband.
I took a second to really try to imprint him in my memory. Salt-and-pepper hair, dark brows, he resembled Jon Hamm, if the actor had gold eyes.
“Delaney, please pick up the Valkyrie Feather.”
I locked my arm tight against my ribs, but my hand reached out, lifted the Feather.
“Lay it across the bowl.”
My gaze shot up to him again. “No.”
He frowned. “Do it carefully.”
“No.” I said the word, but my hand was moving. “No,” I repeated, a little panicked.
He sighed, and my hand stopped moving.
“Why not?”
I blinked. “What?”
“Why don’t you want to place the Feather across the bowl?”
Here it was, where my words would be weapons, not shields. Carefully, oh so carefully, wielded.
“I want no part of this spell.”
“That’s non-negotiable, unfortunately. I give you my word that if this could have worked with any other person, I would have chosen that path.”
“Why does it have to be me?”
I was buying time. But no one was coming, so hopefully time would give me a chance to think up a way to escape. Or better yet, a way to trap him.
“I am a demon. The only way into Ordinary is by your agreement.”
“I didn’t agree to you being here.”
“True. I seized upon a small opportunity most demons would not have seen.”
“Let me guess. My wounded soul?”
He tipped his head. “You are healing very quickly. My nephew was careful in how he held your soul for all that time. It was much less damaged than it might be.”
“Bathin?”
He nodded.
“Bathin is your nephew?”
“I was shocked that he released your soul. That boy never lets go of something he likes. Did you know he carried around a dead nebula for centuries? It had a black hole pocket he liked to use to hide things from his father. As if the king didn’t know exactly what he was doing. Even when my nephew was called out before the hordes, maligned, ridiculed for keeping a dead nebula, he held on to that damn thing.
“Wept when his father imploded it.” He glanced at me and frowned. “No, don’t worry, the shock waves won’t hit this end of the galaxy for millions of years.”
“Bathin?” I said a little more quietly. Of all the things I’d expected, it was not that my captor was the uncle of the guy dating my sister.
“Yes. I was there on the beach when he used those scissors. Brilliant.”
“You couldn’t have been. There weren’t any other demons on the beach.”
He lifted his brows.
“In the vortex. You were on the other side of the vortex.”
“Just so. Now, place the Feather across the bowl, please.”
“The Feather won’t burn.” I knew that much about Valkyries: totally flame proof.
“Agreed. Nor can it be damaged. Is that what you are worried about?” He smiled. It was weirdly a look I’d seen on Crow’s face. An almost-uncle kind of proud look when a child has done well.
“I give you my word neither you, nor I, nor this spell will damage any of the items drawn upon for its making. Does that help?”
“No. Why don’t you just skip the spell and tell me about the crime.”
“No, that will not work. Your objection is noted. Please, place the Feather on the bowl.
My hand set the Feather carefully across the brass bowl.
“Very nice. You have a touch for spellwork, Delaney. Of course, your wrist action is a little sloppy, but that corrects over time. Now, place the Heartwood—carefully and without damaging it,” he gave me a big nod and open-mouthed wink, “—behind the bowl, between you and it.”
I bent, pulled the carving out of the crate, and set it—carefully—behind the bowl.
“What spell are you casting?” I asked.
“Just something I cobbled together in my spare time. Please pick up the tissue with the sweat of Death’s brow and place it beneath the Feather in the bowl. I know it would have been more convenient to do carving, tissue, Feather, or tissue, Feather, carving, but spells are tricky things that must be followed just so.
“We wouldn’t want to implode a pet nebula with one wrong word, would we?
“A little more in the middle…yes. That’s it. Very good. And now comes the enjoyable bit, when we—you and I—find out if this risk is worth it. Please hold your palms down over the bowl.”
I fought it, every muscle straining. Sweat slipped down my temple, peppered between my shoulders. But no matter how hard I fought, my hands did as he asked.
He shifted his hands so that our fingertips barely touched. I was sure this was the first time I had seen his fingers. They were roughened, scarred, the ring finger on one hand twisted painfully backward, as if torqued there and left to heal incorrectly. The tip of his pinky, ring, and middle fingers on the other hand were missing. Heavy scarring scored from the back of his thumb near his wrist across the entire back of his hand, fingers, and even the small amount of his palm that I glimpsed. Fighting? Torture? Both?
“Delaney,” he said softly. “Your attention on this, please.” He wiggled his fingers over the bowl, bringing my eyes downward.
“Good then. I’ve decided not to bring fire into this spell. That is a departure for me. One other way to be sure it will not be tracked by—well, you aren’t interested in my recipe, are you? Please, don’t bother answering.
“Clear your mind.” He intoned, then he chuckled. “I’m joking. That doesn’t matter. If I could ask anything of you, it is this: Reserve judgment until you have all the facts.”
I braced for it, the chanting, the bloodwork, fire—even though he’d said he wasn’t going to use fire. Demons lied about everything. It was just safer and smarter to assume there’d be fire mixed in there somehow.
“The old…” he said in a clear, sonorous baritone, drawing the words out… then, when he finally ended the word, he paused before diving right in with gusto. “…gray mare just ain’t what she used to be…”
I blinked, blinked again. What was it with demons and cheesy old songs? Did all their spellwork require it, or just the stuff demons had done in Ordinary?
He stopped. “Bad key? I took you for an alto, what with your…um…rather manly dressing style.”
“Nice stereotyping, jerk.”
He grinned, and happiness just radiated off of him. He was having a grand old time. “Soprano? Or shall I slow it down a bit? You do know the words don’t you? Should I write them down?”
I glared at him and bit at the inside of my cheek. Yes, I was trapped by a demon, and yes, I was the unwilling participant of a spell of unknown outcome. But there was something ridiculous enough about this, that I no longer feared this man, this creature.
There was enough give and take—sort of like an arm-wrestling match—that I knew once this spell was done, I was going to over-the-top this guy and seize control.
“I’ll carry the melody. Feel free to jump in with a hum, a harmony, a grace note. You are invited to add your own voice to the spell.”
I clamped my lips shut and raised one eyebrow in a “dare me” pose.
He grinned
again. “Yes, well.” He shook out his hands, stretched his fingers. “Here we go again. And…”
“The old gray mare…” He turned his hands upside down so his fingers were cupping mine. My hands curled into the correct position without my will.
I knew this hand-clap game. Had played it with my sisters for years, though we sang the “Say say oh playmate” words to it. Our mother taught it to me, and I’d taught it to Myra and Jean. The only magic it had ever carried was fun and silliness.
I’d never thought it’d be a part of a demon spell.
“Just ain’t what she used to be.” He went through the claps—the cross hand-to-hand, the back hands, palms together claps.
“Ain’t what she used to be…ain’t what she used to be…”
He had a good voice, robust and happy. When our hands touched, he was gentle, so gentle even a toddler would be having fun.
Except I was not having fun. I hated that my hands were nothing but puppets on strings for him.
I was stuck doing a spelled up version of Paddy Cake over a supernatural table setting, but I was ready to pounce the first chance I got to interrupt or stop the spell.
The only problem was, words and sounds were a part of this particular spell. I didn’t want to say or do something that would cause the spell to be even worse. To cause something really bad.
Like an exploding nebula.
“The old gray mare she kicked on the whiffletree…”
He was really getting his opera on, so it was no wonder he missed the scratch of a hand at the front door, the subtle rattle of the lock.
It took everything I had not to look at the door.
“Kicked on the whiffletree…”
The door jiggled again. I heard a hard, frustrated exhale.
The demon focused on our hands, executing the last little bit in slow, slower, slowest motion.
“Many long…”
Clap
“…years…”
Clap
“…ago!”
Clap. Clap.
Three things happened in quick succession.
The tissue with Death’s sweat went up in smoke that was a living thing, a skeletal hand reaching up to wrap boney fingers around the Feather, and to curl, like a soft river of mist, around the Heartwood.
