Dime a Demon
Page 29
“He may not have thought it worth mentioning until Bathin made his decision. Perhaps now you’d like to read the marked section?”
The journal. It was right there on the oversized ottoman.
“I’ll get us both some more tea.” He gathered our cups and quietly left the room.
I drew the journal into my lap and brushed my palm over the cover. If there were answers, they’d be here.
I opened the book to the yellow silk ribbon tucked between two pages.
I had to blink several times to get my eyes to focus on the page. Every time I saw his handwriting, it was like a string in my heart plucked and sang out that one, sweet lonely note, echoing away and never answered.
* * *
I’ll be meeting with Bathin this evening at sunset. I can tell he thinks that makes him more mysterious, but, yeah. No. Mysterious is why my Tupperware never has matching lids, and how come the massaging chair is always too strong on my ass and not strong enough on my shoulders. If I wanted an ass massage, I could drive any coastal road after spring wash out. Demons have nothing on the mystery of why Bertie can’t just leave me out of one—just one—of her community events. I swore to give my life and soul for my community, but if I have to judge one more soggy rhubarb pie…
* * *
I grinned. I’d forgotten how much he liked to complain in his journals. He never did it in person, not around us girls. But I imagined he and his friends, mostly gods, but some humans like Hatter and Shoe, got into epic bitch sessions when they went out for beers every now and then.
* * *
I think he’s finally going to admit he wants to be a part of Ordinary. He’s risking a lot to come here. The learning curve on rules and law will be steep, but I think he’ll manage. It will be the beginning—the first demon to come into this land set aside and blessed by the gods. Monumental, really. I can’t think of a better demon, or man, to take this plunge. Bathin is reaching for something that’s been out of the grasp of demons: empathy, compassion, hope, love.
I think he’ll find it. Faster here in Ordinary than any other place in the universe.
Honestly, I’m looking forward to him taking this step. I think he’ll fit in just fine. I think he’ll find his legs. I think he’ll find his heart.
That’s one of my favorite parts of being the one who can say yes or no to the creatures and gods who want to come here: Saying yes.
So, let’s do this, Bathin. Let’s get you to that yes. Let’s get you to this new life.
I have a feeling once you taste it, you’ll never turn back.
I have a feeling once you learn love, feel love, you’ll do anything to keep it. Do anything to protect it.
I expect you to eventually become one of my most loyal friends.
You might even turn out to be perfect for Ordinary…especially if you take over judging that damn rhubarb contest.
* * *
He didn’t sign it with his name, he never did. He just drew a circle with two curving lines hashed across it and a star in the middle. O for Ordinary, the lines for his job as the bridge, the star for his place as Chief of Police.
I closed the journal, leaving the yellow ribbon marking the place.
Harold arrived with more tea. “I brought a few more cookies.”
I took three. “Thank you. Do you know where Dad met with Bathin?”
I could thumb through the journal until I found whichever entry Dad had recorded that information into, but Harold would find it much faster.
“Down at Cape Perpetua. Cook’s Chasm.”
South of Ordinary by several miles, it was one of my favorite places Dad used to take us. The coastline of rugged basalt showcased three natural attractions that drew in curious sightseers.
To the north was Cook’s Chasm—a deep fissure where waves bashed violently against the stones to spray upward hundreds of feet in a booming whoosh of salt water. To the south, Spouting Horn—a hole in the stone—blasted like a geyser at every pounding wave. In between those two sights was Thor’s Well, a weird sinkhole that swallowed up incoming water and appeared to drain the ocean dry.
Thor’s Well was sometimes called Hell’s Gate.
So, yeah. It was a fitting place to meet a demon.
I stood and handed Harold the journal. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “My pleasure, Myra. Always.”
I gave him a hug, and he hugged me back, his hand a comforting weight between my shoulders.
“What will you do now?” he asked, as I stepped away and looked around for my things.
“I’m going to go talk to a friend.”
~~~
The vampire was sitting in his living room sipping a very small cup of a very dark coffee.
The lighting in the room was warm and yellow—cozy—and from the big dresser-sized record player against one wall Ethel Waters crooned about bread and gravy and goodnight kisses.
If there were vampires in the large, sprawling house other than Leon who had answered the door and made himself scarce, they were giving Old Rossi his space.
“Myra. Come on in, have a seat.” Rossi gestured to the very formal, uncomfortable-looking chair across from the curved love seat he was lounging in.
I glanced at the chair, decided it looked too much like a job interview, and took the couch next to him instead.
A smile flitted over his lips. “So this is personal business then?”
I sighed. “I’m thinking about doing something really foolish.”
“You?”
Yeah, I couldn’t believe it either.
“I could use someone at my side who can give me an unbiased, unvarnished opinion.”
“Why me? Why not your sisters?”
“I know Jean and Delaney’s opinion. They’ve been on me about this for over a year.”
“And the gods?”
“No. This is outside of Ordinary. Gods don’t leave unless they pick up their power.”
“Have you no other friends?”
“I do. But I have you. And right now, I could use a vampire’s—a very old vampire’s—opinion.”
“We aren’t talking about a new tattoo are we?”
“No. We’re talking about a demon.”
Rossi’s eye lit up, and he lifted the tiny cup, drained the dark contents, then licked the corner of his lip, erasing a stray drop that was too red to be just coffee. “I’ll get my coat.”
Chapter 27
The drive to Cook’s Chasm usually took about an hour. But it was good weather, Ordinary wasn’t the only coastal town throwing some kind of shindig for tourists, and it was a Sunday evening. That meant traffic was heavier than usual.
I didn’t worry though. We made it to Yachats before sunset, so I stopped off at my favorite fish and chips joint and got a snack. Then I drove to the short road that ended in a wide parking lot facing the ocean.
Rossi seemed content to sit in the car with me and watch the sun go down. Since we were outside of Ordinary, he’d donned his vampire fashion statements: a peacoat, an expensive-looking beanie, leather gloves, light scarf, and sunglasses.
He should have looked ridiculous, instead he looked like a model from a magazine explaining how to vacation in the Swiss Alps for only millions a day.
Vampires didn’t burn up in sunlight, I knew that. But it wasn’t exactly comfortable for them to be in full sun for long, either. Except for inside Ordinary. It was one of the reasons Rossi had come to town, stayed, and built his family.
“So.” Rossi lowered his sunglasses, his shocking-blue eye gazing out over the top of them, the black patch a harsh reminder of his injuries. “How long are we going to stay here and not see Bathin?”
“We’re going.” I watched the cloudless sky blush bright and hard—that bright, angry slap of color slowly bruising toward purple and deep blue. “I’m just giving the tourists a little time to thin out.”
He hummed and didn’t call me on my lie.
Another few minutes ticked by. Maybe a ha
lf-hour. The stars were popping out above us, the lights of the little town glowing through windows behind us.
“What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked.
“You could be wrong.”
I nodded, chewing on my lip. “What’s the best that can happen?”
“You could be wrong.”
I sighed and rubbed at my eyes. “I hope you’re going to give me clearer opinions once we’re there.”
“You want my opinion on everything I see?”
I knew better than to fall into that trap. “No. Just if I ask you something, give me two loaded barrels of truth, okay?”
“That was always the plan.”
I started the car. Fiddled with the heater, turned the radio to a different station, messed with the volume.
“Maybe I should drive?” he suggested.
“No, you don’t get to drive the police cruiser. I’m going. We’re going.”
Rossi pressed his sunglasses back up his nose and waited.
I finally shifted the car into reverse and made my way slowly, maybe a little too slowly, through the neighborhood, and back onto the highway.
It was a short drive to the pullout. A very short drive. And no matter how slowly I drove, no matter how much my palms sweated, or my heart beat like I was running instead of sitting perfectly still in a car, we were there all too quickly.
We were the only car in the long, curved pullout. The two-lane highway hissed with cars heading through the deepening night. Even with the windows closed, the sound of the ocean was everywhere.
“I’ll see you down there.” Rossi opened the door and strolled in front of the car to the narrow concrete sidewalk that paralleled the shore. One more step and he hopped up to stand on top of the four-foot concrete wall that was there for people to lean their elbows on while they stared at the three notable geologic sights down, down, down below.
He should not be standing there, his hands in his pockets, the last, dim, blurry light of dusk carving him a shadow against shadow.
He tipped his head, as if scenting something. I was reminded that vampires were predators, always, but here, outside Ordinary, where the idea of live-and-let-live wasn’t subscribed to, even more so.
I got out of the car. If there was trouble, vampire trouble, I was going to make sure both of us got home in one piece.
“Problem?” My hand dropped to my gun.
“No vampires, if that’s what you’re asking.” His words were teasing, but carried reproach. I knew Rossi could take care of himself. He was one of the oldest, strongest vampires on Earth.
But his injuries weren’t healed yet.
Of course I worried. “How about demons?”
He shook his head. “Not that I can sense. One way to find out.”
Then he jumped.
Jumped.
The road was built into the side of the hill, and a very nice, very easy switchback path allowed people to walk down the one-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop to the rocky outcropping where the ocean pounded and rolled.
Did Rossi walk that path? No. No he did not. He had to jump off the wall like a jerk and make me gasp before my brain kicked in.
Vampires could fly. This was nothing. This was easy. This was second nature. He wasn’t a broken bloody splatter of bones and fancy winter wear down on the basalt shore.
He was, however, an asshole.
“You, sir,” I called out into the blackness, “are a jerk!”
Low, infectious laughter drifted up with the crash of waves and slick of salt in the air.
Then there were no more excuses, no more waiting, no more reasons not to walk down to the shore.
“Just walk,” I said quietly. “Just go down the path and settle this.”
The unlit path was officially closed at dusk, but I made my way through the thin stand of trees, north, south, north, south, following the zigzag down, out of the trees, the ocean a wild thing at one side, the cliff green and wet and silent on my other. I watched my boots and took my time. The path was smooth, but it was wet from the spray.
Rossi leaned against the railed staircase that led down to the southernmost rocky flat. Walk down those steps, ramble and climb over the huge black basalt stones, teeter there on the edge, and I’d be staring straight down into a crack in the land, a canyon the ocean snarled and chewed and banged its way into, while the Cook’s Chasm bridge a lovely open-spandrel, arched above me.
Instead, I faced the ocean, the vampire to my left, Thor’s Well down and out ahead of me another fifty yards of humping hillock, craggy basalt and sand, the chasm to the north of me growling away.
It was dark enough, starry enough, I couldn’t make out the waves except for the luminous white of foam spraying upward, great winged owl feathers fanning the night.
The wind was steady here, not hard, just a shifting, constant movement.
I wanted to turn around and go home.
What if I was wrong?
What if I was right?
The tug in my chest was quiet. Calm. Waiting.
A line from Dad’s journal flashed in my mind’s eye: Let’s get you that yes.
Maybe that was all I needed. A yes. Did he love me? Did I love him? Was this all a lie?
Let’s get you that yes.
“Ready?” Rossi’s voice was steady. Familiar as my history, my childhood. An uncle, an ally. He would be my eyes if I was lost and staring at the world through heart-colored glasses.
He had my back.
He draped his arm across my shoulder. “Do you know how to summon him?”
I shook my head. “I think he’ll hear me.” I stepped forward, just one, two, three steps so that I was off of the concrete pad and on the little span of grass-covered dirt and sand.
Ahead of me was another drop, this one a hill I could walk straight down, and beyond that the flat wide reach of raw basalt shelf jutting out into the ocean waves that rolled over it.
I knelt and ran my fingertips across the dirt by my boots, peering through the darkness for what I needed. My hand finally brushed a little rock, and I tucked it into my palm, and stood. I placed the stone near my heart, hoping Bathin would feel me, know I was here, waiting on the edge of this stormy dark sea.
“Bathin,” I said quietly to the stone, loudly in my mind, in my heart. “We need to talk. About the scissors. About Delaney’s soul. About you and me. I need to know…know you’re okay. Please come here. Come talk to me.”
The edges of the stone bit into the soft flesh of my palm, but I couldn’t seem to stop squeezing it. There was no guarantee this would work. I wasn’t going by logic or tradition or rules. There wasn’t a lot of logic in this at all, just a trembling, nervous hope.
I was just a speck of light holding a microscopic stone on a tiny planet spinning through a vast and endless dark.
There was no reason for him to hear me. There was no reason for him to answer if he did. There was no reason for him to meet me here, at the edge of the world.
Minutes ticked and ticked and ticked. He did not answer.
My heartbeat, which had been fast, nervous, excited, slowed. I closed my eyes and tipped my face to the stars.
I knew what this felt like—being left behind. I understood loneliness, had become comfortable with silence. So I breathed in, and breathed out, letting the wind whisk away my hope like sifted sand.
I would be okay. I was okay. Whatever I felt about Bathin, that complicated mix of emotions, that love I’d fought and reasoned into submission, was not to be.
It was time to let go. I’d had my answer and it was yes.
Yes, you should be alone.
I stood there for an hour. I knew that because Rossi finally came up behind me and draped his arm across my shoulder again. “He’s an asshole. Let’s get you home. You deserve more than he can give.”
I huffed out a short laugh and nodded. I was not going to cry. The tears were there, waiting, but I was scrubbed clean, empty. Free. The wind, the water, the salt, the stars, ha
d soaked into me, scoured the tangles of my heart until the strings unwound.
I was unknotted, floating, lifted by starlight and wind.
There, above myself, in the stars, in the blackness, alone, alone, alone, I felt safe. I felt whole.
“Myra.”
My heart jumped and the spell was broken. I wasn’t floating, not up in that wide black sky. But I still felt clean, scrubbed, settled.
I felt new.
I tipped my head down and opened my eyes.
Bathin strode up out of the darkness of the sea like some kind of a hero of old. His dark hair was longer, his eyes wilder, and instead of an expensive suit he wore black. Black leather pants and black tunic with burnished armor flowing over the width of his shoulders and chest.
The ocean raged behind him, but that man was rage embodied.
His eyes glowed red, embers burning iron hot. He didn’t stop until he was a few feet away from me, just out of reach. As if we needed that space to maneuver in case I had a knife. Or in case he did.
“Bathin,” I said through lips that tingled from the cold. My breath felt too warm. My skin too hot, too tight. A shiver ran deep, deep inside me. Deeper than my muscles, deeper than my blood. Deeper than my bones.
I couldn’t stop shaking.
“You’re here,” I said.
Those red eyes did not waver as he stared at me, his hands in loose fists at his side as if he had recently put away a weapon, his stance squared and looming.
“What are you doing outside Ordinary, Officer Reed? You know the rules of your little town don’t apply here.”
Old Rossi shifted behind me, and I could feel the cold burning strength of him, the promise of violence coiled and ready to strike.
I held up one hand, so Rossi would stay where he was, then I closed the distance between Bathin and me.
“I asked you to be honest with me, but you never once asked me to be honest with you. Why not?”
He blinked, and the coal-red simmered to a deep-cinnamon burn. “This is what you want to talk about?”