by Riley London
It’s like catnip. That’s all he needs to say.
Two years ago, Father Gabriel started training me to go with him to exorcisms. Eventually, he promised that instead of the random demon hunters that got assigned to work with him, we could be a team.
He’d exorcise the demons. I’d slay them.
He didn’t suggest it. I’d asked, fascinated by the fighters I occasionally crossed paths with. At first, he resisted but I’d asked often enough that he’d said if I was serious, he’d train me.
I’d been ten.
It’s enough to get me to martial arts classes three times a week. It’s enough to get me up early every morning to go with him on a training run. It’s even enough to get me to start eating my vegetables.
If I didn’t see how serious he was, and want to go with him so badly, I would suspect this was the world’s most elaborate trick just to get me to behave.
But there’s one thing I know.
Father Gabriel is an exorcist, and I am going to be his demon hunter.
He looks at me intensely. “So what’s the one thing you need to always remember about demons?”
I throw a punch he easily dodges.
“They are assholes,” I declared cheerfully.
He doesn’t manage to suppress the surprised laughter before he gets the warning priest face in place.
I make my voice a mocking monotone – the one that I always use when I’m actually paying close attention – and say, “Never trust a demon.”
Never trust a demon.
Every instinct screams danger. Something is wrong. Very wrong.
This kid might look like a choir boy, but from the massive Cthulhu-esque tentacles of power that I am seeing undulating around his body, this is no demonic errand boy.
Which half explains the weird compulsion that I’m feeling to keep walking.
“Accept my escort and you will see Father Gabriel again,” It repeats.
Fight or flight. Under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t even be a question.
A consideration.
A thought in my mind.
But it is like whatever strange magical force that’s smothering me makes it harder, if not impossible, to fight back.
And it’s pretty clear that if I follow my “escort,” the only place I am ending up is dead.
That’s when I hear it behind me, a footstep and then a whispered word.
A familiar voice: Noah.
With tremendous effort, I turn my head just slightly – feeling like I am fighting a riptide of force pushing me forward – and see Noah.
Gone are the crisp lines of the button-down shirt and expensive slacks.
He is dressed simply in jeans and a T-shirt. A bag with all manner of things sticking out of it is slung over one shoulder.
Noah pulls something from the bag – it takes a second for me to realize that it’s a switchblade – and cuts wildly at the air.
He is saying something in a language I don’t recognize.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I am tangled up with a demon, and he is doing magical interpretive theater.
But even in that moment, I feel it.
A shift.
A sizzle.
A release.
Something lets go. Noah manages to cut whatever cord tethered me. I still can’t figure out if it is coming from the demon or another source.
But it doesn’t matter.
“Accept your escort,” the choir boy starts to say again in the same flat voice. But his hands are beginning to move with the dark threat of demonic magic.
I don’t have my sword, but that doesn’t mean I’m not prepared.
My hand slides under my shirt, slipping the long knife sheathed in a holster there free. I take a few running steps backwards, until I am standing next to Noah.
His eyes are wide, on the knife that’s at least three times the size of his tiny switchblade.
“Hey Brewster-Crane, thanks,” I say and I mean it.
Then I grin. “Now stay the fuck out of my way.” And I launch myself at the demon.
Digging deep, I touch that demon hunter consciousness that propels me forward. That can, in times of distress, give me extra speed, extra strength, and the ability to do some extra damage.
Right now, I am so furious I could probably rip him apart with my bare hands.
Except for the fact that I’m pretty sure this is a powerful, ancient demon.
I notice something different.
That familiar line of demon hunter energy is there, accessible and strong. But there’s something else, another thread that I’ve never noticed, flowing next to it.
Witch magic? Maybe whatever I did today with Ari and Serena opened up a new possibility for me to access.
One of my hands flies through the air, fisted for punching. It’s the kind of punch I don’t aim for his head, but I aim for a spot two blocks past it. Follow through, Father Gabriel would call it.
With a heinous demonic roar, the creature staggers back, shrieking as my fist makes contact. But I don’t waste a second. It’s one of those times when it helps to be ambidextrous. My left hand clutches the consecrated knife, which plunges into it’s gut.. There’s a sickly wet sound as the tip pierces flesh and slides in.
That’s why you have to love these blessed weapons.
I start to pull up, doing the tried-and-true stem to stern cut. The demon is ready to put more of a fight.
Soft choir boy hands sprout claws that reach for my neck. The old jugular rip move.
My favorite.
He’s talking in tongues now, the voices of a thousand demons trying to force themselves out of the mouth of one very unfortunate young man. Actually, I can’t tell if this is a possession, or if this just is an illusion of a body being made corporeal with demon magic.
That matters. It’s the difference between wounding this guy enough to get out of here safely, and killing him dead.
Usually I have in exorcist on hand to tell me these things.
“Noah, can you tell if this is an illusion?”
I shout the words. Honestly, I’m not sure if he’ll hear me or if he’ll even help me. The demon is on top of me, pressing down with the weight of a thousand men.
Seriously, this kid barely looks like he could lift a straw.
But it’s like his bones are made of cement.
Its hands are around my throat, and I’m just prepping to kick my way out from under it – extra demonic weight be damned – when I catch the tail end of Noah saying something.
The first part is lost to me over the scuffle of the fight, but I hear him say the words “definitely an illusion.” I’m going to have to trust him.
It’s the difference between me finding a way to subdue this creature and straight up killing it.
Not a human?
Then I’m going to destroy this motherfucker and enjoy every second.
I fight to reverse our positions, and soon the demon is on its back. My knife is still sunk into its abdomen and I press down with everything I have. I am not too proud to say that I ripped that knife straight up through the top of its head.
Extra demon hunter strength.
And just as grisly as it sounds.
For seconds, the demon continues to twitch – not unlike a snake after you chop off its head – but then it grows still. I reached into my bag to grab a small vial of specially blessed holy water. This isn’t the usual stuff. Two drops of this will evaporate a demon body and send it straight back to the depths of hell on contact.
Luckily no tourists have walked by that I notice, but I’m not taking any chances. I through the whole vial onto the corpse and watch it disintegrate.
Behind me, Noah lets out a low whistle. “Holy crap.”
I turn around and give him a huge grin. When he takes half a step back, I look down and realize I’m covered in gore. What can I say? It just felt so good to blow off steam.
Voices not far off make me freeze. I can’t let people
see me this way.
Noah is already reaching into his bag, pulling some sort of a small flask out. I am not saying I don’t want a drink. I’m just saying it’s not the most urgent consideration right now.
Four teenagers outfitted in goth clothing walk by, and one of the boys gives me an admiring smile. “Great costume.”
They keep walking.
My eyes fly up to meet Noah’s and he shrugs. “Halloween in Salem.”
Okay then.
He says a few words I don’t understand, and the drops of water pouring from his flask turn into enough of a steady stream that I’m able to wash away most of the blood. I slide my knife into the sheath and say, “Thank you. Really.”
Trying for more grateful than the first time.
It seems like Noah Brewster-Crane is not in the mood to deal with his feelings, because he’s already started walking. With a heavy sigh, I fell into step next to him and we make our way silently back to Salem Academy.
It’s not until we reach the foot of the driveway, that he stops and turns on me. “You ripped that thing apart.”
At first, I think it’s a compliment until I see his face. There’s a mix of disgust and fear touching his features.
“Yeah, that’s what I do. I’m a demon hunter.” He helped save my ass and I’m trying to stay civil. But he is on thin ice and I’m on even thinner patience. “Sorry it’s not a more elegant process.”
“You are nothing more than a street brawler.”
I guess that’s supposed to be an insult.
“Listen Noah, I am grateful for your help back there, but I am way too tired for your shit. If you hate me so much, then why did you follow me into Salem today?” It hit me that his appearance there was a little too convenient.
He smirks. “Oh my God Max. You actually think you are worth following?”
His features have morphed into such a look of disgust that I almost believe him. Almost. If I hadn’t caught that quick, lightning fast glance to the side.
You don’t play cutthroat poker against exorcists for half your life and not learn a thing or two about tells. Noah’s lying.
“I was getting magical supplies at a store. You are just lucky I happened upon you or you’d be dead. That was a serious compulsion spell.”
Compulsion spell.
Well, on the bright side at least I am learning recognize and identify the stupid magical workings, even if I don’t how to break them.
He leans in closer, so angry his bright green eyes flash. Inexplicably, I think that he’s taller than I realized and that even in the fading twilight his hair is such an interesting shade of copper.
“I would have been able to break that spell in middle school. You are not good enough to be here, Max. You are not worthy of the Salem witch blood that flows in your veins and you are definitely not worthy of taking up a spot at Salem Academy. I don’t know why Serena is taking pity on you, but don’t you think for one minute that she’s not going to see you for the worthless witch that you are and cast you out.”
At his bitter words, the adrenaline high of the fight quickly fades and I’m left just feeling empty.
And alone.
“Well, Noah, it’s a good thing you showed your real colors there. For one second, I almost made the mistake of believing that you were a decent person.”
For some reason, my words seem to surprise him.
I grin up at him, even though I just feel cold. “And don’t worry. If anyone asks, I won’t tell them you were too afraid to jump into the fight.”
Heading up the hill, I stare straight ahead.
But it doesn’t escape me that insulting this man doesn’t feel as good as it would have a few days go. He really had helped me. And despite his words, that leaves me wondering if there is more to Noah than meets the eye.
Even worse. What meets the eye is rather pleasing. Does everyone here have to be an attractive jerk?
I don’t turn around to see if he follows.
9
I am getting more adept at finding Erik in the inky blackness.
At least two of my punches have landed, and whatever training equipment they are using to simulate the demonic energy signatures is helping me to use my demon sight more effectively.
At first, I thought there would be no way.
I’d have to keep my demon sight locked down in Hell.
The sheer volume of information seems like it would be enough to make my brain explode.
“Trust the process,” Erik says gruffly. “Immersion. Desensitization. Fight through it.”
Part of me wants to complain. The reality is that each of these sparring sessions leaves me with a migraine so intense it takes an hour to pass.
But with each session, it gets a little easier.
“You need to think like a warrior, not just like a demon hunter,” he is saying.
Here’s the thing about Erik.
He doesn’t say much. But when he does, I listen.
“Almost every demon that you will encounter on the surface can be defeated in the same way. But once you’re in Hell, there is a much wider diversity of power and abilities,” he says.
I hear his foot coming in my direction just a second too late. But it catches me in the thigh and sends me staggering – but not hard enough to fall over.
One thing is clear: the big guy’s holding back.
Awww. A girl could get sentimental.
“If you really focus with your sight, you will be able to tell what they’re doing,” he says.
That catches my interest.
“How?”
A voice from the darkness. “Look, Max. Here is where I can only be helpful to a point. I don’t have your abilities. You need to learn to fight through distractions and anticipate what’s coming at you. Exactly how you are going to read what you’re seeing? I’m not your guy.”
Not for the first time, it strikes me that him being my guy would not be the worst thing.
I love these sparring sessions.
I’m a physical woman. I fight. I exercise. I train.
Until very lately, I subdued the things that scare me and the world with my body and my weapons. Erik is the closest person here that understands that.
Don’t think for one second that he’s not a smart guy.
Fight against him a couple of times, and you realize he’s a master strategist.
A consummate observer.
I bet the battlefield isn’t the only place the only skills come in handy.
“Lights,” he commands the smart system. The lights flash on and leave me blinking hard.
He always picks the worst time to throw on the lights.
He’s regarding me with that inscrutable face.
When he notices that I notice, he turns away. He grabs two water bottles and tosses one my way. He drinks his down all at once and crushes the bottle.
“You are getting better Max,” he says.
It is a restrained compliment.
But he is a man that’s sparing with his praise.
I get the feeling it costs him something to say this.
“Go again?” I gave him my biggest grin.
My mind goes back to Serena talking about his injury. I haven’t seen any sign of a physical limitation. Maybe a twinge here or limp there but I don’t know if that’s just because I’m looking for evidence of something that may or may not exist.
But one thing I know is that he loves my enthusiasm for fighting.
He gives me a regretful headshake.
“We have been at this for almost four hours,” he says. My eyes flash up to the clock. He’s right, but as it often does when I am learning new fighting tactics or getting the chance to move around, time passes fast.
His company doesn’t hurt, either.
I take my water over to the bench, unlace my shoes, and slide off my socks. I start a stretching routine that will hopefully limber me up enough for the magical training sessions on the schedule tonight. He’s watching me out
of the corner of his eye.
He looks away.
It’s very possible that someone hasn’t ever worked quite as hard not to look at someone as he appears to be fighting to keep his eyes off me now.
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.” It’s so automatic, so definitive, so passionate that the force behind the word takes me back.
Trust is a hard thing to come by, especially here. There’s a lot I don’t know. When I got back to Salem Academy last night, I had bypassed dinner and gone straight up to my room. There, I have removed the note on skin from my bag, with the intention of bringing it to Serena.
It caught flame in my hands and disintegrated to ash.
Even the ash disappeared.
Recounting this, I find myself looking at the hard lines of his face. He’s concentrating on my words with a ferocity that, under other circumstances, would be very distracting.
“I am no magical expert, but I have seen similar things. Usually an object is enchanted to self-destruct after a certain period of time or to prevent others from seeing it. Sounds like what might’ve happened here,” he says thoughtfully. But then to my surprise, he continues. “I would definitely encourage you to talk to Serena. She’ll know more than I do.”
It’s new information. It’s a helpful response. This confirmation that I need to go chat with the boss lady in red.
We have had a good day. Good fights. He seems like he’s in a good mood, as much as he ever does. And being able to safely share with him yesterday’s events gives me the courage to open up a little more.
“Hey, can I ask another question?”
He nods, and I hold his eyes for a long second before looking away. “One of the hardest things about leaving my family behind was missing Micah.”
I don’t get to finish my sentence. He’s already shaking his head.
There’s probably a way that I could play this and be smooth. Appeal to his better nature. Try the teacher-student angle. Use my feminine wiles. I do my best not to laugh at the thought.
But I can tell that he finds me attractive.
And yet, some part of me doesn’t want to use that.
I just want him to be as good as I think he is, and to trust me enough to tell me what I need know. But here’s the problem. I am not a patient woman. And I have had enough of people denying me information. Enough of people deciding just how much I need to know. Enough of people trying to influence me and fuck around with my perceptions.
