Demons

by Heather Frost

  I finished eating before stealing away quickly to the car. I brought back the blanket and draped it over him. Then I sat on the ground beside him, unable to make myself wake him up just yet.

  I got a little lost in my thoughts, thinking how unreal all of this seemed. On the run with my immortal boyfriend, rushing to save his life—turning to his natural enemies for help while leaving our friends in the dark.

  I also couldn't help wondering what the Demon Lord would want from me. Selena hadn't given me any clue—just that he “had plans for me,” whatever that meant. She said I could learn the details once I got there, and then—after proving myself—Patrick would be injected with the antidote.

  But what on earth would the Demon Lord expect me, an inexperienced Seer, to do? I was pretty darn sure it had to be related to the whole traveling-through-emotions thing. Still, that conclusion didn't exactly give me a job description. Who knew what I would be asked to do.

  But would I do it? Yes. No matter what it was. What other choice did I have?

  I was broken out of my thoughts by Patrick suddenly moving beside me, and I turned to see one hand against his nose, attempting to stop the flow of blood that had woken him. I hadn't thrown away the napkins from lunch, so I was able to use those to help staunch the bleeding before his shirt could get more than a few red drops on it.

  This bloody nose lasted longer than the first one had—his body was taking longer to repair itself. By the time he was done washing off the remaining blood on his face in the park's dirty bathroom, I was also ready to go. We headed back to the car, but before climbing inside, I dug around in my backpack until I found the small square box of Kleenex I'd brought and my dad's old hoodie. Patrick took the black sweatshirt gladly, and while he shrugged into it, I checked my phone.

  It was twelve thirty now. We'd been stopped longer than I thought. But at least I didn't have any messages. That meant that no one knew we were gone yet. I was a little surprised that Toni hadn't called—surely we'd been gone longer than he'd expected by now…

  We got back on the highway, and Patrick had almost fallen back asleep when my phone started to ring. I knew without checking the ID that it would be Toni. Who else? I scooped up the small device, saw that it was indeed my Guardian, and then promptly shut off the sound.

  Patrick was watching me, and I could see in his eyes that he knew exactly who was trying to call me. But he didn't argue with me about ignoring Toni. The acceptance, that resignation, was back in the stone set of his jaw, and I knew he was done arguing with me.

  I passed a slow-moving semi, and Patrick drifted to sleep in the seat beside me.

  I tried to keep our stops to a minimum, but here it was, five o'clock and we still had a good three hours before we'd reach the motel I'd been shooting for in Kingman. Some of the stops had been my fault. My Elantra got exceptionally good gas mileage, but still, stopping to refuel had been necessary. The stop that had taken the longest was when Patrick suddenly doubled over against his seat belt, screaming as his insides were torn apart. The sound of his shrieks in the close confines of the car were deafening, and my whole body shivered as I struggled to pull over onto the shoulder of the road.

  The instant I got the car to stop, I killed the engine and threw my seat belt off, kneeling awkwardly on my seat so I could wrap my arms around him. I don't know what help or comfort it offered—honestly, I don't think he was even aware of my existence for most of it—but when the heart-wrenching torture finally ceased, he could barely lift his eyes to look at me, he was so wiped out. Drenched in sweat, he lowered his head onto my shoulder, where he struggled to control his breathing. My fingers twisted in his hair, and I rubbed his shoulder, his back. “It'll all be over tomorrow,” I whispered finally, pulling him impossibly closer as the tears rolled deftly down my face. “I promise. I'll fix this.”

  He didn't say anything. I don't know that his torn throat could support words.

  I held him for a few minutes, until he stopped shaking and gasping. Only then did I allow him to pull away from my embrace, let him lean heavily against the seat. I searched in my bag for a bottle of water, which I helped him support so he could get a drink. He didn't drink much—a couple swallows.

  I didn't start driving until he gave me an impartial nod, quietly assuring me that he was all right. He wasn't, and we both knew it. But I restarted the car, and we merged back onto the highway.

  And now at five o'clock he was nursing his latest nosebleed while I ate another fast-food meal. We didn't bother looking for a park this time—we just stayed in the car at the restaurant's parking lot. I knew he was exhausted, and I didn't want to push him. But if we stayed here in Flagstaff… it would take that much longer to reach Las Vegas tomorrow. It felt too early to call it quits for the day. He must have felt the same way, because when I asked him if he felt like going on to Kingman, he told me that he did.

  After a fast dinner, we were back on the road. Patrick slept most of this last stretch, and though my car was getting low on gas, I didn't stop until we reached Kingman, at 8:00 p.m. on the dot. There were quite a few cheap but respectable motels to choose from, and I finally settled on a Motel 6 just a couple blocks off the highway. The money was coming out of my college fund, but I figured it could take the hit. I mean, seriously, if things didn't work out, I wouldn't be going to college anyway.

  Patrick was startled awake when I parked the car underneath the tall blue sign for the motel, and he seemed momentarily lost as he struggled to make sense of the dimly lit sky and the stopped car. He squinted at the familiar sign and then glanced over his shoulder to the white building behind us, and that's when I realized that his aura was visible to me again. I wasn't planning on mentioning it, just in case that made him want to hide it again, but he saw my eyes flicker to his aura and mumbled a soft explanation. “I can't control it anymore. It's like that ability is just… gone.” He hesitated and then added more quietly, “I'm invisible too. I have been since before dinner.”

  I tried not to let these revelations bother me—but they did. He was already disappearing from the world. Humans could no longer see him. Soon, I would lose him too.

  I forced a smile. “Thanks for the warning. I'll stop talking to you in public now. I don't need anymore of a claim on the crazy corner.”

  He cracked his own smile, but the colors of pain swimming around his body reminded me that every muscle he moved took effort.

  I left him in the car, doors locked, while I went to pay for a room. That done, I returned to get him and my bag. I was still a few steps away from the car when I realized he was trying to stop yet another nosebleed. We were running out of time, but there was no way either of us could keep driving. We'd been traveling for ten hours—we needed to get some rest before tomorrow. The last stretch of the journey would be the hardest in many ways, because I had a feeling that those two hours or so would pass by quickly. And then we'd be at the mercy of the Demons.

  I tried to act nonchalant about his nosebleed, and I knew from his aura that he appreciated that. He finished tending to the blood before he got out of the car, and I made sure everything was locked up before throwing the backpack over one shoulder. I took his hand, not caring how it must look to twine an invisible person's fingers with my own, and we walked toward our room, which was located on the second floor. I quickly found our room and was soon pushing through the mint-green door.

  Patrick's look was priceless when I pulled out a pair of his pajamas. It was a mix of surprise and reluctant appreciation. My attention to detail had him wanting to congratulate me, but his still-lingering disapproval wouldn't let him say more than a quiet, “Thank you.”

  Within ten minutes, he was changed into something more comfortable and was curling up on one of the beds. He kept the hoodie on, and that seemed to keep him from needing to wrap himself quite so tightly in the blankets.

  By the time I came out of the bathroom in my shorts and tank top, he was sleeping soundly.

  The light was already
turned off, so all I had to do was climb into the second bed and wait for sleep to come. I silently searched through my missed calls and messages—and there were a hundred, almost literally. Some from my grandma, who had no idea what was going on. Several from Lee, wondering if I was going to come and pick her up at school and where I could be, and threatening to call Patrick—the subtle worries went on and on, until she finally realized I wasn't coming back.

  Missed calls from Grandpa, Toni, Jack—even Jason, his Seer.

  None of these I dared answer. Because if I spoke to them, heard their arguments, I might just allow myself to hesitate. And Patrick didn't have time for second thoughts. He needed help now.

  I knew that by now Lee had helped Grandpa make the connection with Clyde. They knew where we'd gone, and there was a chance they were already following us. That's why we'd need an early start tomorrow. True, they'd have no idea where we'd stopped for the night. But if they drove straight—if they'd left around five, when I imagined they'd probably put everything together—there was a good chance they were well on their way.

  Not that going straight to Las Vegas would do them any good. It's not like they could stop us by showing up at the Demon Lord's casino first. No, I was pretty sure that they'd turn their attention to trying to locate us. Jason would try to pinpoint our possible position, using his Internet savvy, and they'd probably search most of the motels located just off the freeway. But a daunting job like that would keep them busy all night, and I was sure there was no way they'd find us.

  Seeing that I hadn't missed any calls from Selena, I shut my phone and set it on the small bedside table. Then I curled into a tight ball on my side, rolling under the crisp sheets so my back was to Patrick.

  It was a little weird, trying to fall asleep in the dark room, knowing that Patrick was four feet away from me. This was the first time I'd slept in the same room with a guy, and though the weirdness lingered, it didn't feel wrong or awkward. I mean, we were in separate beds; it wasn't anything like that. Still, I wondered what my parents would have thought about the situation—what my grandparents would do if they knew I was spending the night in a motel with my boyfriend.

  Actually, having him nearby was comforting. Listening to his shallow but regular breaths helped my heart to slow to an even throb, and soon I was sleeping too—lulled into dreaming by the mere constancy of his even breathing.

  It was midnight when his breathing stopped. I didn't realize it at first. All I knew was that suddenly my eyes popped open and I was no longer asleep. The room was dark, and I couldn't figure out what had made me awaken so suddenly. I could hear the cars outside, a dog barking nearby… that's when I noticed the absence of sound in the room. The rhythmic breathing that had helped me drift to sleep was gone.

  I jerked up at once, clawing at my blankets as I fought to scramble free. I was still kicking haphazardly at the last of the tangled sheets by the time my body was twisted around, and my panicked eyes finally found him.

  I expected to see his eyes open, his mouth gaping in death. I almost wonder if that would have been better than what I saw instead.

  He was being tortured again—the attacking virus working to destroy every part of him. He'd balled up a fistful of blankets and shoved them into his mouth, attempting to smother every scream, every gasp. In the process, he was smothering himself. His nostrils flared wildly, but he still wasn't getting the necessary air.

  I pushed off my bed, yanking the majority of the bed sheets to the floor as I stood too quickly, losing my balance in one awful second that made my stomach drop. I nearly fell over, but grabbing the night-stand kept me from toppling to the floor.

  A second later, I was kneeling on the bed next to him, pushing him onto his back so I could pull the makeshift gag out of his mouth. Meeting his wide and agonized gaze—even just that transiently—let me know that he was still in the beginning stages of this torment. He wasn't oblivious to me yet—he was still trying not to buckle under the excruciating pain. I knew the gag was for my benefit. He was invisible to humans now, so no one in the motel would have heard him.

  Had he really thought I could sleep through this?

  His whole body jerked suddenly in a horrific spasm, and his eyes rolled back into his head. His thrashing became more intense, and his fingers curled into taut claws. He released his hold on the blankets, and I hurried to jerk them out of his mouth. He gasped wildly, pitiful whimpers accompanying every desperate exhale. I tried to hold his hand, but he was burying the hard fingers into the bed beside him. I gave up on that and instead wrapped my arms around his head, trying to cradle him against the torture.

  He didn't scream much, until he neared the end. But the screams were so earsplitting, so gut-wrenching, that their arrival was no comfort. Tears were sliding down my cheeks, but I was hardly aware of them. I tried to hold him still, despite the tremors and convulsions that had him writhing on the bed. I pulled him closer and closer, as if the pressure of my embrace could steady him. If nothing else, maybe if I got close enough I could take some of his pain.

  Suddenly his arms were around me, crushing me impossibly closer. I gasped sharply at the painful force, but I didn't try to squirm away.

  “Patrick,” I panted hoarsely into his hair, against his shoulder. “It's going to be okay. It's almost over. I promise.”

  His arms flexed around me—I think he was trying to let go—but his muscles wouldn't obey. He shrieked my name, and the raw emotion in that horrible plea had me shaking almost as badly as he was.

  “I'm so sorry,” I sobbed. “I'm so, so sorry…”

  This was the end. It had to be. He couldn't survive this. He was going to die, here in my arms. And there was nothing I could do but cry over his torn body.

  The uncontrollable writhing finally died down, and he sucked in air through his nose. His eyes were pinched closed, and his arms around my shoulders were quivering as his tortured muscles continued to tick and vibrate. I was half kneeling, half lying over him. My hands shook, and my body rocked with my tears. I'd buried my face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, and both of our touching cheeks were wet. I didn't know what was his sweat and what were my tears.

  His body shuddered beneath mine, and I knew he was trying to gather the air to speak. His soft hands dragged languidly over my back, and I realized he was trying to soothe me.

  “Shh…” he finally croaked, his words and breaths faltering. “Don't cry…”

  “What can I do?” I gasped, tightening my arms around his neck. I blinked rapidly against my stinging tears, but that only succeeded in making them fall faster. “Please,” I panted brokenly. “Please, just tell me what I can do.”

  He swallowed hard—it was a painful convulsion. “Stay,” he begged hoarsely. “Just stay…” His breath hitched suddenly, and he flinched deeply—I could feel the horrible twist against my face. “No.” He gasped heavily, shaking both of us as his chest expanded violently. “Oh, please no…”

  Before I could ask what was happening, his back was arching, and his taut body was pushing mine back. His muscles strained against me, and he cried out sharply before slamming back to the bed. I was hovering over him now, and I hurried to stroke his face with wavering fingers. “Patrick? Patrick!”

  His eyes rolled as the acute pain escalated, and his screams choked off to horrible gulps for air. And then he wasn't breathing at all.

  I knew that the impossible had occurred—the torture was back for a second round, seconds after ending the first. It had returned to finish the job.

  I stroked at his hair, as if that would somehow help him remember how to breathe.

  When he finally started to inhale again—to howl under the incomprehensible torment—I sunk back against him, my closed eyes buried in his straining neck. I held him and cried and waited for this to be over.

  It felt like this stretch of time would never pass. That he would never escape this, and that we would be like this forever—eternally trapped in this awful moment.


  His nose started to bleed just before his body managed to stop the horrible invasion. I pulled the blankets away from his face while he gasped for air, trying to recover after such a harrowing experience. I leaned over to the nightstand, snatching out three tissues from the nearby box. He was powerless, unable to lift his arms, so I attended to the bloody nose while he struggled to breathe. Honestly, I didn't think he even knew who I was.

  Once the bleeding stopped, it was almost one in the morning. He was exhausted, but as I pulled the bloody tissues away he managed to wrap his fingers around my retreating wrist. “Please don't leave me,” he whispered faintly, voice breaking painfully. “Please stay with me…”

  I knew he was already on the verge of being asleep again—he couldn't keep his eyes open after living through that unspeakable horror. But I spoke to him anyway, bending down to cover his taut face with wan kisses. “I won't leave you. Ever.”

  I waited until he was breathing more evenly and I was sure he was asleep, then I leaned away to toss the used tissues onto the night-stand. And then—exhausted and unwilling to break my promise—I lay down on the bed next to him. I stayed on top of the blankets, not caring that my legs were a little too cool for comfort. I didn't want to let go of his hand or look away from his face…

  I clutched his limp fingers, curled up beside his limp body, and watched his face as he found a timid refuge in sleep.

  I didn't think I'd be able to fall asleep after everything that had happened, but I woke up around seven, one of Patrick's arms draped over my waist, his warm breath on my face. We were close, but the blankets still separated us.

  I realized belatedly that his eyes were open, and he was staring at me, unsmiling. He was propped up casually with one elbow, so he was hovering partially over me.

  I twisted around beneath his arm so I could unbend one of my arms and set my fingers against the side of his face. My thumb rubbed beneath one of his tired eyes, and then I finally spoke. “How are you feeling?”