by Brandon Witt
Finn tilted his head. “Yeah, that for sure, but more than that. Everything, really. How smoothly you move, how perfect your posture is, everything. Human, but a hundred times human.” His voice turned questioning. “But yet….”
“Yet what?”
He let out a breath and leaned even closer. “Yet, you are too much demon, nearly completely different from us, but you’re not trying to kill us. You’re even pleasant and nice.”
“You’re making me sound like some kind of animal you expected to kill you but turned out to be a puppy.”
He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. I’m sorry. I forget you don’t know anything about this. We’re part demon too.”
I felt my eyes widen. “Who?”
“All of us. Witches.”
I felt a little flash of anger. “Then why all the theatrics last night? Your sister was ready to kill me.”
He put out a hand to slow me down. “Not like that. It’s like comparing a Neanderthal with a modern man. They’re the same, but two different species.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s like this.” He took a deep breath. “We, witches, all descended from demons, but we’re talking a minimum of twenty or thirty generations ago. We’re not really even comparable. It’s how pure our blood is that determines the amount and type of power we have, but no matter how diluted our blood becomes, we still are demons in the purely technical sense.”
I squinted my eyes and shook my head. “I still don’t get the difference.”
“Brett, demons are like minigods, terrible gods. Nearly indestructible. In fact, the only thing that can kill a demon is another demon, or an angel, but same thing, really.”
“Wait, what? Demons and angels are the same thing?” A flash of Grandma telling me that the angels watched out for me when I was a kid went through my mind. “There are real angels too?”
“Demons are so violent,” he continued, waving off my question. “Pure evil. They like nothing more than the torment of others. That’s especially true of demons with the power of fire. They tend to be the most vicious—not that there’s really a harmless pussycat in the bunch.”
The good feeling I’d had when I woke up was quickly going away. “Okay, so what does this have to do with me—you were saying that I’m too much demon?”
“Well, it’s obvious you aren’t very far removed, generationally speaking, from a demon. Everything about you. Caitlin’s fire didn’t touch you at all. Even a demon many generations removed wouldn’t get seriously hurt by someone else’s fire, but they would have some type of injury, even if it was only their hair that got burned. But with you, nothing happened. I don’t even think you noticed you were on fire.”
I just looked at him, feeling sick to my stomach.
“But you’re not dangerous, or at least not homicidal.”
“Oh wow, thanks! I’ll put that on my resume for my next job, ‘not homicidal, I won’t eat the customers’!”
“Brett, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that you shouldn’t be able to control your bloodlust if you were only a few generations removed from your demon ancestor. And you don’t seem to be very far removed. But here you are, as cordial and human-acting as any witch or warlock I have ever met. I’m blown away by you, that’s all. I can’t figure you out.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I focused my eyes on my plate and began to shovel in the remainder of the food.
Chapter 9
WE HADN’T been in the car for more than five minutes when Finn put on his blinker and took a right turn into the parking lot of a strip mall.
“Here we are!” he announced, flourishing his hand toward a row of indistinguishable stores.
“Wow, that was fast. You live on the same street as your job?”
“No. I live several blocks over, but Mom and Dad have always lived on Encinitas Boulevard. They bought this place in the early eighties, before I was born. Wanted to be close to home in case something happened with one of us kids. Don’t know why they worried about it. We were never home by ourselves. They put us to work as soon as we could walk.”
I looked sideways at him as he pulled into the parking space farthest away from the shops. “You’ve worked at the bakery all your life?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, from time to time I would help Dad at his store, but mostly I stayed at the bakery. Besides, the bakery has a backroom they turned into our playroom and classroom, so it was more fun there, more toys.” He turned off the ignition.
“You went to school at the bakery?” I asked, incredulous.
“We were homeschooled.” He took in the bewildered look on my face. “What? Did you ever see any little kids in your school levitating their pencils across the classroom or juggling fireballs? All witch kids get homeschooled. We can’t take the risk of a kid who’s not in control of their powers accidentally using magic in public. There’s not a big castle away from the rest of the world to go to school like in Harry Potter. Although that really would have been great.”
“So you never went to school?” I guess I sounded rather daft, but I was having a hard time picturing Finn as the product of homeschooling. I’d always pictured them as freaks who couldn’t fit in a normal society. However, on second thought, maybe that’s exactly what Finn was, as well as myself. I just hadn’t realized it. Demon blood? Sounds a lot more freakish than being homeschooled.
Finn’s eyebrows creased in an expression of annoyance. “You make it sound so weird. Lots of people are homeschooled. Besides, many witch kids go to public education when they enter high school. By that time, most of us have a handle on how to control and hide our powers.” He shrugged again. “I didn’t want to. I waited and went to culinary school for college, focusing on pastries, of course.”
“I’m sorry, Finn. You surprised me. You just seem so normal. I never expected that.”
Finn only looked at me. Stared at me, actually, and for a second, I started to feel uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. Suddenly, I was aware of the seat belt beginning to grow tighter across my lap and chest. I glanced down. The black vinyl was slowing snaking its way across my lap, through the locking clasp, up over my stomach and chest, and disappearing deeper into its slot on the car wall. Almost instantaneously, the pressure began to make it hard to breathe. I wrapped my hands around the seat belt at my chest and pulled it away from my body. It continued to slide slowly through my fingers. I clenched my fists tighter and pulled with all my might. The seat belt quit moving but refused to give any slack. I looked back over to Finn to ask for help, but he was still staring at me.
After another couple of seconds of my muscles burning with the strain of holding the seat belt still, Finn blinked and a half grin cut across his face. “Oh, I’m not normal, Brett. Don’t kid yourself about that.” He winked at me, his cheerful mood returning. I heard the click as the seat belt came unfastened, and my arms flew forward as the pressure vanished, retracting the excess out of its compartment in the wall. Finn chuckled.
I wasn’t sure I found the situation so humorous.
Once the seat belt was safely back where it should be, we got out of the car and started walking toward the strip mall.
Maybe I shouldn’t have taken Finn’s offer to stay with his family longer. After breakfast, I had hopped in the shower in Caitlin’s room and put on the clothes I had worn the day before—Paulette had washed, dried, and folded them while I’d been asleep. While I had been getting ready, Sonia had sent a text saying that she was going to spend the morning at Derek’s before reporting for her shift that afternoon and that she’d tell me all the details when she got off work. Since she was busy and I wasn’t really sure what I was going to tell her, if anything, when I saw her next anyway, I decided I would spend the day with Finn and his family. Maybe try to figure out some more of what all this meant.
I was starting to reconsider, however. My emotions kept flip-flopping. One moment, I was fine with all the changes t
hat were going on, and they felt welcome and right. The next I was being suffocated by a seat belt and reminded there was a whole other world I wasn’t aware of, even though I was part of it. Maybe it would be a better idea to go home, try to forget it all, and hope that this new world would stay as oblivious to me as I had been of it.
“You’ve got to try one of my mom’s shredded chicken and spinach empanadas. They’re her specialty.”
Finn’s voice brought me back to the moment, and I tried to focus on him and shake off the feeling of anxiety that was starting to build. “Ah, yeah, sure. That sounds good.”
We were only a few feet from Finn’s car, but he stopped and tentatively touched my arm. “Brett, I’m sorry about the seat belt. I was trying to be funny. I wasn’t trying to freak you out. It’s not like I’ve ever talked about any of this stuff to someone who wasn’t already a part of it.”
“It’s okay. I don’t know… it’s just a lot to take in.” I resumed walking. “I’m fine.”
Finn took a couple of quick steps to catch up with my larger strides. “Well, I am sorry. I’ll warn you before I do something like that again.” His voice sounded guilty, which annoyingly sparked the same emotion in me for making him feel that way.
“So which are your mom’s and dad’s shops?” There were probably ten to twelve little stores, each one connected, making a wall of glass that stretched the entire block, each with a lit-up marquee-style sign on top with writing in black letters, save one.
Finn pointed to the middle of the stores. “The one on the right is my mom’s, obviously, and the one on the left is Dad’s.”
Now that I looked closer, it was obvious which stores they were. Their signs were the only ones in Spanish. “So, Panaderia is your mom’s store?”
Finn suddenly grinned again, making me feel a little better. “You don’t speak Spanish at all, do you?”
I shook my head.
“You really are a gringo. You don’t know about witches or demons, and you don’t know Spanish. I thought I was sheltered!” He pointed to the sign on the right and then to the one directly to the left. “Mom and Dad are both pretty literal, I guess. Panaderia means ‘bakery’, and Dad’s store, Mascarada, means ‘masquerade’.”
“Masquerade? Your dad has a party store?”
Finn laughed again. “Not exactly. It’s a costume shop, where you can rent outfits for Halloween or special events, that kind of stuff.”
Before I could respond, he pointed to the store next to Mascarada, the only store with a different style sign. This one said “The Lair” in bright-red neon. “That’s Caitlin’s store. The candle shop that was next to Dad’s went out of business a couple of years ago, and Caitlin took over the lease.”
It was only then I noticed that the windows under the sign were painted black. From the little I had seen of Caitlin last night, and from what I had guessed about her from the toys in her room, none of this surprised me. “What’s The Lair? An S and M shop?”
Finn chuckled. “Good guess, but Caitlin’s not quite as literal as Mom and Dad. It caters to the goth, drag, and cross-dressing communities. Lots of clothes and jewelry and makeup, that kind of thing. She’s also a makeup artist, and she operates her business out of there.”
Before I could ask what kind of makeup he meant (I couldn’t quite picture Caitlin selling Mary Kay), we had reached the doors of the bakery. The bell chimed as Finn opened the door, and I followed him through.
As soon as I stepped into the shop, I heard a gasp and a metallic crash. I glanced over just in time to see Cynthia flush crimson before she whirled around—her long hair flying as she escaped through a doorway behind the counter.
Less than a second later, Paulette rushed into the bakery through the same door Cynthia had used to make her getaway. “What in the world, Cynthia? I swear you get more….” She glanced down at her feet, and the volume of her voice rose about three octaves. “You dropped the pan dulce all over the floor! The whole tray is ruined! I spent all morning working on that dough, and now….” She glanced up and saw Finn and me in the doorway. “Oh,” she murmured. “Brett’s here. Why wouldn’t you drop all my sweet breads on the floor?” She let out a stream of breath from her nose, wiped her hands on the front of her apron, and curved her lips into a smile. “Good morning, boys. It’s about time you two got out of bed.”
“Long night, Mom.”
“Well, you weren’t the only one up half the night, but somehow I managed to get here at four to prepare for the morning rush and the lunch crowd.”
“Sorry, Mom.”
Pausing, I inspected the shop. Everything was white—the walls, the countertops, the tables. The space was small and bright enough that it managed to look cheerful and clean instead of institutional, as it easily could have. Of course the smell and sight of the huge case full of row after row of assorted pastries, most of which I had never seen before, gave the space an automatic homey feel.
Paulette came around the counter and gave her son a quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek. She eyed me hesitantly for a second and then seemingly made up her mind. She reached up and wrapped me in a firm hug. “Good morning, Brett. I hope you slept well.”
“I did, thank you, Mrs. de Morisco.”
“Good gracious, boy. Call me Paulette. I held you captive on a bed for hours. I think we can move past formalities at this point.” After giving my cheek two swift pats, she moved back behind the counter and began picking up the spilled pastries as she continued speaking. “You’ll have to forgive Cynthia. She’s always been a bit… fragile, but it’s been worse the past several years. She seems to be near a nervous breakdown at the moment, even more than usual.”
She turned her attention back to me. “Did you get breakfast, dear? Feel free to pick out anything that appeals to you. You don’t even have to choose something off the floor.”
“Oh no. Finn made cinnamon rolls this morning. They might have been the best I’ve ever had.”
Paulette raised an eyebrow at her son. “So you have the energy to get up and make rolls for the good-looking demon boy, but not for your loyal customers who depend on you every morning, do you?”
Finn just groaned and continued sweeping.
I felt my eyes go wide at my newly acquired nickname. I hoped that was a good sign.
Paulette gestured toward a nearly empty glass counter on the other side of the cash register. “Every morning, Finn fills it with cinnamon rolls and croissants, and ham and cheese rolls at noon. None of which customers were able to purchase today.” Her voice rose again, this time more in gentle teasing than in anger. “And I suppose that there won’t be any fruit tarts or marzipan chocolates for this evening’s customers either, will there?”
“Probably not, Mom.”
“Just as I supposed.”
He grinned at his mother. “Besides, you are always complaining how my creations aren’t staying true to our culture.”
Paulette scoffed. “Well, you have to do something to pay off the loans from that fancy New York pastry school.”
It was my turn to raise an eyebrow at Finn. “You went to culinary school in New York?”
“I told you I went to public school for college.”
“Yeah, but New York?” I had never even been out of San Diego.
“Never mind the mess.” Paulette took the broom and dustpan from her son. “I’ll make Cynthia clean it up, if I can get her to stop shaking. Take Brett over to see your dad’s shop, and let me get back to work. And don’t go through the back door in the kitchen. I’m sure if you run into Cynthia, it will be the last we’ll see of her for a week.”
“Okay, okay. Hold on.” He reached into the glass case and pulled out a huge golden-brown turnover. “First, I promised Brett one of your chicken and spinach empanadas.”
Chapter 10
MASCARADA was as overflowing with stuff as Panaderia had been absent of clutter. As we entered to the familiar door chime, I could hear Finn’s dad shout out a welcome from some
where in the back, assuming we were customers. The lighting was dim, and there was a musty smell I couldn’t place. I couldn’t even see the back of the store—it was like entering a maze. Werewolf, zombie, and dead-president masks hung from the ceiling. Wigs, makeup, and fake blood overflowed from haphazardly placed cabinets and display cases. Styrofoam tombstones and cauldrons littered the floor. Here and there the path trailed off to another gruesome section. If Finn hadn’t told me it was a costume shop, I would have assumed we had entered a haunted house in the midst of getting ready for Halloween night.
I turned to Finn. “This is your dad’s store?” It was hard to picture Wendell, who had seemed so quietly analytical the night before, responsible for such a conglomeration of gruesome items.
“Yep. He loves it. It’s like his playground.” He pointed to one of the trails that seemed to shoot off toward the right. “That way leads to the back, to the costume area, which is where Dad spends most of his time.”
“This isn’t the costume area?”
“Nah, this is just stuff for Halloween and gag-gift kind of things. It’s crazy busy during October, but doesn’t do much the rest of the year. The costume shop is where most of the business comes from.”
The store seemed to be overly crowded with things that would only sell once a year, but I didn’t say anything and started heading down the path he had indicated.
I hadn’t gone ten steps when a black object came flying at me out of a cluster of clown masks hanging from the ceiling. I let out a yelp and jumped back with my hands in front of my face.
From behind, I heard Finn burst out in laughter.
I turned around and glared at him. “I thought you said you were going to warn me the next time you used your powers on me.”
Finn wiped at his eyes. “I didn’t use any powers. That’s straight from the Frightmare Production Company.”
I returned my attention to the thing now suspended in air, blocking my path. I stepped forward, embarrassingly cautious, and gave it a closer inspection. It was just a black cape. A cheap plastic skeleton gazed blankly back at me as I peered under its hood. Standing in front of it, it was easy to see it was simply impaled on a rod that was hinged to something behind all the clutter.
