A Fiend in Need

by Maureen Child

  Every evening and most mornings you could find me out in my backyard doing stupid squats and lunges and jumps. When this “training” had first started it had nearly killed me. Now it was just way annoying.

  “You agree?” She was stunned, and who could blame her? She hadn’t had an easy time of it since turning up on my back porch the month before. She claimed that I was the most irritating Demon Duster ever born, and I was willing to claim that crown. Hey, I didn’t ask for this gig.

  “Sure. But what was I supposed to do? Make him leave? Let the demons kill him?”

  “He is not your responsibility.”

  “But he’s making stroganoff!”

  She muttered something I didn’t quite catch, but I think it was something along the lines of, “Food. It’s always food with you.”

  “He’s harmless,” I said, and really hoped I was right. If he wasn’t, then I’d just reach right into his chest and rip out his heart. Wait, though. Could I reach through a chest that wasn’t a demon chest? Did I want to?

  I stopped dead, made a face and worried for a second or two about just how easy this whole dusting thing was getting for me. Then I caught a whiff of mushrooms and sour cream on the air and shrugged the worry off.

  “The demon queen wants him, and you are not prepared to do battle with her.” Jasmine laid one knobby hand on Sugar’s head, and the dog sighed with pleasure. My dog’s easy. Feed her, pet her, she’s yours forever.

  Needless to say, she’d come to the right house.

  “I’m really not worried about the queen at the moment.” I pointed to the base of my throat, where a lovely handprint was still evident. “I’ve got other worries—like that Web site offering cold, hard cash for my head.”

  “The queen will win in a battle between you.”

  “So I won’t battle her,” I said on a groan as I lunged again. Seriously, all this exercise couldn’t be good for a person. I was still operating under the theory that exercise was a dangerous fad and would soon be replaced by something more civilized. Marathon chocolate eating, for instance.

  “You will have to face the queen eventually if the Faery remains.” Jasmine speared me with one of those infuriating disappointed/angry/resigned glares.

  “Well,” I said, finally coming to a grateful stop when I reached her side, “let’s just worry about that then, okay?”

  “Cassidy”—her sigh was a windy one—“you must make plans. You must be prepared for whatever comes against you.”

  “I’m training, aren’t I?”

  “Halfheartedly.”

  I did a little glaring of my own. “I’m standing here sweating—actual sweat is pouring down my back as we speak. I’ve got grass stains on my jeans and a cramp in my thigh. I call that whole heartedly.”

  Her mouth pinched, and I had to notice just how much Jasmine sort of resembled Sister Mary Merciless. What was it with skinny old women and the lemon-mouth look?

  “Practice your jumps.”

  “You jump. I’m jumped out,” I said, slumping down onto one of the Adirondack chairs that my dad had made ten years ago.

  “You haven’t even been training for an hour.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve had a full day.”

  “Fine.” Jasmine’s teeth ground together, and I glanced at Sugar to see if the dog was growling or if it was Jasmine. Sugar dropped her head onto my lap and blew hot-dog breath against my stomach. The growling wasn’t coming from her.

  Oh. Did I mention that along with training me how to kill demons that Jasmine actually is a demon? I know. Weird. But she insists that not all demons are evil, and I’ve got to say I kind of see her point. Seems that demons are no different from everybody else: Some are cool; some are nightmares.

  I still wasn’t totally sure of where Jasmine fit on that scale.

  “The demon queen will be sending others out after the Faery.”

  “His name’s Brady.”

  Jasmine sniffed.

  I opened one eye and looked up at her. “You have a problem with Faeries?”

  “They’re not to be trusted.”

  “Said the demon.”

  She took the chair opposite me, perched uneasily on the edge of the seat, and folded her hands in her lap. “Cassidy, you are new to the ways of the otherworlders.”

  “And?”

  “And there is much for you to learn.”

  “I get that. But first,” I said, pushing Sugar off my lap and staggering to my feet, “I’m going to eat dinner. A real cooked dinner. Made in my kitchen. By a Faery.” I took a step toward the kitchen, biting my lip against the cramp in my thigh. Then I looked at her. “You hungry?”

  Chapter Four

  Outside twilight dropped over the yard like a cool blue blanket. The days were getting shorter, the sea breeze a little nippier, and trees were just starting to think about maybe, someday-really-soon-perhaps-but-don’t-count-on-it, turning green leaves into splashes of autumn color. (This is Southern California, remember? We don’t actually do seasons. We pretty much have summer and summer light. And the rainy season that lasts for about twenty minutes.)

  Yep, outside, it was cold and dark.

  Inside the house it was heaven.

  Steam covered the windows, and drops of condensation streamed down the glass panes in tiny rivers. Unfamiliar scents filled the kitchen, and I took a second to simply stand there and smell. (Fine, I know how that sentence sounds, and no, I wasn’t personally smelling; I was doing some serious deep breathing to drag every atom of the fabulous aromas deep into my lungs.)

  As much as we like to eat, Thea and I don’t really cook. In fact, my best friend, Rachel, says my stove is more of a piece of art than an appliance. But, boy howdy, the old four-burner was getting a workout now.

  “Stir the pasta once in a while,” Brady was telling Thea. “Otherwise it’ll stick to the pan like concrete.”

  “Right.” Thea nodded and moved in so close she was stuck to Brady’s side like a dryer sheet on a sweater. “This is so cool. I mean, you, like, made this from nothing and everything.”

  My girl. So poetic.

  “Cooking’s fun, and I don’t get much chance to do it,” Brady said with a shrug.

  As far as I was concerned, if he could make my kitchen smell like this every day, he could stay as long as he wanted. Okay, maybe not that long, but still.

  Just as that thought popped into my head, Brady turned at the stove and gave me a smile and a wink. “Duster.”

  “Call me Cass.”

  “As you wish.”

  I don’t know about you, but I love it when men say stuff like that. Even if it was from a Faery who’d pretty much forced his way into my life and refrigerator.

  “Brady says he’s moving in, Mom.”

  I glanced at Thea. “Not forever.”

  “Hmmph.” Jasmine snorted from right behind me, leaving no doubt where she stood on the whole Faery-in-the-house thing.

  Sugar ambled inside, planted her big, furry butt on Brady’s foot and gave him the I’m-so-cute-I-should-get-a-treat look.

  Brady didn’t notice. Instead he was looking past me at Jasmine, and the twinkle in his eye did a quick disintegration. That gorgeous face of his froze up, and I thought today was really my day for the whole lemon-sucking expression.

  “I have no quarrel with you,” he said solemnly.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Jasmine countered.

  “I claimed Sanctuary.”

  “By trickery.”

  Voices were raising, pasta was boiling and even Sugar was starting to pick up on the tension in the room. This could turn ugly in a second. And I didn’t want ugly. I wanted dinner.

  “She is the Duster. It is my right to come to her for Sanctuary.”

  “She is not capable of fighting the queen.”

  “She is standing right here!” I glared at both of them. Neither of them looked impressed.

  “You’re gonna fight a queen?” Thea asked in the humming silence.

&nbs
p; “Not if I can help it,” I admitted, and staggered back as Sugar ran to Mommy for comfort. A one-hundred-pound dog leaning on you will have you toppling over if you don’t lock your knees and lean back.

  “You have to!” Brady argued.

  “Ha!” Jasmine snorted again after that one short bark of laughter. Guess she was thinking that he wasn’t going to have any better luck ordering me around than she did. And, hey, she was right.

  “I’m not fighting anybody.” I bent down, rubbed my hand over Sugar’s head, then moved away. The dog did a slow slide to the floor without support. Grabbing a bottle of water off the counter I took a long drink and wished it was a beer.

  Brady looked disappointed. Jasmine looked like she always did: disapproving. I blew my hair out of my eyes and said, “Look, Brady can stay here for a while”—I held up one hand to shut him up when he looked like he was going to say something—“and if that keeps him safe from the queen, great. I’m not going out looking for this bitch; I’ve got other things to do.”

  “Good,” Jasmine said. “Your patrolling should take precedence over—”

  “I’m not talking about patrolling,” I said, lifting my voice to carry over everybody else’s. “I’m talking about Halloween. It’s almost here. Thea and I’ve got to get busy decorating—”

  “True,” Thea said. “We’re way behind schedule on that.”

  “Foolish,” Jasmine snarled.

  “But the queen,” Brady whined.

  “Jeez…can we all cut Cassidy a break? It’s been a long day, what with the work and the nuns and, hey, the big-ass demon who was looking to kill me for the reward.”

  “Oh,” Thea said, smiling. “I forgot to tell you: The money went up this afternoon, too. I checked.”

  “What’s it up to now?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Huh.” Good news or bad news? More money offered for my dead-or-alive-but-preferably-dead body was certainly less insulting. But more money meant more greedy demons looking to score that retirement fund.

  “What is she talking about?” Jasmine demanded.

  “Later. I need food.” And time to stop thinking about all of this stuff for a while. Yeah, I know: denial. Sue me. I need a break sometimes.

  Brady nodded bravely. “Fine. Dinner’s ready. Sit while I strain the noodles.”

  “Excellent.” Worked for me. Sit down. Be waited on. Eat. In fact, this was the best part of my day. I ignored Sugar, Jasmine and even my own child in my excitement over someone else cooking for me.

  When the doorbell rang I waited expectantly for one of the others to go answer it. But they all sat down at the table, comfortable ignoring the chime repeating itself over and over. Sugar lay down under the table, not even bothering to bark because it could distract her from possible spillage.

  Which left me to go get rid of whoever or whatever stood between me and my stroganoff.

  I stalked through the living room, grumbling when the doorbell rang yet again, and since I was crabby about the interruption I threw the door open, ready to send whatever demon might be out there straight to Hell.

  “I brought meatball subs.” Logan stepped past me into the house.

  CRAP.

  I forgot he was coming over to tell me all about how he was planning on ruining what was left of my life by moving in across the street.

  CRAP.

  I had a Faery and a tiny, mean old demon in the house.

  “Uh, Logan…”

  “Where’s Thea?”

  “Kitchen.”

  “Great.” He took a step, stopped dead and sniffed the air. Then he looked at me, one black eyebrow arched. “What’s that smell?”

  I sniffed too. Stroganoff and—yum—the meat sauce on the meatball subs. Then I lied my ass off. (If only that were literal, not figurative. If I could actually lie my way to a better figure, I’d be a supermodel.) “I don’t smell anything. Um, Logan, tonight’s not good for us….”

  “I smell stroganoff,” he said.

  Damn. “I have a cooking show on TV.” Fine. My spur-of-the-moment lies are less than spectacular.

  Logan stared at me as if I were nuts, and pointed to the silent, dark television. “It’s not on. And besides, they don’t have Smell-O-Vision, Cassie.”

  “Wouldn’t it be great if there was, though? I mean, except for, like, CSI—that’d be gross.”

  Thea laughed, and the sound swept from the kitchen like a song.

  “Uh-huh,” Logan said, slanting a look toward the kitchen before giving me a curious look. “So, how come you’re trying to get rid of me?”

  The best defense is a good offense. Worked for football; must be true about life.

  “Why is it always about you, Logan? Maybe this is about me. Maybe I just want my house to myself for tonight, huh? I mean, you just show up and expect me to let you in because you’ve got subs? What’s up with that?”

  I was starting to ramble and, worse, run out of things to say when he cut me off cold.

  “Are you on your period?”

  “Aaaarrrrggghhh…” What is it with men? How do they know the one absolutely most stupid thing to say and then blurt it out? And why don’t they get it when we want to beat them to death afterward?

  “Hey.” He held up one hand and took a step back. I may have looked a little scary. “No problem. I’ll leave the subs—we can talk tomorrow. When you’re calmer.”

  Gonna take a lot longer than twenty-four hours, I thought, but at least he was leaving.

  “Cass?” Brady’s deep voice rumbled out from the kitchen. “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  Both of Logan’s black eyebrows rose up in twin arches. “Company?” he asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Who?”

  “No one you know.”

  “So it’s not Cole.”

  Logan had a problem with Devlin Cole. It started out because he really wanted to shut down Devlin’s exclusive sex club. Now it was more that he hated Devlin because I didn’t. Logan had the idea that he and I were going to hook up again now that he was back home in La Sombra and divorced from Musty or Twisty or whatever.

  To be honest, Logan could still make my toes curl just by walking into a room. Plus, he had been my first love. The echoes of that love were still with me, whether I wanted to admit it or not. Not to mention that he still had great hands and a terrific mouth. But there were issues keeping him out of my bed. Not the least of which was that our daughter would be so grossed out she’d probably never speak to either one of us again. And when Thea wasn’t talking to me, she was so loud I got headaches.

  “Nope,” I said. “Not Devlin.”

  “Hey, Mom,” Thea shouted, “this is really amazing. Brady’s a great cook. Come on, already!”

  “Brady?” Logan gave me the death stare, and I crumbled. Fine. I admit it: I’m not good at confrontations. This is exactly why Thea was fifteen years old before Logan ever knew of her existence. I’d planned to tell him all about his brand-new baby daughter at his college graduation. Then he’d introduced me to his new fiancée, Spiffy or Sparky or something, and I’d avoided the whole thing.

  “You’re not leaving, are you?” I asked, more for form than anything else.

  “Not a chance.”

  “Didn’t think so.” I shrugged and walked past him, headed for the kitchen. “Come on then.”

  We walked into the kitchen. Logan dropped the grease-stained white bag of subs onto the kitchen counter, then turned to face the table. He was wearing his cop face: all stern and nonexpressional. His gaze slipped over Jasmine, settled on Thea for an instant or two, then shifted to Brady. Then his eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  “Hi, Logan,” Thea said around a mouthful of noodles. (She liked having a dad, but she wasn’t really comfortable calling him Dad just yet. Logan was waiting impatiently for that happy day.)

  “Thea.” He never took his gaze from Brady.

  Slowly Brady stood up to his full, impressive height, and he a
nd Logan were at eye level. Logan looked dark and dangerous. Brady looked a little uneasy and a lot gorgeous. Probably not to Logan, though.

  I tried to see the situation through Logan’s eyes, but frankly I was too hungry to be really sympathetic. I knew this could really degenerate into a nasty situation, what with Logan acting like a guard dog, and Brady standing there looking all comfy and right at home.

  Then Logan spoke up and I braced myself.

  “Who’re you?” Logan asked.

  “I’m Brady the Faery.”

  Just like that, situation defused.

  Yep. Every muscle in Logan’s body relaxed. I watched it happen. The coiled tension in his body slowly dribbled away, and he actually found a smile. Of course. I looked at Brady the way Logan was and saw a tall, really built guy dressed like a professional dancer. And after that introduction there was only one conclusion to draw. At least for Logan.

  But why would I correct him? What am I, stupid?

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Brady was delighted. He held out one hand, and Logan reluctantly shook it. I’m not saying he’s a homophobe or anything—it was more like he was really hoping he wasn’t Brady’s type or something. Didn’t really matter to me. All I could think was, Hey, no war and still time to eat.

  “Want some dinner, Logan?” I was already sitting down, letting him make up his own mind.

  “Sure. Smells great.”

  “Thank you, I love to cook,” Brady said.

  “Uh-huh. Of course you do.” Logan winked at me as he grabbed a plate from the cupboard and sat down at the table next to Jasmine. He frowned when he saw her, and I knew he was remembering the night he’d met the old woman. The night I turned Judge Jenks into a towering pile of demon dust right in front of him and Logan still wasn’t able to believe in demons.

  So not my problem.

  There we were: the cop, the demon, the teenager, the Faery and the Demon Duster. All of us sitting down to share a meal together.

  Is this America or what?

  The next morning I woke up to tingles all over my body and a slow, burning throb between my thighs. I was having the great dream to beat all great dreams. There were warm hands rubbing my skin, long fingers dipping into hot, soft places, whispered words promising me enough to make me arch my hips and whimper.