After another ten minutes, I’m ready to give up. I open my mouth to tell Myron we should go. Then I see him. Evan Hill cuts around the Starbucks in front of Westlake Center and jaywalks across Pine, right in front of us. I tap Myron on the shoulder and nod. Evan’s earbuds are firmly in his ears as he passes by. He holds the cup I saw in my vision, full of blended iced coffee.
We fall into step behind him. He misses the walk light by a second, stepping into the street before realizing he’s going to have to wait to cross. He steps back onto the curb, tapping one foot impatiently. I stand behind him, my palms sweating and my heart racing. It might not work. And if I screw it up, I’m going to watch him die right in front of me. I can’t decide if that would actually be worse than seeing it play out in my head.
There’s a break in traffic and just like in my vision, a cyclist bolts into the street, cutting across in the small gap between cars. Evan sees the motion in his periphery. I see the giant green metro bus speeding our way. Evan lifts his foot to step. I grab his shoulder. He turns a glare on me. I think he might punch me. I drop my hand. The bus blows past. A rush of air smacks me in the face. “Don’t walk,” I mouth, nodding at the solid red hand behind him. Indignation fades from his expression as comprehension dawns. His eyes widen. Then he twists back to face the street.
The walk light comes on. Evan, apparently unfazed, crosses with the crowd. Myron and I both step out of the way. Evan Hill glances back at me once he reaches the other side of the street, but then shakes his head and carries on. My heart is still pounding and my upper lip is slick with sweat.
“Thankless jerk,” Myron says, watching Evan Hill disappear down the street. He sounds more amused than annoyed.
“It worked,” I say. My hands are still shaking. “He’s not dead.”
“Maybe he should be,” Myron mutters, staring after him.
I punch Myron in the arm.
“I did it. I saved him.” I laugh, a little manically, relief washing over me. A breeze picks up and the air is cool on my sweaty skin. I feel good. Like I just won a race or beat a video game.
Myron’s grumpy expression turns soft. He even smiles. “See? Told you.”
I glare at him but with no real ire and then laugh again. For the first time in months, the visions don’t feel like completely pointless suffering and I don’t feel entirely helpless. I want to cloak myself in this feeling, wrap it around me and never let it go. A logical part of my brain protests that unless I can figure how to make money from saving people, it doesn’t matter. But I try to cling to the euphoria. I saved someone’s life. No one can take that away from me.
For lack of anywhere else to go, I follow Myron back to Pioneer Square. As we walk, the remaining adrenaline burns through me and fades, leaving me shaky, but it’s a good shaky. An accomplished weariness settles into my bones and I try to ignore all of the problems yet unsolved that try to muscle in on my happiness. It’s not a cure or even a solution—unless somehow, by saving Evan Hill, I’ve stopped the visions and I highly doubt that will prove to be true—but it’s something.
“Most of them aren’t that easy,” I say. “I didn’t have to convince him of anything. I just had to stall.”
“Perhaps convincing them is never the right course of action,” Myron says.
“Do you have records of others like me? In your archives?”
“Perhaps. Death visions are uncommon, but I’m looking into it. Most accounts I’ve found are second or third hand.”
I nod. I know that in exchange for access to his archives, I will become one of them. No doubt he’s already got a manila folder labeled with my name. We reach an alley and he stops. He looks ahead and then back at me, and comes to some decision.
“Well, this has been… interesting,” he says. “Thank you for demonstrating your ability.”
My smile twists into a frown. I don’t like his phrasing. “I didn’t ‘demonstrate’ anything,” I say, my stomach roiling. All I’ve eaten today is fried dough, which isn’t helping.
“You did,” Myron says. “Now I know your visions are accurate, at least some of the time.” He tilts his head, his lips quirking into a playful smile. “Why else did you think I wanted to come along?”
I let out a long, exasperated breath. Because like a moron, I thought maybe you liked me. I don’t dare say it when the knife of shame is hot in my gut. Of course it wasn’t because he thinks I’m attractive or that he wanted to help. No one is that selfless. Everyone wants something. And he told me as much, didn’t he?
“What now?” I ask instead. Because now that the high is fading, I’m scrambling for purchase. I need something else to cling to. High school is over, my family is gone, and I’ve postponed college, maybe indefinitely. All I have are these visions and a job, and I don’t think those two things are going to play nice together. I can’t run off to save people in the middle of an afternoon coffee rush any more than I can weather a vision attack in the middle of making iced tea for tourists.
“Now,” Myron says, matter-of-factly, “I go write this up for my records and look into similar cases. We stay in touch and trade information as it becomes available. If I find anything about a means of controlling your visions, I’ll let you know.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say. At this point, there’s not much else to say. I agitatedly flick my fingers against my jeans. I wish I hadn’t let him come along. I feel stupid and I can’t pinpoint the reason. “See you.”
“Gabriel,” Myron says, reaching out and taking my hand. His hand is warm and my whole arm tingles at his touch. His expression is soft again, and he hesitates, putting his hands in his pockets and pulling them out again. “It doesn’t have to be your curse. It can be your legacy.”
“Why can’t it be both?” I ask, smiling a little to show I’m being sarcastic, mocking his earlier statements. He smiles back and there’s warmth in it that spreads to my stomach. Maybe it’s not just business after all. Or maybe I’m fooling myself. “See you soon.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” he says, still smiling in a way that definitely leans toward more than business.
I try not to get my hopes up too high but it’d be nice if these accursed visions led to something good in my life for once.
Images of Evan Hill’s expression—anger that a stranger dared touch him melting into the stark realization that said stranger may have saved his life—play across my mind. Maybe he won’t ever know how close he really came to death today. But that’s not his burden to carry. By some cruel trick of the universe, it’s mine.
CHAPTER SIX
I get through three shifts of “Starbucks school”—what my coworker calls training, though I’m not sure if that’s an official name or her being sarcastic—-without any visions. None, not even at home, not even at night. I’m starting to think that saving Evan Hill’s life actually did lift the curse.
I memorize the recipes for Frappucinos and signature drinks as easily as I memorized dates and battles for AP History. My trainer is a girl named Tara, who goes to UW for neuroscience and loves science fiction, so she’s fun to work with. My coworkers all seem like pretty chill people.
Uncle Rick is thrilled. I’m sure he’s especially relieved to have his house back for eight hours at a time. He takes a day off and splurges on a celebratory pizza for us both. I text Myron and tell him about the job. Mostly because it’s an excuse to text him, not because I think he’ll really care. He texts me back “Congrats! That’s great!” which makes me feel warmer and fuzzier than such a bland text has any right to.
Things are good. Too good, really, but I’m so relieved to have a few vision-free days and nights that I don’t care how unlikely it is to last. I have a job, there’s a guy I like who might even like me back, and even the phantom smoke seems to have dissipated.
On Thursday, Tara has me play cashier and take orders, but she stays close to keep an eye on me as she works the food case and makes pots of drip coffee. I’m writing a customer’s name on a plastic cu
p when the vision strikes.
Pain explodes in my forehead, searing through my skull like a laser. The black Sharpie streaks a line down the cup until I drop them both and they clatter to the floor. Nausea swishes the liquid contents of my hazelnut latte breakfast. I catch myself on the counter. The customer, a guy in white-collar work clothes, frowns in an impatient way, like my seizure is definitely ruining his morning. I squeeze my eyes shut.
The vision is of a man on the freeway, driving along in his SUV. I know his name and his age, I know that he has a daughter and that he dropped her off at school. I know he’s about to die. Another driver is texting on her phone as she cruises along. She doesn’t see the traffic slowing down in her lane and by the time she notices, it’s too late. She swerves right into the SUV, slamming into the driver’s side. Metal crunches. At seventy miles an hour, the impact knocks the SUV off its wheels. It flips upside-down into the other lane.
I jerk back to awareness. Tara is at my side, asking if I’m okay. I nod and lick my lips. I’m not okay. The visions aren’t cured. Deep down, I didn’t really believe they were. I knew it couldn’t be that easy. But I desperately wanted to believe it.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage to say. My mouth tastes like bile.
“Can I get my mocha?” the guy asks.
Tara pulls another girl over to finish ringing him up, rolling her eyes as soon as her back is to the customer. She drags me to the dry storage area in back.
“Seriously, are you okay, Gabe? Because that looked painful.”
“Acute migraine,” I say. “I get them sometimes.”
She stares at me for a long moment, arms folded over her chest. She meets my eyes and then glances up at the bright, fluorescent lights. “That’s not a migraine. I get migraines.” She pauses, as if waiting for me to tell the truth now that she’s revealed my lie. I don’t say anything. She sighs and drops her arms. “What is it? Are you hungover? Because let me tell you, I’ve definitely pulled the whole dance-at-the-club-‘til-four-and-then-go-straight-to-work routine and it is not acceptable here, okay? That’s the best way to get your butt fired.” The thing with Tara is that she actually seems concerned, and not just in a managerial you-are-making-my-job-harder way. It makes me feel guilty for having the visions at all.
“No,” I say. “I don’t drink. It’s just… I was in a house fire and there are… lingering side effects.”
Tara clearly doesn’t know what to say to that. She claps me on the shoulder (she has to reach up to do it, because she’s short, and that ruins some of the effect). “Okay. Well. Get some air or whatever. Come back when you’re ready.” Her warning tone makes it clear that I don’t have very long, but it’s cool that she’s not making me clock out for a break or trying to rush me back to work.
During the course of the next week, I have three more visions at work. During one, I watch a man fall off his roof and I spill a bag of coffee beans all over the floor. The second hits while I sweep in a corner and I drop the broom. It smacks into a customer’s shoulder before it clatters to the floor. Rob takes me in back and asks what’s up. I tell him I get seizures. He says they can accommodate me if I get a note from my doctor. I want to ask how. But it doesn’t matter. How can I get a doctor’s note for this?
During the third vision, I’m mixing ice tea and lemonades for a large group when a vision hits. The shaker, full of ice, tea, and lemonade, topples to the floor, and somehow I manage to knock over the cups of ice I’d prepped as I fall to my knees.
Rob helps me to my feet. Tara shoots me a concerned look and grabs the mop. Rob takes me in the back and says he doesn’t think it’s working out. The knees of my slacks are soaked through with tea lemonade. My head throbs. He apologizes and then goes through some legalese about how if I get a doctor’s note and possibly medication, he can give me a job doing “light-duty” jobs. But basically, I’m fired.
Tara hugs me as I head out and tells me to take care, still looking seriously concerned for my well-being. It kind of breaks my heart, knowing that this person I only just met genuinely cares. If only she was the store manager.
I’m furious, but not at Rob. Having someone who fades out in the middle of tasks, who drops and breaks things, isn’t good for business. I’m mad at the visions, at how they have to come at the absolute worst times, almost as if they’re planned that way. It’s not enough that I’m plagued with mental movies of people coming to gruesome ends, oh no. They have to come at the most inopportune moments.
I will get a paycheck for the shifts worked, but it won’t be much. A week’s pay will buy some groceries and take a small burden off my uncle, but it’s a temporary reprieve. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
As if the universe has decided to stick it to me, I see the red-haired demon waiting on Uncle Rick’s front porch when I get home, like a nightmare come to life.
I stop in my tracks and stare, disbelieving, my heart racing. The last time I saw him, I was choking to death on toxic fumes from the fire that was licking up the walls around me. I was dying. The lack of oxygen made my head feel like it was being squeezed in a vice. This demonic creature was hovering over me, was offering me some kind of deal when a firefighter’s ax came crashing through the door. I remember the fiery color of the demon’s hair and the way the fire reflected in his lizard eyes.
I was so sure he was a figment of my oxygen-deprived brain. But there he is in a crisp gray suit, standing on the porch like he’s a friend waiting for me to get home. I swallow and my throat is raw.
My first instinct is to run and I shift a foot backward, as if to turn and bolt. But then I remember Rob’s angry look and Tara’s concern. I picture how devastated Uncle Rick will be when he learns I’m no longer employed. I don’t know what the hell this creature wants from me. It’s unlikely he’ll have answers but what if he does? I’m at a loss for where else to turn. At this point, I’m grasping for straws and willing to at least talk to a demon. Besides, he’s at my house. It’s not like he can’t find me again if he’s inclined.
I steel myself and walk up the porch steps. He’s leaning against the railing and he smiles, like he’s known me for years. I ball my fists and ignore the fear that threatens to push a scream up my throat.
“Gabriel Price.” My name on his lips makes me shudder. Imagined smoke curls up my nostrils and I pinch my nose to make it go away. I guess that’s back, too. So much for finding peace.
“You,” I say. He’s exactly the monster I remember, inhuman and intimidating.
“I’ve heard rumors about you,” he says, as though I am the mysterious one. “That you have visions.”
That stops me cold. The only other person who knows about the visions is Myron, which means if he heard a “rumor,” Myron is the source. He never promised to keep my secret, I realize. He wanted to trade information; he said nothing about keeping that information to himself. But I hadn’t expected him to tell anyone. I, probably unfairly, felt like we were a team of some kind but that was probably all wishful thinking. I wonder if he likes me at all or just sees me as a means to an end, another interesting story for his collection. Despite my infatuation, I don’t really know Myron. Shame at my own stupidity burns hot on my face.
I clear my throat and put on a bravado I don’t feel. “So what if I do?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence. I pull out my keys and jam them into the lock, both to have something to do and a quick means of escape if he decides to attack. But he doesn’t move toward me at all. Through my periphery, I see the demon furrow his brow. He reaches up to adjust his sunglasses and then drops his arm. His movements are stiff and robotic, inhuman. A chill runs down my spine. “I might be able to help you.”
I glare at him. The irony of it all is enough to make me laugh in his face. For two months, I’ve been lost in clouds of grief and imagined smoke, suffering these attacks alone, and now in the space of one week, suddenly everyone has answers, even the freaking demon who tried to buy my soul. “My soul’s not for sal
e,” I say stiffly. I’m curious enough to hear him out but I can’t help making sure he knows where I draw the line.
“I do not trade in souls, Gabriel,” the demon says. The way he says my name makes ice slide down my spine. I don’t believe him. “I had a friend once who had visions similar to yours. I know how painful they can be.”
I whirl on him, leaving my keys dangling in the lock. “Don’t you dare pretend you have any idea what I go through.” It isn’t just the physical pain or the torment of watching strangers die, helpless to stop it. It’s the pain of being denied any escape, of knowing a vision could strike any time and I can’t hold them back. It means a lifetime of making excuses and getting fired and earning suspicion. He puts his hands up in surrender. I turn back to the door but hesitate.
“You had a friend with death visions?” I ask, after a long pause. He nods sharply. I swallow. “Is there a cure?”
He drops his hands to his sides. “I’m afraid not.”
My shoulders slump. Of course not. That would be too easy. “So how can you help?”
“If you are anything like my friend, then you’ve tried—and probably failed—to warn some of the people in your visions.” He waits. After a second, I nod in confirmation, wondering if this, too, is something Myron told him. “I have another method of saving these people, after the accidents have occurred.”
“Like you wanted to ‘save’ me?” I spit it out, an accusation more than a question. “By damning my soul? And for what, five years?”
“You are fixated on that idea, aren’t you? I assure you, I have no use for souls.” I open my mouth to protest but he lifts a hand. He wears silver rings on all of his fingers. “I offer people second chances. Not permanent ones and sometimes, only brief ones, but that is all I have the power to do.”
Gabriel's Demons (Demon's Assistant) Page 4
