Almost Demon (The Sigil Cycle) (10 page)

“It’s real goat hide.” The pride in his voice was unmistakable.

“Um, wow.” I was starting to sound like Charlotte.

“It will absorb the ink better.” His elbow brushed my arm as he drew one leaf away from the stack and placed it in front of me with reverence. I felt the warmth rolling off his body.

“Thanks.” 

“Go ahead.” He placed a silver nib fountain pen in front of me.

I picked it up with the same care he used when setting it down and turned to the page with the sigil wheel. I placed a piece of scrap paper over it and circled each of the letters of the angel’s name in order. A-M-B-R-I-E-L. Then I drew straight lines attaching the small rings together, doubling back between R and I because of the close proximity between the two on the chart. 

“Good.” Thom’s voice broke the silence. “When you get a little practice in you, you’ll know how to add some flourishes. It’ll make you stronger and root the power more firmly.”

I then took the piece of parchment and copied my design carefully on it, picking up my hand after each smooth stroke to avoid smudges.

“What now?” I asked.

“For an angel, just recite the incantation. For a demon, there’s a bit more involved. Summoning circle, candles. Think of
The Craft
.”

“Movies? You’re on my case for consulting modern man’s version of the encyclopedia and you’re telling me to get my ritual information from a cheesy, yet very watchable, 90s movie?”

“Just as a familiar reference point.” He laughed. “But surprisingly accurate.”

 “You said yourself that angels and demons are pretty much the same. Why the difference between the summonings?”

He ran a hand through his hair. It settled in a haphazard mop to the left side of his head. 

“They’re more two sides of the same coin. Demons need the summoning circle to keep them contained until you give them leave to depart. Angels always follow orders and return to where they were prior to the summoning.”

“Then I’m glad we’re calling an angel,” I said.

“Let me know what you think after you speak to him.”

I brushed away the confusion at his last remark and went back to the page with Ambriel’s incantation and started at the words.

“Out loud,” Thom said with an insisting nudge. 

How the hell was he so warm
?

I was more embarrassed than anything but decided it was probably easier reciting the ridiculous chant than invoking the wrath of Thom.

“I conjure and pray ye, O Angels of God, to come unto my aid. Come and behold the Signs of Heaven. This being done, let Ambriel arise.”

The room remained still. Nothing happened. We sat motionless until I began losing feeling in my leg. I leaned over to give my shin a good rub when Thom yanked at my arm.

“Sit up,” he hissed.

“What’s your problem?” I asked, bumping my head on the underside of my desk. I was ready to tear him a new one, when the new presence in the room caught my attention.

“Ambriel at your service.” There was a mock tip of a nonexistent hat from a squat, freckle-faced red-headed boy who couldn’t have been older than eleven. The lapel of his white robe lay crooked on his neck and the hem was in tatters. His feet were bare but clean.

“I was kind of expecting a bit more,” I blurted.

“And I was expecting Angelina Jolie.” He eyed Thom sitting next to me, winked, and then turned back to me. “Like I said, I’m at your service.” He began chewing his nails while I tried to regain some composure.

“So. Ambriel. Um. I was hoping you could help me with a little problem we have going on here.”

“Not likely,” he answered.

“Why not?” I said, unable to hide the anger in my voice.

“I don’t get involved. Sorry.” He began walking around the room.

“Why not?”

“Not much finesse in this one,” he said to Thom.

“Excuse me, I’m right here.” I was starting to sound like a child and decided that a deep breath would do me a world of good. 

“Look, girly,” Ambriel started. I wanted to wring his little neck. “I can’t help you. None of us can. Angels have a strict ‘stay out of human business’ rule. It would interfere with free will.”

“Free will? But the Dybbuk think it’s fine to take over other people’s bodies and make them go crazy and do things that aren’t right,” I said.

He put his open palms up in the air in the universal sign of
I can’t do anything about it
. 

Before I could rail against the lack of justice in this world, the skin on the inside of my wrist began to tingle. I scrunched up the sleeve and watched as the pricking sensation intensified. “What the f-!” I screamed. 

A dark mark began to take shape on the thin pale skin, darkening bit by bit until it finally came into focus.

“Tell me this comes off,” I continued.

“A small price to pay to be a sorceress. It’s a badge of honor.” The impudent little mother effer snapped his fingers and disappeared, leaving a hideous stamp of evidence like a calling card on my skin. His sigil.

I scowled and then turned to Thom, letting him know how pissed off I was at my new tattoo.

It was late by the time I got home. The furniture was cloaked in the blanketing darkness of shorter days. I almost wished to find my dad waiting with his arms crossed and his face in a grimace. The biggest disappointment of the day, though, was Ambriel’s refusal to help. Thom had said as much with his retelling of the creation story but I wouldn’t believe it until I had seen it. He had known it wasn’t going to work.
And he let you do things your way, to be fair. He also left out the bit about getting a tattoo with each new sigil I create.

I grabbed a stack of cookies from the pantry, forgoing a more traditional frozen dinner. The summoning had drained more energy than I had noticed and the fatigue was settling into my bones. I toed off my boots, kicked them to the side, and headed straight for the bathroom, pausing shortly in front of Brian’s room. Thinking of all the crumbs I got on the carpet the other day, I decided against wallowing in my sorrows there and instead went to run the water.

After a bath and another tower of snickerdoodles, I lay in bed, thinking back to Ian’s invitation for another ride on the roller coaster of the absurd.

Remembering the scrap of notebook paper he had scribbled on, I went back to the coat closet for my bag, flustered at the idea of storing Ian’s number in my phone. 

After keying in the digits and double checking for errors, I added Ian to my contacts and toyed with the idea of calling him. Instead, I opted for the coward’s way out. Texting.

Me: Hey. It’s Gemma.

Ian: Hey! What’s up? We still on for tomorrow?

Me: Not really supposed to be going out after school. Daddy said.

Ian: You don’t seem the type to care what Daddy thinks.

Me: No, I don’t. He either already forgot or doesn’t want to bother enforcing his own rules. 

Ian: Fear not, my fair damsel. We shall ride again.

Me: Tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it.

Ian: Me too.

Me: Goodnight.

Ian: G’night.

The moon was full and high, spilling bands of white light into my room. I was able to make out the lines of the sigil that had embedded itself to my skin. I traced the lines and my body hummed. 

And although I was comforted by the visual reminder that I wasn’t imagining any of this, I lay awake, worried what would happen next time. When it would be a demon summoning. And why Thom’s touch burned like the sigils on my skin.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

The next morning, I tore through all seven drawers of my double-wide espresso stained dresser in a desperate yet futile attempt to find something that would cover the mark on my arm. Concealer didn’t cut it. I stormed into Brian’s room and after a bit of rummaging, found the black leather cuff he always wore while playing guitar. It was a bit loose and bore the unmistakable rainbow prism of Pink Floyd but managed to cover the sigil completely. 

As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, my father’s angry eyes were on me. “What part of our conversation did you misunderstand?” he barked. 

“Sorry?” I asked, squashing the urge to laugh in his face. 

 “Cut the act.” He stood up and took a step closer, placing his hands on his waist. I took notice of how wrinkled his lab coat, slacks, and button down shirt were. 

He must have been at work all night
.

“What act? How could you possibly even know what time I came home?” 

“Gemma, you are making things very difficult for me. You’ve forced me to use some extreme measures. There are some cameras in the house so I can monitor you from the office. And I’ve activated a tracking device on your phone.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Dad. I don’t mean to mess up your life but you’re doing a great job on mine.” I walked around his imposing figure and scooped my bag out from its usual spot in the closet. 

“Yeah but you did,” he called after me. “It’s enough you killed Brian. Can’t you just follow my rules?”

The sharp intake of my breath was the only sound in the room. Everything else became fuzzy. I turned to look at my dad through tear-filled eyes to check if he meant what he said. I saw no signs of hesitation. I could usually find weakness when he was unsure of himself. There was none. No chewing the inside of his cheek. No twisting of the hair in the back of his head. No other nervous tactile movements. 

“Sure, Dad. Whatever.” I tried to keep my voice stone cold but it was hard when the lump of dread was threatening to break free. 

I thought I caught a flash of something dark pass over his face. 

Could one of the Dybbuk have taken him too?

Just then the clouds passed, sending the morning light in through the vertical blinds. I could make out the deep lines of wrinkles around his mouth and the bags under his eyes. Nope. No supernatural explanation for what he said. Only pure spite.

I left him as he was, standing in the kitchen, waiting for some kind of daughterly response that probably involved some hugging and a lot of denial.

Outside, I found Ghosty, who seemed to have committed my morning routine to memory. When I went on my run, he waited in his usual spot on the patio and then, two hours later, stood outside the front door.

“Bye, Ghosty.” I waved, unsure if his presence confirmed the fact that my father just hated me and had not been possessed by a spiteful and bitchy soul. 

Maybe something else had gotten to him. Sure, Gemma, keep telling yourself that. And maybe unicorns do exist.

At school the mood wasn’t any better. Everyone seemed to be on edge, snapping at each other for silly reasons. Then again, in high school that was expected. 

When I walked into homeroom, Thom was handing out issues of the New York Times. “Good Morning, Miss Pope,” he said. 

“Good Morning, Mr. Flynn,” I said and sat down displaying my covered wrist. 

He glanced down and said, “Nice choice.” 

“You, too,” I replied, pointing to the purple-checked shirt he wore today beneath a gray cashmere sweater. He managed to look good even if he insisted on wearing white sneakers every day. His sleeves were rolled up and I noticed how bare they were, save for the dusting of light blond hair. 

How come I was the one getting stuck with the body art?

“Class, today we are going to do things a bit differently,” Thom said walking to the white board. “In front of you is all the news that’s fit to print.” He pointed to the paper’s banner he had projected. “I would like each of you to read an article and identify instances of bias. Journalism isn’t supposed to contain any. However, it happens every day.”

I scanned the headlines on the front page and wondered if I was being overly sensitive, thinking that things seemed extra depressing.

“Which one are you doing?” Ian leaned over and asked.

Our conversation from the night before had been short and sweet. 

“Maybe I can find some bias in the sports section,” I said, reluctant to read anything that could possibly depress me more.

“Are we still on for today?”

“I think so,” I replied. “I might have to meet up with Mr. Flynn first. Text me later and I’ll have a better idea on the time.”

“Sure.” He smiled and went back to flipping through the layers of newsprint before him.

I was trying to decide between “Mass Airstrikes on Afghanistan kills Dozens including Allied Soldiers” and “Rebels move towards Capital of Gabon,” when I felt the familiar buzz of my phone rattling through the things in my bag.

I peeked inside so as not to call attention to my obvious violation of school rules.

Dad: Gemma. Be home by six. No excuses.

The snort that erupted from my nose came out louder than expected with half the room, including Ian and Thom, looking at me questioningly. 

“Is there a problem, Miss Pope?” Thom asked.

“Um, not really.” 

I thought he would let it go. Instead he motioned with his finger to come up to his desk. I wrestled with the newspaper, sending a chorus of crackling until I managed to crumble it into some vision of its former self. I looked over at Ian, who was  chuckling as he flicked his copy of
The Times
, neatly folded into quadrants and framing the story he was reading.