Brimstone (33 page)

“I think you should talk to a counselor,” I said.

She looked at me strangely. “About summoning a demon?”

“No. About what happened over Spring Break. You need to deal with that. Atonement can come after.” I put my hand on the doorknob. “But first, you need to come inside and have a doughnut.”

Somewhere behind her weariness, maybe there was a spark of hope, but she was still Lisa. “That’s not going to fix things.”

“No, but with a cup of coffee, it’s a start.”

We went in. The folks greeted her warmly, Justin with a reserve that made Gran glance at him curiously. Mom, oblivious, fussed and asked where she’d run off to.

“I went to see Brian in the hospital,” Lisa said, surprising me. She’d mentioned only Brandon.

“How is he?”

“Good. Apparently having a remission as abrupt as his onset. And his room was already filling up with female
visitors when I left.” She snuck a look at me, which I ignored, because I wasn’t anything but happy for him. I thought maybe Justin was looking my way, too, but I didn’t turn to see.

“I’m going to Karen’s house later,” I said, not quite changing the subject. Brian’s recovery made me hopeful for her own return to normal. “She called at the crack of eight a.m. to ask for the scoop.”

Hesitancy seemed such a foreign expression on Lisa’s face. “Maybe I could go with you?”

“I think that would be nice.”

I understood what Lisa was doing. When you almost lose something, you have to touch it often to reassure yourself it’s still there. None of these people had been that dear to her, but they stood for what she’d put in jeopardy by helping Stanley. They represented her soul, nearly sacrificed to vengeance.

Then I
knew
Justin’s eyes were on me, sending a strong “I’ve got something to say about this” vibe. Not subtly at all, I looked down at my empty cup and said, “I need more coffee. Back in a sec.”

I left them discussing whether wild dogs might really roam the thickly forested State Park near Avalon. Their voices hummed from the other room as I emptied the last of the coffee into my industrial-sized mug, and grabbed the milk from the fridge.

When I closed the door, Justin had joined me. “So everything’s okay now? Everyone is chummy again?”

I gave him a tart look, because sarcasm didn’t suit him at all. “No one was that chummy before. And it’s not all okay. But it might be, someday.”

He studied me a little longer, then unwound with a sigh. I liked that about him, that he could pick his battles and let other things go, at least for the moment. I’m not so good at that. But then lately, my battles seemed to pick me.

“What about you?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn’t I be all right?”

He leaned on the counter. “I don’t know. You faced down the dark forces of the universe. And went to the prom.”

“Don’t ask me which was more traumatic.” I stirred my coffee thoughtfully. “I feel … different.”

“A lot has happened.”

“I’m never going to be able to ignore my dreams again. I’m always going to wonder what is a hunch and what is, you know … the freakitude.”

“Maybe it’ll get easier with practice. You could talk to your gran about it.”

I watched the whirlpool in my cup. “You know what the weirdest thing is? I have to go to school on Monday. Shouldn’t I get special dispensation for saving the world?”

“From wild dogs?” He grinned. “Probably not.”

“Gee, thanks.” Mug in hand, I started to breeze past him. He caught the back of my T-shirt.

“Listen. What do you say we go on a date that doesn’t involve ghostbusting or demon hunting?”

A shy sort of smile crept to the corner of my mouth. “Just you, me, and a basket of chicken fingers?”

“Maybe even a movie.”

I pretended to think about it. “Okay. But not a horror one.”

“No? I was thinking about
Prom Night
.”

“Very funny.”

“What about
Carrie
?”

“Don’t make me hurt you. I’m a demon slayer now, you know.”

“Look out, Buffy.”

And that was how I survived the senior prom. I had faced down a demon, saved the senior class, and even managed to snag a date in the bargain. Now all I had to do was survive the three weeks to graduation.

But that’s a story for another day.

There’s an axiom among authors that you have to write a million words of crap before you can produce publishable prose. Here’s to everyone who suffered through mine.

But especially I’d like to thank …

My agent, Lucienne Diver, who answers my newbie questions with good humor, and Krista Marino, who has spoiled me for all other editors. What a great way to start.

Candace Havens, Britta Coleman, Shannon Cannard, and all the Divas. But especially Candy and Britta, for recognizing greatness underneath the stark terror.

The Dallas–Fort Worth Writers’ Workshop and the after-hours IHOP Irregulars, especially Shawn and Dan. Rachel Caine, the LJ crew, and the Old Guard: Carole, Jennifer, et al. You may not even realize the little things you said that kept me coming back to the keyboard.

The young thespians of Victoria Community Theatre. There’s something of each of you in this book. Hopefully you’ll never figure out which parts.

Haley M. Schmidt, who wanted a manuscript for her graduation present.

My husband, Tim, because you’ve seen “better” and you’ve seen “worse” and you love me anyway.

And all my family, Mom, Peter, and Cheryl Smyth, sister of my heart. You all believed in me, even during the times when I didn’t believe in myself.

B
right teeth flashed; I fought the instinct to recoil. Perfectly white, perfectly even, possibly once human. Coral pink lips pulled back all the way to the gums, giving the smile an unfortunate equine quality. “Soooo …?” The owner of the teeth and lips drew out the word and flipped it up at the end in a question. “What’s your major?”

“English.” An untruth. I don’t tell them, as a rule, but I’d been asked this question five times in the last hour, and the lie rolled off my tongue now with ease.

“Gosh, you must have to read a lot, huh?” Another blinding smile; I hoped my squint passed for an answer.
“So, Maggie. What made you decide to go through Rush?”

She pronounced it with a capital
R
. Five rounds of the cattle call officially known as Sorority Formal Recruitment had run together in my banality-numbed brain, and I couldn’t remember where I was. I glanced around the crowded room for a clue. The noise was formidable, the chatter of a hundred or more coiffed and groomed girls like purebred dogs at a show, their yelping echoing from the walls.

Just like every other sorority house I’d been to in this first series of parties. Here, though, the décor was Cotton Candy Pink and Tampax Box Blue. Verily, I had reached the lair of the Delta Delta Gammas.

“Well, Ashley …” My slightly breathless drawl mimicked hers. “I thought Rush would be fun. Get to know people, you know.”

She laughed, her eyes squinched up in two half-moons of insincerity. “Soooo? Which dorm are you in, Maggie?”

She kept checking my name tag. At every house, the girls had used my name exhaustively, making me feel as though I’d wandered onto a used car lot.

“I’m living at home.” This much was certainly true. “I grew up here in Avalon.”

“Oh.” Her smile, and I use the word loosely, was forced. “Well, at least you know your way around. You probably have a car, too. What kind is it?”

Her segues could really use a little polish. “It’s vintage.”

“Oh, really?” She raised her brows with renewed interest.

“Yeah. A Ford Pinto.”

“Really.” Beneath her carefully applied self-tanner, the
corners of her mouth were white with strain. “Your parents live here in Avalon?”

It would be hard to live at home and go to school here if they didn’t. But smart-ass wasn’t my persona here at the International House of Snobcakes, so I merely answered enthusiastically, “My dad works here at Bedivere University. He’s an engineer.”

“Is he really? Mechanical or civil?”

“Custodial.”

“O-kay.” She glanced at her watch, then searched the room for rescue, or maybe just an avenue of escape. “Well, it’s been real nice meeting you, Maggie. I need to go … um … talk to these girls over here.”

She took off; I knew from my research that leaving a rushee standing alone was a big fat no-no. Unless, of course, you’d rather invite a chimpanzee to join your sisterhood. And no one in the Delta Delta Gamma house looked like Jane Goodall to me.

But since I’d been deserted, I reached into my purse and turned off my microrecorder. No sense in wasting megabytes.

The
Avalon Sentinel
is an independent small-town paper, which is almost an anachronism in itself. The historic Main Street offices smelled of ancient cigarettes, even though the place had been smoke-free for twenty years.

I sat in a hard wooden chair that had been squeaking beneath anxious backsides for decades. My colleagues—or rather, the guys I’d stepped and fetched for all summer during
my internship—kept making excuses to walk past the office, peering into the windows as the editor-in-chief read my submission.

Ethan Douglas was probably thirty, but he had pale skin, freckles, and flaming red hair, all of which made him look more like Opie than Spencer Tracy. Like me, he had journalistic aspirations beyond the
Avalon Sentinel
, but—also like me—he had to start somewhere.

He lifted his eyes from the paper and gave me a dubious look. “You made this stuff up.”

“I swear.” I raised a Boy Scout salute. “The only stuff I made up was the lies about my dad being a janitor. Oh, and I don’t drive a Ford Pinto.”

In a skeptical voice, he read what I’d written: “ ‘I’m an English major,’ I said for the umpteenth time. ‘I wish I was an English major,’ said Sorority Sue. ‘I mean, I speak it already, and everything.’ ”

Laughter from the doorway behind me. Ethan glared in that direction, not terribly menacing with his freckled choirboy face. The guys from the newsroom went back to work, and I got down to business, too.

“You said if I brought you a story that no one else here could, you would give me a shot.”

I was uniquely qualified to infiltrate Rush, being that I was a girl and an actual college freshman. I might as well use it to my advantage.

Anyone who drove by the frat houses on a Friday night could tell that fraternities evaluated their future pledges based on their ability to chug beer and score with the coeds. But the closed-door secrecy on the distaff side of Greek Row
lent a certain mystery to what was, in essence, about as exciting as six successive tea parties with your grandmother and her septuagenarian friends.

Not
my
grandmother, of course. When the mood struck her, Granny Quinn could put on the doily better than anyone. But tea with Gran might mean anything from an authentic Japanese ceremony to a formal reading of your tea leaves. Gran had “the Sight,” as she called it. So do I, though for most of my eighteen years I didn’t consciously acknowledge the fact.

But then I had to rescue my senior prom from a ravenous horde of demon spawn. I learned the hard way there’s nothing like a supernatural smackdown to make you wake up and smell the brimstone.

Ethan Douglas rubbed his chin, which was slightly red and shiny from his morning shave. “I’ll give it to Janey and see if she has a place for it on Friday.”

“Lifestyles?” I tried to tone down my unprofessional indignation. “With the pumpkin recipes and 4-H announcements?” Not to mention that Janey Cotton still displayed pictures of her college chums in a Delta Zeta picture frame. My story would run between the obituaries and the funeral home ads, if at all.

“Where else would it go?” Ethan said, annoying me with the truth. “It’s more social commentary than scathing exposé.”

“But …,” I sputtered, with no real argument. “The pretension and the elitism …”