Demon Derby (13 page)

“Oh, crap,” Michael said, glancing over his shoulder at the black circle of ash slowly growing on our wall. “I always forget how big they are.”

“Put those things away, or whatever it is you do with them.” I tore my eyes away from his wings and smothered the smoldering wall with a sofa cushion. “I don’t think our insurance policy covers magical fire wings.”

This time, I could almost feel the electric crackle in the air as the wings popped out of existence. Under different circumstances, I probably would have asked him to do it again, but
I had other things to worry about. The cushion was burning now too.

“Damn it!” I snapped.

“What?” He was at my shoulder instantly, looking down at the pillow like it might decide to pop out some wings too.

“Um, in case you haven’t noticed, that wall is burning. And the ugly painting. And my pillow. Could you …” I gestured with my hands in front of my mouth. “You know, put it out?”

He only looked confused. “With my mouth?”

“Well, can’t you breathe on it or something?”

“Ah.” He shook his head. “I’m not Superman. If you have a fire extinguisher, I can get it for you, but that’s about all I can do in the putting-out-fires department.”

“Well, you’re no help,” I grumbled, taking the pillow to the kitchen. He followed.

“Not my fault. We don’t exactly have fires where I come from.” I glared at him, and he added belatedly, “Sorry.”

I flicked on the cold water and shoved the cushion underneath. The smell of wet, scorched polyester quickly filled the kitchen. Sadly, it smelled better than most of Mom’s cooking. It also set off the smoke detectors. We had three of them, all in one room. I didn’t get it either.

“Take the batteries out of those things before we go deaf, will you?” I asked.

“Gotcha.” He climbed up onto one of the breakfast-bar stools. Within seconds, the piercing noise stopped. “There you go.”

“You were talking about heaven, right?” My voice came
out very calm, as if I weren’t having a conversation with an angel in the middle of my kitchen. I’d been in shock before, and I recognized the faraway feeling, as if everything were happening at a distance from which I could safely make wisecracks about it.

He blinked. “Heaven?”

“I was asking if you came from heaven. You said they don’t have fire there.”

He burst into laughter, and I threw the wet, charred pillow at him. Not hard; it barely grazed his stomach before splattering on the ground, spraying sooty water all over. But it definitely got his attention.

“I’m sorry.” He didn’t look it. His mouth kept turning up at the corners. “But the idea of me as an angel is pretty hilarious. I mean,
look
at me.”

“I am,” I muttered.

I looked again for good measure. He had a great mouth, and just thinking about that made me think of the lip-lock from earlier, and
that
made me flush redder than your average stop sign. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I decided it would be a good idea to do something else. Like maybe keep my house from burning.

I pulled out the biggest pitcher in our house, which was porcelain and shaped like William Shakespeare’s head. The sculptor hadn’t done a very good job; poor Will looked really constipated.

“What are you doing?” Michael asked, squinting at Will. “And does he need a laxative?”

“Shut up,” I said, but without any heat behind it. “I’m putting out your fire here. Either help me or get out of the way.”

I hurried back into the living room and hurled the water at the painting. The water splattered and hissed. And dripped. I didn’t even want to think about how I was going to clean all this up.

“I’m way too impatient for this,” Michael said.

He snatched the pitcher away from me so fast that my fingers stung. A mere second later, the kitchen door started ratcheting back and forth, almost tearing itself off its hinges. I heard the water running, heard it turning off, and then the water splashed onto the wall before I even had time to breathe. He repeated the process three times, moving so fast that all I could see was a blur.

Maybe he was lacking in the putting-out-fires-with-his-breath thing, but he had the super speed thing down pat.

When the wall was completely soaked and the couch dotted with random droplets, he stopped. The guy wasn’t even breathing heavily, which I found really aggravating, considering that I’d had a hard time making it up the stairs not so long ago. But nothing seemed to be burning anymore, so I guess I had that to be thankful for. It distracted me from the fact that I had a not-an-angel in my living room. Or maybe I’d just had a psychotic break.

“Better?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said faintly. “Much better.”

“Good. Can we talk now?”

“It’s preferable to burning down my house.”

“You’re taking this awfully well.” He cocked his head. “Or are you in shock?”

“I haven’t decided whether to believe you or not.” I took a deep breath and sat down on the floor, as far away from the soggy bits as possible. “And yeah, I’m in shock too.”

“Fair enough.” He took a long, deep breath. “I’m a Sentinel.”

He probably would have explained what that meant if his phone hadn’t gone off. Sensitive-guy guitar music filled the air, and it took me a moment to figure out it was his text alert. The deductive process was aided by his taking the phone out of his pocket and glancing at the screen.

“Oh, crap,” he said, not even glancing up from the screen as his fingers beat out a rapid return message. “I’m supposed to be at practice right now. Ruthanasia’s going to kill me.”

“Derby practice?”

“Yeah.”

A wave of regret passed through me. If I hadn’t fainted, or whatever it was that I’d done, I would have been able to go with him. Now I had bigger things to worry about, what with the out-of-body experience and the not-an-angel with the flaming wings, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t spare a moment to mourn my hope. I wasn’t going to be able to go back to the way things had been. In a way, the cancer had killed me after all.

My complaint came out with less heat and more resignation.
“Well, you can’t just leave. I deserve some answers. You can’t pop me out of my body, burn my house, and then run for the hills. That’s really uncool.”

His hands dropped to his sides as he shot an exasperated glance in my direction, like somehow the flaming wings had been my fault. I would have smacked him if I hadn’t been so desperate to figure out what was going on. My health and sanity had been compromised, and if the flaming-wing guy knew something about either topic, I wasn’t letting him get away from me until he spilled it.

“I have to go, Casey,” he said in a pleading tone. “I’m sorry; I know it’s really crappy to leave you hanging like this, but I’ll come right back after practice. We’ll talk.”

“Skip it.” I sounded—and felt—desperate. “Ruthanasia would probably love to be left in charge anyway, and this is important. You can’t just up and leave.”

He shifted from foot to foot, looking increasingly restless. I wanted to grab the guy and shake him. Honestly, if anyone had the right to be a little shifty-eyed, it was me. I was the one who had fainted. I was the one who’d had an out-of-body experience. My health hung in the balance. And he was all worried about a derby practice? If one of us was certifiable, I was beginning to suspect it wasn’t me.

“I
have
to go,” he said. “I made a commitment, and breaking commitments makes me …” He trailed off, shuddering.

“Great,” I muttered. “I got stuck with the OCD angel.”

“I’m not an angel!” He threw up his hands. “I told you that already!”

“Dude, you have flaming wings and your name is Michael. What am I supposed to think? It kind of screams ‘angel’ to me.”

He hung his head. “I did the flaming wings because I thought it would look impressive. And for your information, all the Sentinels in my pod were named Michael. I’m number six hundred ninety-two. We’re not exactly creative in the naming department.”

“So you’re not an angel,” I said. Frankly, it made me feel a little better about myself. Because if he wasn’t really an angel, I didn’t have to feel squicky about thinking lustful things about him. And if I decided to smack him upside the head for being difficult, I wouldn’t be damned for that either.

“No. Sorry,” he said, and it didn’t sound like he was lying. It did, however, sound like his head might pop off at any moment from the pressure. He was practically hopping from one foot to the other like he had to go to the bathroom. The whole situation was getting increasingly more ridiculous, and I had to bite back a snort of laughter. “Can I go now? The longer I wait, the more uncomfortable I get. And the more uncomfortable I get, the more of a dick I become. It’s a vicious cycle.”

“I believe it.” I sighed. “Well, that’s that. I’m tagging along.”

He shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry, Casey. I thought I already told you; you didn’t make the team. I tried, but no one would listen to me after you fainted.”

“So I’ll be your guest. Or your assistant. Or the girl who won’t stop following you until you tell her what the heck is going on. Take your pick.”

“I don’t really have much choice, do I?” he grumbled.

“Good Sentinel.” I patted him on the head, or tried to. He ducked out of the way, knocking my hand to one side. “Actually, hold on a sec. Let me change into some clean clothes and then we can go.”

He rolled his eyes and dropped onto the sodden couch. “Aw, crap!” He leapt back up to his feet, brushing at the damp spot on his shorts. Even with everything that had happened, I couldn’t help but laugh as I climbed the stairs.

Michael’s motorcycle was parked in our extra spot. That was one thing I hated about living in a town house; it was hard to convince your parents to buy you a car when you only got two parking spaces. Rachel had offered to leave her Mini, but I’d felt guilty taking her transportation when I didn’t have anywhere to go.

The only problem with the bike was that we couldn’t talk en route to the Skate Lake. But it gave me a chance to come up with questions. After twenty, I made myself stop and enjoy the sensation of snuggling against the hard muscles of his back. He might have been a Sentinel—whatever that was—but he was a Sentinel in a hot teenage body, and that had to count for something. Especially since I hadn’t had many close encounters with hot teenage bodies. Or hot bodies of any age, really. And it mostly kept me from obsessing over questions I had no idea how to answer. Mostly.

When he pulled to a stop next to the Skate Lake doors, I released my grip on his shirt with reluctance. My cheek had been so comfortable nestled up against the soft fabric. I could have driven around town for hours, losing myself in the wind that whipped around his body and in the roar of the motor. It felt very peaceful, that bike ride.

“So I wanted to ask—”

I didn’t even get the whole sentence out before Ruthanasia burst through the doors. She wasn’t in derby uniform today but still wore enough eye makeup to cover an entire showgirl chorus. I couldn’t help it; I stuck my tongue out at her. Not the most mature of choices, but it was better than slugging her in the face, which was my only other idea.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You know you’re not on the team, right?”

Her expression of triumph felt like a slap in the face. I tried to tell myself she didn’t know how important making the team had been to me, but she had to know her words hurt. She just didn’t care. So I didn’t hold back. I retaliated with the thing I knew would bother her most.

“I know,” I said. “Michael and I are going on a date tonight, remember?”

She glared at me, her brows drawing down into an angry furrow. I couldn’t resist lacing my arm around his and leaning against his shoulder with a moony look on my face. It might have been a little over the top, but she bought it. She looked about ready to blow. Michael glanced between the two of us with an expression of dawning horror, like he’d realized
belatedly that something was happening and he might not want to be in the middle of it. Too late, dude.

“Kent, I swear to God,” Ruthanasia began, stepping forward with clenched fists.

Michael disengaged himself from my clutches with more grace than I would have given him credit for and intercepted her before she could get any closer. “Everybody chill out, okay? It took a lot of work to set up these extra practices, and we need to use the time wisely. Unless you want the Tilt-a-Girls to kick our butts in our next bout?”

Ruthanasia’s eyes snapped to him, looking for a fight, but she didn’t find one. “Yeah,” she said, shooting me a nasty glare, “you’re probably right.
Some
of us actually have things to do around here.”

I tried not to envy her as I followed them through the doors. I tried not to feel like a useless weakling who had nothing better to do than pick arguments all the time. I tried, but I failed.

Once inside, Michael and Ruthanasia went off to do their official derby thing. I didn’t have anything to do, so I went to the counter and was ordering a soda when Darcy rushed up and nearly knocked me over with a tackle hug.

“Oh my God,” she said, “I’m so glad to see you! I have all your stuff in my car. Are you okay? What happened?”