In the Demon's Company (Demon's Assistant Book 2) (11 page)

He bows his head. “You would have died if I’d left you there, make no mistake. I healed some of the worst damage before assuring medical attention found you in time. But because of my intervention, your spirit did not need to be bound to your body in the way I usually save people.”

“But you made me sign a paper.”

Azmos shrugs. “That is my modus operandi, Nicolette. And I did save your life. I just didn’t utilize my usual magic to do so.”

So that’s why I’m an exception. Because I never got that close to death. Strange how things you don’t think of as having degrees actually do. I nearly died, but I didn’t get as close to the edge as Gabriel, who didn’t come as close to death as Anna or Mrs. Crane.

I swallow, trying to absorb all of this new information.

“Your sister,” I finally say.

He lifts and drops his hands. “After what you and Xanan discovered, I knew there must be another of my kind in the area. I suppose part of me knew it was her. But I was so sure she was dead…I really didn’t want it to be her.”

Given that his sister is a homicidal maniac, I can’t blame him. All she needs is a mask and a catch phrase and she could have her own horror movie franchise.

The door swings open. Xanan walks past both of us and Gabriel comes to stand next to me. Xanan disappears into one of the bedrooms, followed by the sound of a shower running. I fill Gabriel in. He doesn’t look as surprised about Vessa being related to Az. I guess if there aren’t many left of a particular species, the odds they’re family only increases.

“So what’s her game?” Gabriel asks, pulling a chair out from beneath the glass-topped dining table and sitting on it backwards. “Why is she so desperate for the nearly-dead that she’s putting people there?”

Azmos takes a deep breath and lets it out. He reaches for his cigarette case but sets it down without opening in. It doesn’t smell like he smokes in here. I’m tempted to tell him not to worry about it. I’m even a little tempted to ask for one myself even though I’ve never smoked before. But only a little. There are some lines even a demon’s assistant probably shouldn’t cross.

“My kind is persecuted for our magic,” Azmos says. “Vitas demons once held positions of powers in both realms, because they could revive their allies, but more, they could revive their foes and turn them into unwilling allies. Hard to beat an army when your army becomes part of the opposing side. But this abuse of power had consequences. The Spirit Realm cracked open. There are always small holes between our realms and the Spirit World, but the bigger and more frequent the holes get, the more likely it is that things can slip through. If enough cracks form in the barrier, it might even break open entirely. My magic—our magic—affects the balance of souls and can create more cracks if it’s abused. Eventually it was decided that our magic posed a threat to existence itself.

“My people hid or tried to fight. Some were hunted and killed. Some killed each other. Hundreds of years later, my sister and I were born. We are only half Vitas, and that’s why I’m unable to keep someone alive for the duration of their natural life, and why too many of my bargains have such a dire effect on the barrier. It’s also why I can’t save someone who’s entirely dead. A true Vitas can do that. That’s why they were seen as gods, both by others in my realm and humans in yours.

“My mother kept us isolated in a rural area, away from cities, tried to convince us we were Payvan, like her.”

“You have cities?” I ask. I can’t help it. I know the Demon Realm isn’t all fire and brimstone any more than this apartment, but it’s hard to imagine what demon cities must look like.

Azmos gives me a look that clearly says, ‘what did you think we had?’ and goes on. “The Payvan are like humans in your realm. They’re the dominant species mostly by sheer numbers. They live longer than humans—about two hundred years if they’re lucky—but they’re otherwise quite similar in physical weaknesses. They get sick. They get injured. I don’t. But that wasn’t what made blending in difficult. My eyes are a telltale sign, you see.

“My sister figured out what we were. And then she decided it was our blood right to rule. She injured several people to the point of death and brought them back to be her slaves. She had a small army when she was finally taken down. Some of her slaves realized they didn’t have to do her bidding and turned against her.”

He stops and frowns, as if realizing something. “That’s probably why they didn’t kill her. To do so would to mean killing all those she’d brought back and they wanted to spare some of them. So they simply locked her away. She must have escaped.” He looks pretty horrified by the idea.

“You never wanted to join her? Be a god?” Gabriel asks, his lips curving up in a crooked smile.

Azmos’ expression is dark. “No. She truly believed—believes—we are some kind of higher species. She’s wrong, though her anger at the persecution of our kind is not unreasonable. She didn’t understand the consequences of our magic. Perhaps she still doesn’t.”

It’s so much to absorb. I wish Cam was here. He’d ask the right questions. “So these people, they aren’t actually obligated to do her bidding? I mean, was I even obligated to work for you?”

He turns his ringed hands over, palms up, but a sheepish smile curls his lips. “You signed a contract to work for me, Nicolette. You were never magically obliged to do so.”

“But I didn’t know that.”

He shrugs. “Precisely. You owed me a debt. So you see? It’s easy enough to convince someone you’ve brought back from the brink of death that they owe you, or even that they are obligated to do your bidding in exchange. You were, by virtue of signing a paper and agreeing, but there was no spell forcing your hand.”

My mind reels as I try to adjust to this new reality. “So…I could have walked away the whole time and it wouldn’t have mattered.” Cam had suggested I do just that many times and once or twice, I even wanted to (sort of). But even if I’d known I had the option, I would have felt indebted to Az, and anyhow, let’s face it, I basically fell apart when he fired me so I doubt I’d have left voluntarily even given the choice.

“I would have been disappointed,” Azmos says. “But you’ve proven to be an invaluable asset.” There is the faintest smile on his lips and something else in his expression. Pride? It makes me feel less incompetent than I generally do.

Gabriel, though, stays on track. “So these people probably wouldn’t be willing to risk disobeying Vessa,” he says, shoulders slumping. “Well, this is terrible.”

“How do we stop her?” I ask.

Azmos straightens in his seat, shoulders back, so he looks taller. “You don’t. Xanan and I will speak to her.”

I frown and start to argue. He holds up a hand. “She’s dangerous, clearly. What you just witnessed should make that plain. It’s best if you stay out of her way. Both of you would be wise to avoid her. Let us take care of it. I will reason with her. Make her see the possibilities in this realm if she’s careful with her magic.” He turns to Gabriel. “If you would be so kind as to keep me in the loop regarding your visions, I’ll locate her and put an end to this.”

“Sure thing,” Gabriel says, standing. “Come on, kid, I’ll take you home.”

“I’m not a kid,” I say, more irritated by the term than usual. Azmos clearly isn’t going to offer any further information, but given how much he’s said, he’s practically spilled his guts tonight. He looks exhausted. Lines are etched around his eyes that weren’t there before, and tiny flecks of gold sit on his shoulders like dandruff.

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?” I say to Azmos. It’s supposed to be a command but it comes out more like a question.

“Of course,” Azmos says. “I intend to keep you out of harm’s way as much as possible, but I have never hesitated to call upon you when your services are needed.”

That, at least, is true, so reluctantly, I follow Gabriel out of the apartment and down the stairs.

The second Gabriel and I leave the warehouse, my phone explodes. Apparently the reception inside the warehouse is awful because a flood of texts and missed calls slam into my alert screen. Most are from my dad. Uneasily I swallow as I scroll through the messages: “Where are you?!” “Call me!” “What’s going on?”

I swear. Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “I’m in trouble,” I say. “I think my dad found out I skipped school.”

Gabriel laughs until the laughter gets caught in his throat and he coughs. The coughs rack his body and then he has trouble catching his breath.

“It’s not funny!”

“It’s hilarious,” Gabriel says, wiping his eyes. “We’re talking about demons and life and death and you’re going to get in trouble for missing high school. Tell me you don’t see the absurdity.”

I grumble, compose a text to tell my dad I’m on my way home, and then check my messages from Cam. They’re in a similar vein: “Where did you run off to?” But he doesn’t seem mad about it. I text to tell him I went with Gabriel and then saw Azmos, leaving out the messier parts to tell him in person. He asks if I need a ride. I consider saying yes, but Gabriel tugs on my sleeve as I turn to head for the bus home.

“Wait. I think you need to come with me.”

“Right now?” I ask. “What for?”

“Just come on.” I protest but Gabriel narrows his eyes. “You’re already in trouble, right? How much worse can it get?”

I shiver. Rain mists through the air, coating my face and hair with icy wetness. “I wish people wouldn’t say things like that.” But I follow him anyhow, texting to tell my dad I’m stuck at the library waiting for a text book. He sends back three messages in a row telling me to come home right this instant.

I am definitely screwed. I can’t even remember the last time I was in trouble, but it was all the way back when my mom was still alive.

Gabriel leads me into a bar. It’s called The Armory. Inside, it’s all wooden tables and chairs with a pool table in the back corner and a single television above the bar. The only customer is an older woman who sits in a corner with a glass of red wine. The bartender, a middle-aged woman with tattoos running up and down her arms, leans on her elbows. She nods at Gabriel and me as we walk past, not bothering to stop us or ask for ID.

Gabriel heads straight for the back. He stops in front of a panel of wall between two vending machines that sell chips and nuts. There’s an alarm system on the wall. He types in a code and the wall slides open.

The space behind the wall is the size of a small bedroom, the kind you can shove a single bed and dresser in but not much else. But these walls are lined with weapons. Swords, axes, daggers. Metal gleams in all corners. Tables displaying different styles of swords and knives are cluttered and some displays sit right on the floor beneath them. It’s like a booth at a Renaissance Faire. A girl with bright pink hair, the same shade as Myron’s, sits in a chair in the center of the room. She looks up from her tablet computer and breaks into a smile.

“Gabe!” she says. She waves her hand and the gap in the wall behind us slides shut. She stands and sets her computer on the chair.

“Nicki, this is Miranda, Myron’s sister. Nicki is Azmos’ assistant.”

Miranda whistles. “Wow. I didn’t know he was lowering himself to working with humans.” She smirks, like she made a clever joke but I don’t get it. “No offense. I love humans. I just mean, he’s a little stuck up about working with others, isn’t he?”

“I guess,” I say, a twinge of anxiety running through me. Miranda doesn’t seem threatening. Gabriel isn’t afraid of her, and he’s dated her brother, so I don’t think she’s dangerous. Still, being surrounded by gleaming metal swords and a strange demon does not inspire warm fuzzies after today.

“She shouldn’t be unarmed,” Gabriel says.

Miranda looks me over, walking a circle around me as she does. She isn’t much taller than I am, and I’m barely five-six on a good day, but like Azmos, she’s imposing despite her lack of height. She and Myron could be twins: they have the same narrow features and pointy chin, the same pink hair which I’m starting to suspect is not dyed, but the way it grows out of their heads. And of course, the same British accent.

“She’s too short for a decent sword,” Miranda finally says. “Maybe a hatchet? You could leverage that pretty easily with minimal muscle expenditure.”

“I don’t think I can wield a hatchet,” I say.

“She goes to high school,” Gabriel says. “Something more concealable.”

Miranda nods, walks over to a metal rack, and starts sifting through daggers. Some are as long as my entire arm. She selects a small one and hands it out to me, hilt-first. The hilt is silver and ornately carved into the shape of a dragon, its tail curling around the handle.

“How does that feel?”

I heft the dagger in my hand, pushing back memories of holding another knife and stabbing it through human flesh. I still have nightmares about that. But this dagger feels good in my fist. The weight ratio is right so that when I hold it out it doesn’t take extra effort to hold it straight. “I like it,” I say. I look for a price tag but there isn’t one. I have plenty of cash wadded up in my nightstand but I don’t carry it around for fear of losing it. “I don’t have much money on me, though. I’ll have to come back.”