Page 27 of Higher Demon

“What does that mean?” Matt asks suspiciously. “Examine her more closely?”

The demon’s smile sends a chill down my spine. “Exactly what you think it does. Don’t worry—she’d be unharmed after. Wouldn’t remember a thing about it.”

“No!” It’s a unanimous shout from the three of us on the couch. That kind of mind rape isn’t something we could ever allow.

Marc shrugs idly. “Then you’ll have to do your little investigation and hope to find some answers.”

Desperately, I ask Uncle, “You don’t remember anything about when the family first came to the compound?”

He shakes his head slowly, brows furrowed. “I don’t think so. But they’ve been with us since before the Collective had any compounds here in the Americas—I remember the family being on the ship.”

The Collective didn’t come to the then-colonies until the early 1700s. As far as we were concerned, the Indigenous peoples had been doing a fine job handling demons for thousands of years and didn’t need our interference. Unfortunately, as the colonists established their foothold and decided genocide was a good idea, the Indigenous peoples became less inclined to protect them from rampaging demons, only stepping in when and if the demon turned its attention toward them. A similar situation had occurred a hundred years earlier in South America, with the Spanish compounds finally conceding defeat and sending several families to start a new branch. It was with some reluctance that the English and Scottish compounds did the same later on. My ancestors were on that ship—with Uncle Norval in tow to “oversee” the establishment of the Collective in the then-colonies. Matt’s family came out a few decades later.

“Which compound were they from? York, Wells, or Edinburgh?” I ask.

“York. I remember them being there… I think. And they were there for some time… but I couldn’t say how long.” He nods as though he’s given us a flood of information, when all it amounts to is a pile of “maybes.”

“Could you poke around? Discreetly. See if you can find out anything else.” As annoying as Norval is, people are used to him asking nosy questions. There’s also a grudging kind of respect for him, especially among the underpowered families. He was a strong hunter when he was alive, cofounded the Collective, and was so dedicated to it that when he died, he chose not to move on but instead hang around as a ghost to keep an eye on things. Ghosts get more powerful with age, so after a thousand years, he’s a force to be reckoned with. Most of them don’t stick around that long.

In our family, we consider him a pain in the ass, but even my dad, who turned out to be a treacherous piece of shit and was a crappy parent before that, insisted that we show respect for Uncle and the family tradition he established.

Of course, that came back to bite him in the ass when Connor and I—and Norval—sided with the Collective and thefamily traditionto thwart him, but hey. Even someone who’d betray their whole life and sell their soul to a demon can respect his ancestor.

Pushing the bitter thought aside, I move on to the next thing.

“In the meantime… Marc needs friends.”

We look at him doubtingly.

“Therightfriends,” he insists.

“Bro, don’t be a snob. You’ll take whoever we can get.” Matt turns to me. “Why’d he change into the suit? Doesn’t he know that when you get home, you put on comfy clothes?”

“You could ask me,” Marc suggests dryly.

We ignore him. “I don’t know.” But I’m fucking glad he’s wearing that ass-shielding jacket. “It was a miracle I talked him out of the suit to begin with.” I try not to wince. That came out sounding more suggestive than I planned.

Matt skips right past it, probably because no sane person would associate a higher demon with sex, anyway. “The suit makes him a douchebag. I mean, he is one and we all know it, but the suit screams it right up front, you know? It’s already gonna be hard enough to convince people to like him once he opens his mouth. We gotta give it a fighting chance.”

“Don’t kill him,” I order Marc. As usual, he’s supremely unaffected by the insult, but I know how attached to his suits he is.

“I wouldn’t waste my energy caring what someone so style-impaired thinks of me.” Marc’s gaze skims Matt’s clothes, so I glance over too.

He looks fine to me. It’s a hoody and jeans—they’re even pretty clean.

“You got issues,” I tell Marc. “Matt’s right. People see the suit, and their first impression is that you think you’re better than them.” I hold up a hand as he opens his mouth. “I know, you do think you’re better than them.”

“I don’t think it. It’s a fact.”

“Sure. But friends don’t like it when you act like they’re dogshit you just stepped in. So… rein in the superiority complex, and let’s go see what’s in your wardrobe.”

For the first time ever, Marc’s composure slips. “What?”

I stand. “We need to create your new image. Clothes first. Then we might try to work on how to smile in a way that won’t make people piss themselves.” One insurmountable problem at a time.

Chapter12

Marc

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