Page 3 of Higher Demon

With a little shudder at the thought of how much “fun” that would be, I explain, “I have the ultimate expert on the otherworld on speed dial. Why should I put myself through all these stupid questions when I can outsource it?”

“Dude.” The awe in Matt’s voice makes me grin. “You’re going to get Marc to talk to the class?”

I sigh happily as I think about the chaos that will ensue. I just need to make sure Marc doesn’t kill anyone. “They’ll learn really fast not to be stupid.”

“Or there’ll be a bloodbath. Can you even do that, though? Aren’t most of your students underage? Their parents won’t like you bringing a higher demon to class.”

“Pah. We used to have guest speakers all the time, remember?” Although to be fair, none of them were demons. Still… the kids have to meet a demon sooner or later, if they’re going to be hunters. It’s gotta be better for the first demon they meet not to be actively aggressive, right?

I might skip the asking for permission part, and just apologize later.

“The parents aren’t going to be the hardest part, though,” Matt warns. “How are you going to convince Marc to do it?”

Yeah. That’s gonna take ingenuity.

Chapter2

Marc

Turningthe page of my book, I hum along to the ringtone I programmed for my phone. Some of these Earth tunes are delightful fun. Others need to die painfully. Sadly, it’s impossible to tell which is which until after they’re stuck in my head. An exquisite form of torture.

The music stops, and I skim down another page. This book is… insufferably boring. It was written by the connection of a friend, and I said I’d read it and provide some feedback—these days, even a higher demon can’t just make a publishing deal happen. Well, not unless the author’s already famous. My friend is going to need to pull every string in his arsenal to make this deal happen, though, because the book is utter trash.

My phone starts to ring again, and I smile. Music really is something these humans did right. Bad music can be used to torment others, and good music is balm for the soul. Not that I have a soul.

If I did, it would have withered in agony after reading this book.

Sighing, I toss the manuscript pages aside as the music stops once more. I never answer my phone. Be at the beck and call of all these raggedy humans? Absolutely not. I do enjoy some of the functionality of smartphones, but if someone wishes to speak with me, they can put themselves through the trouble of a personal visit. I might open the door, if I’m feeling sociable.

The chime of a text message vibrates through the room, and I tap a finger against my lower lip. I don’t have voice mail set up, so it’s likely that whoever was trying to call has decided to text instead. I do check those sometimes… when I feel like it.

I suppose I’m not reading the book anymore, so I should read something.

Casually, I stand and stretch. Even after six years, I’m still not fully accustomed to Earth’s gravity. And my human form is mostly fun, but it does get sore and kinked up a lot. That was definitely a design defect. Humans can’t do anything right.

Swooping up my phone, I swipe the screen and then hold it up to recognize my face—and change my face to the one it will recognize. An added little layer of security, even though I don’t keep anything truly important on my phone.

The lock screen opens, and I tap on the message app. The little number in the corner says 793, and I can’t help the smile of satisfaction as I think about all those people who messaged me and are still waiting for a response.

The newest message is from Ian, and my good mood slips a bit. Not because I dislike Ian—far from it. As far as pathetic little humans go, he’s one of the better ones. At least he has attitude and isn’t either cowering with fear or trying to strike a bargain while pretending they’re doing me a favor. As if I need anything a human could provide.

But as feisty and interesting as Ian can be, I’ve given him perhaps too much of my time over the years. It’s not a good idea for any of these humans to think they can make demands of me.

I should ignore his message and find something else to do. Perhaps send a reply to my friend with some scathing feedback for his little author. Yes, that’s an excellent idea. Ripping apart the hopes and dreams of a human will perk my mood right up. Of course, my friend will still get them a publishing deal—a soul bargain is a soul bargain—but they’ll forever know that their book is trash and the only reason it got published was because they traded their soul to a demon.

Humming happily to myself, I settle at the lovely antique desk I haggled hard for and take out my monogrammed stationery and gold pen. There’s something so elegant about a simple monogram, and nothing quite as nice as a handwritten letter with perfect copperplate penmanship. Of course, I could send an email, or even just have the words form on the page as I think them, but writing them myself, imagining the despair and humiliation the human will feel as he reads them… It gives me such a sense of satisfaction.

Once I get started, I find I havequitea lot to say about the book, which is surprising, given how utterly dull it was. One page of neat handwriting becomes two, and I don’t sign off until halfway down the third page. Putting down my pen, I read through the letter with a small smile. It’s perfect. Cutting and brutally honest—with emphasis on the “brutal.” I fold the pages and slide them into an envelope, address it, and then with a single thought send it to my friend.

As it disappears into thin air, someone knocks on my front door, and my good mood vanishes. Dammit. I should have known Ian wouldn’t be deterred so easily.

Even as I consider ignoring him, the polite knock turns to repetitive thumping. He won’t stop until I open the door. If I had a doorbell, he’d be leaning on it—I know because I used to have a doorbell, and he used to lean on it to make me let him in. Eventually, I ripped that damn thing out of the wall.

“Marc!” he shouts, still thumping. “I know you’re there. I can sense the evil miasma of your presence.”

Despite my annoyance, I grin. He does have a way with words. Is it any wonder he’s one of the few humans I tolerate?

With only partial reluctance, I stroll out of the parlor and go to open the door. I make sure to do it very quickly between beats, so he nearly loses his balance. Watching him scramble to stay upright almost makes up for this inconvenience.

---