Page 21 of Demon Kissed
“Fuck!” I bellow, the muscles in my shoulders so tense, they physically spasm, the full reality of my situation wreaking havoc on my insides. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I pound my fists against the steering wheel as darkness encroaches the edges of my vision.
Why do these things happen to me? I’m a good girl, at least, I believe myself to be one. I don’t lie or steal or cheat or intentionally hurt people. I’m compassionate, and I go out of my way to help others.
So, why me?
Why me?
That question reverberates through my head as I back out of the parking space and drive in the opposite direction of town.
I found this spot with Adam when I first got my license a few years ago. We had been driving aimlessly when we stumbled upon a dirt road surrounded by trees—tall, spindly maples interspersed with oaks.
The road came to a stop in front of a silver gate, and from there, we walked on foot to a gorgeous swath of land overlooking a tranquil pond. A single log sat at the edge of the water, inconsistent weather corroding away the rough bark until it was smooth to the touch.
I go to our special spot, choosing to leave my backpack in the car. I shove my phone into my skirt pocket—the only saving grace of the atrocious uniforms—and lock the car. Quickly, I stride through the narrow path overrun by weeds.
It’s not overly chilly today; the light jacket I’m wearing is easily able to quell the cold. The trees are beginning to look skeletal, numerous piles of decaying brown leaves outlining the path.
When I arrive at the clearing, the water is glistening in the ambient sunlight like thousands of diamonds have been spread across the surface. It’s beautiful and tranquil, the exact opposite of my life.
With a huff, I drop myself onto the lone log, my feet hovering inches from the water.
How is this happening?
That one question plays on repeat in my head, but I don’t have an answer. It’s surreal to think that not only are demons real, but a group of them are stalking me. A legion? A guild? A flock? Fuck, I need to update myself on demon mythology. Is that something you can just google?
And then, the most important question, what am I going to do?
I’ve watched enoughSupernaturalepisodes to know that demons can be exorcised. Do I contact a priest? Shoot them with salt bullets?
I huff out a dry, humorless laugh as I rub my hands on my skirt.
I’m being stalked by demons. Who would’ve thought?
“A penny for your thoughts?” Heart hammering a dangerous tune in my chest, I whirl on the intruder. Before I can respond—or, I dunno, scream—someone tosses a handful of pennies at my face.
“What the hell?” I jump to my feet, then frantically dislodge one of the copper pennies that has fallen down my bra.
Akor stands before me, his pink mohawk glinting in the late fall sun. He’s shirtless, his broad chest covered in tattoos, and wearing a pair of low-slung sweatpants.
“I never liked that phrase,” he muses as he stalks forward, every inch the languid house cat. “Why are we saying ‘what’ in correlation to ‘hell?’ Don’t we know what hell is? And why is it ‘thehell’ instead of just ‘hell?’ Shouldn’t it be ‘what hell?’ As in, ‘what fresh hell is this?’”
“What are you doing here?” I sputter, alarm coursing through me. “Were you following me?”
“Following. Stalking.” He lifts his hand as if he’s attempting to balance something in his palms. “Is there really a difference?” His mouth curls into a wide grin, and I have momentary flashes of Joker, Batman’s archnemesis. Is hethatcrazy?
I’m silent. I don’t know how to respond. Part of me is terrified, but another part of me lights up at the fact that he’s spent his morning secretly tracking me. Does that make me crazy too?
Akor dances forward on agile feet until he’s mere inches from my face. His warm breath—smelling distinctly like spearmint—assaults my senses.
“Do you want to play a game?” he asks, dangling a pair of dice in front of my face.
“How did you know I was here?” I demand, not allowing this topic to drop. I would’ve noticed if someone had followed me, wouldn’t I? The street was empty when I arrived, not a soul—or demon—in sight.
Akor shrugs his lithe shoulders, a mischievous smirk pulling up his lips. “Tracker,” he deadpans.
Tracker?!?!
What the fuck?
