Page 5 of Demon Stalked
I, unlike Zolroth, can’t afford to splurge on hotels. I have a checking account with about seven grand from working summers and saving up for a car, but I know that money won’t last long, and I’m going to have to figure something out soon.
My cell phone buzzes on the pool chair, and I sigh as I turn it over to look at it. The guys have been texting. Calling. And though it takes more self-restraint than edging and orgasm denial, I haven’t responded or answered yet. They need to leave. For their own safety.
But this text isn’t from one of them. It’s from William, who’s suddenly transformed from the crush of a lifetime into an annoyance. He’s contacted me almost every day since the tournament.
Sorry you said you felt sick after school today. I wish we could hang. I can bring you chicken soup if you want. Or something else hot and homemade.
At first, I smile because I feel like he’s being thoughtful, but the incoming message bubble appears below his text.
That was a dick joke, in case it wasn’t clear. Just trying to make you laugh.
Laugh? No. Now, I’m just annoyed at you, idiot,I think to myself. I wish he’d stop texting. But part of me doesn’t want to let go of his attention, because when my demons finally do leave, he might well be the only thing I have left.
I want to laugh at the irony that the very reason the demons came to me—to help me win over William Washington’s heart—is now such an utter and complete burden.
Adam appears, dripping wet at my feet, his goggles askew. “I’m done. I’m hungry. Can we have marshmallows?” His comments are all rapid-fire.
“Huh? Um, sure. I mean no. We have to have dinner first.” I carefully towel him off as he complains about the hotel restaurant—complaints I secretly agree with, but it’s better than fast food.
“Come on, let’s go get changed, and maybe after all your veggies, you can have some marshmallows,” I tell him.
“You’re the devil! I hate you! Vegetables are evil! I hope you get haunted by a vegetable ghost!” Adam whines as we climb into the elevator.
I give an apologetic smile to an older couple inside, but they only chuckle.
When the elevator dings and we step out onto our floor, I’m immediately accosted by the most delicious smell. It’s like we’ve stepped into a perfume factory. I furrow my brow as I lead Adam by the hand towards our room. Did someone spill a perfume bottle? Did it get crushed in their luggage?
I stop short. Adam yanks out of my grip and runs forward, because in front of our door is a delivery person. And our little room is filled, every surface covered, with hundreds of roses.
3
AKOR
Don’t gift Katrina bombs,they say.
Don’t put human-eating animals into her hotel room,they say.
Don’t shoot off fireworks in her bathroom while she’s resting in the tub,they say.
Honestly, I’m so fucking sick of the rules and regulations the mortal world has. Where’s the fun in that? We always go on and on in Hell about the angels and their ridiculous rules, but then they try to hamstring me with a million rules? It’s bullshit.
But despite my misgivings, I heeded Zolroth’s advice, and instead of the local zoo, I find myself in a small pet shop.
“Excuse me.” I wag my finger in the air to garner the attention of the bored, college-aged worker. The lanky man gives me an unimpressed look as he saunters towards me, his shaggy brown hair framing his lean face.
“Yes?” he asks, his voice just as dry as his looks.
“Do you have any animals thatwon’trip the face off a human? Apparently, that’s a requirement in the art of wooing.” I give him a droll ‘what can you do?’ type of look.
The man doesn’t even blink.
“Come with me,” he says on a prolonged sigh, leading me through the various aisles until we reach a section that displays cats and a few energetic dogs. Without waiting to see if I have any more questions—which I don’t—he hurries away. Probably a smart move, considering the fact I was seriously tempted to test out the ‘won’t rip the face off a human’ bit on him. I mean, it’s not technically murder if I lather his face with cat food, hold him down, and allow a cat to eat his skin off, right? That’s assuming that the cat has a taste for human flesh, of course.
“Now, what do we have here?” I squint my eyes at the various critters pawing at me through their glass cages. There are a dozen or so diminutive holes in each crate that allow the animals air to breathe, and I waste no time sticking my finger in each one. Immediately, my finger is nipped and licked at as I attempt to pet as many as these fuckers as humanly possible.
“Too fat,” I murmur to a bright orange tabby lying lazily in the corner of his prison cell. “Too skinny.” This one is a light gray kitty with darker splotches on his back. At least, I’m assuming it’s a he. Either that, or a very masculine-looking female.
At the next cage, a puppy barrels forward, practically face-planting with the glass. She releases a pathetic cry as she paws desperately at the cage, attempting to be released.
