“Seriously?” The black insect hovered in front of my nose, its demon face perplexed. “What are you trying to pull?”
I’m going into my bedroom and taking all my delicious guilt with me. You can follow me or go back to the demon plane. I bent and kissed Mab’s cheek, then turned out the lights and left the living room.
I shut the bedroom door behind me. A minute later came a taptaptap, like a moth bumping into a window screen. I opened the door. No Butterfly. Or so I thought until the demon ran past my foot. Then it shot into the air, zipped across the room, and alighted on my dresser.
“Since when do you knock?” I asked, closing the door. I kept my voice low so as not to disturb Mab. But I found it easier to shield my thoughts from the demon when I spoke to it out loud.
“I thought maybe you were setting up some kind of trap. So I made my entrance in a way you wouldn’t expect it. Clever, huh?”
Whatever. “Listen, Butterfly, I need to talk to you. So if we could call a truce”—I couldn’t believe I was saying that—“for just a few minutes.”
“Talk? Great, let’s talk. I got a whole list of conversation starters. How ’bout we discuss how you let Pryce and the Destroyer snatch poor Bonita out from under your nose? Or how you put your loved ones in danger because you couldn’t bring yourself to tell them about the whole Night Hag thing? Or how you were all set to do battle with your beloved aunt until I stopped you? Or, speaking of battle, what about those visions you keep having of murdering innocent people? Yeah, I think we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Do you know what the word truce means?”
“Hunger shrinks my vocabulary.”
“Not as much as a bronze blade would.” As best I could, I shielded the fact that I was bluffing. Although I hated to admit it, I needed this annoying demon right now.
A pause. “You’ve still got that dagger in your nightstand, haven’t you?”
“You know I never sleep without a weapon in reach.”
Butterfly launched itself from the dresser. It landed on my shoulder and belched. “So talk.”
I fanned the putrid air away. “I need a favor.”
The demon rocketed upward and ricocheted around the room, bouncing off the ceiling and hitting the walls like a butterfly-shaped pinball. I ducked as it whizzed past my cheek. Eventually, it landed on my headboard, its sawtooth wings trembling.
“Pardon me. I don’t think I heard you right. I could’ve sworn you asked me for another favor. That’s two in two days. Doesn’t that mean you owe me your firstborn or something?” The demon frowned. “Except you wanna stay a shapeshifter, so that means you won’t have a firstborn. So I guess you owe me . . . let’s see . . .”
“Quit clowning around. This is important.”
“Let me get this straight. You insult me. You threaten me. You torment me. You starve me to the very brink of death.” Butterfly flopped onto its back on my pillow and feebly waved its legs in the air. “And I’m pretty sure that you haven’t yet gotten over that whole trying-to-kill-the-Eidolon obsession.”
I should have killed you when I first conjured you. I tried to stuff that thought behind my mental shield before Butterfly picked up on it. Not exactly persuasive. Still, I should have killed the thing then. I’d been ready to. The only reason I hadn’t was the demon had surprised me in a moment of weakness by unexpectedly using the magic word.
Hmm. The memory gave me an idea.
“P . . . puh . . .” The word refused to leave my mouth.
Butterfly rolled over and stood on all six legs again. “Did you say something?”
I licked my lips and tried again. “Please.”
The demon staggered back like I’d dealt it a blow. I took advantage of its stunned silence and rushed on.
“You said you want to stop Pryce. Here’s your big chance. We know he’s allied with the Old Ones and they’re providing him with a base somewhere in the city. I need you to find out where that base is and what he’s giving the Old Ones in return for their cooperation.”
“Oh, is that all? How ’bout I bring you his head on a platter while I’m at it?”
“That would be nice. But the location and the deal would be enough.”
“And how do you propose I get this information? Just saunter up to him and ask?”
“You’ve brought me information from the demon plane before.”
“Yeah, but that’s just passing on rumors. Demons gossip a lot, sure. But if someone as nasty as your Pryce-Destroyer combo wants to keep a secret, ain’t nobody gonna ask about it.” The demon shook its head. “Besides, you say the base is in Boston. That’s your turf. If I snuck into the Ordinary trying to do some fly-on-the-wall routine and Pryce noticed me, he’d squash me flat.”
“But you’re our best chance to find this place. If you could follow him out of the demon plane, you know, unobtrusively—”
“Unobtrusively my demon ass. If I materialize anywhere around the guy in this plane, his Hellion buddy will know in a second. And if they catch me spying, I’m one dead Eidolon.” Butterfly’s wings quivered in indignation. “Not that you’d mind. But information flows two ways, you know. If they even suspected I was spying for you, they’d torture me until I spilled everything I know about the contents of your messed-up head.”
“I’m willing to risk that.”
“Oh, you’re willing to risk my life. Now, there’s courage.”
“Okay, forget it. I’ll figure out another way to find them.” I should have known better than to ask a demon for help. Especially not my very own Eidolon. “Get out of here now. I’ve got things to do.”
“But—” the demon began.
The mark on my arm itched.
Butterfly snapped its mouth shut. “All right, all right. Don’t get angry. I hate it when you’re angry. It’s like a big salt shaker full of yuck ruining your otherwise yummy emotions.” The demon sighed. “Anger’s only edible when it cools off and turns into regret. Fresh anger—too hot. Anyway, I can see I’m not going to get a meal here tonight, so I’ll be off.” Its wings fluttered, and its body faded. “If I happen to hear anything about you-know-who—in passing—I may be in touch. But don’t count on it.”
“Believe me, I won’t.”
Butterfly winked out. Stupid Eidolon. At the airport, when it said, “Stick with me, kid,” I’d almost believed the thing was on my side. Silly me. It was a demon, and I was a demon fighter. Tonight, it had reminded me what I could expect from it: a big fat load of nothing.
18
HALF AN HOUR LATER, I WAS TAPING A HASTILY SCRIBBLED note on the front door to alert Juliet that Mab was asleep on the sofa. Another note, including the number for my newly acquired cell phone, awaited my aunt on the coffee table in case she woke up. I locked up and headed for Kane’s rally.
My street was deserted. I hoped that meant everyone was at the rally. I checked my watch; it had started ten minutes ago. Hurrying through the cool night air, I set off toward the Old South Meeting House. The former church now served as Deadtown’s town hall. The Council of Three held public meetings here, and its steps had been the starting point for several protest marches. Nice symbolism—this same building had launched the Boston Tea Party in 1773.
Smells of smoke and wet ashes hung in the air as my boots clicked along the sidewalk. I passed an abandoned food cart, then another. The third, badly dented, lay on its side, its contents disgorged and trampled beyond recognition. Apparently Deadtown’s zombies hadn’t recovered their collective appetite.
Several yards ahead, a silhouette detached itself from a dark wall and planted itself in the center of the sidewalk. I stopped. Two more figures stepped from a doorway. My hand slipped inside my jacket, fingers closing around my pistol grip. I’d almost left the gun home—it didn’t seem like the best accessory for a unity rally—but I was glad to have it now. My demon mark twitched and warmed.
Around the corner came a Goon squad patrol. Four big zombies, dressed in body armor and carrying evil-looking automatic rifles. The group on the sidewalk turned and strolled past the Goons, like that had been their intention all along. I left my pistol in its holster and zipped my jacket. I nodded to the Goons as I continued on my way, hoping Kane was building some unity at his rally. On Deadtown’s streets, all I’d seen so far tonight was trouble.
THE RALLY HAD DRAWN A GOOD CROWD. AS I JOINED THE fringes, a zombie stepped aside and smiled, waving me closer. The mood here was upbeat, not like on the dark, deserted street. A woman’s amplified voice carried through the night, and I craned toward the platform that had been erected over the steps of the Old South Meeting House. Several chairs had been set up at the side of the stage, and I picked out Kane sitting there. At the microphone stood the current speaker, dressed in a pearl gray suit and black pumps. “It took nearly three years for us to get a school . . .” she was saying, and I realized with a jolt I was looking at Tina.
No Barbie pink. No giant hoop earrings. No sparkly rhinestones. She looked like the zombie version of a young businesswoman making a presentation to the Chamber of Commerce.
I closed my dropped jaw and tuned back in. Tina was contrasting her experience as a high school student before and after the plague—first as a norm girl in Revere, then as a zombie in Deadtown.
“My old school was all about cliques. You belonged to one group, and you didn’t make friends outside of it. There were the popular kids—that was my clique, as I’m sure most of you would guess.” She beamed at the audience. “There were the jocks, the gamers, the drama club kids, the stoners, the overachievers . . . You know what I’m talking about. You probably had similar cliques when you were in school. And everything was all about which group you belonged to. To some of us, that was more important than classes.”
She raised her hand and pointed at herself, nodding, causing a ripple of laughter among listeners.