Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(66)

"How did you know he was here?" I repeated.

Sawyer tapped his temple.

"Voices?"

He shook his head.

"Then what?"

"As the boy said, it's a buzz. Bees, flies. You feel the power along your skin."

"You feel DKs?"

"And seers."

"But he felt Nephilim." I frowned. "How can that be?"

"All DKs have the ability to a certain extent. They know evil; they can sense it, feel it, some smell it. But they don't know what it is without their seer. That sixth sense means less mistakes."

"They see evil people," I murmured.

Sawyer's face creased. "What?"

Why I bothered to make pop culture references around him, I had no idea.

I supposed things could get confusing. Demons in a crowd, which one is "the one." You think you know, but then again maybe you don't. But if you can feel, sense, smell it. then you can kill it without a qualm. Worked for me.

"In theory"—I bent to pick up my knife and return it to the sheath at my waist—"a DK could just stick a Nephilim with silver, see if they burn."

"And if they don't, the DK is dead. Better to wait for the information from your seer and kill them right the first time. The federation was set up the way it was be-cause their method works and has for a very long time."

"If it worked, they'd all be dead."

"They will be." he said.

"You really think so?"

"No."

Why did I try to talk to Sawyer at all?

Luther reemerged with a backpack as battered as his shoes. I remembered very clearly showing up at Ruthie's with everything I owned in a similarly sized package.

I didn't even consider what legal issues might exist in transporting a ward of the state—and probably not even this state, but who knew? Someone might be searching for Luther, and then again no one might be. Sadly, when troublesome kids went missing, they were often written off as lost.

In my mind, Luther was already part of the federation, which made him my responsibility. I'd deal with the legalities if we managed to save the world from the prophesied invasion of the demon horde. If we didn't, I doubted there'd be anyone left to care about Luther, which probably wasn't too far removed from the present situation.

"Is there someone who might miss you?" I asked, just to be on the safe side.

Luther rolled his eyes.

"How is it," Sawyer asked as he led the way back to the Impala, "that you came to be here, in this town, this road, this house?"

"I just drifted, you know?"

Jimmy and I had both drifted when we were much younger than Luther. There was something in this kid's eyes that reminded me a lot of Sanducci the first time I'd seen him. The big mouth that masked the fear, the need peeking out from behind the bravado.

"When I got here, this seemed like a good place to wait."

"For what?" Sawyer asked.

Luther shrugged, his shoulder bones shifting beneath his threadbare shirt, reminding me of the shoulder bones of a lion, sliding beneath loose skin as he moved across the savannah.

More and more I was getting the sensation that everything happened for a reason, in its own time, or whatever other cliche applied. Life was fate, if you weren't of the opinion that God had a plan.

Right now I knew with rock-solid certainty that Luther had been waiting for us.

Ahead, the powder-blue Impala shimmered between the low-hanging, leaf-heavy limbs of the trees. A few scratches marred the once perfect paint. Summer and I were going to have words, but then that had been a given from the beginning.

We got back on the road to Brownport, and after pulling on some clothes, Sawyer explained things to Luther. I don't think I'd ever heard him string together that many words at one time. He laid it all down—past, present, and future prophecy. What the kid was, what he would become. He took it pretty well.

"Sweet," Luther said, and then he went to sleep.

I stopped at the first Starbucks I found, grabbed my laptop and went inside. Luther didn't stir. We opened the windows and let him sleep.

I ordered two iced lattes, handed them both to Saw-yer, and set up shop where we could keep an eye on the kid. Then I accessed the federation Web site with the code Summer had given me and typed Marbas into the search column.

"Descendant of the demon Barbas." I glanced at Saw-yer, who handed me my latte.

"Makes sense."

He took a sip of his, looked as if he might spit the iced coffee on the ground, then swallowed thickly and set his cup down with a disgusted click and a very dirty glance in my direction. I guess he'd never had one before. And wouldn't be having one again.

A breed is the son or daughter of a demon," he fin-ished.

"Half demon," I said.

"The Nephilim might be part human but they don't act like it," Sawyer said, echoing Luther's earlier comment. "When the legends refer to a demon, they're talking about the Nephilim."

"So what kind of demon is a Barbas?"

Sawyer shrugged and motioned at the computer. I typed some more.

”A great lion that, at a conjurer's request, changes into a human. From the Latin barba, a type of plant used to invoke demons." I sat back. "So a Barbas is a lion that turns into a person, but a Marbas—"