The Hearts We Sold(20)

The apartment door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light piercing the gap between wood and frame. Dee swallowed, pushed on the door, and it swung silently open.

Inside was a large space of unfinished brick and concrete. It looked as though some designer had gotten fed up and abandoned the project halfway through. One entire wall was nothing but windows, crisscrossed with metal. The whole area was wide open, with curtains cordoning off what must have been a bedroom. Closest to the door were two couches and a ratty recliner. There was a kitchen—if she could really call it that—with a fridge, a microwave, a portable camp stove, and a cluster of tables that were clearly being used as counter space by whoever lived here.

“Hello?” she called.

A groan came from the clump of furniture. Dee jumped, ready to flee, but the noise hadn’t sounded aggressive.

“Cora?” It was definitely a male voice, rusty and surprisingly familiar. “If we’re being sent on another mission, you’d better have brought bagels.” A hand appeared, grasping at the back of the couch, and a face followed the hand.

It wasn’t the demon. It was Mr. Not-Homeless. James, she thought, taking a moment to place the name. His hair was rumpled and stuck up on one side, and his expression was fuzzy with exhaustion.

“You’re not Cora,” he observed.

“And you’re definitely not homeless,” she said.

He pushed himself off the couch. He was dressed in an old flannel shirt and sweats. His feet were bare, and something about that made her feel safer. If she did run, he’d have to put on shoes before giving chase.

He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Dee, right?”

She nodded.

James let out a breath. “All right. All right.” He repeated the words quietly, as if they weren’t meant for her. “I’ll call the welcoming committee. You”—he waved at the couch—“make yourself at home.”

She hesitated, unsure about venturing farther into the apartment, but then James was walking away, his gait unsteady. He blindly reached out and hit a button on the coffee machine before tottering into the curtained-off portion of the apartment.

The couch was Ikea-standard, a model made for comfort and sturdiness. There was a gray stain across its red fabric. And sitting at the coffee table was a knitted red heart. She picked it up. It was dirtier than hers, worn, and a few strings were knotted together as if they’d come undone and been clumsily fixed. Papers were everywhere, smudged with charcoal and pencil. Dee set the knitted heart down, picked up one of the papers instead.

It was a drawing that belonged in some art history book. A Renaissance painting before it became a painting.

It was… beautiful.

The sound of running water came from what must be the bathroom, and then James strode back into the living area. He’d put on jeans and his hair was wet, as if he’d run dampened fingers through it. He poured two cups of coffee into paper cups, stirred in liberal amounts of cream and sugar. With a careless little gesture, he pushed the crumpled sketches aside and placed one cup before Dee.

A knock came at the door.

“It’s open,” called James, taking a swig of his coffee.

A girl around Dee’s age strode into the apartment, carrying a paper bag in one hand and a folder in the other.

She was pretty, with dark skin and smooth hair that sent a pang of yearning through Dee. She’d tried straightening her hair a few times, but her stubborn curls refused to flatten. Self-consciously, Dee ran a hand through her bushy hair and glanced down at her own jeans and flip-flops. This new girl wore a blouse and lace skirt, and she seemed to carry herself with a poise that Dee could never manage. But the moment she saw Dee, the girl hurried over and without so much as a greeting, she pulled her into a hug.

Dee went rigid.

“Hey,” the girl said, voice close to Dee’s ear. She spoke with a gentleness usually reserved for small children or wounded animals. “It’ll be all right. Whatever James told you—ignore it.”

Dee waited a beat, then pulled back. The girl let her.

“I haven’t told her anything, Cora,” said James. “So you can stop with the Team Mom routine.”

The girl didn’t exactly glare at James, but it was close. “She looks terrified. What have you told her?”

“Not a thing,” said James. “She’s seen most of it for herself already.” He sat with his legs in a tangled sprawl. He took up half the couch and he looked comfortable doing so.

“Why did you give me your address?” asked Dee quietly.

“You have questions. The others can answer some of them,” said James. “And as I’m the only person with a usable apartment…” He let the thought trail off.

Cora rose and strode to the kitchen. She upended her paper bag onto the counter. Half a dozen bagels spilled out. “Barely usable. Please tell me you have a knife somewhere?”

“And here I thought introductions were going to be awkward,” drawled James. “Dee, this is Cora—our fearless and self-appointed leader. And knives are in the second drawer over.”

Dee glanced between Cora and James; she wondered if all demons kept teenagers at hand to do their dirty work. “How many of us work for the Agathodaemon?”

“Four of us, counting you,” said Cora. She vanished behind the counter and reappeared a moment later. “You’ve met Lancer. There’s also Cal and me.” She scowled at something on the counter. “Okay, when I said, ‘knife,’ I meant something other than the plastic kind.”