Slayer(67)

“Hello?” I wave in front of Cillian’s face. “You do know he’s eating your happiness, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like anything.”

The demon shifts position again with a clanking of chains. “I can’t take away his happiness. It’s like if you spray perfume and I smell it. Just because I’m inhaling the scent doesn’t mean it leaves you.”

“Yeah, but smelling someone’s perfume is a little different from consuming their emotions.”

“Says you, a person who has never consumed emotions.” The demon shifts again. “Listen, it’s been, what, three, four days? Can I at least get a chair? Or a pillow?”

Cillian nods amiably. “Sure, mate! I mean, demon. I mean—do you have a name?”

“Doug.”

Horns. Black teeth. Virulent yellow skin cracked like desert ground.

“Yeah, you look like a Doug,” Cillian says, then turns and leaves.

I sigh, leaning against a table. “Details, then. It kills in the victim’s sleep. Bradford didn’t seem to be upset or in any pain until he just sort of . . . died. I didn’t really see the demon. There was more of a sense of it. Darkness. Shadows.”

“Interesting.” Doug breathes in through his teeth, making a strange whistling noise. “You’re sure it’s demonic? Not a vision?”

“Both.”

“Hmm.” He plays with one of his delicate gold hoop earrings. “Why would the demon kill this man, specifically? He the only one there?”

“No, there are a bunch of us.”

“If I were a demon who ate people, I wouldn’t pick an old man. I’d pick a tender young thing.”

“Gross! You’re awful!”

“You’re the one asking me to figure this out! Stop being so speciesist. I’ve never killed anyone in my life. I don’t even eat meat. I exist to make people happy. That’s it. That’s all I want. To be free and make people happy and also get backstage passes to a Coldplay concert. Think of how much I’d have to eat around Chris Martin. Doesn’t he seem like the happiest bloke?”

“Can we focus, please?”

“Fine. Think of why your man would be a target. Why a demon would show up now.”

“I mean, you did.” I pause, pieces moving slowly into place. “Actually, we’ve never had a demon problem until you showed up. Is it possible this is connected? To the hellhounds?”

“I’ve never heard of Sean employing something like what you described. It’s not really his style.”

“Something else hunting you, then? Or some other group?”

Doug’s eyes dart guiltily to the center of the floor. I follow them, but it’s just junk. A jumbled pile left from Cillian’s dad’s box.

“Look at me,” I say.

Doug drags his gaze back up to meet mine.

“What aren’t you telling me? Somehow you’re connected to this.”

“I’m not! I’ve been locked up here!”

I shake my head. “I talked to someone who’s looking for you. She told me you killed a bunch of people, and now a man in my castle is dead.”

Doug freezes. “She? She who?”

“I’m not telling you until you tell me the truth!”

“Anyone looking for me is someone you need to avoid. You have to trust me.”

“You’re a demon.”

“Then for Cillian’s sake. I don’t want to see him hurt. I’m sorry I hid in his yard and drew all this trouble to him. Get rid of me. Throw me over a cliff into the ocean. But whatever you do, do it soon. Because if she found you, she’ll find me, and then we’re both in trouble.”

“I can handle trouble.” It makes me wonder how Honora is involved in this. Am I going to trust a demon over her? I mean, probably. But should I? I pace, running my hands through my hair. His concern for Cillian seems genuine. And I honestly can’t imagine Doug killing anything or anyone. “Why did you come to Shancoom, then?”

“I was looking for help, okay? I got a name. Someone who has connections. Who makes deals with demons.”

“What was the name?”

Doug lets out a puff of air. He’s scared. If it’s an act, it’s a good one. “Smythe.”

It hits like a bolt of lightning. Smythe. Bradford Smythe, my great-uncle. Who is dead now. Whoever is hunting Doug must have known that Bradford Smythe was Doug’s contact. So the death is connected to Doug. He’s just not the one responsible for it. “Where did you hear about the Smythes?”

“None of your bloody business.”

“It is, because I am one!”

Doug snorts. “You are not.”

“I am so!”

“I’ve heard about the Smythes. You wouldn’t even survive infancy in that family. They’re born weapons. You’re . . .”

“Something fluffy!” Cillian declares, popping in and holding up a dog bed.

Doug nods. “I mean, he said it. Not me. But you’re fluffy.”

Cillian throws the dog bed at the demon’s face. “Quit acting the maggot. She’s stronger than you’ll ever be.”

“Sure.” Doug’s voice is muffled by the bed. He pulls it off and sets it on the floor, resettling. “Listen. If Honora is here—”