Steadfast(22)

“What are you talking about? I only took piano for two years. I forgot years ago how to do anything besides find middle C. After third grade I never wanted to take lessons anymore.” Verlaine shrugged. “I don’t know why. Hey, were you going to make me forget something?”

“We’re good,” Nadia said with a grin.

In Verlaine’s opinion, the Wikipedia entry on demons needed some serious editing.

It included every single mythology and folklore about demons, whether they were ancient Hebrew “hairy beings,” Greek divine spirits, pre-Islamic lesser gods, or one of those creepy things that climbed inside little kids and made their parents call an exorcist. See also: devil, fiend, ghoul.

She sighed. It wasn’t as though she expected a tab titled Real Demons, which she could click down to for the straight story, but still—there was so little information, and so much of it contradicted itself.

Of course she had checked sources beyond Wikipedia. However, it turned out that searching the internet for “real demons” was basically a shortcut to all the crazy of the world, right there on your computer screen. Verlaine now knew more than she’d ever wanted to know about various death-metal bands, wannabe Satanists, actual Satanists (who sounded much nicer than the wannabes), a fashion label, and several extremely delusional individuals. But she was no closer to knowing any more about the truth of what Asa was, or what he might be capable of.

The only authoritative sources Verlaine had on the supernatural were Nadia, whose word she trusted, and Elizabeth, whose word she didn’t trust at all but whose actions spoke for themselves. Elizabeth had summoned a demon to help her do evil; Nadia said demons were the servants of the One Beneath.

But still, if they didn’t ask to be His servants—if it was something they were created for, or got trapped into—

—if Asa was as much a victim of Elizabeth’s black magic as Verlaine was herself—

She pushed her laptop away, disgruntling her cat, Smuckers, who had been napping on the bed beside her. “Sorry, buddy.”

Why was it so hard to believe that somebody could be destined for evil? Jeremy Prasad had gotten most of the way there on his own, no possession required.

Yet it haunted her. Verlaine couldn’t shake the idea of being forced to serve something so hideous, so hateful that it would burn and crush and kill. Maybe Asa didn’t mind; maybe he enjoyed it. That might be how demons were, at least once they got . . . demonized.

As she sat cross-legged on her quilt, staring down at her glowing laptop screen, Verlaine wondered why this got to her so badly. There was no question that Asa was working for Elizabeth, even that he seemed to enjoy taunting them about it. Why should she care? Her old crush on Jeremy Prasad wasn’t that strong; she’d really only ever liked his body. Guiltily she realized she hadn’t even mourned his death. Well, he wouldn’t have mourned hers.

“Like the word enslaved on its own shouldn’t be enough,” she muttered. Slavery was evil, no matter who was in the shackles.

Then she heard a rustling in the hedge next to the house she shared with her dads. Though the sound made her ears prick up, Verlaine thought little of it; probably one of the neighborhood dogs got out again.

Then she heard it again—and louder. And that wasn’t a dog. That sounded like footsteps.

“Uncle Gary?” she called. “Uncle Dave?” Verlaine hurried from her room—but Uncle Dave had his headphones on, because apparently his World of Warcraft guild had a major raid tonight, and Uncle Gary was on the phone with his sister in Nebraska. She considered making one of them hang up, or both, but that was stupid. She’d heard footsteps, no more than that. It was legal for people to walk around in their neighborhood. Even this late at night. This close to the house.

Verlaine snapped on the outside lights. Once again, some rustling—all right, that’s enough.

She grabbed a flashlight from the hall cabinet—the big, heavy one that would hurt like hell if she swung into the side of someone’s head. Then she fished around in her purse and found her rape-whistle key chain, the one Uncle Dave made her promise to carry at all times, and stuck the whistle between her lips. Verlaine hesitated for one moment with her free hand on the doorknob, wondering if this was a good idea or not. Very not. As in, actually intensely dumb.

Either it’s nothing out there, and you need to see it’s nothing before you can go to sleep, she rationalized, or it’s some dark-magic mojo that can get you even through your walls. So you might as well go outside.

The outdoor lights shone in tight beams, which meant some places were extremely bright and others were still dark. Verlaine edged down the front walk, then toward the side of the house where she’d heard the rustling—right by her room. She swept her flashlight in front of her, but saw only the feeble brown grass. Her heart was pounding, even though it was nothing; it had to be nothing—

A hand closed over her shoulder and she gasped, the whistle falling from her lips, but then she sagged back. “Uncle Gary!”

“Honey, what are you doing? Did you hear something?”

“No. I mean, yes, but it’s probably nothing.”

“Well, let’s see.” He took the flashlight from her and stepped in front. Verlaine couldn’t help feeling amused at the thought of Uncle Gary putting himself between her and the forces of evil—if he only knew!