For a Few Demons More(147)

The stink was awful in the kitchen, and I wedged the window higher. See, this was why I liked coffee. You couldn’t screw up making coffee. Even the bad stuff was good.

Using a hot pad, I moved the black kettle to the sink, the pops of superheated water startling me when the kettle hit the damp porcelain. “You want some coffee?” I said, at a loss for what to do. I knew she’d rather have tea, but not made in something so dirty on the outside.

“I like him,” she said wistfully, and I spun, shocked at the shy tone.

“Quen?” I stammered, remembering him kissing her hand.

She was standing in the threshold to the kitchen, a dreamy look on her face where a powerful anger had just been. “No,” she said, as if mystified at my confusion. “Trent. He’s so deliciously innocent. And with all that power.”

I stared at her as she took the lid off the gift box he had left and plucked an opal the size of a chicken’s egg from it. Holding it up to the light, she sighed, “Trenton Aloysius Kalamack…”





TWENTY-EIGHT


The sun had shifted across to the far wall of the kitchen, and I sat at the table wearing one of Jenks’s human-size shirts over a black chemise. I had it on for the comfort factor; I wasn’t looking forward to going to the morgue again. To my left was that jar of jalapeño salsa and a tomato for Glenn. To my right a cup of long-cold coffee sat beside my cell and the land line. Neither one was ringing. It was a quarter after noon, and Glenn was late. I hated waiting.

Leaning closer to the table, I eased another coat of clear polish over my index fingernail. The odor of acetate mixed with the scent of the herbs hanging over the center island counter, and the sound of Jenks’s kids was a balm as they played hide-and-seek in the garden. Three more pixies were braiding my hair, Jenks playing supervisor to prevent a repeat of “the snarl incident.”

“No, not that way, Jeremy,” Jenks said, and I stiffened. “You go under Jocelynn, then over Janice before you do the double back. There, that’s it. Got the pattern?”

A weary chorus of “Yes, Dad,” brought a smile to my face, and I tried not to move as I painted my thumbnail. I could hardly feel the tugs on my hair as they worked. Finished, I capped the bottle and held my hand up for inspection. A deep, almost maroon red.

I brought my hand closer, noticing that the faint scar on my knuckle was gone, undoubtedly erased along with my freckles after I’d used that demon curse to Were this spring. I’d gotten the scar from falling through the screen door when I had been ten. Robbie had pushed me, and after he dried my tears and put a bandage on it, I sucker-punched him in the gut. Which sort of left me wondering if Ceri would be landing one on me when I least expected it.

Robbie and I had come up with this wild story that the neighbor’s dog had tried to jump through it. Looking back now, I was sure Mom and Dad knew that the black Lab had nothing to do with the broken screen, but they hadn’t said anything, probably proud that we’d settled our differences, then hung together to escape punishment. I rubbed my thumb against the smooth skin of my finger, sad the scar was gone.

The draft from Jenks’s wings brushed my hand. “What are you smiling about?”

My gaze fell upon my phone, and I wondered if Robbie would return my call if I left a message. I wasn’t working for the I.S. anymore. “I was thinking about my brother.”

“That is so weird,” Jenks said. “One brother. I had twenty-four when I left.”

Focus blurring, I tightened the cap on the polish, thinking that when he had left home, it had been as if they had died. He knew it was a one-way trip to Cincy. He was stronger than I.

“Ow!” I yelped when someone pulled too hard. My hand came up to my head, and I turned, sending them whirling up in silk and dust. The polish was still tacky, and I froze.

“Okay, get out!” Jenks said authoritatively. “All of you. You’re just playing now. Go on. Jeremy, check on your mother. I can finish Ms. Morgan’s hair. Go on!”

The three of them rose up in complaint, and he pointed. Still protesting, they flew backward to the screen, all talking at once, apologizing and pleading, wringing their hands and twisting their pretty little faces into sad expressions that tugged on my heart.

“Out!” Jenks demanded, and one by one they slipped into the garden. Someone giggled, and they were gone. “Sorry, Rache,” he said, flitting behind me. “Hold still.”

“Jenks, it’s fine. I’ll just take it out.”

“Get your hands out of your hair,” he muttered. “Your polish isn’t dry, and you aren’t going out with a half-assed braid. You don’t think I know how to braid hair? Tink’s little red shoes, I’m old enough to be your father.”