The Demon's Apprentice by Ben Reeder

stairs. She caught me in a flying tackle as soon as I opened the door, though I think it was supposed to be a hug. If Mom's hugs were fierce, Deirdre’s were more like a vice.
    “Hi, sis,” I groaned. “A little air here? Please?”
    She relaxed her affectionate chokehold on my ribs and stepped back. “Sorry, Mom just told me on the way home that you were here and how happy she was that you were home and I finally got to meet you and …” She talked faster and faster as she went until I could barely tell one word from the next until she had to stop for air.
    “I'm glad to meet you, too,” I said quickly.
    The sound of Mom's footsteps came from the stairwell, and Deirdre looked back over her shoulder, then back at me.
    “I had dreams about you sometimes. Don't tell Mom. They made her sad because you were so sad in them. And don't tell me they were just dreams. I mean they were dreams, but they were real dreams. Promise not to tell!” she said, and raised her crooked pinky. The words had tumbled out almost as fast as her first barrage, but there was an urgency to this that caught me off guard. I didn't know what the bent pinky meant, but it seemed important to her, so I copied the gesture and raised my own little finger. She snagged it with her own and pulled my hand to her. “Pinky swear!” I couldn't tell if it was a question or a demand.
    “Uh, yeah, pinky swear,” I repeated. I felt a small surge, and saw her rock back as her hair fluttered.
    “Whoa!” she said softly. “That almost never happens!”
    I stared at my little finger in shock. I really needed to be more careful about making binding promises, maybe set a limit or something. No more than two a day.
    “You two seem to be getting along,” Mom said from the door. “Get cleaned up, Dee, and I'll make us all some breakfast.” She turned away, and I circled past Dee, tossed my dirty clothes on the bed and headed for the stairs.
    “Moooom!” Dee's voice called from the bathroom, “Chance used all the hot water!”
    “Oh, dear,” Mom called back from the stairs, “and they're not making any more! I guess it's cold showers for everyone from now on. We'll flog your brother daily for his sins. Just get cleaned up the best you can, honey.” She gestured for me to follow her to the kitchen as she went.
    The kitchen felt like what Mom used to describe as The Old Country. Mom had re-painted it, and redone the cabinets, and it just sang of her presence. A rich green paint covered the wall, with leaves and grapes around the doors and windows. The cabinets were stained a dark brown that I figured Mom had worked over for days to get right. One wall held a wire shelving unit that was covered in recipe and herb books, with a potted plant centered on the top-most shelf. The grayish-green, fuzzy leaves and the slightly peppery smell that hit my nose when I crushed a leaf between my fingers told me it was sage. There was a little nook with a table near the back door, and with the sun in the back windows, it was the brightest spot in the room.
    I helped with fixing breakfast, if you can call chopping up a few potatoes and watching bacon sizzle in a pan helping. More importantly, I checked Mom's spice rack for possible ingredients. Some of the potions I knew required herbs like sage and basil. If I'd been thinking, I wouldn't have even worried. Mom was a master herbalist; her spice rack looked like an apothecary's wet dream.
    When she dished up plates for Dee and me, I forced myself to let Dee go first. It had been a long time since I'd eaten a real meal, and even longer since I’d had Mom's cooking, and it was pure torture to wait. Once I got to the table, I forced myself to eat like I was determined to finish last in an eating contest. I savored each bite, trying to make the moment last and fought the urge to wolf it all down as fast as I could. The bacon's smoky flavor, the spices on the crispy potatoes and how soft and starchy they were on the inside, the