The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) by Tori Centanni Page A

but he’s not reading it. He scans the street and straightens when he spots me. Next to him sits a plastic bag filled with lumpy take-out containers. My stomach lurches and the guilt worm makes another pass through my insides. I’ve completely forgotten he was coming over.
    I wave and smile, but he doesn’t smile back.
    “I’ve been worried,” he says when I reach him.
    “You know how it is.” I move past him and dig out my key to unlock the door.
    “That doesn’t mean I don’t worry.” His voice is low. Cam wears his heart on his sleeve and he looks miserable. I bite back more guilt, because if I don’t, it will burst out of my chest like a little guilt-alien. “You didn’t answer your phone and I called over a dozen times.”
    “The battery died.” My cellphone battery holds a charge like a net holds water. It’s always dead by the end of the school day.
    He follows me to the elevator and we ride in silence.
    I unlock my door and I drop my backpack and coat in the hall before turning on the lights. In the kitchen, I pull out clean plates and utensils. When I look back, Cam is standing at the edge of the kitchen, still wearing his coat and holding the plastic bag in front of him.
    “Take off your coat and stay a while, Cam,” I say. I bring the plates and silverware to the dining table.
    I hear a loud exhalation and then the rustling of fabric. I get glasses from the cabinet and see him hanging his coat in the hallway. He rakes his hand through his golden hair. It’s shaggy and looks like it might be curly if it ever got long enough. He’s put the bag of food on the counter and I tear open the plastic and start pulling out containers. I should be starving, but my stomach is too knotted up for me to feel hungry, even though the smell of curry is strong.
    “I get scared, Nicki,” Cam says.
    “So do I.” I pull out serving-sized spoons and jam one into each container, and then I carry them two by two to the table. By the time I finish, we have enough food for a small army. Fried spring rolls, both brown and white rice, yellow curry, pad thai, and something with spinach and red peppers I can’t name. Cam’s still standing in the kitchen.
    “What?” I ask.
    “Are you okay? Did something happen?”
    “No. Maybe. It’s a long story. I don’t want to talk about it. Can we just eat?”
    “Yeah, okay.” He eyes me suspiciously, but opens the fridge and pulls out a can of lemon-lime soda. He fiddles with it and then sets it unopened on the counter. “It’s just sometimes I think I’ve gotten used to it, and then… and then, it freaks me out all over again.”
    “I know the feeling.” I laugh nervously. “I’m the one with a demon popping up at all hours.”
    Cam flicks the soda can with his fingers. I can tell he wants to say something else, but his gaze passes over to the table, and he apparently decides food is the more immediate concern. He pulls out a glass, fills it with ice, and pours his soda over it before going to the table. I join him and start scooping food I don’t really want onto my plate, hoping that the sight of it will stir up my appetite.
    I should tell him about the black envelope that’s burning a hole in my backpack, but I can’t force the words out. He’ll be more than relieved; he’ll be utterly ecstatic. I can’t deal with that yet. I need to ruminate and process what happened before my boyfriend throws me a freedom parade.
    “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” he says. “That’s all.”
    “It won’t. I promise.”
    “You can’t promise that. No one can.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “We could draw a demon trap under your doormat,” Cam suggests, “like in those demon-hunting comics.” He finally smiles and I weakly smile back.
    “Somehow, I doubt it would work. But we could try salt, like that girl tried on me.” I stuff pad thai into my mouth to bury the guilt.
    I will tell him. I just need a little time to come to