one anyway. My deck of cards nestled in my hip pocket. The deck vibrated eagerly and sent little pins-and-needles shivers down my leg.
Caitlin tilted up her face and sniffed the air like a wolf. “Demonflesh,” she said softly. “And a corpse. Not far away.”
“Let’s hope it’s just one,” I said and led the way up the short walk to the front stoop. “Okay, cover me.”
I fished my locksmith’s gear out of my other pocket. It was a thin folio of olive plastic stocked with a row of stainless-steel picks and rakes. The lock on the front door was a thirty-dollar model straight from Home Depot, not the top of the line but not the worst either. I picked out a torsion wrench and a half-diamond pick, bent down on one knee, and went to work. Meanwhile Caitlin stood beside me on the stoop, looking casual as she watched the street, ready to shield me with her body if a car drove by or a neighbor poked their head out.
The tumblers clicked and rolled. I pocketed the picks and slowly turned the knob, bracing for trouble. The door swung open without a sound. Just beyond, a plush burgundy rug decorated pale birch floorboards. Dust motes hung in the air and clung to a glass credenza by the door. Caitlin followed me in.
The house stank of sweaty socks and moldy pizza, like a frat party in a sauna. As we crept inside, my wrinkling nose picked up a stronger stench, that odor of gas and decay that only comes from one thing: a corpse left out to rot.
Voices echoed the next room. We froze. Then I heard the tinny echo of a laugh track and realized it was just a television set.
I poked my head around the corner, fighting to keep my stomach under control. The stench shoved its gaseous fingers down my throat. The living room might have been nice once, with a tan leather sofa set, thick shag rugs, and a sixty-inch television. That would have been before the place turned into a garbage dump of empty food wrappers, crumbs, and dirt, sweltering under the grill of a broken air conditioner.
The kid on the couch was maybe twenty. His
Call of Duty
T-shirt stretched over his bloated belly, and his cheeks bristled with a few days of rough blond stubble. He looked over, saw us, and waved.
“Hey,” he said listlessly. “I’m Pete.”
Most demons can’t do what Caitlin can, creating their own bodies out of raw power. They need to hijack a human or an animal’s skin to stay in our world for very long. Pete was a hijacker. My second sight showed me a web of veins under the kid’s skin, pulsing black and red, mapping the infestation’s trail.
I rubbed my forehead. The closer I got, the more tired I felt. I couldn’t concentrate, could barely remember why we’d come here.
“We’re here to help,” I finally managed to blurt out. “Came to get you out.”
Pete shrugged. “That’s cool. Whatever. You wanna watch TV?”
A king-size bag of Cheetos nestled on his lap. He grubbed around inside the bag and mashed a handful between his cheese-dust-stained lips.
“No, Pete,” Caitlin said, walking around the living room and poking her head in an open doorway. “We don’t want to watch television.”
She waved me over. My feet felt like lead bricks. Even so, the smell coming from the doorway almost knocked me flat. A dead man lay stretched out in a bed, his rotting corpse half-buried under a wool comforter. Fat black flies clung to his eyeless face, laying their eggs.
“I keep telling him he needs to get up,” Pete said. “Dude’s gonna be late for work.”
I stumbled back. “He’s dead, Pete.”
“He is?” Pete said. “Bummer. I liked that guy.”
I groped for a spell, something to ward off whatever was leeching my strength away, but my mind slipped around the edges. I didn’t forget my magic; it just seemed like way too much effort.
Next thing I knew, I’d dropped onto the couch next to Pete’s. I needed to rest, just for a second. It was such a long walk to the front door, and I just needed to rest
Caitlin tilted up her face and sniffed the air like a wolf. “Demonflesh,” she said softly. “And a corpse. Not far away.”
“Let’s hope it’s just one,” I said and led the way up the short walk to the front stoop. “Okay, cover me.”
I fished my locksmith’s gear out of my other pocket. It was a thin folio of olive plastic stocked with a row of stainless-steel picks and rakes. The lock on the front door was a thirty-dollar model straight from Home Depot, not the top of the line but not the worst either. I picked out a torsion wrench and a half-diamond pick, bent down on one knee, and went to work. Meanwhile Caitlin stood beside me on the stoop, looking casual as she watched the street, ready to shield me with her body if a car drove by or a neighbor poked their head out.
The tumblers clicked and rolled. I pocketed the picks and slowly turned the knob, bracing for trouble. The door swung open without a sound. Just beyond, a plush burgundy rug decorated pale birch floorboards. Dust motes hung in the air and clung to a glass credenza by the door. Caitlin followed me in.
The house stank of sweaty socks and moldy pizza, like a frat party in a sauna. As we crept inside, my wrinkling nose picked up a stronger stench, that odor of gas and decay that only comes from one thing: a corpse left out to rot.
Voices echoed the next room. We froze. Then I heard the tinny echo of a laugh track and realized it was just a television set.
I poked my head around the corner, fighting to keep my stomach under control. The stench shoved its gaseous fingers down my throat. The living room might have been nice once, with a tan leather sofa set, thick shag rugs, and a sixty-inch television. That would have been before the place turned into a garbage dump of empty food wrappers, crumbs, and dirt, sweltering under the grill of a broken air conditioner.
The kid on the couch was maybe twenty. His
Call of Duty
T-shirt stretched over his bloated belly, and his cheeks bristled with a few days of rough blond stubble. He looked over, saw us, and waved.
“Hey,” he said listlessly. “I’m Pete.”
Most demons can’t do what Caitlin can, creating their own bodies out of raw power. They need to hijack a human or an animal’s skin to stay in our world for very long. Pete was a hijacker. My second sight showed me a web of veins under the kid’s skin, pulsing black and red, mapping the infestation’s trail.
I rubbed my forehead. The closer I got, the more tired I felt. I couldn’t concentrate, could barely remember why we’d come here.
“We’re here to help,” I finally managed to blurt out. “Came to get you out.”
Pete shrugged. “That’s cool. Whatever. You wanna watch TV?”
A king-size bag of Cheetos nestled on his lap. He grubbed around inside the bag and mashed a handful between his cheese-dust-stained lips.
“No, Pete,” Caitlin said, walking around the living room and poking her head in an open doorway. “We don’t want to watch television.”
She waved me over. My feet felt like lead bricks. Even so, the smell coming from the doorway almost knocked me flat. A dead man lay stretched out in a bed, his rotting corpse half-buried under a wool comforter. Fat black flies clung to his eyeless face, laying their eggs.
“I keep telling him he needs to get up,” Pete said. “Dude’s gonna be late for work.”
I stumbled back. “He’s dead, Pete.”
“He is?” Pete said. “Bummer. I liked that guy.”
I groped for a spell, something to ward off whatever was leeching my strength away, but my mind slipped around the edges. I didn’t forget my magic; it just seemed like way too much effort.
Next thing I knew, I’d dropped onto the couch next to Pete’s. I needed to rest, just for a second. It was such a long walk to the front door, and I just needed to rest
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