“Yeah, you did. And it’s okay,” he said, keeping his eyes on mine as he let his hand drop from my face. “I didn’t mean to make you think you were crazy. I’m sorry.”
I paused, taken aback by his sudden change in demeanor.
“It’s cool. Um, yeah, no problem.” I brushed it off, giving him a bright smile before fishing the bracelet out of my uniform shirt pocket.
“Do you want to get it on?” I asked innocently, trying not to smirk when his words from earlier left my mouth. The corner of Logan’s mouth twitched slightly, but he kept a straight face as he fastened the clasp around my wrist.
“Now, don’t take it off.”
“Does it really matter? They know who I am.”
“Only two demons know who you are. Two demons stuck on this side. But they can always send more, Paige,” Logan said gravely, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I nodded, staring at the thin platinum swirls that were standing between me and possible indentured servitude in a demonic universe.
We resumed walking home and had just cut behind Lincoln Center when an alarming thought hit me.
“The ones who know me—what’s to stop them from coming to my home?” I asked, panicked. “What if they try to hurt my parents?”
“They won’t,” Logan said, his voice confident.
“How can you be sure?”
“Protection spell on your apartment,” Logan said, giving me a proud smile. “Wasn’t even Rego’s idea. That one was all mine.”
I had a sudden image of Logan wearing a pointed wizard hat and a cloak, standing in the middle of Forty-Fourth Street waving a wand at my apartment building, and had to bite back a laugh.
“Wait—how’d you find out where I live?” I asked, and Logan gave me another smile, this one guilty.
“Like I said, I made that jump a lot. Once I realized you were the target, I found out your address from the school office and went from there.”
I mulled that over in my head. “You could have just asked me where I live.”
“I guess. It’s just that Rego was adamant that I stay in the background, remain insignificant, all of that,” Logan continued. “If someone overheard me asking where you lived, and then you disappeared—”
He stopped short, and I finished for him.
“At least no one would suspect you.”
He nodded grimly.
“You did talk to me, though,” I reminded him.
“I did,” he agreed. “At least now I don’t have to pretend to be such a quiet, forgettable lump.”
“You’re not forgettable,” I immediately said, and Logan blinked before pressing his lips together in a bashful smile.
“I mean, I don’t think I could ever forget the mental image of you writing history notes with a pink pen with jingle bells on top,” I quickly added, and Logan squeezed his eyes together at the memory.
“Those things were so loud,” he sighed. “I felt like Santa’s elf.”
I walked a little more closely to Logan, keeping my voice low.
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked, and Logan chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“You hit me with an Inquisition earlier, and now you want to know if you can ask me a question,” Logan said, his brown eyes sparkling with humor. “It’s funny.”
“This is all really new. I’m not sure of the protocol.”
“I’m not sure there is any. You’re the first to know the truth. And it’s...um, it’s nice having someone to talk to about all this,” Logan stammered, giving me a slightly shy smile before adding, “Well, someone other than Rego, who’s a barrel of fun.”
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Can you tell me about him? All I know is that he’s a warlock. But what exactly is a warlock? Are they human?”
Logan adjusted my backpack on his shoulders as we walked. “Warlocks are humans who reigned over the Dark World centuries ago. Think of them as the Dark World version of wizards.”
“No, thanks,” I snorted. “He seemed insulted when I mentioned the word wizard. Like he wanted to bite my head off and ask for seconds.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “He’s a little precious about how warlocks are regarded—when it’s their own damn fault that they aren’t in power anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“They thought they could rule both worlds—that non-magical humans would easily bend to their wills,” Logan revealed, shaking his head disapprovingly. “They discovered a few portals to this world and began crossing over, testing how their powers worked in this world. You’d be surprised how many myths and legends in this world are actually about warlocks.”
Logan leaned over, his voice a conspiratorial whisper as he spoke into my ear. “The Pied Piper? Totally real, and totally a warlock.”
“Get out!” I yelled, then lowered my voice. “Seriously, are you kidding me?”
“Nope.” Logan stood straight again, holding a finger to his lips.
“So, where was I? Oh, yeah—half the warlocks were in the Dark World, and the other half were running amok in this one. But they didn’t protect their stronghold on the other side all that well. They were overthrown by Regents pretty quickly, and the warlocks that survived were banished to live in this world.”
“What exactly are Regents?” I asked, confused. “Are they called that just because they’re royal?”
“Yeah, some are royal, but they’re also the most powerful race of demons.” Logan frowned, rubbing his jaw with his palm as he spoke. “Most demons derive their strength from one naturally occurring element—basically, nature, or strong emotions. You’ve got fire demons, ice demons, fear demons, lust demons, and so on. But the Regents aren’t bound by these rules. They can channel all the elements. They’re an ancient clan—descended from the ones who banished warlocks. They’re the ones who destroyed most of the portals—the ones that were easy to get to, at least. And Regents have been in power ever since, with the warlocks working on rebuilding their numbers, intent on taking back the throne someday. And someday is coming up.”
I opened my mouth to ask Logan why he decided to fight for the warlocks—after all, they didn’t come out smelling all that rosy in his little history lesson. But then Blaise’s barbaric murder of Travis flooded my memory, and I realized it wasn’t hard to pick a side. But it did make me wonder something about Logan.
I paused. “Can I ask you another question?”
Logan gave me a cautious look. “Since you’re asking again, I have a feeling this is a serious question.”
“Yep.”
“Sure, shoot.”
“Your uncle is a warlock.”
“That’s not a question,” Logan replied warily.
“I know you’re a demonslayer, but are you also a warlock? Since your uncle is one and all. Or is he a demonslayer, too?”
Logan stared at me, confused, until a playful smirk tugged at his lips.
“Do you think demonslaying is something I was born into? Like, I have some weird birthmark on my foot that marks me as the chosen scourge of demons?” He made his voice deep and dramatic, like he was narrating a movie trailer.
“Something like that,” I admitted sheepishly.
“You watch too many movies,” he teased, nudging me with his shoulder as we crossed the street.
“You have an invisible sword strapped to your back and can open doors with magic spells,” I countered, nudging him back, and he nearly stumbled into a parking meter. “What was I supposed to think?”
“Well, to answer your question, demonslaying is a profession. It’s not a kind of person. All my skills are the product of years of training. And Rego’s not actually related to me.”
I frowned. “Then why do you call him your uncle?”
He just sh
rugged, causing my backpack to bounce around. “We travel around a lot. It’s just easier to say he’s my uncle. I can’t exactly tell everyone, ‘Oh, that’s my dad’s childhood warlock buddy who’s been taking care of me ever since my...well, ever since I was eight.’”
“Your dad is a warlock, too?”
Logan sighed heavily, his breath coming out as white smoke in the cold air. “Yeah, he is...was.” His face twisted with sadness and anger as he spoke. “I’m half-warlock, technically. If it wasn’t for Rego, I don’t know what I’d be. Dead, probably. Can we change the subject, please?” he asked, whipping his head to face me as we walked. His eyes were again ringed with a deep sadness, and the tortured look on his face made me nod quickly in agreement.
We walked in silence for a few more chilly blocks, until Logan finally spoke.
“Your bag is vibrating. I think your phone is going off.”
“My phone?” Oh, crap. I missed my dad’s usual check-in phone call. “Oh, no. This is bad.”
“A missed call? This is bad? Yeah, this and heights make you tremble, but you want to learn how to fight demons and already took out an incendia like you were swatting a fly.” The teasing tone had returned to his voice, to my relief, and Logan turned around so I could fish my phone out of the back pocket of my bag.
“Yeah, this is bad.” I looked at my phone screen. Five missed calls, plus a very angry, very worried all-caps text.
“Your boyfriend?” Logan asked casually, and I laughed.
“Yeah, right. Bellevue Kelly’s beating them off with a stick,” I said, calling my dad and pressing the phone to my ear. “And if you listen to the gossip, I probably had a conversation with the stick.”
Logan opened his mouth to reply, but I quickly interjected, “It’s my dad. When your kid’s me, you tend to worry.”
My dad answered on the first ring.
“Dad, I’m on my way home—”
“Where have you been? You’re more than four hours late!” Oh, crap. The words poured out of my dad with such urgency that my phone actually shook from his frenetic tone.
“Dad, I’m just a few blocks away.” I sighed. “We’re walking home now.”
“Who’s this ‘we’?” Oh, crap squared. What was I going to tell my father?
“Just someone from school, Dad. Please,” I pleaded, sneaking a look at Logan, who was deliberately pretending to look in the windows of a bodega as we walked past, feigning interest in the expired boxes of crackers on display. “Can’t you just trust me?”
“How can I when I’ve never even heard of this friend before?”
“Dad, he’s real, I swear,” I hissed into the phone.
“He?” Oh, crap to infinity. Maybe I should have gone with an imaginary friend.
“Just a friend, Dad. Um, is Mom there yet?” I really, really hoped my mom was there.
“Paige, we’ll talk when you get home.” My dad unceremoniously ended the phone call.
“Well, that went really well,” I said, shoving the phone into my coat pocket.
“Your dad sounds really, um—” Logan paused, his eyes casting upward as he searched for the right word “—protective. I could overhear his side of the conversation.” He gave me an apologetic smile. Of course he heard him. The demons in the Dark World probably heard him.
“Well, he’s used to a crazy daughter who talks to imaginary friends, so right now he thinks I’m off somewhere talking to a wall.”
“It’s not so bad. Your parents care about you, that’s all. You’re lucky.” The ghost of a wistful look crossed his face, but it disappeared so quickly I couldn’t be sure if I’d seen it.
“Your dad really thinks you’re off talking to a wall?” he asked, and I nodded, rolling my eyes.
“Or a parking meter.”
“Maybe a squirrel?” Logan cracked a hesitant smile.
“Don’t laugh, that happened once,” I said, thinking of my date with Chris by the carousel in Central Park.
“Well, we can’t tell your father that you fought off a demon, but—” he paused, giving me a hesitant glance “—maybe if he met me he’d know you weren’t talking to squirrels.”
“It was just the one squirrel.”
Logan paused. “Who was it, really?”
“Just a really nice woman. She had flowers in her hair,” I murmured, remembering how happy she was to be back in our Central Park. She told me all about her afternoons taking strolls in the park with her boyfriend. I originally thought she was simply ditzy—especially since she introduced herself as Feather and twirled around as she spoke, her long pastel skirt rippling around her in a bell, like petals on a tulip. I was suddenly hit with overwhelming sadness for her, being stuck in a warped version of Central Park. I changed the subject as quickly as possible, talking with Logan about movies, music and the most non-demonic topics I could think of until we got to my apartment.
My father must have been watching for me through the peephole, since he yanked the door open while my keys were still in it. His face was the color of his bright red hair—something I would have teased him about if I hadn’t been the cause of his crimson complexion.
“Where the hell have you been, young lady? We’ve been worried sick!” The vein in his forehead throbbed so violently I thought it might reach out and flick me in the ear. “You know you’re supposed to check in. Did you know there was an accident at school?”
“Dad, I’m fine,” I said, holding my palms out in surrender as my mom joined my dad at the door. “I was hanging out with a friend.” I jerked my thumb next to me, where Logan was a few feet down the hall, tying his shoelace out of my dad’s line of vision.
“What friend?” my dad asked, the color draining from his face as his anger developed into concern.
“Sorry,” Logan mouthed, quickly getting up and coming to stand by my side.
“Hi, Mr. Kelly,” Logan said, his smile fading when he saw the suspicious look on my dad’s face. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“And you are?” Dad asked, giving Logan a possibly lethal glare.
“Logan. Um, I go to school with Paige?” he replied as if it were a question, causing me to stare at him incredulously. Logan held out his hand tentatively, a nervous smile plastered on his face. I couldn’t believe it. Demons were no problem for Logan Bradley, but two seconds with my father and he needed a hug and some hot chocolate.
I gave my mom my best pleading look, and she gently whacked my father on his arm with the back of her knuckles before she shook Logan’s hand warmly.
“Logan, it’s lovely to meet you. Won’t you come in for a moment?”
“Thanks, but I have to get going. We were talking and let time get away from us,” Logan said, looking visibly relieved to be addressing my mother. “I just wanted to make sure Paige got home okay. But, um, Mr. Kelly? What did you say happened at school?”
My father, who had relaxed slightly when Logan said he had to leave, sighed heavily. “There was some kind of accident at school—huge explosion in one of the classrooms.”
“Did they say what caused it?” Logan pressed, and my dad frowned.
“No, all we got was an email from the school that there was a fire and it was contained. The news is starting to cover it.”
“I wonder what happened. Maybe school will be canceled next week,” I suggested cheerfully. That sounds like something someone who had absolutely nothing to do with the fire would say, right?
“That would be pretty awesome,” Logan agreed, picking up my angle and giving me a sideways smile.
“Well, miss, you’re already late for dinner.” My father held the door out farther and ushered me inside, barely giving me a chance to take my backpack from Logan. As I grabbed the straps, Logan pulled the bag a little closer.
“I’ll call you later, okay?”
he whispered. I nodded, but his reaction was blocked by my father letting the door slam shut.
“Dad, why are you being so rude?”
“Me, rude? Young lady, you were extremely late. You didn’t check in, didn’t let us know you wouldn’t be home for dinner—” he ticked my crimes off on his fingers “—and then you show up at the door with that kid.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “That kid, as you call him, has a name. And Logan is just a friend.” Who saved my life.
“Peach, listen,” my dad began, and I stiffened. When I was a little kid, I mispronounced my name as “Peach”—and once upon a time, it was a term of endearment. Now, my dad only used it when he was about to say something I wasn’t going to like.
“I think you need to be careful,” Dad said, folding his arms as well as he leaned against our navy couch. “We don’t exactly know what that boy’s intentions are.”
“It’s not like that. We’re just friends, Dad.”
“Paige, you’re fragile and—”
“Fragile?” I interrupted him, annoyed. Fragile? The word always triggered a negative reaction from me. But after today, it ignited a rapidly shortening fuse. “Dad, seriously. Come on.”
“Richard....” my mom began, his name sounding like a warning. But my dad ignored her.
“I don’t want someone taking advantage of you or pressuring you into something,” my father said. “You know that you’re troubled.”
And at that, my fuse ran out, and my frustration exploded.
“Oh, right, Dad, he walked me home so I’m going to go throw myself at him, have unprotected sex and drop out of school to have a bajillion of his babies because I’m fragile and crazy and need to be locked up!”
“Paige, watch your mouth!” my dad scolded, standing up. Fire trucks would have been jealous of the shade of red he turned.
“Dad, give me a little credit!” I mimicked his tone.
“Richard, I think you and I need to have a little conversation,” my mom said through pressed-together teeth, and motioned for my father to follow her to their room.
I stomped away to my room, angry at my father for treating me like a naive, crazy little girl when, as far as he knew, the biggest crime I’d committed was making a new friend.