Danielle Ellison: Salt

Gran always told us not to leave home without salt in our pocket.

“You never know,” she used to say while we licked batter from spoons, “when a demon will attack and you need to be prepared.”

Pop would call her “sweet lips” and remind her we were kids, much like he did when Connie and I stole cookies before dinner and she flipped out. Mom and Dad would reassure her that we were safe, and then take us home where bedtime was the biggest worry.

But that was before my parents died. Since then, Gran reminds me about having salt every time I so much as mention going outside. Her warning plays on a loop in my head. I’m trained to bring it with me.

Except for today, apparently.

The demon chasing me is going to love that.

I run, but there’s only so much I can do. Plus, I wasn’t paying attention and turned down an alley. The walls are narrow, only about seven feet across, so there’s no way I can maneuver around it. Demons are too fast. There has to be a way out at the other end. Maybe I can sneak past it.

I pick up speed, leading it away from the street and deeper into the alley. Wait, this is wrong. There’s a brick wall blocking the exit.

You’ve got to be kidding. A dead end. My end. Crap. If there were an award for bad situations, I’d win first, second, and third place.

All I can do is run and hope I can get around it and out the way I came in. Maybe it’s far enough behind me that it will work. Running is my best option.

I turn around and bam , there it is, hissing at me. My stomach lurches at the sight of it, and at the sulfur lingering in the air. Dang, it’s gross. They’re not always this ugly, but this one’s green scales, cleaved tongue, and lime eyes make it one of the more hideous. At least there’s something there, though, something to fight.

I need to figure this out. I’ve studied all the books; this should be a no-brainer.

Demons are more vulnerable in their true form. When they’ve possessed a Non, a human without power, they can hide more. Old Greenie here is completely itself. Lucky me.

“Witch,” the demon hisses, “you smell good.”

“You bet I do,” I say. Though I have no idea why it said that. The demon makes a kind of grinding noise that I’ve come to recognize as laughter, and takes a step toward me. “Come any closer and your ass goes back to hell before you can blink your beady little eyes.”

“Hell is temporary, girl. I’ve gotten out before; I can do it again. I’m not afraid of hell.” Its voice is venomous, slithery. Overconfidence is a demonic weakness .

“Been there before?” I ask. I raise my eyebrows and sweep my gaze across the alley. There’s no way out of this. I wish I could go all Spider-Man and walk up the wall.

“That’s the problem with you witches,” the demon says. “You’re so snotty. Know-it-alls, all of you. This world used to be fun—lots of babies to enjoy, people dying of the plague, willing sacrifices.” It takes a step toward me with each word. “Witches were a lot easier to find then, too.”

I dodge it left and right. We both know I’m stalling. It’s the only alternative to salt I have. Demons love to talk about themselves, spill their plans. They’re idiots. Misdirection , number six in the handbook.

“Do you have a nice little house in hell? Drapes? Servants? A cute little demon dog? All that jazz?” I ask.

The demon hisses again and charges toward me. I leap out of the way, only a few feet in the tight space, as it stops exactly where I was standing. My heart races, eyes flicking to my left—almost there—as it lunges toward me, green claws outstretched.

I spring to my left and slide my foot back, beckoning it forward. It bolts toward me again and then lands directly on target on the iron sewer grate.

Everything’s still at first except the racing of my heart and the fear dancing in its glowing red eyes. Then it screams, howls like it’s dying. It is—sort of. At least it’s trapped on the iron and I’m sure it burns like hell. Gotta love iron.

“I hope you had a nice visit. Vacation’s over.”

It hisses at me again, his tongue flickering between its weird pointy teeth, and jerks toward me, but it’s trapped. The more it struggles the more it’s probably searing at its skin. Iron is a great trap when there’s nothing else.

“You can’t keep me here,” it hisses as I turn away.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. The demon keeps muttering and yelling, and the scent of sulfur burns my nose while I dial Connie. Demons reek. Connie doesn’t answer. Voice mail. I should’ve thought this plan through a little more.

“Assistance, Con. Hurry up!” I whisper where I am before I hang up and start dialing Pop. Unlike the rest of my family, and the rest of the witches in my community, I can’t work magic on my own; I need to be near someone else in my family. When I touch them it’s stronger, because “blood unified is magic magnified,” but even being nearby is enough for me. Except it’s really inconvenient—especially when they don’t answer.

“Wait,” the demon says. I freeze, the rings filling my ears. Three. Four. Five. “Are you calling for help?”

No answer with Pop either, so I hang up and twist around to face the demon. Greenie doesn’t look good; its eyes are dilated and it’s covered in a sheen of sweat. I’m starting to sweat too, because this is a mess.

“I thought you were going to send me to hell.”

“I am,” I say. I slide my phone back into my pocket. This is all bad. Very bad. There’s only one person left, but I am not calling Gran. She won’t approve of any of this; she barely tolerates my dreams of being an Enforcer and will never understand that I need to be one to find my magic. Plus, I’ll never hear the end of forgetting the salt. I’ll figure out something else.

“So do it,” the demon smiles tightly.

I cross my arms over my chest. I can’t tell it that I can’t send it back, that I don’t have the power. If one of them finds out then all the demons will know; then soon after that all of my kind will know—and I’ll be screwed. Might as well paint a target on my back . Think, Penelope, think.

“Maybe I like to make it a party,” I say.

The demon hisses. “You’re Static.”

“I am not Static.” I square my shoulders. I’m not Static—I’m temperamental. I know how do to this, I know many different ways to do this, but I’ve never done it before. Technically, none of the witches younger than eighteen are allowed to do magic outside of the home or school, but there are circumstances where it’s acceptable without punishment. Like this one. And I can’t. Life is so unfair. “I can do it.”

“Then do it,” it challenges.

I bite the inside of my cheek as the words from the CEASE Squad Handbook flash in my head. Demonic weaknesses: expulsion, entrapment, and sacraments: incantation, iron, and salt.

I’m going to have to expel a demon without salt, without sacrament, and without someone else to help me. My power hasn’t been strong enough to work without a family member as a counter since I was nine. My magic has to feed off theirs, like my essence isn’t strong enough alone. It’s so weak it’s practically nonexistent.

Gah, Greenie is sneering at me. I have to at least try to send it back to hell, buy myself some more time. It won’t know I’m pretending.