Kathy Love - Truth or Demon

But only Daisy walked into the living room.

“Where are the other girls?” Poppy asked.

“Still at Madison’s.”

Poppy glanced at the man, who, even despite his confusion, managed to lounge on the couch like he owned the place. Then she asked Daisy in a hushed voice, “Is everything okay?”

Daisy nodded. “Madison’s mom is just annoyed that she forgot to leave the key for him. And she also got in trouble for texting—”

“Connor Martin,” they said in unison.

Poppy nodded. That sounded like Madison. That girl could be so boy crazy. Once upon a time, Poppy had been boy crazy too. Such a waste of thoughts and energy. Now she knew there were more important things in life than romance.

Things like her little sister and keeping her safe and fed and healthy—both physically and emotionally.

“Well, I’m glad you are more grounded than Madison,” she told her little sister. “No crazy antics to get the attention of a boy.”

Daisy’s eyes flicked toward Killian, then back to Poppy. She smiled. “No, no crazy antics for me.”

“So is Madison coming to get him?”

“No, I said I’d bring him down.”

Poppy frowned. She still didn’t like the idea of this guy alone with her little sister. Not that he’d shown any signs of anything—well, anything but confusion.

“Maybe I should walk with you,” Poppy said.

Daisy shook her head. “Nah. You know what I would like?”

Poppy tilted her head, still debating going along, but her sister must have taken it as a gesture to continue.

“I know it’s late and all, but I’d love some of your famous hot chocolate.”

Poppy didn’t answer.

“Please. We’ll only be ten minutes, and then the girls will all be back. Hot chocolate would be nice.”

The warm, milky beverage might be just the thing to calm everyone down after a wild night.

Poppy glanced at Killian, who still sat there, although now his eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the couch’s overstuffed cushion.

She was beginning to wonder if this poor guy did need medical attention.

“Okay. But only five minutes. Or else I’m coming to find you with the candlestick holder,” she said loud enough for Killian to hear too.

Daisy smiled. “Promise.” She turned to the man on the couch, then paused as if considering something. Then she said, almost tentatively, “Um, Kill—ian?

The man opened his eyes, looking more confused than before, if that were possible.

“I’m going to take you to where you’ll be staying.”

He frowned, but slowly unfolded himself from the couch. It was like watching a giant stand inside a miniature apartment that was decidedly feminine and delicate.

Poppy thought Daisy looked a little hesitant to leave with him now, and she started to say she would go along after all, but Daisy stopped her. She waved and promised five minutes again.

Poppy watched as tall, broad Killian followed petite, skinny Daisy from the room. A weird feeling tightened her chest, but she didn’t think it was dread. Or fear. It was more the sense that something was amiss.

“Five minutes,” she murmured to herself as she went into the kitchen to make cocoa.

Killian followed the girl in front of him, trying to make sense of what had been going on. But he couldn’t. He wasn’t even sure who he was, or how he got here.

Well, he knew his own name. Or at least he thought he did. When the tiny woman with the disheveled hair and baggy sweatshirt and even baggier flannel pants had asked his name, Killian O’Brien had popped into his head.

That could be from anywhere, though.

And he was Swedish? Now that he had no recollection of at all.

“I’m from Sweden?” he asked the girl.

She paused in her determined trek through the hallways of the building.

“Yeah,” she said, sounding no surer than he felt.

“So why am I here?”

The girl started to open her mouth to speak, then hushed voices from around the corner drew their attention in that direction.

Two more teens came into view.

“Did you get it?” asked the one he thought he’d heard … Poppy call Daisy.

A dark-haired girl dangled something in front of her triumphantly. A key.

“Piece of cake.”

All the girls surrounded a door a few feet away.

“This isn’t going to work,” the curly-headed blonde said.

“It will,” the darker one said, her voice filled with exasperation.

“Just open up,” Daisy said. “Poppy said she’d come look for us in five, and knowing her, she’s actually timing it.”

The dark-haired girl unlocked the door and pushed it open. Then they all looked at him expectantly.

He frowned in response.

“This is where you are going to stay,” Daisy said, gesturing to the open apartment.

His frown deepened as he stepped closer. The place was dark, except for an old-looking lamp creating a dim pool of light around a hall table. The place smelled. He sniffed again. Like old age. Old books and the menthol of arthritis creams and mustiness and cat.

He looked at the kids.

“I’m staying here?”

They all nodded, wide-eyed.

“You have to,” Daisy said.

Killian thought about it, wanting to say “no, I really don’t have to.” But he found himself nodding and stepping inside the apartment.

“Don’t let anyone know you are here,” Daisy said once he was inside.

He was supposed to be staying here, but no one could know. That didn’t sound right. But again, he found himself nodding.

“We’ll check on you tomorrow.”

He nodded again.

They nodded back as if they were silently closing some secret pact—and maybe they were. Then the girls left, enclosing him in the dim light of this strange place. He listened to their footfalls hurrying away, back to Poppy’s apartment and her famous hot chocolate.

Just leave yourself. Surely this wasn’t right.

But his feet remained anchored to the spot.

Eventually, he turned and surveyed the fussy, frilly, floral room.

He was stuck here. What in hell was going on?

W hat the hell?

Killian blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling—a dingy white ceiling. Not the crisp, new white of his ceiling at home. Nor was he in his own bed. This one was decidedly feminine, covered in a ruffled bedspread plastered with pink and red cabbage roses. Nothing like his black silk sheets.

He glanced to the right to see an antique nightstand. On it, in its full flowered and beaded glory, sat a lamp that looked as if it came from a yard sale circa 1959. An Agatha Christie was opened, facedown on the doily-covered surface. Several medication bottles were lined up beside that.

Great, not only was he in a strange bed, but it appeared to be that of an elderly woman.

He glanced to his left, hoping he’d see something that would make sense to him. He definitely needed an explanation for this predicament—and why he didn’t seem to recall how he got here. But instead of some clue, he found someone staring back at him.

It was the ugliest, mangiest cat he’d ever seen. It stared at him with its one good eye. An eerie yellow eye. The other was stuck together into a crusted black line. The cat’s long, white fur—or at least he thought it was white—had a matted, gray tinge as if it had rolled in ashes. Damp ashes.

Maybe Killian was still in Hell. But he suspected that even demons would throw this thing back.

Keeping his movements slow and subtle, Killian levered himself up onto his elbows, concerned that even the slightest move would set the beast into attack mode.

The cat hissed, its back arching and its tail, once broken or maybe just as naturally ugly as the rest of it, shot up like a tattered flag at half-mast. It hissed again, louder, its lips curling back to reveal a splintered fang and some serious tartar buildup.