Derek Landy - Demon Road

Amber looked at him for a quiet moment. “Sometimes I think you just make stuff up.”

MILO PULLED THE CHARGER up to a pump at a truck stop and Amber was allowed out. She stepped on to the forecourt and stretched, arching her spine and feeling it crack. The afternoon wasn’t much cooler than the afternoons she’d endured in Orlando. It was hot and the sun was bright and the air was laden with moisture. A truck roared by on the road, rustling the trees on the far side and kicking up mini-tornadoes of dust that danced around Amber’s bare calves.

The place was pretty run-down. Desperate blades of grass surged from cracks in the ground like drowning men in a sea of concrete. A long building with a sagging roof and dirty windows identified itself as a Family Restaurant. The letter E was missing from the sign outside, turning EAT HERE into EAT HER. Amber turned her back on it.

Beyond the fence there was corn, miles of it, and a clump of sorry-looking forest behind the truck stop itself. An old Coca-Cola billboard was rusting and peeling on a metal strut.

“Hey,” said Milo, and she turned and he tossed her the baseball cap over the roof of the car. “Head down at all times. Just because you can’t see a CCTV camera doesn’t mean it can’t see you.”

She pulled the cap low. “You really think my parents would be able to find me here? In Florida, okay, they probably have cops and officials doing whatever they want, but we’re not in Florida anymore.”

“Your folks have been around for over a hundred years,” Milo said, sliding the nozzle in. “Let’s not underestimate how far their reach spreads.”

The gas started pumping and Amber headed round the side of the station, following the sign for the restroom. The clerk, a bored-looking guy in his fifties, didn’t even glance up as she passed his window.

The restroom was empty and relatively clean. The early evening sun came in through the three windows up near the ceiling. Amber chose the only cubicle with a toilet seat, and when she was done she washed her hands in the sink. The mirror was dirty but intact, and she took off her cap and looked at her reflection. Butterflies fluttered deep in her belly.

You just decide you want to shift, and you shift , Imelda had said. Amber decided she wanted to shift, but her body ignored her. She tried again. She tried to remember how it had happened in Imelda’s apartment, how it had happened when she’d bitten that finger off, but she couldn’t even come close to replicating those feelings.

Did she even want to? What if she shifted and she couldn’t shift back? What if she became stuck as a demon, unable to revert? No matter how much she tried to cover up, someone was bound to see, and then word would reach her parents and they’d come after her, the predators after their prey.

Amber looked into her own eyes. She hated being the prey. She commanded her body to change and this time it obeyed.

The pain blossomed and she cried out, and even as she was doing so she was watching her reflection. Her skin darkened to a glorious red in the time it would have taken her to blush. Her bones creaked and throbbed and her body lengthened – her legs, her torso, her arms. Her feet jammed tight in her sneakers. She was suddenly tall, suddenly slim. Her face was longer, her jawline defined, her cheekbones raised and sharpened. It was still her face, but her features were altered. Her lips were plumper. Her brown hair was black now, and longer, the tangles straightened.

Dizziness, an astonishing wave of vertigo, nearly took her to the ground. She gripped the edge of the sink, kept herself standing, unable and unwilling to look away from the beautiful demon in the mirror.

And she was beautiful. Her skin, though red, was flawless. Her teeth – pointed now, and sharp like fangs – were white and straight. Her raised cheekbones changed everything. Only her eyes had stayed the same. She was glad about that.

And, of course, there were her horns. Black horns, like ribbed ebony, curling out from her forehead and sweeping back. Breathtaking to behold.

Although her shorts looked shorter on her longer legs, they were now baggier, and threatened to slip off her hips. She pulled the neckline of her T-shirt to either side, revealing hard black scales that travelled across her shoulders.

She looked at her hands. They were small no more. They were good hands, strong hands, not small and weak like they had always been. Her fingernails were black, but there was something else, an itch in her fingertips. She curled her right hand and her nails lengthened to claws so suddenly it actually frightened her. She gripped her right wrist with her other hand, not trusting this new and alien appendage not to suddenly attack her. She concentrated, and the claws retracted at her command.

“Awesome,” she whispered. This was how it was meant to feel, she was sure. Shifting was supposed to make her feel strong, and powerful, and confident. Not scared, not like she’d been in Imelda’s apartment. Not panicked, like she’d been when she’d smashed that boy’s jaw.

Brandon , she reminded herself. His name was Brandon.

Then the door opened, and a broad woman in a trucker’s cap barged in, making it halfway to the cubicles before she even noticed there was somebody else there.

Frozen, they looked at each other with wide eyes. Then the trucker spun on her heel. Spun to flee. Spun to call the cops. And with the cops would come her parents.

“No, wait!” Amber said, lunging after her. She caught the woman before she reached the door, pushed her a little harder than she’d intended. The trucker slammed into the wall.

“Sorry,” said Amber, “sorry, but—”

The trucker took something from her belt. A clasp knife. She flicked it open and Amber held up her hands.

“No, wait, I’m sorry, please—”

But the trucker was too scared, too adrenalised, to listen. She rushed forward and Amber backpedalled, losing track of the knife. Immediately, she felt her skin tighten. Her hip hit the sink and the trucker stabbed her right in the belly.

Amber gasped, more from shock than pain. She expected the pain to follow. The trucker stabbed again, and again.

Still nothing.

Amber got her hand up, dug her fingertips into the trucker’s face, and forced her back. Her other hand grabbed the woman’s knife hand, gripping the wrist, keeping the blade away from her. It suddenly became clear to Amber that all she had was strength. She had no idea what to do next.

The trucker was more streetwise. She slammed her free arm on to Amber’s elbow and punched her. It wasn’t a particularly strong punch – she was obviously right-handed and she’d been forced to punch with her left – but her fist still connected with Amber’s nose and tears still came to Amber’s eyes. Anger flared, and she pulled the trucker in and threw a punch of her own. Her fist, which had grown black scales across the knuckles, collided with the trucker’s jaw and sent her spinning into the far wall. The knife fell as the trucker hit the hand-dryer, its roar filling the room.