Cat Adams - Demon Song

Part of me knew what she was going to say, but every fiber of my being wanted her to deny it. I felt actual pain in my stomach when she nodded with her eyes fixed firmly on my shoes. “Yes’m. It was the orange one. Okalani said nobody could make it blow.”

Bruno and the others came in as I was staring at the ceiling, fighting back tears with my arms wrapped tightly around my body. He took one look at me and pulled me into an embrace. “What’s wrong, Celie? What’s happened?” I gratefully accepted the comfort and dug my fingers into his strong back muscles. He looked around, trying to find the source of my pain. I could see Beverly out of the corner of my eye, doing her best to look small and insignificant—just a girl trying to finish her sandwich. Molly had taken Julie into the other room to check out the bleeding. I knew Beverly was also wondering what was wrong with me.

It was hard to put words to, and I found I was weeping as I spoke: “She’s only twelve, Bruno. It’s not fair. I can’t do that to her—to her family … and her sister. But if I don’t, how could I live with myself? What if there’s nobody else?”

Bruno tensed abruptly, holding his breath as he got it. He always was one of the smartest people I knew. He looked at Beverly over the top of my shoulder. “Was that sound one of the shells? Was it the orange one?”

She nodded, now with more ease but also more fear. She understood that something significant was happening but had no idea what. Likely Okalani hadn’t had time to explain the whole story.

“Holy Mother of God,” Bruno swore forcefully. I looked over to see Adriana likewise stricken, which surprised me a little.

Mick was just looking confused. He crouched down beside his daughter. “Hon, you can’t touch other people’s things. That’s a very valuable artifact, and magical. You could have hurt it. You could have been hurt.”

She nodded. “I know it was stupid, Dad. I shouldn’t have touched it. But nothing happened.”

“Yet—” The word just slipped out, but it made Mick stare at me with renewed worry. He stood in a rush and put a protective hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Do I need to get her to a doctor?”

It was Adriana who put things in perspective and made his face go pale and trembling: “A priest might be more appropriate, for last rites.”

21

It tooktwo hours at a table with Mick and Molly to answer all their questions. And then there was nothing left but the fear.

“No,” Molly said simply and with force. “I won’t allow it.”

There was a television in the corner of the restaurant, on a shelf mounted near the ceiling. Bruno reached far up to turn on the set. As expected, my little town was on every national channel. The rift now was the equivalent of a dozen city blocks across. Bruno looked back at the Murphys with a serious expression. “When we arrived here, the rift was only a quarter the size of what you see here. It’s increasing exponentially. Soon it’ll breach the barrier. I don’t see how it can’t . There aren’t enough magic practitioners in the world to keep up a barrier this size. It’s pulling at me right now. The mages like me who put up that shield are being drained, minute by minute. If some of the people I crafted this with aren’t already dead, I’ll be surprised.”

I looked at him with abrupt fear. I hadn’t known it was a continual drain—that he was somehow tied to the shield. “Bruno…”

He waved it off, but now that I knew I saw the weariness around his eyes. The laugh lines were deeper, as were the creases of his brow. “I’m one of the most powerful mages in the country, Celia. It’ll be a week or better before it starts to pull on my life force. The shield won’t last that long.” Then he turned back to the Murphys, who were holding white-knuckled hands and staring at the screen. “When it fails, we all die. The priests, the Pope … they’ve tried everything in the Vatican vault. Things hidden from the public eye for centuries. Yesterday I heard from some friends back east that black-arts sorcerers are volunteering to help, knowing even they’re at risk from this. We have no choice but to ask this of you.”

“But she’s only a child.” Mick’s voice was soft and frightened and it was hard to blame him. “She doesn’t understand what—”

“Yes, Dad. I do.” We turned to see Beverly standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Her words were calm, but there was a fierceness in the set of her jaw and cold clarity in her eyes. I’d seen that face before in the mirror, and at that age. Was I a different person now than the child I’d been when I’d looked like that?

I knew. I wasn’t.

She walked forward a few steps and then stopped again to take us all in. “I do understand what this means. If I can stop that, then there’s no choice. I’ll blow the horn or do whatever the instructions say I have to.”

I stood and walked over to her and put both hands on her slim shoulders. She’d taken out the pigtails so that her bright red hair flowed like waves around her face. She looked like an adult suddenly, trapped in a body that didn’t match the strength inside those green eyes. “You could die, Beverly.”

She reached up to touch my hand and there was a hint of something in her eyes, another expression familiar from my mirror. Was it cynicism, so early? But then, I had no idea what trauma she’d had in her life. Perhaps this was just one more piece of a terrible pie that she shouldn’t have had to eat. Like me … so very like me.

She curved one side of her mouth into an ironic smile. “So could you. But us tone-deaf people have to stick together.”

That was the real key, according to Bruno. Beverly and I were old-fashioned tone-deaf. It was why the horns didn’t bother us like other people. Why we could sound them without our eardrums breaking. Yes, there might be a hundred thousand clinically tone-deaf people out there and yes, it was possible we could find others who had siren heritage and could blow the horns. But could we do it in time ?

Adriana motioned from the window. “Mr. Fulbright is back. Are we ready?”

“No,” I said honestly, still staring into those bright green eyes. “But that doesn’t really matter.”

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this, Nathan?” Standing in the small courthouse, Mick was staring at a piece of paper with a fine trembling in his hands. “I’m not positive it’s legal.”

The old man nodded once, firmly. “It gives the terms in writing, it’s signed, and Joe’s signed as notary. Once you hand me a ten-dollar bill, it’s a deed. You’ll own this land and there’s not a thing anyone can do to take it from you provided you eventually pay off the twenty-four-million-dollar note.” He shrugged. “And the first payment isn’t due for two years. If you don’t have the money by then … and we’re not dead, I or my heirs will just take back the land.”

Mick looked truly torn. Being in law, no doubt he knew how many things could go wrong. I shrugged. “Couldn’t you add in a sentence that nullifies the deal if you don’t get the bequest? In case the challenge to the Will succeeds?”

Fulbright nodded his head. “I’d agree to that. Seems fair.” He pulled the paper out of Mick’s hands and proceeded to carefully print the words and initial them. He handed it to the other man—Joe, who was acting as notary. “You need to initial it, too?”

The man nodded and did. “For a situation like this, I’d suggest the Buyer also sign.” He pushed the pen across the desk toward Mick, who was nearly as pale as me. “Then there’s no questions.” When Mick didn’t move, Joe half-stood from his chair. “Mick. Look at me.” The terrified man did. “Would I ever suggest anything that could ruin your name or family or stand you in front of me?”