The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page A

his arms around me. It’s only against his steadiness that I realize how badly I’m shaking. After a few moments, he pulls back, so I tighten my arms, not letting him go. “Just… give me a minute.”
    He stands there with me for a long stretch of time, staring at me with his worried, green eyes and then putting his chin on my head. Only now, in his arms, do I feel safe again. When I finally loosen my hold, he gets me a can of cola and I tell him about Heather, about the desperate look in her eye and the letters. What they mean. And then the dam of fear and sadness breaks open and I cry like an idiot, smearing the rest of my makeup down my face. Although the holy water bath did a good enough job of that.
    Cam leads me to the sofa and sits me down, keeping his arm around my shoulders. The weight of his arm and his warmth are comforting. I cry and cry, but not just about Heather or the malicious gleam in her eyes. I cry about my mom, Nonna, my dad, everything, until I can’t cry anymore.
    “Sorry,” I say stupidly.
    “Don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Cam’s jaw is set and I know he’s angry, but I also know it’s not directed at me. I bury my face in his shoulder and cry some more. “You have to stop apologizing all the time, Nic,” he says softly.
    I don’t know what I’d do without Cam. He’s a senior and probably heading to Stanford after he graduates, and I’m pretty sure the distance will kill me, but Cam swears it won’t matter. Moments like this, I have no choice but to believe it. He’s my rock. I can’t bear to think about what would happen without him.
    “I’m glad I have you,” I mumble into his shoulder. “It’s nice to have a person I never have to lie to.”
    After a few moments, I sit up and dry my eyes. He kisses my cheek, which is hot and tear-streaked. He smooths my hair out of my eyes.
    “I should go get cleaned up. Can I—”
    “Steal whatever. But if you accidentally spill tomato sauce on another band t-shirt, I might start to sense a pattern.”
    I laugh weakly. A few months ago, I jacked one of his favorite concert shirts after we got soaked by the rain on the walk from the bus. His mom had made spaghetti and invited me to stay for dinner, and I got a glob of sauce right in the middle of the shirt. Even Cam’s mom’s best efforts couldn’t save it.
    I go upstairs to the bathroom Cam shares with his sister. I take a shower and borrow some of Cathy’s watermelon shampoo. Cam uses it when he runs out of his shampoo, and it makes his hair smell fruity, which I love.
    I rub at the steam in the mirror. My eyes are still bloodshot, but I feel a lot better. I put my hair into a stubby little ponytail. Bruises are flowering on my ribs, just below my chest, an angry yellowish-brown. There’s a faint line on my neck where Heather Bancroft held the dagger. I check for marks or battle scares, but my oval face is unscathed and looks like it always does: My eyes a little too far apart and my nose slightly too big. I scratch my nose and the white scar on my arm stands out against my skin, a jagged, white line that runs from my elbow to the middle of my arm. A very small scar for an accident I shouldn’t have survived.
    I take my bra into Cam’s room. It’s a little damp, but I’m not willing to go without one with people coming over. I dig out a pair of Cam’s gray sweat pants and a purple t-shirt for Elephant Zeppelin, a whiny, emo band Cam dragged me to see with him. The opening band was a violinist with a cellist, so that was good, but Elephant Zeppelin is another band I don’t get. Their songs are all about brooding at windows and making clever puns. I tug it on anyway. At least it’s dry and I’m feeling pretty ironic, besides. When I come back out, Cam’s pouring bags of chips into large mixing bowls.
    “Well, at least I won’t be overly dressed for the party,” I say, attempting a joke.
    He eyes the shirt. “I can cancel it. We can have a real movie