The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) Read Free Page B

illusion. It was terrifying, like a nightmare walking right into your reality.
    But after spending most of the year delivering envelopes for him, he no longer freaks me out. He’s become a normal part of my life: The demon who shows up and hands me envelopes to deliver like it’s any other after-school job. The ancient part of my predator-versus-prey brain is always urging me to run in the opposite direction, but otherwise, I’m used to him. Anyhow, he’s never tried to hurt me, and he did save my life. His only threats are in the form of insistence that I do my job.
    The sun glints off of his ever-present sunglasses. I wonder if his eyes are bright red or all black or something. I’m sure they’re inhuman.
    “Do all of your friends know about me?” he asks, nodding toward the cupcake place.
    “I told her you’re my cousin. What is it?”
    “What is it ever?”
    “Two days in a row?” I sound whiny. I clear my throat.
    “Such is the nature of the business.”
    “Which is what? Buying souls for the dark lord?”
    Azmos actually snorts, which startles me. “You watch far too much television, Nicolette.” He pulls the silver envelope from his coat and hands it over.
    “Why the sudden increase in business?” I ask, purposely not looking at the name or address. Maybe if I will it to be somewhere close by before I look, I can make it so.
    “It is the way it is.”
    “That’s not an answer.”
    He smirks. “No, it’s not.” He turns and walks away, whistling a tune I don’t recognize. It’s too jaunty for a demon and it makes me angry. Why can’t he deliver the stupid letters? I’ve asked, but he gives the same non-answer he does to most of my questions.
    After a moment of fuming, I feel eyes on my back. I turn around and see Melissa standing outside of Sparkle Sugar. She quickly looks away and walks off toward her car. I feel the guilt slither and flop around in my midsection like a wriggling worm. I wonder what, if anything, she heard and what conclusions she might draw.

 
     
     
     
CHAPTER THREE
     

     
    The letter is addressed to someone named Heather Bancroft. She lives in a high-rise in Belltown, a jumbled neighborhood that’s home to rows of bars and pubs. Low-income housing and cheap studios are built right next to expensive condo developments. It’s not a neighborhood to wander around alone in after dark, but it’s still light by the time I reach Heather’s building. It’s one of the newer buildings, with gates that surround the front door.
    My usual trick at apartment buildings is to dig around in my bag like I’m looking for keys until someone goes in or comes out. Then I slip in behind them. But the black gates make that impossible, so I find a call box and hit the button for 8D. If she won’t let me in, I can call the other apartments, claiming to be a courier service, until someone buzzes me in.
    “You’re late,” the voice says, and the gate buzzes.
    I don’t question my luck, just open the gate and walk through to the lobby door, which also buzzes open for me. I don’t know whom Heather is expecting, and I don’t care if it makes this errand easier.
    I knock on the door to 8D. A voice inside calls for me to come in. I twist the knob and push the door open, taking a step inside. Suddenly, water gushes down from overhead, cascading over me. I put my hands up like I can stop the ice-cold liquid. It soaks my hair and my clothes. Drenched and stunned, I push back my wet bangs and wipe at my eyes until I can see again.
    I shiver, from both cold and shock, as water drips down my neck and into my jacket. My heart hammers in my chest and I take quick breaths to regain my bearings.
    A blue plastic bucket has fallen onto the wood floor in front of me. Someone dumped water on me. Why would anyone do that?
    A young woman stands just inside the apartment, watching me. She wears black vinyl and ripped fishnets and her short hair is black with purple streaks. She walks toward me, holding