Sweet Peril

One week after the summit demon whisperers began to stalk me. For six months. Every. Day. Until a week ago. I thought maybe it was over. Maybe I’d proven myself and they’d leave me alone. Wrong.

I’d shocked my own self with my sudden and fierce will to live. My eyes had been opened that night in New York City. I was meant to live and fulfill a purpose. They’d taken so much from me already—my former dreams and aspirations. I refused to hand over my life after all I’d been through, so I came out fighting, despite my sensitive, angelic side.

Ravenous for life, I’d searched for trouble with a sort of desperation. If there was a party, I was there. I drank sometimes—but mostly just pretended—I dressed to the trends, got three piercings in one ear and two in the other, plus a belly ring, and let the übercool stylist do whatever she wanted to my hair as long as it stayed blond. Very blond. Because blondes had more fun, right? I appeared to be having a blast.

Funny thing, appearances.

“Will you make us some dirty kisses?” one girl called out.

I smiled.

I’d made up a shot at a party and named it the dirty kiss. It’d become my signature drink, requiring the drinker to lick chocolate syrup from the bottom of a shot glass.

I gave a disappointed tsk with a smack of my lips. “I don’t have the stuff tonight. But I’ll make you something good, don’t worry.”

They cheered, and I was ashamed by the thrill I got from their attention. I turned toward the fridge, stomach churning. I’d gotten good at putting on a show under the stress of a demon’s eyes. Right now, I knew it was slithering above the people behind me. The sooner I could get rid of it, the better.

And I was in luck. At the bottom of the fridge were two trays of Jell-O shots.

“Well, hello there,” I said, pulling them out. I had no idea where the party host was or if the trays were being saved for something in particular, but none of that mattered. I held up the blue beauties and said, “Jell-O shots, anyone?”

They all hollered with excitement like I was their hero.

Egged on by the demon’s dark whispers, all sense of decision making among the partiers became suddenly muddled. Designated drivers reached for shots. Curfews were forgotten. Hands felt for bodies that weren’t theirs to touch. It hurt to keep a smile on my face as I watched the spirit work.

The demon’s gurgling cackle rang in my ears for only me to hear. The party had begun.

I woke with thumping behind my eyes and a dry mouth. I reached for the half-full water bottle by my bed and was chugging the contents when the events of last night floated to the surface of my sluggish memory.

A beer bong. A drunken kiss in the bathroom between me and some random guy. People getting sick in the bushes outside. Arguments with people who’d been drinking and wanted to drive anyway. A guy from school, Matt, wrestling his keys from me and stumbling to his car with his girlfriend, Ashley.

I bolted upright in bed and clutched my mouth to keep from spewing the water.

Oh, no. Matt drove. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.

With shaking hands I grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand. It was only nine in the morning, probably too early, but I didn’t care. I texted Ashley to see if they’d made it home safely, then held my breath until she texted back, saying they were fine.

With a ragged exhale, I slid down from the bed and hit my knees, leaning my forehead in my palms. I hated this—this life of being a Nephilim. What would happen the day someone wasn’t okay? When a night of partying with Anna Whitt resulted in tragedy? It was hard to believe I lived a blessed existence in comparison to other children of demons. My father was a “good guy,” but he sure played the role of bad demon to perfection.

Feeling steadier, I rose and went to my dresser, taking out a small black-handled dagger. I faced the thick plywood board I’d rigged against the wall with a painted life-size body on it, now covered in punctures. Patti found the thing gruesome. I began a therapeutic round of throws, using memories from the past half year to fuel me.

My father’s ally, the demon Azael, ironically also the messenger of Lucifer himself, came to me that night six months ago when I’d found out Kaidan Rowe had moved to L.A. Rahab has issued an order for all Neph to be under watch until further notice. Your father is also under investigation. Good luck to you, daughter of Belial.

I hit the palm of the target’s hand with the dagger. My entire junior year had been sucktastic, especially the second half. I went from being an honor roll student to barely squeaking by. It’s funny how knowing you’ll never be able to pursue your dreams can kill your motivation to keep up the GPA. Instead of doing homework, I’d spent my time learning to sling sharp objects. I retrieved the knife and aimed again.

For six months I’d been hounded. I had to constantly remind Patti not to show affection, and it broke my heart. We’d developed a sign for when spirits were around: a scratch to my chin. She’d leave my presence so they couldn’t see her colors. They couldn’t know she cared.

The knife sunk into the target’s elbow with a thud. And so it went around the body.

I hadn’t cried in six months, since that day I stood at Lookout Point. Fear and trauma had taken their toll. I used to hate my tear ducts—thought tears made me weak. I’d taken their cleansing relief for granted, like so many other things.

Thud.

Somewhere in the world my father was busy keeping up his facade as the Duke of Substance Abuse. But he’d still set up lessons for me in self-defense right after the summit. Grueling, hard-core lessons that defied my peaceful instincts.