“Does your stomach still hurt?” she asked. I studied my mom as she sat on my bed. Her dark hair was coiled into a no-nonsense bun, and she was in a classically tailored blue pantsuit—one of her “power outfits,” she called them. She only wore them when she was expecting a particularly stressful day at work.
“I’m feeling a lot better,” I said cheerfully, not wanting to worry my mom. She must have had a trying day at work if she’d dressed in her power armor. I stretched and yawned, my sore muscles twingeing. “Still achy and a little sleepy. But so much better.”
“Still sleepy?” My dad’s eyebrows practically shot off his face. “Paige, you’ve been asleep for fifteen hours.”
My alarm clock didn’t say 7:00 p.m.—it was 7:00 a.m.
“Oh.”
“‘Oh’ is right,” my dad replied, grabbing a thermometer off my nightstand. “Now, let’s see how this fever’s doing.”
It was one hundred and two, just as Logan had predicted.
“I think it’s this bug going around. It usually lasts about three days,” I said, trying to ease the worry off my parents’ faces that I’d put there. Again.
“We should take her to the doctor. She’s got to have an infection for her temperature to be so high,” Dad fretted to Mom, as if I weren’t even there.
“No!” I nearly yelled, and my parents stared at my outburst in confusion. I didn’t want to add antibiotics to the list of fake medications I was supposed to be taking. “Look, if it’s not better by tomorrow morning, then you can take me. I promise you, I’ll be ready to do jumping jacks by then.”
“Paige, I think—”
“I already feel so much better than yesterday. It’s only the stomach flu. Just let me rest. Please, Daddy?” I lowered my head and stuck out my bottom lip, gazing at him through my lashes. My pouty face was the one surefire weapon I had in my anti-Dad arsenal, so I used it rarely. But Logan and I hadn’t counted on my father’s overreaction to everything that had to do with my health in our It’s So Easy to Fake Sick scheme.
“Fine, but if your fever hasn’t gone down, you’re off to the doctor,” he said adamantly.
I agreed—making sure my face was extra-smiley for my mom’s benefit. I didn’t want her stressed out at work, distracted on my behalf. I knew it crushed her to leave me when I was sick. Craziness couldn’t be cured with cough drops and chicken soup, but a fever was something my parents knew how to fix.
After a stomach-flu-appropriate breakfast of weak tea and toast, I convinced my father that I’d be fine at home while he picked up some rich kid in the West Village. But the front door had barely shut before I ordered a massive bacon, egg and cheese sandwich from the bodega, cursing the bagel hole as I ate for not being full of delicious bagel. Apparently, opening portals to other dimensions really burned calories, because I was still hungry—and contemplating pancakes from the diner—when my dad returned with lemon chicken soup and convinced me to join him on the couch for a movie marathon.
I curled up on one end of the sofa with a heaping bowl of soup, trying to sip it as slowly as someone recovering from a stomach bug would while my dad camped out on the other end. He’d changed out of his work suit so it wouldn’t wrinkle, opting for jeans and a bulky, neon-blue sweatshirt from some travel website that had already gone out of business. We’d just finished watching some breaking news report about a sudden drop in the stock market and joking that “It’s time to sell the yacht, Jeeves,” when my dad asked in a practiced casual tone, “So, this Logan kid...I’d like to know what the story is.”
You and me both, Dad. I glanced over to my father, whose cheeks turned slightly pink as he waited for my answer. I decided the best defense was a good offense.
“Dad, you’re blushing. With the blue sweatshirt, pink face and red hair, you’re rocking a serious snow cone vibe.”
“Really, Paige? A snow cone?”
“Just saying, your interrogation tactics are anything but subtle,” I observed, turning back to my soup as I fished for a piece of chicken.
“Well, back in my day, you didn’t spend all weekend with a girl, or walk her home from school, or give her your clothing to wear, unless you were courting her,” my father huffed in reply. Oh, Dad, if only you knew my clothing had been wrecked by demons.
“Dad, really? Courting? I didn’t know your day was the day of the Pony Express.”
“And now you bring out the ‘Dad’s so old’ jokes. Nice, Paige. You’re wounding your dear father’s delicate heart,” he said, placing a hand over his chest as he pretended to sniffle.
“You’re the one who said the word courting,” I countered, pretending to gag. “Dad, I’d bet five bucks that when you were in high school, you never said court unless it was preceded by the word basketball.”
“We courted young ladies in our day,” Dad insisted, his face serious.
I snorted like the delicate flower I was, holding my soup with both hands so I didn’t spill it as I shook with laughter. “Right, Dad,” I said dryly. “I can just picture you saying, ‘Yeah, I really want to court that girl. I want to court her so hard!’”
“Paige, watch it,” my dad warned me. “Just because you’re not feeling well doesn’t mean it’s a license to mouth off.”
“Sorry,” I huffed, frowning. Mom would have laughed.
We watched a few more minutes of the movie before my father tried again.
“Your mother tells me that Logan moves around a lot. Do you know how long he’s here for?”
I stirred my soup, watching the chicken and rice as it swirled in a whirlpool.
“No,” I admitted, adding, “but neither does he.” That much was true. It’s not as if we knew when Aiden would finally be killed.
“So, I take it he makes a lot of, um, new friends in every new city?” My father emphasized the words.
“Dad, seriously?” I asked, shaking my head, even though I had also wondered just how detailed Logan’s romantic history was.
“Well, Paige, put yourself in my position.”
“Not if I have to wear that blue sweatshirt.”
My father threw his hands up in the air, exasperated, and pushed himself off the couch, pacing the small living room. “I’m trying, Paige. I’m trying to have a regular conversation with you. Your mom insisted that we treat you like you’re normal—”
“I am normal,” I retorted through clenched teeth, making an effort to keep my voice even. But my hands were another story, the green and white bowl clattering as I set my soup on the coffee table.
“I know you are, Paige,” Dad relented, the cushions sinking under his frame as he settled back onto the navy couch. “But I’m your father, so I’m going to give this guy the third degree. And your situation makes me worry that someone will take advantage of you. I can’t help it.”
Dad patted me on the shoulder. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt, honey. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I’ve seen the way that Logan kid looks at you.”
“Oh? So, how does he look at me?” I asked with forced casualness. He’s just being overprotective. Dad hates the way everyone looks at you, right?
“Like the sun shines out of your—” Dad grumbled, stopping short when he realized he was speaking out loud. “Just be careful, honey,” he repeated, giving me a quick hug. He held me tightly before releasing me to my end of the couch, where I curled up again with my soup. I ate it quickly, hoping I could squeeze in a quick nap before Logan came over after school—opening portals between worlds was pretty draining, and I didn’t want to face “the talk” with shadows underneath my eyes.
I flopped on my mattress, half dreading his arrival, and half desperate to see the one person who knew everything. Logan knew the real me, knew I wasn’t crazy. He was the one person I didn’t have to constantly lie to. I still had some questions for him, so I pull
ed my sketch pad out of my closet and turned to a fresh page, writing down every random question that popped into my mind. Serious questions about the concept of demon families followed curious questions about the variegated color of demon blood, but the biggest questions were ones I couldn’t bring myself to write down: How did he end up in this life with Rego? What happened to his parents?
And then there were the questions I was afraid to ask him. Like, what happens to us once Aiden is killed? Is there even an us to worry about? The way he’d left things made me think there wasn’t...but he had definitely seemed like he was about to kiss me in the music room.
I put my pen down and bunched up my comforter, burying my face in it as Mercer curled up between my ankles. I knew I’d have to find out these answers, and soon.
My father woke me with a gentle shake on my shoulder. I rubbed my eyes as I blinked up at him, confused.
“Hey, kiddo, are you ready for dinner?” Dad asked, his eyebrows pulling together with concern. “Your mom will be home soon.”
“Dinner? I just had lunch. It’s still early,” I replied with a yawn, even though my stomach rumbled at the thought of more food. I scratched my head, trying to remember when I fell asleep. I’d been writing questions for Logan and shut my eyes for one minute....
My sleep-bleary eyes tried to focus on the clock. That time can’t be right.
“Early? Paige, it’s a little after eight.”
“But Logan—he was supposed to come by after school....” I stammered, feeling the color drain from my face as I gripped my comforter in my fists. What could I say to my father? That I was worried Aiden had shown up, full of rage and vengeance, and attacked Logan? That I was terrified he was no match for Aiden’s murderous devices, like those vicious slice-and-dice coins that could torture and kill? Or that my dad had completely misread “how Logan looks at me,” and he’d decided there was nothing to talk about?
“No one came by. He probably caught the flu,” Dad said when he saw my pained expression. “It sounded like you did everything except vomit on him yesterday.”
“Right. The flu,” I repeated dully, nodding my head.
“Don’t feel guilty, kiddo. I don’t think that’ll exactly drive him away,” my dad said, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I need a shotgun and a front porch.”
“Look, your mom is coming home soon, and she’s going to make you some scrambled eggs and toast for dinner. Think your stomach can handle that?”
I nodded automatically, even though my stomach was now twisting with the fear that something had happened to Logan.
Over dinner, my parents chalked up my distraction to the stomach flu, and I raced to my bedroom promptly afterward, grabbing my laptop and scouring everything my classmates posted online, looking for mentions of Logan, Aiden, any kind of fight at the school...but I found nothing except snarky commentary about Pepper and Matt’s apparently renewed relationship status and repeated posts about their never-ending love for each other.
I shook my head at Pepper and Matt’s drama—when I was six, I would have aptly proclaimed it a Barf-a-rama—and shut my laptop, my imagination going into hyperactive mode, launching detailed scenarios where Logan was attacked by Aiden. The images blended together, assaulting my dreams as I fell into a fitful night’s sleep, my phone clutched in my hand in case he managed to call me from a diner or something.
But Logan didn’t call. My night was lost to bizarre dreams, nonsensical narratives full of demons and disapproving parents and Logan vanishing into mist when I reached out for him. And the next day, the hours after school came and passed again without any word from him.
“I think one more day and you’ll be fine,” my mom was saying after dinner, inspecting the thermometer in her hands. My temperature readout was only in the high nineties; I’d managed to slip it out of my mouth when my mom stepped away to say goodbye as my dad left for the night shift.
“Have you heard from your friend?” Mom asked, tapping my phone where it was charging next to me on the couch.
“No. He doesn’t have a phone, though,” I added, and my mom’s dark eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“A teenager with no phone? Talk about a mythical creature!” Mom laughed in surprise.
“His uncle’s strict,” I offered as a means of explanation, and my mom gave me an understanding smile.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll hear from your friend—” Mom loaded the word with innuendo “—very soon.”
But he didn’t call. And that night, I couldn’t sleep again. I curled up in bed, the tears that had streaked down my face and soaked my pillow finally starting to dry. I hadn’t heard from Logan in more than two days. Would Rego have bothered informing me if Logan were hurt? I laughed harshly to myself, pretty sure I already knew the answer to that. Maybe I could call the school tomorrow, pretending to be a relative with a family emergency, needing to speak to Aiden. At least I’d know if he’d come to school. If he’d shown up, Logan definitely would have fought him.
Thinking of the possibility that Aiden had killed Logan sparked a fresh round of tears, spurred on by more fears—that Cerus had ambushed Logan in the middle of the night, seeking vengeance for the earlier affront to his ego, or yet another nameless demon had shown up to end Logan’s life.
And then there was the other completely selfish but completely real fear: that Logan was avoiding me. He knew that I had feelings for him—the fact that I had been able to break Della’s spell was proof enough of that. So maybe the real reason why he hadn’t shown up was that Logan had taken a one-way train out of Paige’s Awkward Crushville.
My phone began buzzing, scaring my cat off the bed as it vibrated, the number of my corner bodega flashing on the screen.
“Hello?” I sniffled, wondering if I had underpaid for my bagel sandwich yesterday.
“Hey, it’s me. Can you meet me on your roof? I know it’s late, but can you sneak out?”
“Logan?” I cried, relief flooding my system. I ran to my bedroom door, shutting it. My parents’ bedroom was on the opposite end of our apartment, but I didn’t want to risk waking them.
“Are you okay?” I whispered, spinning my bracelet nervously.
“Yeah,” he replied, his voice rising in surprise at my question. “Listen, I actually asked if I could use the phone here instead of, well, you know, using my talents. I don’t want to stay on longer than necessary. Can you meet me?”
“You’re totally okay?” I repeated.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Give me a bit and I’ll be up there.” Of course I’d be there. I’d been panicking for more than two days. He sounded okay, but I needed to see that he was alive and well. Maybe he was lying to me so I wouldn’t worry before I saw him.
I splashed some water on my face, trying my best to hide my puffy eyes underneath my own baseball cap. I dressed quickly in dark blue yoga pants, a tank top and a hoodie, and pulled on my well-worn Chucks. I figured they were my quietest shoes, allowing me to stealthily tiptoe through my apartment. But what did I know? It’s not like I had a storied history of sneaking out late at night. I stood before the front door, making a silent bargain with it.
If you promise not to squeak too loudly, I won’t let you slam shut behind me anymore.
The hinges were silent until I’d opened the door enough to slip out through the narrow opening, and they unleashed one short—but shrill—screech, as if it were a warning sign to tell me they’d been my quiet accomplice long enough. I paused to listen for my father’s snore, which fortunately didn’t falter.
The door shut quietly, the hinges taking silent mercy on me, and I slowly started my ascent up the stairs to the roof.
The night was cold but clear, the moon and Venus piercing the cloudless black sky with bright white light. The roof was dark, illuminated with the
soft hazy glow of traffic and streetlights below us. I braced myself to see Logan slumped in a corner, battle-scarred and weary.
Instead, I found Logan casually leaning against the low barrier over the air shaft that separated our building from the shorter one next door. He gave me a slow, easy smile as he pushed himself off the roof, holding out a blue cup.
“I brought you hot chocolate,” he offered. Logan looked the same as he had last weekend; his messy brown hair was tucked underneath a Yankees cap—a different one, since his regular cap had been sucked into another dimension. His gray hoodie hung open over a black T-shirt, and a smile was on his face as he held out the cup, the fragrant, sweet smell wafting through the cold air.
He really was fine.
And now that I knew he was alive, I wanted to kill him for making me worry.
I took the cup, tracing my fingers over the white plastic lid before I set it back on the wall.
“You’re okay,” I accused.
“And that’s a problem?” he asked, bewildered.
“Aiden never showed up?”
“No,” Logan said, a flicker of annoyance flashing across his face. “What are you getting at?”
“Didn’t it ever occur to you to let me know you were at least alive?”
“Come on, Paige. No one can get to you at home. It was just a few days.” Logan shrugged, as if his disappearance was no big deal.
“Just a few days? A lot can happen in just a few days, Logan.” I touched my cheek, which had been slashed open mere days earlier. “Look at what happened to me the last two days I was in school! I’ve been terrified that Aiden got to you—that he hurt you somehow. I’ve been home with no way to get ahold of you, thinking something happened to you!”
Logan’s face softened as he studied me, and he stood slowly, approaching me carefully.
“Paige, have you been crying?”
“No.” I shook my head, and he came closer, tilting up the brim of my cap. Damn stupid puffy eyes.