Slate Gray

Chapter 4: Ace Slate

It starts to snow while I'm on the bus and the urge to run around with my sister, catching flakes on our tongues, is almost enough to make me turn back. I'd much rather be laughing with her than charging off alone to fight a demonic foe. But my bed has been made so I might as well lie in it.

I've strapped the sawed-off shotgun into a cumbersome leg holster and it keeps bumping against my thigh every time the bus stutters to a stop. Pulling my borrowed peacoat closer to keep the friendly driver off my back, I continue to internally debate this ludicrous decision.

In the Pro Column: protecting a life, proving myself, guaranteeing Serrano keeps her ghastly hands to herself. In the Anti Column: month-long grounding, familial rage, death. But as I approach my stop, my hand darts out to pull the cord and my fate is sealed. Here goes nothing.

The intrepid employee from earlier, Terry Han, sits on the curb, staring into the distance and smoking what I assume is a joint from the odor. The store is empty but brightly lit behind him, like he turned on every light to scare away whatever he sensed lurking between the aisles. 

I stand straighter as I approach, hoping to exude an air of competent authority. "Shouldn't they have given you the rest of the night off?"

Recognition flashes and he gives me an upnod, exhaling smoke. "You'd think, huh? But my coworker couldn't stop crying so," he shrugs, "I figured I'd take one for the team."

Terry puts his joint out on the concrete and rises, pulling the hood of his dark leather jacket further over his face. He's taller than I remember. Studying the empty air behind me, he frowns. "Where's Dr. Slate?"

"He'll be here soon," I lie, using my most winning smile to sell it. "Why don't you walk me through what's been going on?"

Cocking his head, he takes in the fact that I'm over a foot shorter than him and, you know, fifteen.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, lifting my chin.

Called out, he sheepishly rubs at his neck. "I'm not sure I feel comfortable letting you back in there. How old are you anyway?"

"Thirty-seven," I snap, shoving past him and across the threshold.

The second I step inside I can feel the Low-Level Demon's presence. It's so oppressive that my ears pop. Like a giant's hand has pushed all the air together and made it denser somehow, soupy. There's something hellish here and it wants to play.

Straightaway, I catch sight of the collapsed shelf. The body has long been removed, the surrounding area swept and mopped but seeing it sends a few wisps of doubt twisting around my abdomen.

No. Stop it. I can't keep second guessing myself. The whole reason we're here in the town, on this case, is because I believe I'm ready. What I lack in experience, I more than make up for with my fountain of knowledge. And first and foremost, I know how to read a room for signs of demonic activity.

Colder than it should be? Check.

Full body sweat despite said cold? Check.

Mysterious sense of dread? Check.

Fight and Flight response going haywire? Check.

Smoothing my braid, I turn to the employee full of inquisitive hope. "So, what made you call my dad?"

Terry blushes. Uh oh. He's cute. Like, really cute. That didn't register until now. My body suddenly feels gangly, my movements awkward. And when he grins, something in me stirs at the discovery of dimples. I look anywhere but directly at him to keep from blushing myself.

"It's stupid now that I think about it, but it started as a feeling. Like, everywhere I went someone was watching me." Brushing the hood back, he tousles his black hair so it falls pleasantly across his forehead. I swear he does it on purpose but it's pretty clear he's oblivious to the effect he's having. I'm the one making it weird. Rein it in, girl.