Chapter 23

Matt

Ian and I wait impatiently while Dylan sets up his computer and then starts… doing stuff. I thought he was going to open the email he got sent, but instead he's staring at a screen with streams of code on it, occasionally typing faster than I can even wiggle my fingers.

This is… not good.

And not just because this email might be someone doing bad things. Our original plan for tonight was to get settled into the house, then go over to Marc's place for dinner and a strategy meeting. I'd hoped, at some point, to be able to get Marc alone and ask if I'd accidentally become a demon when he healed me. I'm trying to be fair and reasonable and not consider the thought that he did it on purpose—he loves Ian. Ian loves me. Marc and I might not be besties, but we've reached a place of mutual tolerance because it makes Ian happy. I truly don't think he'd fuck with that, not after seeing how he is with my brother-bestie.

But the thought is lingering at the back of my mind, and that kind of makes me hate myself. Paranoia's another sign of head trauma, right? So it could still be the option two, my favorite, the one where my brain's fucked-up but I'm not in a coma and not a demon. Dylan would stay with me through head trauma.

In the meantime, I can tell he knows something's up, and it's making the whole thing worse. I need to give him some information before he decides I'm more trouble than I'm worth. I want that information to be that I have a traumatic brain injury and need to seek medical treatment… but I can't know that for sure until I talk to Marc and make sure I'm not a demon.

But —and this is the scary part—what if I'm in a coma, and coma-dream Marc tells me I'm a demon? Then what do I do? I won't really be a demon because I'm in a coma, but I'll think I am and lose Dylan anyway. How the hell can I make myself wake up from a coma?

Or worse —what if I'm in the coma, but not because I got beat up on a job? What if I'm in the coma because Dylan and I were in some kind of accident, and the reason my brain isn't waking up is because I know he's dead? Is that even medically possible?

"Dude, I can hear you thinking from here," Ian mutters. "What the fuck is going on?"

I shake my head. I can't tell him. Not until I've talked to Marc and decided whether or not I'm in a coma.

Although… this could be a good coma test, right? What would coma-Ian say versus real Ian?

Fuck, I need sleep. And booze.

Luckily for me, Ian's not even paying attention to me anymore. His gaze is on Dylan. "How long do you think this will take?" he whispers.

I shrug. "As long as it takes." I've learned the hard way that it can be minutes or hours… or days. Pride fills me the way it always does when I think about how smart Dyl is.

I can't lose him.

Beside me, Ian jolts slightly.

"You okay?"

He shakes his head, then nods. "Yeah, just… you know, a random… chill." He gives me a meaningful look, but his phone rings before I can process it, and he snatches it out of his pocket. Or wait—was he already reaching for his pocket when it rang?

Ohhh. Marc must be talking in his head. So fucking creepy.

"Yeah," Ian's saying, then, " What? "

Slowly, I turn my head to look at him, because to anyone else, he might sound surprised, but I know Ian. I've plotted with him before, more times than I can count. I know what his fake surprised voice sounds like, and that was it. He wants me to think he's surprised by what he just heard, but he really isn't. Which means my bestie is about to lie to me.

Why would he do that? We don't do that. We've held things back sometimes, but never have we lied outright to each other. What would be the point? Neither of us would get offended if the other said, "I don't wanna talk about it" or "I can't tell you."

I really wish I knew if this was a coma dream or reality. Can I trust coma-dream Ian?

Jesus. I never imagined I'd ever be in a place or time where I wasn't sure if I could trust Ian.

He ends the call and says, "We've gotta go to Marc's place, now."

Oh-kay. "We're kind of in the middle of something." I gesture to Dylan furiously typing and muttering to himself. "Can't he come here?"

"Dylan!" Ian raises his voice. "We need to leave. Bring your laptop and work on that instead."

Whoa. I take a step back from my bestie. The love of my life is a pretty even-tempered guy, but not even I would presume to give him an order when it comes to his techie stuff.

Sure enough, the staccato clicking of keys pauses, and Dyl turns a glare on Ian. "This can't be done on my laptop."

"Tell Marc to come here," I add. That's easier all around, since he's the only one who can teleport. Or whatever he calls it.

"Guys, I need you to really listen to me, because there are some things I can't say out loud here, no matter how safe our house is," Ian says, and there's a tense edge to his voice now. "We need to go to Marc's. Now."

Cold fear races down my spine, and my gaze flies to Dylan. He's looking back at me, the same fear reflected in his face. We need to go to Marc's, and Ian can't talk about it. That could be about his relationship, my healing, or something totally unconnected—but demonic.

"Okay," Dylan says. His expression is at odds with how calm he sounds. "Then we'll go. Give me a second to secure this."

"Do we need weapons?" I ask, and Ian shakes his head, but his face is grim as he goes to get his keys. My tension ramps up. Whatever the fuck this is, it can't be good.

Two minutes later, we're out the door and in the car. I wait until we've turned out the gates of the compound before I ask, "Can you tell us now?"

Ian sucks in a breath. "There's a higher demon at Marc's place."

"Other than him?" I don't realize how stupid that sounds until the words are out of my mouth.

"Yeah."

"Do we know?—"

"All I know is that there's a higher demon there and Marc said to come ASAP."

And there it is. The lie. I let it stand for now—if there's a higher demon at Marc's place, now isn't the time for an argument. But he can bet his ass we'll be having one later.

I wish I knew if this was real or not. The way I'd deal with a coma dream is waaaay different from how I'd deal with reality.

The rest of the ride is tensely silent. None of us knows what to say, and Ian doesn't even put the radio on. I think we're all too focused on what might be waiting for us at Marc's place —me and Dylan because we have no fucking clue what it is, and Ian because he's not happy about whatever it is. I can tell, because even though Marc's place isn't far from the compound, we shouldn't have made it there this fast.

Parked out front, we sit for a second and stare at the house. It looks the same as usual, and my hunter senses aren't picking up demonic presences—which means nothing, because higher demons have the ability to mask, something we never knew until six years ago.

Ian opens his door and gets out, and I scramble to do the same. He's halfway up the front path before Dylan and I are even on the sidewalk, so I guess we're not going in with any kind of plan.

But then, since he's lying about what he knows, he probably doesn't need one. Whatever this higher demon wants that we needed to rush over here for, we're not in danger—not unless this is a coma dream and it turns out I can't trust dream-Ian. In which case, I guess my coma might be about to end?

I grab Dylan's hand and hurry to catch up.

Using his key, Ian lets us into the house. Everything seems… normal. There's a quiet murmur of voices coming from Marc's favorite living room—or as he calls it, the parlor—to the right, but no chaos, no yelling, no tenseness pervading the air.

"Marc?" Ian calls, and I narrow my eyes at the back of his head. Can't he hear that Ma?—

Are they speaking too softly for him to hear them? Is it my demon powers at work that allows me to?

"In the parlor," Marc calls back, and I'm left to wonder as we head in that direction.

Ian doesn't pause, just barrels into the room and goes directly to stand beside Marc, who's rising from the armchair. Dylan and I stop just inside the doorway, and I focus on the other… being in the room, who's getting up from the fancy-ass leather couch.

He's… hot. I guess since higher demons get to choose what they look like—mindfuck—that kind of makes sense, but I don't have to like it. Beings that have the power to destroy me without lifting a finger shouldn't be so attractive to me.

"Is GQ the only magazine available in the otherworld?" Dylan asks, and I snort-laugh. Because… yeah. This demon isn't dressed as formally as Marc, who still apparently wears a suit when he's at home alone, but the casual separates and loafers still give him that rich, just-stepped-off-a-private-jet look. Paired with the swept-back black hair and chiseled features, he may as well be holding a sign that says, "Stereotype of a European billionaire."

"I beg your pardon?" the new demon asks, and while his voice isn't quite as condescending as Marc's, there's still plenty of "how dare you speak to me" in his tone. It's a nice voice, though. I guess they get to choose those too.

"Ignore them," Marc declares. "They're barely verbal." I open my mouth to protest that— verbally , fuck him very much—but he's already moved on. "Ian, Matthias, Dylan, this is Raum. He's come from Crm?rdinesgh"—there's the slightest emphasis there, Marc reminding us that we're rude bastards for calling it the otherworld—"on a matter of importance."

"It's not killing us, is it?" I'm only half joking, but the new demon—Raum—looks me up and down and sneers.

"Not without reason."

Oh, great.

"I think we're getting off on the wrong foot here," Ian says hastily even as Dylan and I step backward into the hallway. "For fuck's sake, get in here so we can hear what this is about."

Dyl squeezes my hand. "I guess since you dragged me away from what might be the most important breakthrough we've had so far, the least we can do is listen. It better be good, though."

If looks could kill, Dylan would just have been murdered by two demons and my bestie. Actually… can higher demons kill with a look? I know they can with a thought , and I guess if they were looking at you while they thought it, that might count as killing with a look, but I feel like there's a nuance there that can be argued.

Also, if this is what I'm thinking about right now, it makes a good case for the traumatic brain injury scenario.

"It's not good," Raum says stiffly. "Not from our perspective. I'm sure murderous humans think differently."

Ian takes a deep breath, but it's Marc who speaks. "We're all on the same side here. Please tell them what you told me, and you'll see that it's true."

Raum doesn't seem convinced, but he addresses me and Dylan. "I am an investigator for Crm?rdinesgh's… I suppose police force is the closest equivalent."

"FBI, perhaps," Marc suggests. "Raum has been working for several years on a series of missing persons cases."

"Missing demons," I correct. I can't help myself. Another argument in favor of head trauma.

I get another round of dirty looks, but nobody argues with me, and Raum continues.

"With the new stability in our world since the rebuilding of the barrier, it came to my attention that my cases might be more widespread than I thought. You see?—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Dylan says even as he interrupts, proving that he is, in fact, perfect for me, "but could you give us the tl;dr first and then fill in the gaps? Because this slow build of tension is gonna drive me bananas, dude."

Raum stares at him, then turns to Marc. "This… this is what you must deal with?"

Marc shrugs. "There is a reason nobody wanted my job. Also, tl;dr means he'd like to know the focal point of the story first."

Nodding, Raum folds his arms and faces us again. "The… tl;dr… is that I believe humans are summoning demons and trafficking them as slaves."