Page 1 of Demons and Debts
1
JANE
When life hands you lemons, make lemonade!
Someone told me that once and it always stuck with me, not because it made me feel better on dark days, but because it’s such a dumb thing to say. It’s like a meme on your feed with a mountain background or a cute kitten and message on it saying something like ‘Don’t worry! You got this!’ or ‘Make someone smile every day, but never forget that your someone too.’ (Yeah, with that ‘your’.)
I don’t think the people who made up these little proverbial sayings and uplifting generic messages had a group of stalkers dogging their steps either. I mean, seriously, for one thing, what kind of fucked up lemonade can you make from a scenario where people you’ve never seen threaten to hurt anyone you come to care about, people who never let you make a home anywhere? How do you make the best ofthatshit?
I already have my hand on the door when I freeze. I can hear a tune from an old juke box. The song it’s playing is dated; not the kind of music that would be on a playlist in a crowded wine bar. There’s a pool table inside. I can hear the balls knocking against each other, low chuckles, the clink of glasses, and errant, female laughter.
I shouldn’t have come here. I told Sharlene the same thing, but she said these guys are the meanest and have the most muscle in town … for a price.
I hear someone snigger behind me and voices murmuring. I glance over my shoulder to see two human guys in their leathers, standing with their bikes and sporting the patches of some MC I’ve never heard of. I’m not surprised they’re there. This is a biker bar after all. They’re watching me, talking about me. Cold, calculating eyes take in my jeans and old sneakers, the oversized thrift store jacket that I bought to keep me dry, but is nowhere near waterproof enough for the amount of rain we’ve been getting lately.
Not giving them the chance to say anything to me directly, I yank open the door. I don’t need any trouble. I got more than I can handle as it is and that’s the only reason I’m here.
My senses are hit with the force of a sledgehammer, my usual defenses crumbling like a dried-up sandcastle on the beach. I automatically keep the cringe inside. I wish I could put my earbuds in just to help with some of the louder noise, but that would look too weird now. The cacophony of sound that had been muffled before makes my steps falter. The neon signs over the bar glare at me, and the smell of smoke and stale air assails me. I almost take a step back, call this whole thing off.
But I can’t. What’s waiting for me if I don’t do this is worse than a little discomfort.
So I push it down, wondering why it’s so hazy when lighting up indoors has been illegal forever.
I survey the room, not even trying to pretend I belong here as the second-hand smoke chokes me a little. There are quite a few people sitting around. I can see some others playing pool at the back. As I make my way over to the bar, I garner a few curious looks, but no one approaches me.
I stop and stand in front of the one and only bartender. He’s about a foot taller than me with dirty blond hair just long enough,just styled enoughto look like he simply rolled out of bed, giving the impression that he can’t be bothered to go get a haircut because he just doesn’t care. But I’m not fooled. Guys, just like girls, have to put in the effort to bethishot. It’s not a natural occurrence no matter what he wants people to think. This guy is all mirage. There’s nothing real about him.
Hot guy ignores me for long enough that my waiting for him to look up becomes awkward even though he’s not serving anyone. I’m standing right in front of him and he’s intentionally not letting his gaze fall on me.
So rude.
This is a college town and I’ve gotten used to dealing with pretty boys like him in the diner over the past few months, but as the irritation mounts, I forget my usually crippling social anxiety. I push away the sensations screaming at me to go somewhere dark and quiet and just zone out for a few hours.
‘Excuse me,’ I say lightly, pretending I haven’t even noticed his BS.
He finally looks at me and I’m caught. I’m ensnared by eyes that are the color of molten caramel with little flecks of gold that catch the lights even low as they are. My breathing stutters and I swallow hard. I’ve never felt anything like this.
His knowing smirk is enough to shake me out of my embarrassing reaction and I frown at him. What was that? What ishe?
The realization hits me, and I take a step back, my nostrils flaring on a gasp I try to keep under wraps.
Incubus.
I should have known he was one of them even though I’ve never actually met one of his kind before. In general, the supes move in very different circles from humans, but I know they hang out in this bar. That’s why I’m here.
‘You break down or something?’ he asks in a lazy drawl as if I’m taking up his valuable time.
But something in his eyes makes me think that, like the rest of his appearance, this is a show he’s putting on. There’s something about me that’s intrigued him, and I don’t like it. The last thing I need is his full attention.
‘I’m looking for the Iron Incubi.’
He barks out a loud laugh and I can’t hide my wince. What if their gatekeeper won’t even let me talk to them? What’s my plan if I can’t get their help?
Leave, a helpful voice inside my head supplies.Get on the first bus out of town before bad things start to happen here too.
But I can’t do that. I need this all to stop. I’m so tired. I just want to live my life. I don’t want to go to a new town, live on the streets for the first few months, get some shitty job that doesn’t ask questions so I can beg my way into some hellhole apartment on the worst street. And then do it all again in a few months just like I always have to do when they track me down. They always find me. The thought of it makes me want to curl up and cry.
But I don’t. I’m here so this can finally be over.
