Demon and the Fox - 32. One Last Promise

Nick balanced his cell phone between his shoulder and ear as he checked his mail box. He took out a few envelopes, and some unimportant flyers.

“You gotta let me come home,” Shane was saying in the phone, “my parents are making me work at this grocery store down the street. It’s horrible, Nick. The music there. You’d hate it. They play Danger Zone at least three times every hour, it’s driving me insane.”

“I already told you, man. You can come back whenever you want.”

Nick closed his mail box. He frowned as he looked at one envelope. It was from Stanford University. That had to be a mistake, for sure. It was addressed to him, though.

He peered out the small lobby’s window before reaching the staircase. It was a grayish morning outside, with the promise of heavy rain in the heaping clouds. The weather suited Nick’s mood. After Hazel had left the day before, Nick had showered for a long time to try and soothe his nerves. Hadn’t really worked. Then he’d started to call people.

Gabriel had been first on his list. He reassured Nick, telling him Sasha was okay; he was awake, drinking lots of water to rehydrate, and eating a little bit of food. But Gabriel asked Nick not to call Sasha any time soon.

“He’s blocked everything out,” Gabriel had said on the phone, in a hushed voice, “even what happened with Malachy earlier. He doesn’t remember you, Nick. I’m sorry. You’ve got to give him some time. He wants to go back to school as soon as tomorrow; I reminded him about the Stanford scholarship and that’s what he’s clinging to right now. But he’s gonna have to work hard to catch up. I can’t let anyone get in the way of that, not even you. I’m sure you understand.”

So that had put Nick in a not-so-cheerful mood. Then he’d called Shane. But Shane had been at work, so Nick left a message.

Shane had called him back just now.

“Can I come home today?” his roommate was asking.

“Yes,” Nick insisted, climbing up the stairs to the third floor. “Please do, I miss you. I never even kicked you out in the first place. That wasn’t me. You’ve got to believe that.”

“I believe you.”

Shane hung up soon after, telling Nick he’d return home today for sure. Nick slid his phone in his jeans pocket, stepped inside his apartment, closed the door and then leaned against it, sighing. His chest felt heavy.

The day before, Nick had cleaned his apartment to keep busy—and also because it needed cleaning. But even if he occupied himself, he found that the minutes ticked by slowly. In Hell, he had missed being able to tell time. But last night, as he lay very much awake in his bed, with Malachy’s art—Make your own quotes—staring at him in big sharpie letters from the wall, time had seemed to stretch on forever and Nick kind of hated it.

Nick opened up the envelope from the university as he leaned against his door in the dark—to add to his troubles, there seemed to be a problem with electricity in his apartment. He was still able to read just fine, though.

Stanford, he thought. That was where Sasha was going to. But Nick didn’t even know that before yesterday. And he never even applied to any universities. Who had the money for that?

Nick’s eyes scanned the letter, completely certain it was some kind of mistake. This thing said Nick had applied to a writing program at Stanford.

‘…considering the very generous donation you made, we were willing to make an exception and accept your late application…’

What the—? Generous donation? Nick’s first reflex was to dart across the hall and rush to his bedroom to fire up his laptop. Heart racing, he fell in his computer chair, rolled himself flush against the desk, and tossed the letter aside. After typing in his password, Nick went online to check his bank account info.

He froze. He blinked several times but the numbers did not change.

How many zeros was that? He was loaded! He was rich. This didn’t make any sense.

On the bright side, he didn’t have to worry about the electricity bill. But something did worry him. It worried him a lot.

Nick muttered to himself in the silent apartment: “Okay, Malachy. Where did you get the money?”

Oh, God. Had he stolen it? Was Nick in trouble, was he going to go to prison?

Nick decided he would just go ask Malachy for answers. He had no choice; he needed to know. And besides, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do anyway.

One day out of Hell, Nick thought, and I’m already going back.

He pushed himself off his desk and rose from the chair. He visualized a blood red circle on the floor, let his thoughts be filled with images of Malachy—he needed to find the bastard, wherever he was—and waited as black smoke slowly curled up to engulf him in darkness.

At first, when Nick opened his eyes and found himself in the doorway leading to Raven’s bedroom, he thought the teleportation had gone wrong. But then he glanced at the huge four-poster bed and saw two people—none of which were Raven.

Nick recognized Malachy and Shay. They hadn’t seen him yet. They were both facing the tinted window, Malachy sitting behind Shay. He was busy detangling Shay’s hair, actually. Shay looked freshly showered; his hair, still wet, dripped down on a loose open neck blue shirt. The clothes must have been borrowed from Raven, if the open and messy dresser drawers were anything to go by.

They were sitting in silence, and Nick felt like he was intruding. He watched as Malachy put down the hairbrush and pushed Shay’s hair to the side. Nick glimpsed the numbers tattooed behind Shay’s neck—486—before Malachy placed his hands there and started to massage his shoulders.

Shay seemed unable to relax, though. He looked very tense. But still, he leaned back into Malachy’s touch. Nick felt bad for interrupting, but he had questions for Malachy.

First, though, Nick said, “Shay, I’m… I’m really glad you’re okay.”

They were both startled. Shay sprung from the bed and Malachy’s hands dropped to his sides.

Shay’s eyes lit up. “Nick!” He rushed over and fell in Nick’s arms. “I’m glad you’re okay, too.”

Nick couldn’t help but smile as he held him back. But he noticed one thing.

“Your heart’s beating really fast.”

Shay pulled away slightly, nodding. “I know.” He took Nick’s hand and placed his palm against his chest. “Feel it.”

Nick sure could feel it pounding, but Shay was acting weird. Nick glanced over at Malachy.

Clearing his throat, Malachy rose from the bed. “Our friend here is still a bit high.” Malachy rolled his black shirt’s cuffs at the elbows. “On drugs,” he added.

Shay’s eyes were closed. He was still pressing Nick’s palm to his heart.

“Why is he high on drugs?” Nick asked.

“Long story,” Malachy retorted. He grabbed Shay, pulled him away from Nick, and sat him back down on the bed.

Shay crawled to the center of the bed, looking small on the massive mattress. He folded his legs and hugged his knees before rocking himself back and forth.

Malachy’s blue-gray eyes darted back to Nick. “The important thing is he’s out of Purgatory.”

“How’d you do it?” asked Nick.

“That is included in the aforementioned long story.” Suddenly Malachy’s eyes seemed to sparkle brighter than the shimmery silver walls. “More importantly, I’m really glad you’re here, Nick! You’re ready to get it on, aren’t you? Get your necromancer on, I mean.” He clasped his hands together loudly, startling Shay.

“No,” Nick replied. “I want to know where you got the money.”

Malachy tilted his head, a brown curl spilling over his forehead. “What money?”

Nick stared. “Seriously?”

A flicker of recognition crossed Malachy’s eyes. “Oh, that!” He flashed a grin, and shrugged modestly. “You don’t have to thank me, Nick. Really.” He waved it off with a hand. “Should be enough to get you through school. It’s my pleasure.”

“Where did you get it? What did you do?”

Malachy laughed. Then he made spooky gestures with his hands, like someone telling a scary story to a child. “I stole it! Because I’m so bad!”

Nick wanted to punch his face. “Stole it from where? How? I need to know. I need to return it. Get me through school? Are you insane? I can’t go to school if I’m in jail you moron!”

But Malachy just laughed some more, throwing his head backward. His shirt rode up, revealing a pale strip of taut skin and prominent hip bones hugged by tight black jeans.

On the bed, Shay was now curled up on his side, hugging a fluffy black pillow tightly. He looked perfect—he didn’t have any wounds or even scars; Malachy had probably used bending reality skills to heal him. But, Nick thought as he looked at Shay’s closed eyelids, the scars you left Purgatory with weren’t just physical.

“I’m joking, you silly dimwit. In all seriousness, I highly doubt you’d go to jail for that, Nick,” Malachy said, catching his breath after his fit of laughter, “considering the money comes from an ancient civilization that exists no more.”

“What ancient—?”

“Tenochtitlan,” Malachy stated loudly before Nick could finish his question.

Nick blinked. “Teno what?”

Malachy ignored that. “I was a Reaper there, end of the 15^th Century, beginning of the 16^th and I,” he raised an index finger, “saw its downfall. Inconceivable horrors, believe me. But I digress. Let’s just say that bastard Cortez didn’t bring all of the gold back to his king.” Malachy winked.

“You’re talking about the Aztecs?” Nick asked.

“We didn’t call ourselves that at the time.”

Nick frowned, a thousand thoughts bouncing back and forth in his mind, making him dizzy. He didn’t care much about Malachy’s crazy Aztec stories. But if Malachy was telling the truth, then he was probably right; Nick wasn’t going to jail.

People would ask questions, though. The bank and stuff. Money didn’t just appear out of nowhere.

Malachy seemed to be able to read Nick’s mind as he said, “I already took care of everything. The story is that you inherited some long lost relative’s collection. You sold off the feather headdresses and the sun and moon wheels to museums, you had the little statues melted to sell the gold. Which,” Malachy smiled, “isn’t too far from the truth. Your long lost relative is a demon, but they don’t need to know that, do they?”

Nick only felt dizzier.

“So you don’t have to worry.” Malachy was mirroring Nick’s thoughts again. “You can go to school with Sasha in the fall. I chose writing because I saw all your little screenplays and stories and I figured—”

“Sasha doesn’t remember me,” Nick blurted out. It just came out; he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Malachy made a face. “Ah, yeah, there’s that detail.” He scratched his curly hair, glancing around the room like Raven’s silver walls or old bookshelves might hold the answer.

“A detail?” Nick snapped. He felt a tightening in his chest, a painful tension in his shoulders; he wanted to hit Malachy, to hurt him, to show him that it wasn’t just a detail.

“Sasha will remember,” Malachy said, “in time.”

“How much time?”

“Not that long, I’m sure.”

But Malachy averted his gaze. He glanced over his shoulder at Shay, who sat straight up in the bed now. It didn’t look like he was paying attention to their conversation; he was gazing out the window intently, even though there was only blackness out there. Malachy looked back at Nick.

“Listen, I won’t ask you to be grateful for the money, but,” he waited a beat, “if you could bring me and my mate back to life very soon, I would really appreciate it. You see, I’m pretty sure Rebecca wants us both dead by now, and I don’t like to admit this, but I’m sort of afraid of her.”

“Why do you want to be human so badly anyway?” Nick asked.

Malachy faltered, like he was in pain. “Because I’m nothing! This world is nothing.” He waved his arms wildly about. “You should know better than to ask me that question. You’ve been here. You know how it is. It’s all bullocks. I don’t know what the fuck we are. Spirits. Souls. A pretty damn realistic projection of our own stubborn minds. All I know is,” Malachy scoffed, “we can hate, we can love, we can hurt—Hell, we can even get high!” He threw a glance at Shay, then sighed shakily. “We can feel alive. But we’re not.”

Nick almost felt for Malachy, because he knew what he meant. But his heart couldn’t reach out for him, not after everything.

“Why should I do this?” Nick crossed his arms. “Why should you and Shay get a second chance? Why don’t I bring Cyan and Raven back? And what about Jun and Koda? And freaking Liv while I’m at it.”

Malachy held up a hand. “Please don’t bring Olivia back, Nick. She’s not well, that girl.”

Nick wasn’t going to argue with him there, although he wasn’t sure that meant much, coming from Malachy.

“You want to know the truth, Nick?” Malachy went on. “I don’t care about other people. Call me selfish! Because I am selfish. At least I care to admit it! Why should we get a second chance? Why the Hell not? Stop looking for noble reasons to do things.”

“I’ll look for noble reasons if I want to,” Nick retorted. He glanced at Shay, who glanced right back, finally looking like he was listening to them. “I’ll do it for Shay. I will. I owe him my life. He’s the kindest, sweetest person I know. But you…” Nick shook his head. “I can’t just bring some psychopath back into the world without a good reason.”

Nick motioned for Shay to come closer, and Shay swung his long legs off the bed. His bare feet padded across the black marble until he stood next to Nick. His eyes, almond-shaped, and of a soft amber shade, searched Nick’s—the same eyes that had looked at him in the darkness of their Purgatory cell, urging him to not give up, to never give up. And Nick meant every word when he said he wanted to bring him back.

“I won’t ever bother you again.” Malachy’s tone betrayed that he was starting to panic. “I’ll give you as much money as you want. You can have a great life thanks to me!”

Nick arched an eyebrow. “A great life? I’m a god damn werewolf thanks to you. I’m pretty sure money can’t fix that.”

Shay took Nick’s hand silently, and their fingers laced together.

“I think werewolves are really cool,” said Malachy, almost timidly.

“You’re like a child!” Nick chuckled. Unbelievable. “There’s no point arguing with you.”

Malachy looked down at Nick and Shay’s joined hands.

“Don’t do this to me, Nick. Don’t leave me here alone. Don’t do this,” he pleaded.

“Things can’t always work out the way you want them to, Malachy. You can’t always win.” Saying these words didn’t feel as satisfying as Nick had thought it would.

“Don’t.” Malachy was clearly desperate. “Please.”

Still satisfying, though.

Nick looked at Shay softly. “Do you want me to bring you back?”

The urn with a carved S was in Nick’s closet at home, waiting.

Shay’s eyes glistened with tears that threatened to fall. “Yes,” he whispered.

Nick nodded. The smoke started to rise.

But Malachy looked so diminished and shattered as he got left behind in Raven’s bedroom. Nick added one last thing on a whim.

“When Sasha remembers, if he remembers,” he said to Malachy through the veil of smoke, “I will bring you back.”