am rewarded with the sound of plastic crashing and thousands of beans of coffee—expensive, expensive coffee—spilling onto the floor. I guess I’ll never know the difference between Kenyan beans and Guatemalan beans. And neither will anyone trying to clean them up.
Artemis and Leo are waiting, staring at a display of organic salt conveniently located next to the staff door. Several employees run out. Artemis hooks her foot to catch the door before it closes.
The room is about what I’d expect from an employee room. Two tables, some chairs, a vending machine filled with more preservatives and fake cheese powder than the rest of the store combined. But against the back wall is a metal door, heavily reinforced, with a keypad lock.
“Bingo,” Artemis says. “Nina, you know the code.”
“I do?”
“Your fist.”
I glare at her, but at the same time, it doesn’t escape me that she’s starting to accept I have these powers. Maybe asking me to use them is her way of finally acknowledging this isn’t going away.
I punch through the keypad and pull out all the wires. There’s a clicking noise, and Artemis opens the door. We creep down a winding metal staircase, then through another fortified door to a massive basement space. It arches overhead like at one point it had been a cellar. Or a sewer. It has to run beneath the entire block.
And it’s filled with cage after cage of demons.
“Split up.” Artemis turns but pauses. “Be careful. Promise?”
“Promise,” I say. “You too.”
She disappears, sprinting down the length of the wall toward the back.
Leo and I ease cautiously down the nearest row. I’m glad he didn’t leave my side. The cages are almost all filled. It’s much more orderly than the derelict warehouse that held the other cages. That seemed like a temporary setup. This is very permanent.
Seeing demons in tiny cages, curled up sleeping or slouched and staring dead-eyed at me, is unnerving. I know, rationally, that if I ran into them on the street, I’d be terrified. But here, like this, they’re not the drawings and dire warnings I’ve studied. They’re . . . beings. None of them react to us. None of them make a sound. Either they’re drugged or they’re used to visitors. Or they’ve been caged so long, they don’t care about anything anymore.
There’s a demon with only the thinnest layer of skin. I can see its muscles, veins, tendons, all showing through the translucent outer layer. I tug on Leo’s arm. “Is that—”
“An unpellis demon.”
“The one that jumps out of its skin! No way!”
“I’ve heard the skin can be used to seal wounds and heal scars.”
“Eew.” I can’t imagine wanting to use a demon’s discarded skin as my own. But also . . . if it’s in a cage, and it looks like it’s recently been de-skinned . . . how often has that happened?
The demon blinks at me, and it looks less horrifying and more unimaginably weary. Its eyes are set far back on either side of its head, like a rabbit’s. Which, according to biology, hints that this isn’t a predatory species. Unlike humans. I want to set it free. Which surprises me, because I’d almost gotten used to my instincts to punch first, ask questions later. Either my Slayerness is broken or this demon is so pathetic even a Chosen One can’t feel like it deserves any more pain.
Leo moves on, but I pause again in front of a pale demon, humanoid in form but with no mouth. It stares at me with mournful eyes. Across the aisle is an identical demon. It lifts its hand, reaching out to me. It needs my help. I lift my own hand, and—
“Wouldn’t touch them,” says a cheerful voice that I last heard announcing odds on my death. “Unless you fancy telepathy so powerful you’ll go mad within two days. Good in small doses, though, innit? Provided you also purchase the antidote.” The man—Sean, I assume—is in another sleek, expensive-looking suit, his hair pulled back into a ponytail.
He waggles a radio at us. “Security’s on hold, but I’d rather not call them. I suppose you two are the source of my cleanup on aisle four?”
“Surprise?” I’m glad he isn’t armed.
“Not really. I’ve been expecting you after your performance the other night. Is Cosmina here too?”
“Nooo.” I draw the word out, watching him. There’s no indication he knows she’s dead, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t behind it. He could have a great poker face beneath his excellent exfoliation and artful stubble.