We saw Adam, Katrina’s four-year-old little brother, a little tike with a mop of sloppy brown hair that nearly stood up as straight as Akor’s mohawk, playing in the early morning light in his living room, holding a train while he sat on the leather couch in a fancy-ass room all alone. At the time, I thought that there was some angel flock snickering in the bushes, pointing at us as their shoulders shook with silent laughter because they’d somehow managed to teach an infant how to conduct a summoning spell.
We’d responded anyway—part of the pact demons make when they join a murder is to answer summons and try to convert souls to Hell—but this summons wasn’t a prank. And it wasn’t a spell by some entitled nitwit.
When I’d seen Katrina at the base of the stairs that led from her living room, my mouth had gone dry and my dick had perked up (not that unusual of an occurrence for a lust demon), but what was unusual was the way that my heart had gone thu-thud.
Just like it does when I spot her now, head down, books clutched tightly to her chest, those luminous blue eyes glued firmly to the speckled tile floor as she tries to dart from class to class unseen. As if she could ever be invisible.
My Katrina is just precious, and I both love and curse the fact that we got her a new set of uniforms that stretch in a delicious way across her breasts. I both appreciate and hate how she’s covering them from view so that no one else can see, because I can’t see either. I both adore and despise how she’s trying so damn hard to protect us because she cares. I love that she cares that damn much. It’s the most selfless thing any being has ever done for me. But I hate that she believes that being our Center leaves us too vulnerable, and that we should turn our backs and act like she doesn’t exist.
It leaves us vulnerable, yes, but sometimes, the risk is worth it.
She’s worth it.
I dart forward into the crowd, sliding down the beige hallway between students, using the taller football players to block her view of me in case she dares to look up from her adorable pink Keds.
I just have to get close enough to convince her that what happened the night of the dance was an accident. A fluke. No big deal.
She hasn’t listened to reason since that night, when a fucking angel attacked and nearly gutted Zolroth, the British material demon in our murder.
We’d fought the bastard halo humpers off, and we’re fine, despite what she thinks. But Katrina’s been stonewalling all of us—me and my murder. Not one of the five of us has been able to get through to her.
Back in Hell, there’s a saying, ‘Human will can be one of three things—hard as a blade, soft as a cloud, or as changeable as the wind.’ We have to focus on the souls who fall into the last two categories. Katrina is a bit like the wind, blowing hot and cold.
I think the wind is about to change.
Because I’m going to make it change.
Sometimes, when someone you love is too stuck in their own head to see the good, you have to give them hard love. You have to push them over a cliff and then catch them when they fall.
Katrina’s one good, heartfelt shove from taking us back.
I’m ready to grab her and thrust her over that edge, ram her, poke her, prod her, bang her with my reasons, jam all my points into her so hard she’ll be unable to speak, take that plunge… Dammit. My dick gets hard thinking of all the ways I want to convince her to listen.
I haven’t cared to convince anyone in centuries. But she’s not just anyone.
I lose sight of her for a second, then realize she’s pushed open the door to the girls’ bathroom. I hurry forward so that I can catch up with her, weaving around a scrawny senior who just went through a growth spurt and looks like a bean sprout.
A hint of her kiwi shampoo floats back to me on the air as I get closer. I inhale and resolve myself to make this happen. I shove open the door to the girls’ bathroom, letting it smack the wall. This particular bathroom is exclusive to the senior girls, if I recall correctly.