doing?” Amber asked.
“Black salt,” he signed. “And brimstone.” He had to fingerspell brimstone.
“Brimstone?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Sulfur. Brimstone sounds cooler.” It was another favorite word of his. He remembered it from when Amber had died. When hell rose to get the priest attacking her. He’d never forget the scent. Rune had told him years later that it was brimstone, and it had stuck. He’d written it down and prayed the priest was still choking on it to this day.
“Salt really works?” she asked.
“Depends on how my luck is going.”
She raised a wing-shaped brow. “Have you seen your back?”
He tossed her a playful glare. It was like they’d never been apart. Life with Amber was always so easy. Comfortable yet intense. Joking in between longing looks over steaming cups of coffee. And even now, he fell right back into their routine. Their banter.
“You want in here?” he asked the two departed.
They stepped into the circle before he closed it and then hopped onto the table with Amber. The man with the clipboard—Kyle?—had to push his glasses up his nose after the jump.
The woman looked at Amber. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Amber.”
“What? Dora, this is not your fault. This was a horrible thing that happened to you.”
The woman nodded, unconvinced, then looked up, her face full of concern.
Amber pulled her knees up under her chin, and Quentin longed to tell her the floor was lava like he used to. They were kids then, and now was hardly the time, but it had been a favorite game of theirs.
“Quentin?”
He stopped setting items on the table and turned toward her. She looked like a little girl, hugging her knees. She started to say something then seemed to change her mind.
Worried the rickety table wouldn’t take their weight, Quentin sat on it anyway, scrounging up the courage to do what he had to do next.
Amber turned to him and signed, “At least your shirt matches your jeans now.”
He looked down. “I like these jeans.”
“I do, too.” When he tossed a curious gaze, she said, “I mean, I like jeans. You know, in general. It’s just, yours have seen better days.” She poked a finger into a hole, her touch igniting him instantly. It was the wrong thing to do, and she knew it. She jerked back her hand and continued hugging her knees.
He gave his jeans another once-over.
“She is a traveler. The demon will crave her.”
He stilled and asked Rune, “In what way?”
“Her soul would taste like forbidden fruit to him.”
Quentin didn’t quite understand. “So, like illegal fruit?”
“No, it would taste like something succulent he can’t have. He shouldn’t have. But he will not be able to help himself.”
Quentin hopped off the table again, frustrated. “Fucking English. Just say that, then.” He took out what amounted to his only two weapons. The compass, which did way more than just give directions, and the dagger. “Is she what is luring him closer?”
“Hard to say. He has seen us, too. And he has no reason to leave yet. He’s looking for something.”
“What?”
“His car keys. How should I know?”
Quentin ground his teeth. “You don’t have to be a smartass about it.”
“Sure, we do. We are frustrated. And this demon is a dick.”
“Aren’t you all?” Quentin could practically feel the glare coming from his rideshare.
“What are you going to do with that?” Amber asked, her voice more lyrical than he imagined it could’ve been. It was soft and tinkling like wind chimes. She gestured toward the knife.
He decided to play Russian roulette by balancing it on his palm, flipping it, then sliding it back into its sheath. “Hopefully, not a damned thing.”
“How are you hearing me?”
He tripped over her words, then asked, “What do you mean?”
She tilted her head to one side to look into his face. “I didn’t sign that. You heard me.”
He tensed and chastised himself. He hadn’t even noticed. He was so shaken by her. So stunned. Like that kid Charley Davidson had rescued that dark night over a decade ago. The first time he saw Amber, he fell. She was gorgeous even then. Even as a skinny kid with tangles down her back. But it was her personality. Her… He dug out his notebook and flipped to the page he wanted. Her effervescence.
She frowned and tried to read the notebook, so he slapped it closed and returned it to his back pocket. “And how can you talk so well now?” she asked, undeterred.
“Speech therapy,” he said, signing the words.
“Bullshit.” She signed it.