Invincible Chronicles of Nick - By Sherrilyn Kenyon Page 0,22
You think I’d have let the demons pound all over me last night so that you could escape if I had any intention of killing you? Really? I’ve had enough pain in my existence. At this point, I’d like to avoid any more. Get your head out of your sphincter, and use your three brain cells to think it through.”
Nick raked his hand through his hair as he finally calmed down. Last night, Caleb had gone above and beyond. He was right. Nick had no reason to doubt his loyalty. “Sorry. I don’t know what to think anymore. I have all this weirdness inside me.”
“It’s called puberty.”
“Besides that,” Nick said drolly. “Actually, I miss that being my only problem. I just don’t know what to think anymore.” ’Cause every person around him wasn’t who or what he thought they were.
“It’s all right. I don’t blame you for not trusting me. I’ll be honest. I’m not above betrayal. However, if I betray you, I don’t want to face that demon. So you’re safe until I figure out a way to get out my slavery.”
Well, that said it all about their relationship. “Appreciate the honesty.”
“You should, since it’s a rarity for me.” Caleb yawned. “Glad to see you’re still breathing.”
“Glad to be breathing.” Especially since he’d spent the last hour before Caleb’s arrival entertaining Death. Not too many people could make that claim.
Caleb chucked him on the arm. “Don’t forget about your sling.”
“You leaving?”
“No need in my being here. You’re not under threat, and I’m still exhausted. I’m gonna rest. Not as young as I used to be.”
“How old are you?
Caleb laughed. “That many zeros and you just get tired of counting. Old enough to know better. Young enough to do it anyway.” He winked at him. “Catch you later.” He literally vaporized in front of him.
“I have so got to learn those powers.” What would it be like to do anything he wanted? To have all the money and time and powers he could dream of? He couldn’t imagine anything more awesome.
Closing his eyes, he conjured an image of himself as an adult. Only he didn’t see him. He saw Ambrose in his mind. And he didn’t look happy.
Weird. Ambrose stood in front of a giant ornate hearth, where a huge fire blazed. The flames flickered in a pair of eyes that were inhumanly green. With one hand braced against the stone mantel, he stared into the fire looking lost and sad. Heartbroken.
Don’t become me, Nick.
It wasn’t Ambrose’s voice he heard. It was deeper, sinister, and it sent a chill down his spine.
I’m losing my mind. He had to be. There was no other explanation.
“Hey, Nick. Need a hand.”
He blinked at the sound of Mark’s shout. Pushing everything out of his mind, he went to help them.
Hours went by as they put everything back and repaired the plaster walls. Just after three, Nick left them to walk over to the Café Du Monde. Nekoda had promised to meet him there after school. Even though school had been canceled, he hoped she’d show, and in case she did, he didn’t want her to think he’d stood her up.
It didn’t take long to reach the covered pavilion that was bustling with tourists and a few locals. World famous and a New Orleans tradition since the mid nineteenth century, the Café Du Monde was a must-see for everyone. Open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week except on Christmas and during hurricanes, this was one of Nick’s favorite haunts. The menu was reasonably priced (okay, it was cheap, which was why he could afford to come here for a rare treat) and extremely limited—basically water, milk, soft drinks, orange juice, and chicory coffee. But the real reason to be here was for the powdered sugar beignets. French doughnuts that didn’t have holes in them. Messy as all get-out, they were the tastiest thing he’d ever eaten. Forget cookies. Beignets ruled.
As he stood on the corner of St. Ann and Decatur, waiting for the light to change so that he could cross the street, he saw three musicians playing in front of the café.
“Hey, Nick,” the trombone player called to him as he made it across and neared the entrance.
Nick smiled at the older African-American man who’d been playing jazz and zydeco on the street as far back as he could remember. At night, he played in several of the clubs around town too. “Hey, Lucas. How you doing?”