It was a drawing that belonged in some art history book. A Renaissance painting before it became a painting.
It was… beautiful.
The sound of running water came from what must be the bathroom, and then James strode back into the living area. He’d put on jeans and his hair was wet, as if he’d run dampened fingers through it. He poured two cups of coffee into paper cups, stirred in liberal amounts of cream and sugar. With a careless little gesture, he pushed the crumpled sketches aside and placed one cup before Dee.
A knock came at the door.
“It’s open,” called James, taking a swig of his coffee.
A girl around Dee’s age strode into the apartment, carrying a paper bag in one hand and a folder in the other.
She was pretty, with dark skin and smooth hair that sent a pang of yearning through Dee. She’d tried straightening her hair a few times, but her stubborn curls refused to flatten. Self-consciously, Dee ran a hand through her bushy hair and glanced down at her own jeans and flip-flops. This new girl wore a blouse and lace skirt, and she seemed to carry herself with a poise that Dee could never manage. But the moment she saw Dee, the girl hurried over and without so much as a greeting, she pulled her into a hug.
Dee went rigid.
“Hey,” the girl said, voice close to Dee’s ear. She spoke with a gentleness usually reserved for small children or wounded animals. “It’ll be all right. Whatever James told you—ignore it.”
Dee waited a beat, then pulled back. The girl let her.
“I haven’t told her anything, Cora,” said James. “So you can stop with the Team Mom routine.”
The girl didn’t exactly glare at James, but it was close. “She looks terrified. What have you told her?”
“Not a thing,” said James. “She’s seen most of it for herself already.” He sat with his legs in a tangled sprawl. He took up half the couch and he looked comfortable doing so.
“Why did you give me your address?” asked Dee quietly.
“You have questions. The others can answer some of them,” said James. “And as I’m the only person with a usable apartment…” He let the thought trail off.
Cora rose and strode to the kitchen. She upended her paper bag onto the counter. Half a dozen bagels spilled out. “Barely usable. Please tell me you have a knife somewhere?”
“And here I thought introductions were going to be awkward,” drawled James. “Dee, this is Cora—our fearless and self-appointed leader. And knives are in the second drawer over.”
Dee glanced between Cora and James; she wondered if all demons kept teenagers at hand to do their dirty work. “How many of us work for the Agathodaemon?”
“Four of us, counting you,” said Cora. She vanished behind the counter and reappeared a moment later. “You’ve met Lancer. There’s also Cal and me.” She scowled at something on the counter. “Okay, when I said, ‘knife,’ I meant something other than the plastic kind.”
“You mean those things you have to wash?” James beamed at her.
Cora picked up a disposable plastic butter knife and began cutting a bagel. Well, cutting was perhaps too generous a word, Dee thought. Shredding, maybe.
“Dee’s practically an old pro at this,” said James. “She helped us in the hospital. Not sure if you need to give her the usual lecture.”
Dee glanced between Cora and James, taking in their rapid-fire quips. It was clearly a regular occurrence, Cora coming here and complaining about the cutlery. Even James’s and Cora’s jibes felt blunted, as if the insults had lost their edge over time.
“How long ago did you make your deal?” Dee asked, looking at Cora.
Cora straightened. “I was the first heartless in Portland. That’s why I’m in charge. Seniority.”
“And your being naturally bossy didn’t come into it at all.” James smirked.
“And your being naturally lazy also had nothing to do with it,” Cora replied smoothly. She put one mangled half of a bagel into the toaster. “No wonder the Daemon didn’t want you in charge.”
She pronounced it differently than Dee did, and she could almost hear the capital letter. “You mean the demon?”
“Don’t call him that,” said James. He walked to the counter, reaching for the bagels. He picked one flavored with dried onions. “He doesn’t like it.”
Dee felt herself frown. “What’s the difference betweendemonandDaemon?”
