Under Suspicion

The knock came at three o’clock in the afternoon, and my world went crashing down two days later. On Monday morning, at nine o’clock sharp, “Special Sophie, the Freak of Nineteenth Street” was born, illustrated, and pasted to my locker.

 

From then on, it was stupid mentions of my crystal ball and a constant inner begging to suddenly get powers—preferably, powers that could blow up perky blond cheerleaders who had smooth ponytails and grandmothers who baked banana bread rather than herbal elixirs.

 

 

 

 

 

I was leaning against what would have to pass as my new car door when Will came around the side.

 

“They know who I am,” I whispered, starting to cry.

 

“That doesn’t matter,” Will said, his accent warm and familiar, “because they will never get to you. Not as long as I’m around.”

 

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to put my hand in his and snuggle up on the couch, putting all of this behind me.

 

“It’s only going to get worse, Will. It’s only going to get worse, and no one is listening to me.”

 

Will held me closer and I sank into his arms. I felt my body curve into his. He pushed a thick lock of hair behind my ear and kissed the lobe gently.

 

“I’m listening to you,” he whispered, “and I promise to keep you safe, Sophie Lawson.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eleven

 

 

I woke up jittery and exhausted, having tossed and turned all night. Images of Kale, of the concrete, of her lolling head, haunted my dreams. I forewent my usual morning jaunt to Philz Coffee and headed into the agency early. We were packed, and the entire waiting room buzzed with a kind of nervous energy. But everything seemed to drop into an awkward silence when I stepped onto the floor. I paused, and clients turned to gape at me—the flat, cold-as-stone eyes of zombies; the sharp, narrowed eyes of vampires. They all seemed to zero in and though I desperately tried to tell myself I was imagining it, I couldn’t quite get over the strange chill of the room.

 

I shrugged out of my jacket and smiled, anyway, beckoning the first person over.

 

“I can help who’s next in line.”

 

Several pairs of eyes (and the occasional single) raked over me, but no one moved. I stepped forward, inclining my head toward the person at the front of the line.

 

“I can help you right now.”

 

She was a behemoth of a woman, with a blunt-cut black pageboy and eyes that took up the better half of her face. Her pale lips were quirked in the kind of smile that is meant to be friendly, but it oozed avoidance.

 

“That’s okay,” she said to me. Her head snapped back to bore through the back of the person in front of her. “They’re almost through here.”

 

I craned my neck and eyed Nina, who was doing her best to cut off the woman in front of her, who continually kept thrusting photos of her newest grand-demon at her while Nina processed her paperwork.

 

“I think it’s going to be a while,” I said in what I thought was a friendly tone.

 

“No, thank you.” Blunt-cut black pageboy kept her eyes fixed; her knuckles turned white as she gripped her paperwork.

 

“Okay.” I shuffled back to the person behind her, and wished I had kept my jacket on when I realized it was Windigo, a recent Canadian immigrant, with a stack of papers the thickness of my right thigh. Each time he shifted, a waft of frigid air floated from him.

 

“Hi, Windy. I’m Sophie Lawson. I can process your paperwork if you’ll follow me, please.” I reached out for the stack and Windy blinked at me, a pointed tongue darting out of his ice-tinged mouth as he licked his bottom lip. He didn’t move to hand me his paperwork, and I dropped my hand to my side, frowning.

 

“I thought you only handled fallen angels now,” he said, his voice an icy rasp.

 

“Oh, well, that’s true. I do do fallen angels, but I still work with the generals. Especially when there’s a line this long. So, are you ready?”

 

Windy shifted, taking a small, unsure step toward me. He seemed to think better of it, and then stepped back in line. “I think I’ll wait.”

 

I stepped closer to Windy, who immediately stiffened and rose to his full height, which was at least two heads taller than I am. His decrepit skin seemed to crack as he did so.

 

“Is there some reason you don’t want me to help you?”

 

I saw him considering—the smoky haze in his eyes studying me, as if assessing the challenge. The man was a pointy-toothed man-eater whose breath froze human hearts solid, and he was assessing all five feet two inches of me: fiery red hair, T-shirt with barely faded ketchup stain, oblivious expression (I’m assuming) on my red-cheeked face.

 

“Look, Sophie,” Windy said, leaning close, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate your willingness to help. It’s just that”—his eyes cut left and right, his voice dropped to an even lower, even chillier octave—“everyone knows that lately any one of us you come into contact with ... well ... dies.” He looked immediately apologetic. “Or at least gets really hurt.”

 

I felt my mouth drop open and stumbled backward, taking stock of the line of demons—man-eaters, night stalkers, shape-shifters—all avoiding my stare, all frightened of me.