It’s too late for Michael Weir. But it’s not too late for the two people in front of us. Not yet.
I close my eyes. I draw the spirit of the demon’s intended victim close, letting his life wash over me. He has two children, neither older than six. He works on a farm miles away, picking tomatoes that will be shipped to American grocery stores, still fresh from the vine. He walks to work every morning before dawn and comes home each night after dark. The demon has held him in this shack for hours. He’s exhausted. But no matter how tired he is, his mouth never stops moving; he never stops begging for his life. He wants to live. He has to live.
Suddenly I can see his family wailing with grief, his wife raking her fingers across her cheeks in agony. I know I’m seeing what will happen if he dies.
I perceive the larger man’s spirit next, struggling to survive beneath the weight of the demon. This is his house. He works on the farm too. An image of his life flashes before me: he is the fastest picker on the vine, his long arms and legs allowing him to reach farther than any of his coworkers. I can see his dreams: he longs to get away from this place. He dreams of cooler nights and seeing snow for the very first time.
I’m concentrating so hard, I don’t notice when my hair catches fire.
“Sunshine!” Lucio shouts as if I’m far away instead of standing right beside him. He grabs me, wrapping my face in his arms and squeezing. I can’t breathe. He’s trying to smother the flames, but I’m getting smothered right along with them.
As the world fades to black, I’m aware of the sound of laughter. The demon is pleased with itself. I struggle against Lucio’s hold as he drags me out of the shack and into the bright sunlight.
“No!” I try to disentangle myself from Lucio’s embrace, kicking against the dry ground like I think I can run back into the cottage, even with Lucio’s arms around me.
“Sunshine, what were you thinking?” he shouts. He loosens his grip just for a second, but it’s long enough for me to take a deep breath. I cough as the taste of burnt hair fills my throat.
“Let me go!” I manage, pushing against Lucio’s chest. If we wait much longer, it will be too late to save the two men we left inside. Lucio shifts his grip so his fingers are wrapped around my hair like a human ponytail holder, snuffing out the little fire that remains. I reach up and pat my head; instead of the usual frizzball, my hair stops just above my shoulders. There are patches in the back where it has been singed off completely, like I’ve been given a buzz cut along my neckline.
“I’m okay,” I insist. Lucio’s hands are still on me, his fingers grazing the bare spots on my scalp. There are welts rising on his palms where the fire burned him. They look painful, but Lucio and I both know they will heal: demons can wound us, but they can’t damage us beyond repair.
“You won’t be able to help anyone if you’re on fire,” Lucio snaps, dropping his hands. “Why weren’t you using your weapon in there?”
If Aidan were here, he would say that my sensitivity got in the way again. This time it not only kept the weapon from manifesting quickly; it kept me from using it at all. He would know that instead of focusing on the task at hand, I was thinking about the man with two children and a baby on the way, about the man who had never seen snow.
“We should get out of here,” Lucio says. “We’ll come back with Aidan.”
By then it will be too late. These two men will be gone, and the demon will have moved on to its next victim. We ran away from this demon once before; we’re not going to do it again.
I think of the tall man’s dreams of snow as I pull myself to my feet. Of his spirit being crushed beneath the weight of the demon as surely as a body can be crushed beneath bricks and mortar as I reach into the back pocket of my ragged denim shorts.
I think of the smaller man’s little girl as I put one foot in front of the other.
Of his wife, pressing her hands to her swollen belly, of the way she will scream if he dies as I hold the knife out in front of me.
At once I’m not afraid of the enormous man waiting inside. I’m holding the old knife in front of me like a sword.
“I can do this,” I promise Lucio.
I will fight this demon.
I will not let it kill the man at its feet.
I will not let it destroy the man it has taken possession of.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Storm
Inside the shack the demon takes one hot step toward me, dragging the human behind him. I can feel that the smaller man’s spirit is already loosened from his flesh. He’s beginning to die.
The knife twitches in my grip, but I hold fast, waiting for it to become whatever it needs to become to save the day.
It stays a knife.
“Sunshine?” Lucio says, no more than one step behind me. The knife twitches again, violently this time, its dull blade ripping a gash in my skin.