Slate Gray

Chapter 15: Ace Slate

"Drop. Me. Now," I order with all the authority someone hanging upside-down by their ankle can possibly posses. Linda understood me; why not him? Plus, it's not like I have a ton of options right now. "You weren't a monster in life, Jerome. You don't have to act like one in death."

The Low-Level Demon's reply is a series of throaty huffs akin to laughter. That is, if laughter was heartlessly bone-chilling and sounded like a fireplace bellows.

Disregarding my explicit command, he draws me nearer, hair and coattails curtaining around my head. And as I watch, his hideous tongue elongates like pulled taffy, taking on a life of its own.

"Don't you dare," I scold when it undulates towards me, dripping drool and clots of viscous goo. And I scream at the useless body on the floor, "Reed! Wake up!"

Bowing backwards does little to stop what's coming as that repulsive thing slaps against my cheek. Cold and oily and reeking of decay, it licks up my neck, tasting me, leaving a sickening trail behind.

"Ewwwww," I squeal when it retracts, mopping at the slime with my sleeve and swallowing back acidic vomit.

Hughes only lifts me higher, bringing us eye to eye, his ivory orbs cold and depthless as an ice-covered lake. Cadaverous veins pump a fresh wave of black blood down his suit as I stare into them, death eddying beneath their surface.

And for the first time in my life, I know the true meaning of fear. It's the certainty you're about to die seasoned with a dash of surprise that this is how it ends. Measure out a cup of regret cuz you didn't see it coming and your final moments are ready to be served.

And in these crucial seconds, I discover that a person's life truly does flash before their eyes.

I see Mom lounging by a campfire, telling ghost stories and toasting marshmallows. Dad hunched at our dining table, squinting at some obscure pictograph. Perrin's face in the grass beside me, giggling about a girl she liked and swearing me to secrecy.

I see a shriveled hand, pierced by an IV, motionless against blue covers. Tearstained cheeks on a face I'd never seen cry. A vacant, faraway look at a funeral, like the owner wished we were burying her instead.

And Michael. My very first memory is his big, brown eyes, crinkling at the corners as he bounced me on his hip, singing words that I was too small to comprehend...

"Then like a sinner before the gates of Heaven, I'll come crawling on back to you."

Hold up. I'm only fifteen. I don't want to die!

I wanna finish this case and scarf some much-deserved French Toast. I wanna wake up tomorrow to my sister's snoring and the burnt smell of my father's coffee. I wanna tell Terry he's cute and go for a ride on his motorcycle. I wanna grow up to become a better slayer, a better person.

Damn it, I want to live!

Wrenching my headlamp off, I wield it like a sock full of soap and utilizing years of punishing ab routines, I crunch myself up to that grotesque face and bash the thick light into the ledge of his teeth.

Bone and polycarbonate fragments shower past as the demon roars and swings me out of reach, concrete passing dangerously close to my head like I'm strapped into a roller coaster not up to code. But instead of releasing me like I hoped, he grabs for the lamp, anger boiling over at this tasty treat that keeps fighting back.

I twirl it in front of me like a cheap nun-chuck, but he's pissed now and too soon, his seeking clutches fasten round my wrist, ulna and radius crunching together painfully.

That anticipatory growl vibrates down my limbs as the muscles in his dark face contort into something hungry and alien. Drawing my ankle one way and my arm another, I'm pulled parallel to the floor, back crackling as he yanks me taught before him.