“Ah! Elliot!” I squeal while he spins.
“He’s a demon,” he says, pressing a big kiss on the side of my cheek.
He’s getting awfully comfortable with that lately.
“What?” I ask, trying and failing to pry myself out of his grip.
In answer, he kisses the other cheek, evening them out, and spins me one more time.
“He’s a demon,” he repeats, finally setting me back on the ground.
I reach my hand out to feel his forehead.
“Have you lost your mind?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says, smiling like a maniac.
He takes my bag, shouldering it himself as he laces our fingers together to lead me in the direction of Crescent House.
“Our friend,” he whispers. “He’s a demon.”
“How do you know that?”
“Dred. He could taste his blood in the air.”
My eyes go wide as he explains Bloodsoe’s shadow walk, but the excitement quickly wears off as I remind him, “Demons aren’t allowed to enroll at Highcrest.”
Elliot shakes his head.
“They are if they’re half-bloods or less,” he corrects.
“That could be anyone. How are we supposed to know who’s a half-blood and who isn’t? It’s not like they advertise it.”
Elliot shrugs.
“I haven’t figured that part out yet,” he says. “But if I know what I’m looking for, I can find it. I will find it.”
Elliot’s surety gives me little comfort. It’s not that I don’t have faith in him; I’m sure we will find our mystery person eventually. Right now, I’m more concerned with what happens after.
From the look in his eyes and the tension in his back, I don’t think mere words will suffice, and he has a tendency to be reckless. But I don’t want him risking himself for me any more than he already has.
I decided weeks ago that when the time comes, I will handle it myself and accept whatever punishment comes with it. I only hope he will not stand in my way.
As we climb the steps to Crescent House, my phone rings, and we both stop mid-stride to watch the simple, bold text scroll across the screen. It reads “UNKNOWN.”
I don’t answer it. I never do. I simply wait until the vibrating stops, at which point I have to resist the urge to throw the stupid thing into the bushes.
“How many times?” Elliot asks, voice grim.
“Eight,” I say.
“This week?”
“Tonight.”
His jaw clenches, teeth grinding as his tail stiffens, but he doesn’t say anything as we enter the house. Though he does grip my hand a little tighter when we pass through the foyer, too conscious of the many wandering eyes.
I don’t blame him. It’s busier than usual for a Thursday night.
