His mouth was hooked upward in a sly smile, as if he’d been caught doing something he knew he wouldn’t be punished for. His eyes were blue—not the unnatural brightness of the demon, but an honest, human blue—and his jaw had a sharp edge. He slouched a little. His features wouldn’t have been considered handsome by themselves, but when put together, somehow they made him look good.
For a moment, Dee felt herself flush—and then she saw his clothes.
Jeans with holes in the knees, badly worn shoes, and a secondhand parka.Do people actually wear parkas in Oregon?she thought wildly.
She went hunting for a demon and found some homeless boy instead. The demon must have stepped into one of those locked rooms and left her to blunder on ahead.
Dee and the homeless guy regarded each other for a moment.
“You’re not heartless, are you?” he said, and Dee had no idea how to answer. Was this his way of asking for a handout?
“Um, no,” she said. “Sorry, but you’re not supposed to be here.”
He blinked at her. “What?”
She tried to think of a tactful way to answer. “I know it’s warm,” she said hesitantly, “but you’re not supposed to come down here. There’s a shelter a few miles away—I can tell you how to find the bus stop, give you a little money for it—”
Footsteps rang out and before Dee could react, another guy, probably only a little older than the homeless one, thudded down the hall. He had the blunt, hard-edged face Dee had come to expect from high school jocks. He carried himself with a kind of arrogant assurance. But none of that swagger reached his expression—he smiled at the pair of them like they were all old friends.
“Lancer, you sad bastard,” he said fondly, directing a look at the homeless boy. “How many times have people tried to hand you spare change this week?”
The homeless one said, “Counting this time? Three. I don’t see why.”
The jock snorted. “Iknowyou can afford a mirror. Or do you just not care what you look like?”
The homeless boy looked at himself, as if surprised to see clothes there. “My last mirror went into a multimedia piece.”
The jock rolled his eyes. “He’s not actually homeless,” he said, finally directing his words toward Dee. “He just dresses like it.” He turned so that he fully faced her. “You new?”
“Not unless the Daemon’s started recruiting rich prep school kids,” said Not-Homeless. His gaze was fixed on the Brannigan logo on her shirt.
“I’m not a rich prep school kid,” she said. “I’m—I—” She floundered, unsure of what to say.
“Lost?” asked the jock, not unkindly.
“No,” said Dee. “You—do you know there’s a fire outside?”
“Yep,” said Not-Homeless, not sounding the least bit worried. “And that’s a good thing.”
She gaped at him.
“As long as that building burns,” said the boy, “no one will come looking down here.”
She found her words again. “Whoareyou?”
“James Lancer,” said Not-Homeless. His name didn’t quite fit him. It sounded straightforward, and this young man looked about as off-kilter as they came. “And this upstanding individual is Carroll Medina.”
“Cal,” said the second boy, a little despairingly. “Everybody calls me Cal. And you are…?” He squinted at Dee.
“Looking for someone,” said Dee. She put her hands on her hips and tried to appear imposing, if only so she wouldn’t feel so flustered. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen—I don’t know, um, a…?” She hesitated, unsure of whether or not to reveal her secret.
She never managed to finish her mangled sentence.
Something hit her in the chest. A soldthingwith whiskers and fur and warmth, and she clutched at it instinctively, hands wrapping around it.
It was squeaking wildly, writhing, and when cool claws touched her bare skin, Dee threw the thing to the floor. It was a large, furry rat.
Dee felt a cry lodge in her throat, but she swallowed it down. The rat righted itself, then darted away.
