The Demon's Deadline (Demon's Assistant Book 1) by Tori Centanni Page A

been in years, even after Dad’s online grocery splurges. It strikes me that all of this food will go to waste now, all of Mr. St. Davies’ plans for it abandoned.
    Xanan reaches in the back and pulls out two of those fancy, microbrew root beers and shuts the door. He hands one to me, and I figure if life is going to hand me a dead man’s gourmet soda, I might as well drink it.
    I take a sip of the root beer. The bubbles help push down any lumps of panic that are trying to barricade my throat. I pull out the envelope.
    “This was under my door.” I smack the letter with Cam’s name on it down on the counter. “But this can’t be right. Azmos told me that you can’t bargain for another person.”
    Xanan looks at the letter. “It’s his handwriting.”
    “I know that.”
    Xanan puts down the root beer and picks up the letter and its envelope. He stares at each for a few moments and then shakes his head, growling in frustration. “I bet someone forced his hand. Rule number three is that another mortal can’t pay for one’s bargain. It complicates the equation.”
    I consider asking if I can get a copy of these rules. “How could anyone force his hand?” I ask instead.
    He shrugs, twists the cap off his bottle, and says, “Magic.”
    “There’s no such thing as magic.”
    Xanan laughs, but it comes out more like an exhale that took a wrong turn. “Right. So how did you survive that car accident?”
    I hesitate. “Magic,” I say, realizing it’s true. Only I’ve never thought of it that way. Miraculous, sure, demon-powered, definitely, and I’ve spent hours wondering if those two things were possible at the same time. But the word “magic” never came to mind. I guess Cam’s right. I don’t think things through, not even my own magical escape from death.
    “There aren’t a lot of mortals who can muster up enough magic to create a spark, let alone trap someone like Azmos and keep themselves alive under these circumstances, but there are a few.” He taps his fingers against his jeans. “This isn’t good.”
    “What does it mean for me?” He gives me that look you see on murder mystery shows when the detective has an epiphany because someone just said something that makes it all click into place. I swallow hard.
    “This,” he taps the letter, “is just paper. Other people aren’t fair game. So this isn’t an invoice with any weight. It’s a threat. Someone is trying to scare you.”
    “What? Who? Why?”
    Xanan shrugs again and takes a large swig of his root beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “No idea. But it’s good.”
    “How? I mean, other than Cam not being in immediate danger.”
    “It means we know who it is.”
    “Okay. Care to enlighten me?”
    He rolls his eyes again, like I’m too stupid to live. Given the fate Mr. St. Davies met, it’s more than terrifying. “I don’t know exactly. But we know it’s someone who’s trying to weasel extra time and someone who doesn’t like you. I’m willing to bet that’s not a long list.”
    I sip more root beer and will the sugar to help the synapses in my brain fire. And then it hits me. It’s so completely obvious that I feel as stupid as Xanan clearly thinks I am. Heather Bancroft. She was furious, she tried to use salt and holy water against me, and then she attacked me with a dagger. She had that circle in her apartment like she was casting witchy spells. And she was not happy to learn I don’t have an expiration date looming over my head. She might not have been the first person to figure out what the letters meant before I did, but she was the first to set up a demon trap and attack me. Of all the people I’ve delivered letters to, she’s the most obvious suspect.
    I tell Xanan.
    “Excellent. You should be quick about it.”
    “About what?”
    “Finding her and releasing Azmos from whatever spell she’s got that keeps him trapped and hidden.”
    “Why me?” I demand.
    He doesn’t roll his eyes again.