Salt

Salt

Danielle Ellison

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by Danielle Ellison. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC

2614 South Timberline Road

Suite 109

Fort Collins, CO 80525

Visit our website at
www.entangledpublishing.com
.

Edited by Laura Anne Gilman

Cover design by Jenny Perinovic

ISBN 978-1-62266-348-4

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition January 2014

This is an Advance Reader Copy provided for review purposes only. Not for resale or distribution.

1

To my Nanan, who put her heart in everything, worked her hardest, spoke her mind, loved entirely, and made the best pies. If I end up being half the woman you were, it will be my biggest success.

This is an Advance Reader Copy provided for review purposes only. Not for resale or distribution.

Chapter One

Gran always told us not to leave home without salt in our pocket.

“You never know,” she used to say while we licked batter from spoons, “when a demon will attack and you need to be prepared.”

Pop would call her “sweet lips” and remind her we were kids, much like he did when Connie and I stole cookies before dinner and she flipped out. Mom and Dad would reassure her that we were safe, and then take us home where bedtime was the biggest worry.

But that was before my parents died. Since then, Gran reminds me about having salt every time I so much as mention going outside. Her warning plays on a loop in my head. I’m trained to bring it with me.

Except for today, apparently.

The demon chasing me is going to love that.

I run, but there’s only so much I can do. Plus, I wasn’t paying attention and turned down an alley. The walls are narrow, only about seven feet across, so there’s no way I can maneuver around it. Demons are too fast. There has to be a way out at the other end. Maybe I can sneak past it.

I pick up speed, leading it away from the street and deeper into the alley. Wait, this is wrong. There’s a brick wall blocking the exit.

You’ve got to be kidding. A dead end. My end.
Crap.
If there were an award for bad situations, I’d win first, second,
and
third place.

All I can do is run and hope I can get around it and out the way I came in. Maybe it’s far enough behind me that it will work. Running is my best option.

I turn around and
bam
, there it is, hissing at me. My stomach lurches at the sight of it, and at the sulfur lingering in the air. Dang, it’s gross. They’re not always this ugly, but this one’s green scales, cleaved tongue, and lime eyes make it one of the more hideous. At least there’s something there, though, something to fight.

I need to figure this out. I’ve studied all the books; this should be a no-brainer.

Demons are more vulnerable in their true form. When they’ve possessed a Non, a human without power, they can hide more. Old Greenie here is completely itself. Lucky me.

“Witch,” the demon hisses, “you smell good.”

“You bet I do,” I say. Though I have no idea why it said that. The demon makes a kind of grinding noise that I’ve come to recognize as laughter, and takes a step toward me. “Come any closer and your ass goes back to hell before you can blink your beady little eyes.”

“Hell is temporary, girl. I’ve gotten out before; I can do it again. I’m not afraid of hell.” Its voice is venomous, slithery.
Overconfidence is a demonic weakness
.

“Been there before?” I ask. I raise my eyebrows and sweep my gaze across the alley. There’s no way out of this. I wish I could go all Spider-Man and walk up the wall.

“That’s the problem with you witches,” the demon says. “You’re so snotty. Know-it-alls, all of you. This world used to be fun—lots of babies to enjoy, people dying of the plague, willing sacrifices.” It takes a step toward me with each word. “Witches were a lot easier to find then, too.”

I dodge it left and right. We both know I’m stalling. It’s the only alternative to salt I have. Demons love to talk about themselves, spill their plans. They’re idiots.
Misdirection
, number six in the handbook.

“Do you have a nice little house in hell? Drapes? Servants? A cute little demon dog? All that jazz?” I ask.

The demon hisses again and charges toward me. I leap out of the way, only a few feet in the tight space, as it stops exactly where I was standing. My heart races, eyes flicking to my left—almost there—as it lunges toward me, green claws outstretched.

I spring to my left and slide my foot back, beckoning it forward. It bolts toward me again and then lands directly on target on the iron sewer grate.

Everything’s still at first except the racing of my heart and the fear dancing in its glowing red eyes. Then it screams, howls like it’s dying. It is—sort of. At least it’s trapped on the iron and I’m sure it burns like hell. Gotta love iron.

“I hope you had a nice visit. Vacation’s over.”

It hisses at me again, his tongue flickering between its weird pointy teeth, and jerks toward me, but it’s trapped. The more it struggles the more it’s probably searing at its skin. Iron is a great trap when there’s nothing else.

“You can’t keep me here,” it hisses as I turn away.

I pull my cell phone out of my pocket. The demon keeps muttering and yelling, and the scent of sulfur burns my nose while I dial Connie. Demons reek. Connie doesn’t answer. Voice mail. I should’ve thought this plan through a little more.

“Assistance, Con. Hurry up!” I whisper where I am before I hang up and start dialing Pop. Unlike the rest of my family, and the rest of the witches in my community, I can’t work magic on my own; I need to be near someone else in my family. When I touch them it’s stronger, because “blood unified is magic magnified,” but even being nearby is enough for me. Except it’s really inconvenient—especially when they don’t answer.

“Wait,” the demon says. I freeze, the rings filling my ears. Three. Four. Five. “Are you calling for help?”

No answer with Pop either, so I hang up and twist around to face the demon. Greenie doesn’t look good; its eyes are dilated and it’s covered in a sheen of sweat. I’m starting to sweat too, because this is a mess.

“I thought you were going to send me to hell.”

“I am,” I say. I slide my phone back into my pocket. This is all bad. Very bad. There’s only one person left, but I am not calling Gran. She won’t approve of any of this; she barely tolerates my dreams of being an Enforcer and will never understand that I need to be one to find my magic. Plus, I’ll never hear the end of forgetting the salt. I’ll figure out something else.

“So do it,” the demon smiles tightly.

I cross my arms over my chest. I can’t tell it that I can’t send it back, that I don’t have the power. If one of them finds out then all the demons will know; then soon after that all of my kind will know—and I’ll be screwed. Might as well paint a target on my back
. Think, Penelope, think.

“Maybe I like to make it a party,” I say.

The demon hisses. “You’re Static.”

“I am not Static.” I square my shoulders. I’m not Static—I’m temperamental. I know how do to this, I know many different ways to do this, but I’ve never done it before. Technically, none of the witches younger than eighteen are allowed to do magic outside of the home or school, but there are circumstances where it’s acceptable without punishment. Like this one. And I can’t. Life is so unfair. “I can do it.”

“Then do it,” it challenges.

I bite the inside of my cheek as the words from the CEASE Squad Handbook flash in my head.
Demonic weaknesses: expulsion, entrapment, and sacraments: incantation, iron, and salt.

I’m going to have to expel a demon without salt, without sacrament, and without someone else to help me. My power hasn’t been strong enough to work without a family member as a counter since I was nine. My magic has to feed off theirs, like my essence isn’t strong enough alone. It’s so weak it’s practically nonexistent.

Gah, Greenie is sneering at me. I have to at least
try
to send it back to hell, buy myself some more time. It won’t know I’m pretending.

I scan the area to make sure there are no Nons sneaking peeks down the alley. I came all the way to the bad end of town for cupcakes, so no one seems to notice us here. Thank goodness. Of course, no Nons means no Enforcers and no one to save me if I mess this up. I raise my hands so my palms are facing the demon, and it seems nervous, which makes me falsely confident, since I don’t even have magic. I start the incantation. It’s strongest in Latin—most people use English, but I’m weak enough as it is.

“Virtute angeli ad infernum unde venistis,”
I whisper. Then say it again, louder. “
Virtute angeli ad infernum unde venistis.”

Four minutes and the only thing that’s changed is that now the demon is laughing. “You are Static. Leave me on the iron; I’m sure another will come along who can finish the job,” it chuckles.

Yeah, cause that’s what I need. An Enforcer to come see me chatting it up with Greenie instead of offing it. Anger boils through me. I can do this. It’s in my blood to do this. It’s got to still be there. I don’t need Connie or Pop or Gran or anyone. I know I have the power somewhere inside me. I can do it. I repeat the incantation.

“Now you’re wasting my time,” the demon says, its laughter fading.

I say the incantation again. There’s a moment before the magic starts where the elements all seem to merge into one huge power source. The air is thinner, water seems to evaporate into your pores, you get hot like you’re dancing on fire, the scent of dust and wildflowers fill the air, and it all tunnels into your veins and pours out. At least, that’s how I remember it. I know how it feels to have the magic build up, to fill the hollowness. It doesn’t; once again, there’s nothing.

I yell the words of the incantation. Over and over. Still nothing.

“This is starting to get boring.”

Suddenly the magic is there. It tingles through my toes and floats around in my head, falling into place. It’s different than I expect it to feel—less tunneling into me the way it does with my family, and more pulling
out
of me. A storm is brewing inside me. Maybe it’s supposed to feel different when you do it alone; I was a child the last time I used it without a counter. Whatever! It’s working! I don’t need my family again and I don’t have to worry about finding all the pieces for some crazy ritual. I’m so ecstatic that I yell the incantation again and don’t even care if I look unstable from the smiling. “
Virtute angeli ad infernum unde venistis.
”

The demon chokes on its laugh and falls to its knees. I stop chanting. It shakes on the ground and foams at the mouth before it melts. Well, not so much melts as much as skin peels away like disgusting goo, and then the rest of it bursts into pieces. A green scale hits me in the face.

Expulsion—I did it! I can’t believe I did it! I have magic! I squeal and jump in my spot. I expelled a demon on my own. If I killed it then maybe all those books are wrong, maybe that was
my
demon. The power still surges through me; I want to fly. I bet I
could
scale the wall. I have magic again. There’s no one to see me. I can’t help it—I dance. Full on cabbage patch with some weird leg kick, all uncoordinated and remarkable. I expelled a demon! I have my magic back! I deserve a dance. I deserve a ball! I deserve—

“That was touch and go there for a minute,” a calm, cool voice calls out to me.

I freeze. My heart is pounding in my chest from the adrenaline—not to mention, minor embarrassment. A boy leans against the brick wall, brown leather jacket, jeans that are too tight, bright-blue Converses and an amused smile. He can’t be a Non; if he was he’d be screaming his head off by now. He must be something else. Another witch, maybe?

“Oh, sorry,” he says, pushing away from the wall and stepping toward me. “Keep dancing. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Expelling a demon is a good reason to celebrate—even when it took you ten minutes.”

I force my mouth to close and pick my bag up off the ground, wiping away some flecks of green. This is not what I need. I have magic again. I feel it lingering beneath my skin, buzzing and pulsing, like it’s waiting to be utilized. I want to see what else I can do with it. I’ve never had this much energy after using magic. When I pull from Con or Gran or Pop, it makes me tired. This has to be my magic because it’s too alive to not be.

“And you’re an expert?” I snap. He’s obviously a witch because he’s still standing here. Plus, he thinks he knows everything, and we all have that problem a little.

“I know a thing or two,” he says. Some have more of a problem than others.

My phone chirps before I can deliver my comeback. A text from Connie:
On my way.
She’s never going to believe I did it on my own. No one was here to see except this random boy. I wonder if I can keep this power surge going long enough to do a memory wipe. It’s probably bad to have a witch knowing I couldn’t do magic. Nix the “probably.”

“Let me guess—you watch
Buffy
reruns?” I ask, raising my eyebrow.

He smiles. It spreads across his sorta-rugged-cute smug face. “She hunted vampires,” he says.

“Those aren’t real.”

“I’m aware.”

I snort, which is only a little mortifying.

“Glad that’s cleared up,” he says. He moves closer to me until he’s only inches away. I take a step back as he takes a step forward, and his hand reaches out toward my face. Witch or not, I will bust out my ninja moves if he touches me. He puts up his hands and I pause as he reaches out to touch my hair and comes back with some green demon insides. Awesome.

“Thanks,” I say, quickly. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles again and this time it lights up his eyes. They’re the same color green the demon was—only they’re brighter against his skin and short, shaggy dark-brown hair.

“I’m Carter.”

“Penelope Grey,” I say.

“Nice to meet you,” he says.

“So, why are you hanging out in an alley?”

Carter laughs a little and crosses his arms over his chest. He obviously missed the fact that it’s June in DC and he’s wearing a leather jacket.

“Tracking demons, what else?”

I shake my head. “You track them?” I ask, stepping away from him.

“They track us, don’t they? It’s only fair to return the favor,” Carter says. I’m pretty sure my mouth drops. I may spend some of my time looking for information about demons—well,
a
demon—but that’s totally different. I don’t seek them out. “I was following one when I found you.”

I stare at him for a second. What kind of weirdo witch tracks demons? We don’t have the power, the knowledge, or the skills to track demons without backup. Not even Enforcers, witches trained to fight demons, are supposed to do that. And this guy is no Enforcer—if he was then he’d have the badge of three gold triangles that only witches can see. Tracking demons is not safe and it’s not how we operate.
Rule number thirteen: Let them come to you. When they reveal themselves, they exhaust themselves and you get the advantage.