It starts to snow while I’m on the bus and the urge to run around with my sister, catching flakes on our tongues, is almost enough to make me turn back. I’d much rather be laughing with her than charging off alone to fight a demonic foe. But I’ve made my bed so I might as well lie in it.

I’ve strapped the sawed-off shotgun into a cumbersome leg holster and it keeps bumping against my thigh every time the bus stutters to a stop. Pulling my borrowed peacoat closer to keep the friendly driver off my back, I continue to internally debate this ludicrous decision.

In the Pro Column: protecting a life, proving myself, guaranteeing Serrano keeps her ghastly hands to herself.

In the Anti Column: month-long grounding, familial rage, death.

But as I approach my stop, my hand darts out to pull the cord and my fate is sealed. Here goes nothing.

The intrepid employee from earlier, Terry Han, sits on the curb, staring into the distance and smoking what I assume is a joint from the odor. The store is empty but brightly lit behind him, like he turned on every light to scare the thing he sensed lurking between the aisles.

I stand straighter as I approach, hoping to exude an air of competent authority. "Shouldn’t they have given you the rest of the night off?"

Recognition flashes and he gives me an upnod, exhaling smoke. "You’d think, huh? But my coworker couldn’t stop crying so," he shrugs, "I figured I’d take one for the team."

Terry puts his joint out on the concrete and rises, pulling the hood of his dark leather jacket further over his face. He’s taller than I remember. Studying the empty air behind me, he frowns. "Where’s Dr. Slate?"

"He’ll be here soon," I lie, using my most winning smile to sell it. "Why don’t you walk me through what’s been going on?"

Cocking his head, he takes in the fact that I’m over a foot shorter than him and, you know, fifteen.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, lifting my chin.

Called out, he sheepishly rubs at his neck. "I’m not sure I feel comfortable letting you back in there. How old are you anyway?"

"Thirty-seven," I snap, shoving past him and across the threshold.

The second I step inside I can feel the Low-Level Demon’s presence. It’s so oppressive that my ears pop. Like a giant’s hand has pushed all the air together and made it denser somehow. Soupy.

Straightaway, I catch sight of the collapsed shelf. The body has long been removed, the surrounding area swept and mopped but seeing it sends a few wisps of doubt twisting around my abdomen.

No. Stop it. I can’t keep second guessing myself. The whole reason we’re here in this town, on this case, is because I believe I’m ready. What I lack in experience, I more than make up for in knowledge. And first and foremost, I know how to read a room for signs of demonic activity.

Colder than it should be? Check.

Full body sweat despite said cold? Check.

Mysterious sense of dread? Check.

Fight and Flight response going haywire? Check.

Smoothing my braid, I turn to the employee full of inquisitive hope. "So, what made you call my dad?"

Terry blushes. Uh oh. He’s cute. Like, really cute. That didn’t register until now. My body suddenly feels gangly, my movements awkward. And when he grins, something in me stirs at the discovery of dimples. I look anywhere but directly at him to keep from blushing myself.

"It’s stupid now that I think about it, but it started as a feeling. Like, everywhere I went someone was watching me." Brushing the hood back, he tousles his black hair so it falls pleasantly across his forehead. I swear he does it on purpose but it’s pretty clear he’s oblivious to the effect he’s having. I’m the one making it weird. Rein it in, girl.

"Are you sure it wasn’t cuz you were smoking the, um, marijuana?" I ask, tamping down my hormones to mime bringing a joint to my lips.

He laughs and it’s not charming at all. And I certainly don’t notice how his leather jacket fits nicely over his broad shoulders. "Nah, I don’t get paranoid like that. Then I was cleaning by the dairy section when I could’ve sworn I saw someone I knew. But that’s absurd cuz she’s, um, dead." He pauses and offers up another self-effacing grin. "Sorry, I know that sounds crazy."

"It doesn’t," I firmly state. "I believe you."

Bolstered by my acceptance, he keeps going. "Well, after that, the alarm went off cuz of course it did. It’s a total horror show here tonight. That’s when I called. I feel kinda dumb about it now but I’m the only one here and your dad did say to call if I saw anything strange."

"You did the right thing, Terry. Trust me."

The relief that materializes in his eyes stirs something else in me. Confidence blossoms where there was uncertainty, bravery where there was cowardice. Like his gratitude has leveled up my stats.

And despite his advantages in height, weight and age, I feel protective of him. He’s afraid and I can help. It’s a nice sensation.

If only to keep from staring at him, I wander down the aisles, attempting to appear professional, experienced. Terry follows, supportive but perplexed and the icy trepidation only gets worse the deeper we go.

It’s a tangible thing. The phrase "you could cut it with a knife", comes to mind and my feet carry me back to the dairy section, the scene of the crime. Literally.

Reluctantly marching past the refrigerated glass doors, I peer behind the shelves until I reach the panel where we first saw Serrano. There I waver, a part of me afraid she’s gonna be waiting for me, ready to pounce. Nothing ominous moves but my reflection looks less heroic than I would have liked.

And for a split second, it seems to change. Warping briefly into something cruel and lurking and dead.

"So, what are you doing, exactly?" Terry asks, startling me. He’s sticking close to my heels, no doubt already questioning his decision to call in the first place. "My grandma’s old school and loves all this spooky shit. She’s kinda indoctrinated me with it."

I roll my shoulders back and head to a different section, peering around the corner of an aisle before traversing it. "I’m just checking for demonic activity," I reply, but I wince the second the words are out of my mouth.

I shouldn’t have led with that. Just because I live in a world where Hell is a concrete, provable thing, that doesn’t mean I have to expose that world to everyone I come across.

Behind me, I hear Terry come to a halt. "I’m sorry... Did you just say demonic activity?"

I debate whether or not to shrug it off as a joke just to keep him innocent a little while longer. But if Serrano is going to show her ugly face tonight, then he’s is in danger. I can’t leave him in the dark.

"That’s what all the signs point to. And it’s kinda the reason me and my family are here." Bracing for his skepticism, I turn to give him the whole spiel about how demons exist and that the world as he knows it is a lie.

But I don’t get far because floating behind him, her face inches from his shoulder, is Linda Serrano. A singular white eye locks onto me and her bloody, mutilated face splits into a malicious, excited smile.

Adrenaline hits like a lightning bolt to my chest and with reflexes honed throughout years of practice, I whip the shotgun up to aim at the Low-Level Demon. But she vanishes the second I’m in position and I’m left pointing a gun at nothing. Damn it! She’s slippery.

But the unintended consequences of my itchy trigger finger are disastrous. Because, from Terry’s perspective, I’m not pointing a gun at nothing. I’m pointing a gun directly at him.

"Holy shit!" he yells, eyes widening almost comically. He throws his hands up in the typical nonthreatening, don’t-shoot-me gesture. "Why do you have a gun?!"

The rational part of my brain screams to lower the weapon, but the primitive part is so shocked at this series of unfortunate events that I’m frozen in place like an action figure parody.

"Look, um, kid," he says evenly, backing away. "Just put the gun down and we can both walk outside and wait for your dad."

When I find my voice, it’s amazingly steady. "I didn’t mean to threaten you." I lower the gun and push my palm towards him in a placating gesture. "I’m just trying to help."

But the jig is up. Whatever trust I briefly fostered has flown the coop, all because I’m an overeager imbecile. I see it in the way the blood has drained from his complexion and how his eyes keep darting for the door.

"No offense, but I don’t think I want your type of help anymore," Terry says, speaking to me like I’m a beast who’s broken out of her cage.

I have to fix this. If only because if I let him out of my sight, I’m positive he’ll call the police. And then I won’t just have an angry demon to contend with, I could be the first person in my family to go to jail. Which I always thought would be Perrin’s legacy, not mine.

"I’m not gonna hurt you," I insist, fixing a friendly, totally not scary smile to my face. "But I do need you to follow my orders."

I can almost read his train of thought from the riot of emotions he’s doing a terrible job of concealing. He’s not going to argue with the dangerous looking girl holding a shotgun but also, why is there a dangerous looking girl holding a shotgun?!

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing as he finally answers, "Ok."

"Lock up for the night and put the CLOSED sign on the door. Oh, and turn out some lights to make it look less occupied." I nod at the floor to ceiling glass windows through which we can see the darkened parking lot. "I don’t want anyone else getting in my way."

POP!

The florescent tube directly above us explodes, either from natural causes or Serrano’s paranormal influence and I involuntarily look up, alarmed. Glass dust falls around us as Terry takes this opportunity to bolt for the door.

Mentally kicking myself, I curse creatively and bound after him. Skidding out of the aisle, I aim at a cardboard display near the front and blow it away, chunks of cardboard flying into the air.

He screeches to a halt, hands already up to protect his head. I cringe inwardly at the scare tactic but it’s a necessary evil.

"Please, lock up the store," I command in my most tranquil voice.

Terry glares over his shoulder, cheeks flushed red again, but this time with anger. His nostrils flare furiously but he does what I say, watching my reflection in the door as he roughly turns the key and hits a few light switches, plunging the store into gloom.

Lamps from the parking lot filter through the floor to ceiling windows and the emergency refrigerator lights give the whole back of the place a clinical glow. But the deep shadows between the aisles send shivers up my spine. Hello Darkness, my old friend.

I back up against one of the cash registers and, without losing sight off my hostage, climb on top of the counter for a better vantage point. It’s not a huge store, but there are plenty of dim places for a demon to hide.

"Stand over there where I can watch you." I jerk the gun towards the open area between the aisles and the registers with more authority than I actually feel. Every hair on my body is erect as I scan the store for signs of Linda. I can’t let her surprise me again. I evidently don’t handle it well.

Terry follows instructions, visibly seething. I guess he’s not someone who appreciates being bossed around at gunpoint. At least we have that in common.

"I’m not the enemy here," I insist, but it sounds bogus even to my ears. "I’m the one protecting you from something that wants both of us dead."

"You’re insane." Aggravated being an understatement, Terry throws his long arms out to encompass the emptiness of the store. "There’s no one else here!"

Out of the corner of my eye, something flits between the walkways. Something human sized and inhumanely fast, the soupy air rippling in her wake. Her presence is all around me now, like she’s not even trying to hide it. Filling the grocery store with grisly possibilities. I pump the shotgun in preparation. "If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have called my dad."

But my stomach sinks at the way Terry’s looking at me. Like I’m the thing to be feared. "I... I don’t know what I believe any more."

This isn’t how any of this was supposed to go. I’m supposed to be the hero, not the villain. "Then believe in me. That I’m gonna get you out of this."

"If you say so," he cynically replies.

Taking stock of my situation makes me feel very small and out of my element. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve royally screwed up. It’s time to use a lifeline and call in the big guns.

Ugh, but I really don’t wanna call them. They’ll use this as proof that I’m not ready. That they were right to hide things from me. That fifteen really is too young to slay demons. They might even send me home, destroying any chance of redemption!

But the Low-Level is stirring, I have an innocent person at gunpoint and I’ve already wasted a precious bullet shooting at an unsuspecting cardboard cutout. I can’t let my pride get in the way of doing what’s right.

I groan but reposition the shotgun to pull out my battered cell phone. Promise u wont freak out, I text.

Even through the phone, I can feel Perrin’s anger. And Dad will most likely be silently disappointed. Which as any child knows, is almost worse.

Perched on top of the counter, my gaze roves between the shadowy aisles, the parking lot and my prisoner, who sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, his head propped on a fist. His surly eyes track my every movement, no doubt waiting for another opportunity to bolt.

"Come on, Linda," I taunt softly. "Quit being such a tease."

I’m so focused on keeping watch, scanning for fast moving creatures, that I’m startled when I catch sight of my breath misting in front of me. A glance towards Terry reveals he’s shivering too, an exhale clouding the air.

"Did I leave a window open?" he mutters, rubbing his hands.

I jump down, highly alert for even the smallest sign of movement. My breath wants to ratchet up to a frantic panting but I regulate it, keeping myself calm. If I panic now, one or both of us will die.

"Now what are you doing?" Terry groans, climbing to his feet. He sounds even more irritated than he did a few minutes ago.

"I told you, checking for demonic activity," I repeat, seeing no harm now in sharing a bit of information. "The cold means it’s gathering power to appear. I think we’re about to be in a lot of trouble."

He searches my face and I wonder what he sees. A valiant protector? A dangerous girl with menace lurking in her eyes? A stubborn darkness that will probably only grow the older she gets?

Because those are things I’ve seen in the mirror. Glimpses of the person I could become if I continue down this path. Running recklessly into the unknown with no plan, no backup, and with only my wits to guide me.

But instead of scaring me, the idea of that person is exciting. What a formidable woman she’ll be. I can’t wait to meet her.

"Who are you?" he finally asks, giving up on trying to get a read.

I hesitate. Now that’s a loaded question. So, I offer him the simplest answer. "I’m Ace."

"I would say ’It’s nice to meet you, Ace’, but..." he gestures to the gun.

A banging near the entrance makes us both jump. Silhouetted against the parking lot are two figures. One huge and hulking, the other smaller but just as lethal. The smaller one presses her face to the glass and bangs again. Uh oh. She’s livid.

I turn back to ask Terry for the keys only to realize he’s once again taken advantage of my distraction and is sprinting towards me.

I lash out with the butt of the gun when he draws near but he ducks out of the way and whirls to the ground in a low spinning heel kick. His foot connects with my ankles and both my legs and the gun go flying into the air.

I fall hard, smacking my head on the ground and my vision explodes with stars. Damn, Perrin was right. I really do need to work on my hand-to-hand combat.

The pounding on the glass intensifies as Terry and I both scramble for the discarded shotgun. But his reach is far longer than mine so he gets to it first and stands over me, panting as he points it in my face.

Gasping and pissed, I glare up the barrel at him. This is even more embarrassing than falling to pieces over a corpse. I’ve been disarmed by a civilian! I’m never going to hear the end of it. He holds the gun much more confidently than I would’ve predicted, but I’ve spent enough time with him to know he’s not going to shoot me. He’s no killer.

I’m about to berate him when there’s a colossal crash and Terry is tackled to the ground by my giant of a father, remnants of the glass door he just barreled through tinkling down around them. Sliding to a stop, Dad slams the boy’s face into the linoleum so savagely that bright blood bursts from his nose and he cries out in pain. But Reed Slate is beyond sympathy.

"Touch my daughter again and I’ll break more than your nose," he toothily growls in Terry’s ear.

Then Perrin is beside me, pale with an emotion I’ve never seen before: fear. It transforms her freckles into painted dots and her eyes into wide, manic sinkholes.

"Where does it hurt?" Her voice is gruff as she pats me down, checking for wounds. I hiss when her fingers brush the pulsing spot at the back of my head, but I’m thankful to see they’re bloodless when removed.

"Stop. You’re being obnoxious." I try to shoo her off but she whacks my hands down and crushes me into a hug instead, holding me uncomfortably tight. I can hear her heart rapid firing and that asshole named Guilt peeks around the corner.

I never wanted to scare her. A large part of this whole stupid outing has been about impressing her. Showing her how far I’ve come. Proving I’m just as good as her. Too bad I fumbled it.

"You’re so stupid," she breathes into my hair. "So fucking stupid." The words are harsh but the tone is tender, suffused with relief that I’m safe.

Over her shoulder, Dad yanks Terry to his feet and throws him away from the broken door, crimson dripping from his face. "Sit down and shut up," he instructs with menacing clout.

Perrin pulls back and looks me over once more for good measure, her pallor returning to its baseline tan. Then she frowns and grips my lapels. "Is this my jacket?"

I shrug. "It looked cool."

Rolling her eyes, she hauls me upright, steadying me with a hand on my elbow when dizziness threatens to knock me back again. But even when my feet are firmly planted, she can’t stop looking over me like I’m a glass vase that was nearly smashed. And, speaking of glass...

"Jesus, Dad. Was that really necessary?" she asks, kicking a jagged shard with the tip of her Timbs and puffing her chest in an imitation of him. "Hulk Smash," she quotes in a deep voice before dissolving into her husky, high-pitched giggle, the sound soothing the bulk of my disquiet. "You’re gonna be feeling that tomorrow, old man."

"Perrin, please," he barks. "Not now." Snatching up the shotgun, he whirls on me, unforgiving steel gleaming behind black rimmed glasses. "What the hell were you thinking?"

I had braced myself for his disappointment, but the anger is unexpected. My father is a pretty mild-mannered dude. Plus, I’m the good child. The smart one. The baby. He never gets mad at me. I hate it. And I hate that I involuntarily cower against my big sister beneath his fury.

"Terry called and said he saw something in the store," I stammer, pointing accusingly at the poor, bleeding employee. "You guys were already gone and I thought I could help."

"This is helping?!" Dad bellows and I cringe. He chucks the shotgun at me and I grunt as I catch it, unable to meet his eyes. "Do you have any idea how God damn stupid this was? Running off halfcocked? Without a plan? You could have hurt yourself!"

"I did have a plan," I moodily mumble. But did I? And did it honestly go any farther than vain pretentions and familial praise?

"Oh? And what was that? Please, Aceline, show your work. How does holding up a grocery store constitute a plan?!"

I shrink further against the solidity of my sister. "I didn’t want anyone else to die."

"And what about you? What if you had died?"

"Dad, stop," Perrin says, placing herself between us. Gratitude and Guilt join hands in my chest and whoop loudly at the gesture. "You can yell at Ace later. Hell, I’ll even sing back up. You take the high notes, I’ll take the low. But right now, Serrano is the priority. She’s the one we need to focus on."

"Serrano?" Terry interjects from where he sits against an artfully decorated crate of vegetables. And when three pairs of gray eyes fall on him, he doesn’t even have the decency to feign contrition at his eavesdropping. Using his shirtsleeve to mop the blood from his upper lip, he nasally asks, "Are you guys talking about Linda Serrano?"

Perrin detaches herself to prowl forward, struggling to keep her temper regarding the unfortunate soul who dared attack me. Terry scrambles back against the crates until he has nowhere left to go, unnerved by her intensity. Any darkness he may have glimpsed in my eyes is nothing compared to what lurks in my sister’s, the gloom of the story dilating her pupils until only a ring of smoke remains.

Crouching before him, she reaches out and adjusts the rumpled, blood-flecked collar of his white button down. "Listen, kid..."

"Terry," he blurts, trying to summon as much bravado as he can.

"Isn’t that a girl’s name?"

"Isn’t Perrin a boy’s name?"

"Isn’t gender a construct?" I exclaim. But my stab at levity falls short.

"Listen," she repeats, swatting at the air to silence me. "I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess this has been a very stressful night. And for that, I’m sorry." She serves up a grin nowhere near the realm of apologetic. "But things are about to get a lot kookier so I really need you to trust us right now."

"Trust you? You’re kidding."

Her response takes the form of a curved, admonishing eyebrow.

Terry swallows. "You’re all insane."

"Depends on your perspective." She gestures to his nose. "May I?"

He balks, obviously not wanting to be touched by a Slate ever again, but he doesn’t stop her when she gently puts her hands on his face, thumbs lining up along the sides of his nose.

"I’m going to count to three, ok? One..." And she snaps it back into place before Terry can register the fib. He yelps and she gives him a patronizing pat. "Good job. Make sure to grab a sucker on your way out."

He fingers his realigned septum and extends a grudging, "Thanks," as Perrin stands and turns back to us, adjusting her jacket.

But her expression sours as my breath plumes murkily in front of me and I’m already spinning when she shouts, "Six o’clock!"

Because behind us, our guest of honor has arrived: Linda Serrano, hovering and furious.

Next Chapter: Chapter 5: Perrin Slate