Sorren
“Can I admit something?” I ask while digging through a box. This one looks like someone turned over a desk drawer, dropped its contents in the box, and taped it shut a decade ago.
“You’re not going to kill me and drag my soul to corporate hell, are you?” Eva jokes from the other side of the basement, working her way through the stack of boxes on that side.
“Tempting, but no. When you were passed out from the spell the other night, I obviously didn’t know where I was, so I poked around. I came down here, convinced I’d find a demon trapped and being tortured to death.”
I flip through the binder of CDs from a bygone era. The wide variety of music here is impressive. Radiohead shares a sleeve with the Titanic soundtrack. Another page has R.E.M. next to the Spice Girls.
“Young demons are threatened with witches from an early age. ‘Witches will snatch your teeth at night if you don’t brush them before bed.’ ‘They’ll boil you into demon soup if you don’t eat your vegetables,’” I mimic my parents.
“That is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard.” She picks up her box, moves it to the side, and opens the next one. “My Magic 8 Ball! I thought I lost this.” She shakes it then asks, “Will we send Sorren back through the gates of Hell tonight?”
“What’s it say?” I ask, oddly hoping it says I’ll be here for a while.
“The answer is,” she turns it over and waits for an answer, “Not Likely. It’s probably broken.” She tosses it back in the box.
“Is that thing reliable?” I’m not familiar with that particular instrument of magick.
“No. It’s a toy.”
Relief is promptly followed by guilt. There are people down there waiting for me, relying on me. Malachi is probably losing his mind, but I might as well enjoy my time up here until we figure out a way to send me back.
“So if you’re not out at night terrorizing young demons, what do you do?” I set the CDs back in the box and flip through the black and white composition notebook. Scribbles in blue ink cover every page. The doodles in the margins take up as much space as the actual writing.
“Normal witch stuff. I run a coffee shop with my best friend Riley. Help my aunt with her novice witch class. Oh, and at night, I use the drained blood of animals to help me gain unfettered power the likes of which the universe has never seen.” She follows it up with phony villainous laughter.
“Well, you’d better leave my cat alone.” I joke back. I hardly know Eva, but it’s obvious she’s never hurt a fly in her life.
“I’m kidding. I am working on developing my magick though. Oh, and I have Grant.” She finishes with the box and moves onto another.
“What’s a grant?” I ask, testing out the clicky pen I found in the box I’ve been poking around in—one that I know doesn’t contain the textbook we’re looking for.
“He’s my boyfriend.”
Of course she has a boyfriend. There is no way this witch is walking around Earth single. I don’t have a right to feel the crushing disappointment that envelops me. I just met her.
“He sounds great,” I say with zero enthusiasm. I can’t even fake it.
Eva laughs. “Disappointed, demon?”
“Crushed. I’d planned on making my move tonight.” It’s true, but she probably thinks I’m joking around.
“I could find some other witch for you to flirt with.” She offers innocently, like she doesn’t mean it. There is no way she doesn’t feel this tension between us. It’s currently unnamed, but I’m not opposed to labeling it.
“Nah. I’ve heard witches are dangerous. I should probably keep my distance.”
A raggedy sweatshirt is lobbed through the air and hits me in the face.
“And don’t you forget it,” she says with a laugh.
“Tell me more about your coffee shop. All of our independently-owned cafés were forced out of business. Now all we have is the same sterile coffee shops with bland drinks and zero personality.”
“That’s bleak. You’d love The Bitter End. It’s got big bright windows that all my plants love. The tables are wonky and balanced with packs of sugar. I play whatever music I’m in the mood for, which drives Riley crazy. And the coffee is so good.” She lights up when she talks about her shop.
“I already know how good your coffee is. The best cup I’ve ever had, by far. Tell me more, is it painted the saddest shade of gray imaginable?” I fold up the projectile sweatshirt and put it in the box in front of me.
“Of course. I went to the paint store and specifically requested soul-crushing gray. They were sold out, obviously, but I got on the waiting list.” Her sarcasm is impressive.
“No, it’s sage green. But lately, I’ve been feeling like a can of paint and a roller brush could solve all my life’s problems.”
I picture Eva in her denim coveralls, hair pulled up into a messy bun, with speckles of bright paint all over her.
No. She has a Grant. It would be him there helping her paint, not me.
“You let me know when you’re ready to paint. Nobody works a roller like I do.” I like pretending that we are friends in a completely normal situation. Not a demon and a witch bound by magick.
She closes up the last box. “I don’t think it’s down here.”
“Let’s call it a night. We can look more tomorrow,” I offer, buying myself a little more time with her.
Her phone buzzes. I watch her face, carefully trying to interpret her expression.
She chews at her lower lip and taps a quick response before sliding the phone back into her pocket. Hardly any expression at all. That could be a good thing. At least she didn’t smile at the phone the way she has been smiling at me all night. I’d have to incinerate it.
“Grant?” I ask, feigning disinterest.
“Yeah.”
On second thought. That phone’s days are numbered.
“Give me a couple minutes, I’ll make up the spare room so you don’t have to sleep on the couch again,” Eva says as we climb the squeaky stairs up from the basement.
“You don’t have to do that.” This is what polite people say. They turn down the kind offer, even though it’s what they want. A comfortable bed and being closer to Eva sounds perfect.
“That couch is so uncomfortable. You need a proper bed.”
“If you insist.” I continue following her upstairs.
She grabs a set of sheets and a thick blanket from the closet.
I pull a thick quilt out and step into the spare room behind her.
I’m still not used to the cold in this realm.
The room is small, like Eva’s, but lacks her personal touch.
Still, I like it. It’s homey and makes me feel more like an invited guest than an interloper from another realm.
We make the bed together. Eva has a hearty laugh at me when the fitted sheet pops off and hits me in the face.
She lingers in the doorway, looking around the room. “Well, good night,” she says with a nervous laugh. “Oh! There’s a spare toothbrush in the top drawer in the bathroom. I use it to clean my toilet sometimes. Help yourself.” She turns and bolts into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
She’s funny.