Chapter Two
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Jasmine
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There. Are. Demons. In. My. House.
I don't even know how I ended up here. One moment, I was living my best life, with a pretty apartment, a decent car, and a superb collection of shoes.
Now, all I have left is that collection of shoes and zilch else. I went from flying high to magnificently broke and homeless in a heartbeat.
It's that damn mark on my chest, just above my areola. Some people—my parents, to be precise—thought it was a birthmark, but I believe it's my very own doomsday clock.
It's literally a ring on my skin with a single line in the middle, and while I can't be 100% sure, I have a nagging feeling that line is moving, like a hand on a clock.
It used to point to the three on a clock face, but now it's been progressively moving in a clockwise direction.
Now it's closer to the twelve mark. Or has it always been that way? I don't know. I should have documented proof with pictures, but I was too busy enjoying my life.
But my catastrophe is no longer impending; it's happening. I couldn't afford the rent on my apartment or the payment on my car because I lost my job. The company I worked for was raided by the FBI, which turned out to be just a front for a seriously dangerous mafia crime lord to launder money.
If that wasn't bad enough, all the employees received ominous letters in our personal emails. We were being watched in case we talked. But the byline was the real kicker: we were all on a hit list; we just didn't know when we would be taken out.
It's ridiculous because I was just a lowly assistant to the boss's PA. I picked up dry cleaning, brought coffee, and walked his dog. I know nothing. Seriously. But I'm not about to argue with a powerful mafia man.
So now I have a mountain of credit card debt I never planned to pay back. It was supposed to be revolving until the day I died. How else is a girl supposed to finance her shoe addiction?
And that explains why I'm hiding out here in this dilapidated house that belonged to my grandfather, which was left to me just a few days ago. A grandfather I didn't know existed until I inherited the house, serendipitously just a few days ago.
Apparently, my mom wanted nothing to do with her dad and had zero contact with him. When my parents died, my aunt, who raised me, honored that wish, so I still didn't know he existed.
At least I have a roof over my head. Even if it's a house haunted by green demons. My luck just keeps getting worse. And I'm still not sure if I have to hide out here away from the mafia until I die. Decisions, decisions.
But now there are demons in my house.
I'm so petrified that I forget to scream and go straight into fight mode. The baseball bat won't cut it. Panicked, I glance around for something else, anything else.
My gaze skids to a halt on a bunch of dried flowers wrapped with a ribbon.
My grandfather's girlfriend passed away two weeks before I moved in, leaving the house just as it is now. No wonder it's haunted. She died on the sofa in this very living room.
Is this her, manifested as three green demon giants here to torment me? But why? I didn't do anything to her. I didn't know her. Everyone seems to be out to get me.
I drop the bat and pick up the flowers. Petals fall to the floor as half of the bunch disintegrates.
"I'm not afraid of you. Leave right now. This is sage," I say, crossing my fingers with my other hand and hoping they believe I'm armed with sage, on the off chance they don't know what sage is and I can placebo them into vanishing.
I'm desperate, okay?
I hope this is how I'm supposed to use it. I didn't have a chance to search online for how-to tutorials on cleansing my house of spooks.
"Stay away," I shout, waving what remains of the bouquet—just a bunch of crunchy stems. No, I need to say...what's the word? Right, yes, brandish.
"I brandish you back to hell. Go home."
No, silly, it's banish.
"I banish you back to hell. Leave this house right now. You are not welcome here."
At least I managed to stop them from coming any closer. Although, why are they looking at me as if I'm the crazy one in this scenario?
I rack my brain for every movie I watched—well, the ones I hid under the covers and peeked at intermittently. I need their names. I have to say their names out loud.
"What are your names?" I demand, hoping they're really dumb demons and will just give me their names.
A deep, rough, and rumbling sound comes from the one with the deep gash on his cheek. It's his voice. There's an accent I can't identify, but it's raw and rough, making my senses tingle and the center between my thighs throb in a strange way. I have no idea why.
"I am NTRSTIA. This is RLXEAADNE and SRMUIAQ. We are the bloodlords of Kraukug."
The bloodlords of what? Never mind.
I have their names. Then I try to say their names. My brain can't even process what I'm hearing, not even a little.
"Say that again."
The one with the gash sighs, clearly annoyed with me, while the one with the scar across his jaw repeats their names, with a patience I appreciate.
"Thank you," I say, heartfelt, and then I butcher their names. No. Impossible. Is the pretty demon over there smiling at me like he's amused? He's not going to be amused when I send him back to hell.
I'm never going to be able to pronounce their names, but then I snap my fingers, still holding onto the sage, and grab a pen and a notebook that looks like a diary—my grandfather's girlfriend's diary. Sorry, Gladys. I promise I won't read anything.
I point to a clean page in the notebook and hold out the pen. "Can you write it down, please?"
They look at each other and then back at me before the pretty demon steps forward and takes the pen. I nearly die of a heart attack at his closeness. Does hell really make their demons this big? Also, he smells like mint. Mint?
He hands me the book.
I stare at the arrangement of letters. What are NTRSTIA, RLXEAADNE, and SRMUIAQ? I couldn't pronounce these names if I had another tongue.
Wait...
I sit down at the desk. What if I unscramble them into something more manageable? That should work; surely, it's their names, just different.
Bingo.
NTRSTIA is Tristian. RLXEAADNE is Alexander. SRMUIAQ is Marquis. So much easier.
"Okay," I say, standing up. "You, the grumpy one with the gash on your cheek, you're Tristian from now on. You with the scar on your jaw and the friendly demeanor, you're Alexander. And you, playboy, you're Marquis."
I take a breath and assume my stance.
"Tristian, Alexander, and Marquis, I banish you three demons back to where you came from."