Demon полностью

“They haven’t hired a new editorial assistant, have they.” She sat down on the Burberry-covered chair with crossed arms, peering out at me over the fine arch of her nose—which was probably as designer as the rest of her. Her nostrils tended to look like slits—until she got excited about something, in which case they flared. “How are you doing Clay, really?”

I sat down, sighed, and gestured at the paper skyline. “I’ve been sick. I’m behind. I could use about five solid projects right now to fill out our next season. I’ll never get through all of this in time. So anything you want to send when you get back—”

“You know I will.” She paused and then, on seeming whim, reached for the bag covered with Coach’s trademark Cs. “You know I don’t bring a lot with me”—she pulled several packets from her bag—“but here are a couple that might trip your trigger.”

“I’ll read them this afternoon.” I meant it. I needed to patch at least one more project together this week or next to take to committee. Still, I took them with the sense of one accepting a meal from a questionable Samaritan.

She pulled another few pages from her magic bag. “And then I have this strange little orphan. Highly experimental. Frankly, I’m having some trouble finding a home for it.”

She handed me a mere two pages, an odd length for a proposal—more like a query, I thought. I added it to the top of the pile. And then my gaze caught the title: Demon: A Memoir.

My eyes slid down to the next line: A novel by L. Legion.

“It’s dark, edgy—it’ll get in your head. Don’t read it unless you want to seriously question what you think is real.”

My heart accelerated, loud in my ears. “I’ll look at it as soon as I can—just back from being sick,” I murmured, already turning to the first page past the cover. My blood iced over at the first words printed there:

Don’t stop reading. I need you to know.

“Well, let me know what you think.” Katrina gathered up her coat.

“Who—who did you say this author was?” I blinked up at her.

She gave me a blank look. “Someone my assistant discovered in the slush pile. I think it has potential.”

I don’t know what I said after that. I saw her to the door, the manuscript clutched in a sweaty hand. When she stopped to talk with Sheila, the voices of both women assuming a personal tenor, I shut my door and carried the pages to my desk.

Don’t stop reading. I need you to know. This story is about you, after all.

I sat down hard in my chair.

I know what you think, and it’s not true. Hear me out; I have nothing to gain by lying to you. You’re very important to me.

My fortitude, so carefully bolstered by my logic, cracked. Go away, I thought, my voice like a child’s in my mind. But even as I thought it, I knew that wasn’t really what I wanted.

I’ll tell you that thing you want to know, answer the question haunting you. You just have to hear me out—hear it through—first. Let me tell my story. All of it.

I am not a mindless monster. I do what I do for a reason. Question what you think you know about me. I’ve only told you the beginning. You don’t completely understand anything yet.

Time is failing us. Don’t let your natural instincts keep you at bay. You cannot trust them. They’re human, after all.

I promise you’ll get what you want in the end.

For now I offer you a rare gift. Take it.

That’s all there was: a teaser paragraph, the title, and Katrina’s contact info. I read it again with an editor’s eyes. Yes, it might be mistaken for an intriguing, if nebulous, prologue.

I set the pages aside. Silently, robotically, I turned on my computer, logged onto the network. Opened my calendar. There was Katrina, at 9:00 a.m. That was all.

It appeared as I was staring at the screen:

9:30: Come outside. I’m waiting. L.

Insanity. It was all I had known these last few weeks.

I put on my coat.

9

The taxi waited on the tree-lined east side of my office building. I stared at it until the driver leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Get in. We have to talk.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Just get in!”