A Wolf at the Door

Getting through security at the airport was its own kind of special hell. My backpack, my steel-toed boots and my collection of anti-demon key chains got dumped in the tub to be scrutinized by overworked and underpaid TSA folks. One of them poked and prodded at my tangle of gizmos with a pen. I had a blessed mirror for seeing invisible creepies, a carnival token that could turn any vessel of water into holy water, Cam’s mood-ring danger device (which stayed neutral, thankfully), a pentacle of my wife’s for extra protection, and a small photo of my girls, which had no magical properties, but made me smile every time I looked at it. The security lady finally decided I couldn’t take over a plane with that stuff, and passed me with a grumpy snort. Damn good thing I’d thought to take off my demon mace canister. It was currently stuffed in my checked suitcase, and I could only hope the damn thing didn’t leak cayenne all over my clothes.

I got a window seat in the plane and set my backpack by my feet. Hopefully, I could put on some headphones and ignore the world while we zoomed along overhead. Give me time to do some thinking, some meditating. Get my head on straight about this whole baby thing.

For a few brief, joyful minutes, I thought I was going to have the row all to myself, but right as the attendants were getting ready to button us up, a man came scrambling on board, out of breath and flushed. “Woo! Almost missed it, didn’t I?” And of course, he was directed right toward me.

The guy plopped down in the seat beside me, jostling my elbow without even saying excuse me. I tried to ignore him. It didn’t work. “Hey, how’s it going? I’m Spencer, Spencer Law.” He stuck his hand in front of me with every expectation of me shaking it. I did so with the barest modicum of enthusiasm.

“Hey.”

“Man, had to run for my connection! Just knew I was gonna miss it and be stuck in this hick town forever.” I suppose it never occurred to him that I was very fond of this “hick town,” but my frown was wasted as he busied himself stowing his bag.

He was preppy, in a fresh-out-of-college kind of way. Looked a lot like Cameron, with short dark hair in stylishly gelled spikes. His khaki pants were already wrinkled from whatever flight he’d just dashed off of, and his polo shirt was salmon pink. Seriously? Pink? He flopped down, jostling me once again. “Can’t wait to hit L.A. Babes in bikinis beats waist-deep snow any day.”

I snorted to myself. The snow was barely ankle deep. A dusting, really. Wuss.

“So, what’re you headed out to La La Land for?” Before I could answer him (even if I’d had any intention of doing so) he held up his hand. “Wait, don’t tell me, let me guess. I’m pretty good at reading people.”

While he looked me over good, I contemplated what his face would look like if I had him in a choke hold. He took in my blond ponytail, still at shoulder-length, the fading scar high on my cheek. His eyes narrowed as he observed my steel-toed combat boots, my worn jeans and my T-shirt that said I HATE YOUR FAVORITE BAND.

Finally, he nodded as if he’d discovered the answer to life, the universe and everything. “I’m thinking…stunt man.”

Seriously? “No, not really.”

“Really? Damn, I’m usually so good at this stuff.” Chatty-Spencer made himself comfortable as the plane started to taxi, and I fished in my backpack for my headphones. I was going to need them. “Sold your soul dot com? What’s that?”

Inwardly, I sighed. Damn Viljo and his freakin’ stickers! I could tell already that this was one of those airplane buddies who was just not going to shut up, even if the plane went down in a fiery heap. We’d plummet to our deaths with this guy narrating all the way down. “It’s a Web site a buddy of mine runs.”

“Yeah, what’s it about? One of those Christian things?”

“No.” I have never wished for teleportation technology so hard as I did just then. “It’s just a thing.” I put my headphones on, even though I had no music playing, and pretended to be fascinated with the takeoff process.

The ruse seemed to work, at first, Chatty-Spencer settling in for the flight and directing his incessant babbling to the flight attendant and the lucky passenger across the aisle. But the moment we got up in the air, he whipped out a laptop and pulled up Viljo’s Web site. “Oh wow…is this guy serious?”

“Mmf.” Maybe if I didn’t look at him, he’d go away?

“He really believes that people sell their souls to the devil, hunh?” He snorted. “Geez, if somebody can point me at one of those demons, I’ll do it in a heartbeat. There’s stuff I need to do!”

I had to turn and look then, checking out every inch of bare skin I could see on the man. No demon brands. No twisting, writhing tattoo to scramble my senses and add to the ache I was already getting behind my eyes. Hey, it was worth a look. You never know. “And just what do you deem important enough to sell your soul for?” I swear, if he said something stupid, I was going to punch him.