Slay Page 2

  The girls at school liked to imagine a lot of things when it came to boy bands. Yet another way Milly felt like an outsider.

  She turned off the TV and slouched into the kitchen. Not even so much as a note from her mother. Between rehearsals and five shows a week, Milly had hardly seen her since they’d arrived. Although it was better than the weeks after her mother had been fired from the ENO and spent all day at home, wailing as only a soprano can. No, Milly was happy her mother had got this new job, but it did mean she’d have to make her own dinner, again. She opened the fridge and considered the contents. Five cabbages and a bag of lemons. Her mother was on a cleansing diet.

  “Yummy.”

  She slammed the fridge door in disgust and popped two slices of white bread into the silver toaster. They bounced back up exactly three minutes and twenty-six seconds later, as the toaster had been programmed, and she grabbed them out of the air. After slathering them with peanut butter, she shoved one slice into her mouth and carried the other with her into the music room, her favourite room in the house.

  While the rest of the house was big and rambling, the music room was small and cosy, and the only one with a view of Lake Michigan.

  She licked her fingers clean of peanut butter and wiped her hands on her scratchy, tartan school skirt twice – three times to be sure – before opening the lid of the Steinway piano. She splayed her hands on the off-white keys, stretching out her thumbs and little fingers as far as she could, and pressed down, drinking in the sound of her favourite chord: B flat.

  She had Latin homework to do tonight. An advanced physics paper to check after that. But for now, all Milly wanted to do was play.

  She sat on the green leather stool, shuffled it closer to the piano till it was in the perfect position, then let her fingers dance. She moved seamlessly from Bach to Rachmaninov, onto a blues piece she’d been trying to master, then onto a song of her own composition – which, she wasn’t going to admit to anyone, she loved even more than the others.

  Milly was, she’d overheard her mother saying once, “good at everything”. From some mothers, that would have been meant as a compliment. From Milly’s mother, it was a comment on how her daughter lacked focus. But the truth was Milly did have a focus: music. It was the only thing that came naturally to her. The rest – the maths, physics, languages – she had to work at. And work hard. But not music. If she’d had her way, she would have done nothing but play the piano 24/7. But her mother wouldn’t allow that.

  “You do not have la constitution for a life in music, ma trésor. You are too gentle. Too like your dear papa.” And she would cross herself and change the subject.

  So Milly focused on her studies, ready to sit her exams and then go to the Sorbonne in Paris, like her mother wanted. She was nothing if not a dutiful daughter.

  Her father had been gentle, about that her mother was right. A kind British-Chinese man, with a smile as big as his heart. He and her mother had always looked a little ridiculous standing next to each other. Her curvaceous mother, larger – and louder – than life. Her father small and silent. The fact that he was deaf had been a subject of much amusement to everyone who knew the couple. Some even thought it might have been the secret to their successful marriage. Others, Milly heard via whispers behind her mother’s back, put it down to his extreme wealth.

  Her father had bought Milly her first piano and would sit with her while she played, feeling the vibrations through his hands and feet and telling her how well she was doing. He had died of cancer three years ago and she missed him more than her heart could take sometimes. Every time she sat down to play, she would imagine him there, sitting next to her, his hand on the piano, nodding encouragingly.

  As she played, the ache in her shoulders lessened and the tension of the day flowed out of her and into the piano. All the worry about exams and the snide comments of her new schoolmates fell away. At times like this, she didn’t know where the piano ended and she began.

  She was so lost in the music that she didn’t notice the three people standing in the doorway, watching. As Milly played the last chord, pressing down on the sustain pedal to draw it out, they started to clap.

  She jumped at the sound, nearly falling off the stool. “Maman! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Bravo,” her mother said, eyes shining.

  Her mother seemed to fill every room she was in – even after she’d left them. Or maybe it was just her perfume: a sweet musk that clung to everything and everyone in her wake.

  “I didn’t realize your daughter was quite so talented,” the man next to her said. This was her mother’s new American manager who, to Milly’s annoyance, went by his surname only: Mourdant. He wore sharp, silver suits and sunglasses indoors, and Milly hated him with an intense passion she reserved only for politicians and people who were mean to dogs. Milly was almost certain something was going on between the two of them. The way her mother looked at him like he was a god made her skin crawl.

  The other person was her mother’s new personal assistant. April? Alice? Milly hadn’t bothered to remember her name because her mother’s PAs never stayed around too long. This one looked just like all the others. Small, dark and birdlike. Although maybe all women looked like that in her mother’s presence.

  “Yes, very beautiful, Milly,” Alice/April said.

  “Pff! The child’s name is Lyudmila! How many times do I have to tell you, Alice?”

  “Yes, sorry, Madam Durand.”

  Her mother never called her Milly. Only ever her full name – Lyudmila – after her first starring role.

  “We didn’t expect you to be home,” Mourdant said.

  Milly closed the lid of the piano, uncomfortable under the man’s intense gaze.

  “Um…where did you think I’d be?”

  “School or something.” He waved his hand around, showing his complete lack of interest in whatever that something might be.

  “School finished, like, five hours ago.”

  “The library then?” He said everything through a thick smile of blindingly white teeth and yet there was never any warmth. Every time Milly looked at him, she thought of sharks.

  “The librarian kicked me out so she could lock up. So, um, sorry, I’m right here, like always. It’s you I didn’t expect to be around.”

  “We’re celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?” Milly asked.

  Mourdant reached into his jacket and Milly saw a flash of crimson lining. He pulled out a fold of cream paper. “Your mother is about to sign a new contract!” With a flick of his hand, the paperwork unrolled.

  “With the opera house? I thought you were already employed by them,” Milly said. After all, she thought, it’s the reason you dragged me here.

  “This is for something new. Something…life-changing.” He folded the contract back up, returned it to his jacket pocket, and looked at Milly’s mother. “Isn’t that right, Isobel?”

  Milly’s mother gazed up at Mourdant, her eyes glittering like an infatuated teenager’s. “Yes, life-changing.”

  “Congratulations, I guess,” Milly said after a moment, wanting to break the awkward silence.

  It seemed to shatter whatever trance her mother was in. “Yes, we must celebrate. But first, come here and give your mother a kiss.”

  Milly pushed the stool away and walked stiffly over to her mother. She offered her cheek, ready to receive her mother’s usual cold double kiss – but instead she was scooped up into a hug and pressed against her mother’s substantial bosom so hard she could barely breathe.

  “Maman…you’re crushing me.”

  “Everything is going to change, ma chérie,” she breathed into Milly’s ear. “We’re going to have everything we ever dreamed of.”

  Milly pushed herself free of the embrace. Her shock was quickly replaced by a creeping uneasiness. Her mother was acting so weird. So…loving. She should probably be concerned – but it was actually freaking her out a little.

&nb
sp; “I’ve, um, got to…homework,” Milly mumbled and headed for the stairs.

  “I am going to cook for us all to celebrate, won’t that be nice?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Then why don’t you join us later for a glass of champagne to toast your mother’s success,” Mourdant said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Oh, yes, your first taste of champagne! Won’t that be fun?”

  Milly had to grip the banister to stop herself from falling over. She looked back at her mother smiling up at her, Mourdant by her side.

  “Sure,” Milly said, a cold shiver creeping up her spine, before racing up the steps two at a time.

  Once inside her room, she closed the door, locked it and leaned against it. Her mother never cooked. Not once in her life. She had people do it for her. And “fun”? Her mother never wanted her to have fun.

  Milly didn’t know what was happening. But she knew one thing. Something very, very weird was going on.

  “You sure this is the place?” Connor asked as he parked the jeep outside a dilapidated motel.

  The welcome sign flickered on and off, on and off, sparking with each flash. Connor pressed his nose against the car window, peering out into the dark. “Demons normally go for somewhere with more, you know, class.”

  Niv’s hands danced as he signed something. JD caught snatches of it – something about a camera maybe? He looked to Zek, who translated.

  “He says it’s definitely the place. He hacked the CCTV.”

  The boys had come to this run-down part of Chicago after DAD had been triggered by key phrases broadcast over the local police radio. People going missing. Increase in violent crime. Reports of people with black eyes. Check. Check. Check.

  DAD, short for Demonic Activity Detector, was a highly sophisticated computer program originally built by some of the finest minds at the National Security Agency to monitor terrorist activity. It had been adapted and renamed by Niv to meet the boys’ unique interests. Bots scoured newsfeeds, forums, social networks and even some firewalled intranets that weren’t supposed to be accessed by the public. If anyone posted anything relating to demons, Niv would be notified within a matter of minutes.

  Niv held up his phone. The screen showed grainy black-and-white footage from a security camera covering the motel. Niv wound the footage back to fifteen minutes ago. The boys watched as a battered Ford pulled up and three white men dressed in black and a Latino woman wearing a long red skirt stepped out. They looked human, but that meant nothing. Most of the things the boys faced looked human. It wasn’t until you looked into their eyes that you saw what they really were. The boys watched and waited till one of the figures turned their face to the camera. Completely black eyes stared back at them.

  “Demons,” Tom said with clear disgust in his voice. Tom was the most forgiving of them all, always looking for the good in everyone he met. But when it came to demons, his heart was ice-cold.

  Niv pointed to his eyes and then the phone. Keep watching. A moment later, the demons dragged a teenage girl from the back seat of the Ford. JD flinched at seeing her fear, wanting to somehow jump into the screen and save her. She was dragged, kicking and screaming, across the parking lot and into room eight. The motel employed remote security guards who would only turn up if an alarm was triggered and the manager was nowhere to be seen. If any of the other guests had heard the girl’s cries for help, they’d chosen to ignore them.

  Fifteen minutes ago. They might already be too late.

  “All right. Let’s move.”

  The boys leaped out of the jeep, adjusting the neoprene half-masks and goggles they always wore on duty. Each boy had customized their own mask: JD’s was simple urban camo, Tom’s had a stylized Union Jack flag, Zek’s looked like a grinning skull, Niv’s had red flames creeping up the edges, while Connor’s was white with a large brown moustache and he always topped it with his tatty red snapback.

  They raced to the rear of the jeep and Niv threw open the tailgate. He hit a button and a hidden box slid out from under the back seat. An array of silver weapons glinted in the street lights. When going up against a demon guns didn’t work – you needed salt or cold hard metal to send their souls screaming back to the Netherworld. Iron worked just as well, but silver had more style.

  Zek and Niv handed them out. The three-pointed sais blades for Connor. A compound bow and quiver of black-tipped arrows for Tom. And JD’s sword. He slid the katana out of its saya and felt the cool grip of the stingray skin that covered its handle under his fingers. That left the pair of engraved scimitars for the twins.

  The curtains of the motel room were drawn and shadows moved inside.

  Connor spun his twin sais, grinning wildly at the whoosh as they sliced the air. Niv hit a button on his phone and the blinking light on the security camera went dark. Now, the only person watching would be Gail. She’d be back at base, watching the feed from each of the boys’ headcams.

  When they first started hunting demons, Gail came with them, using every mission as a chance to train them. Now she came less and less, trusting them to take care of themselves and because, JD knew, she was training him up to take the lead. He didn’t always like calling the shots, but he was good at it.

  Slay pelted across the empty parking lot towards room eight, cracked tarmac crunching under foot. Using hand signals to communicate, JD pointed to the twins and directed them round the back. He, Connor and Tom would take the front.

  JD crept up the steps to the door, Tom behind him and Connor bringing up the rear. He pressed his back against the wall between the door and the small window. It was half open and tatty orange curtains blew in the slight breeze. The sound of voices drifted out through the window and JD leaned closer. It sounded like low, rhythmic chanting. A ritual. They’d have to move fast.

  JD held out a fist with his thumb pointing out. The sign for a flash grenade. They’d blind the demons and pick them off while they were still blinking. Connor pulled the grenade from his belt and threw it through the window. They waited. A deafening explosion smashed all the windows out and filled the motel room with thick, orange smoke.

  “I gave the sign for a flash grenade, Con,” JD shouted over the ringing noise. “Not smoke, you idiot.” The smoke in question was sodium chloride – salt – which demons hated. But it was hardly subtle.

  “Oops.” Connor grinned – he liked anything that made loud bangs, from his drum kit to his weapons – and jumped through the window.

  “I’m serious, Naledi,” Milly said. “It’s total Body Snatchers here.”

  As soon as Milly had reached the safety of her room, she’d video-called her best friend back in London and told her all about her mother’s weirdness.

  “Aliens, huh?” Naledi mumbled through a yawn. It was the middle of the night in London. Naledi tolerated Milly’s inability to remember the difference in time zones, but only when it was an emergency. “Do you think they’d take my mum too?”

  “Come on, Nal, something is really weird with her. If it’s not aliens then…” Milly stopped, replaying what she thought she’d seen downstairs.

  “What?”

  “Then maybe she’s on drugs?”

  Naledi said nothing for a moment, seeming to consider the seriousness of what her friend had just said, then burst out laughing.

  “I’m serious, Nal, she was being all huggy and…nice.”

  “Aren’t you always saying you wish she was more like a proper mum?”

  “Yes, but why now?”

  “Chill, Mills,” Naledi said, her image jittering as the connection broke up for a moment. “Your mum does this. Remember the time she got into minimalism and threw all your stuff out? Or when she got into crystals and covered the place in rocks. Being huggy is probably just her new phase.”

  “I wish she didn’t have to drag me along for the ride, is all.”

  Naledi sighed. “I’d swap my mum for yours any day. Mine won’t let me go anywhere without making me check in every f
ive minutes. She lectured me for two hours this week about boys. At least yours lets you have a life.”

  “But only the life she wants for me. No pop music, no movies. And it’s this Mourdant guy. I don’t trust him. He wears sunglasses, Nal, indoors. Like, all the time. I’m starting to wonder if he’s even got eyes behind them.”

  Naledi shook her head, her box braids dancing. “Mills, you know I love you and your off-the-chain imagination, but you’re mental. And it’s…” she checked her watched, “really stupid early here, so I’m going to crawl back into bed and you are going to find your chill.”

  A loud bang sounded downstairs, followed by the sound of Milly’s mum’s high-pitched laugh.

  “Milly,” her mother called, “come celebrate with us.”

  “Oh god, she’s going to force me to drink champagne. Save me, Nal.”

  “You’re perfectly capable of saving yourself, Mills. And I hardly think getting to drink champagne can be considered child abuse.”

  “I think I’ll just hide in my room.”

  “Also a good plan. Catch you soon, Mills. Call me if she sprouts tentacles.”

  Milly said her goodbyes and hung up.

  She missed her life in London. Missed the apartment in Notting Hill. But most of all, she missed Naledi. They’d only known each other for a year, but Naledi was the only person who’d ever got her. They’d originally bonded because they were both new at the school, but then discovered they both shared a secret passion for fantasy novels and conspiracy theories.

  It wasn’t even worth making friends here in Chicago to fill the Naledi-shaped hole in her life, as they would only be moving again as soon as her mother had another “clash of personalities”.

  The map pinned to her wall was covered in small red and blue pushpins marking all the places her mother had dragged her to. She’d moved ten times in the last five years. And in each new place, Milly was expected to fit in and find new friends. It was harder than ever this time. Three weeks since starting school and still the only people who knew her name were the teachers.