Dedicated to Nicole because she's brilliant and also the gif on the last chapter omfg.

Chapter Seventeen

I stared at my mother and she stared back, our anxious gazes tethered by an invisible line of sight. My heartbeat was suddenly very loud, pulsing through my body and echoing in my ears. I was surprised that she couldn't hear it, because the sound was deafening.

“I went back to the place where I had seen that first man,” she continued, “some highway strand outside of town. They knew I was coming. They always know.”

“And they attacked you,” I finished, pulling my legs to my chest. My mom's shoulders were slumped, her head bowed into the palm of her hand.

“Not at first.” Her voice was soft. “At first, they greeted me—as if I was actually welcome amongst their kind. They pretended that they didn't know that I knew what they were planning. It wasn't much of a meeting really, in the woods off the side of the road, so one of them, a woman, suggested we talk over dinner. Which was actually ridiculous, because these are demons for God's sake, and they'd just invited me to dinner. Demons invited me to dinner. Does that sound crazy to you, too?”

I didn't blink. “No.”

Mom sighed. “Well, they did. And we went to some Italian place in Butler, three of the...creatures and I.” With a shake of her head, her lips curl into a disbelieving smile. “We just sat there, like business partners having a meeting. Except that they didn't order anything, and I don't think the waitress could see them either, because when I asked them if they wanted to order anything, she just stared at me. Christ, I probably seemed out of my mind.”

That's how I've been feeling lately, I thought silently. I didn't say it though, and let my mother continue.

“Long story short, after skirting around the topic for all of dinner, I finally told them that they weren't allowed to touch you, that I wouldn't condone it. They just laughed. And then they left. They left money on the table and left. I chased after them, of course, because I wasn't about to let them get away with doing this to you. I threatened them. They weren't happy about that. I was stupid; I should have realized when I'd gone to far. But I was so naively confident that I just kept pushing until finally, they snapped. And that's when they attacked me. I wasn't hurt badly; the injuries were mild enough that I could make my way back to my car. That was my warning, though. I'm not meant to interfere.”

A surge of anger jolted through me at the thought of these creatures, these men (and apparently women) in glossy back, beating my mother on the side of the street for having the audacity to try to protect me. But running parallel with the fury was a surprising rush of affection for the woman before me, because I now had confirmation that she really did care about me. The demons and attacks and inevitable doom were still present, but so was the fact that my mother was willing to risk her life to keep me safe.

I didn't want her to do that.

Shifting abruptly, I reached into the pocket of my pajama pants and pulled out the crumpled business card from Laury.

Laury Lincoln, it read. Psychic Medium. No Appointments Necessary, Always On Call.

Following these words was a phone number in sharp blue type. Always On Call. I hoped that always was a solemn promise. I squeezed the card in my hand, then held it out to my mother.

“Aubrey took me to see this girl last night,” I said. “She's, um, a medium. She knows about demons and incubi and stuff, and she—well, she's been...in touch with Rosemary. I'm supposed to call her if I ever need help. I think she might know how to get rid of these things.”

With quivering fingers, my mother pulled the slip of paper from my hand. She scanned over it, her face gaunt, her lips silently mouthing the words. She seemed to read it several times. After a moment, she set the card down in her lap, looking up at me with eyes full of parental concern.

“It's your choice, Parker,” she said. “Do you want to call her?”

I thought about it. I thought about how ridiculous it was, trying to schedule some kind of exorcism with a twenty-two year old psychic. But my situation was far past normal, and at this point, I was going to take any out I could get. This was real. This was happening. I needed help.

“Yeah, I do,” I murmured eventually, taking the card back and rubbing it between my fingertips. Somehow, the solid familiarity of the paper made me calmer.

Nodding, my mother reached into her purse beside her and pulled out her shining silver cellphone. After a breath of a pause, she held it out to me, her expression very solemn.

“I'll let you dial.”

◙════════════◙

For the second night in a row, I couldn't sleep. I told my mom I would try to get some rest, that I wouldn't worry about the impending meeting with Laury (or my impending doom). But as soon as she went up to bed around two o'clock in the morning, I realized that there was no way that I would ever be able to go back upstairs to my room. Broken light bulb shards aside, I knew that it would simply be impossible for me to make it through the night up there alone, period.

So I strained for some semblance of normality, and quietly heated up a cup of hot chocolate—low fat, according to the package. I settled into the chair closest to the living room, where I had a clear view of Logan, asleep on the couch. Even in his unconscious state, just seeing evidence of his breath was enough to keep me sane.

Or at least, as sane as I could hope to be.

I didn't realize until after I was situated that there nothing down here to keep me occupied: my books, my iPod, and even my phone were all upstairs, which just so happened to be the last place I was about to go. The only option I had left was to sit there, glassy-eyed, and try not to burn my tongue on sips of scalding cocoa.

It was so quiet; the deadly kind of quiet that sets in just before the demon attack in a horror film. It was that heavy silence that feels as if your ears have been stuffed with cotton and your eyelids pried apart with tweezers. And in that kind of soundless existence, it's impossible to turn off your mind.

Mine whirred at full-speed, all of my thoughts clambering over each other, shouting to be heard amidst the general cacophony. I picked out the memory of Laury's voice among all the straggling sounds, the only words she'd said to me when I'd called her earlier that night: “Expect me in the morning.”

There was no greeting from either of us; I hadn't even opened my mouth. She had just known what I was going to ask, the same way she seemed to know everything else: inexplicably. I wasn't sure how, but I knew that come morning, I would find her at my front door. And hopefully, she would bring the solution to my problems.

I sighed, and it was much more than just an exhaled breath. It was a cinematic sigh, laced with worry and confusion and complete, utter exhaustion, exhaustion that I couldn't conquer because sleep wasn't a viable option. Still, I allowed my eyes to flutter shut, knowing that I could sit like this forever and never attain a moment of peace. It was a classic case of mind over matter: my body could feel the fatigue seeping into my bones, but my brain was tactfully ignoring it. Sleep was the enemy, and I knew that well—but that didn't stop me from wishing I could simply forget, even if just for a little while.

With my eyes closed it was dark and silent, and I allowed my mind to wander. I thought I could hear the rustling of movement from somewhere to my right, and imagined that it was the handsome, ink-eyed men, waiting just out of sight for the perfect moment to strike. Was that notion fiction or reality? I could hardly discern between the two anymore. The thought made me tighten my grip on the piping cup of cocoa in front of me, which, though soothing, wasn't proving to be nearly as soporific as I had hoped.

“Trouble sleeping?”

The soft voice crept up from behind me, so sudden and unexpected that I went flailing back from the table, my chair tilting. The yellow mug mimicked my seat, tipping precariously onto its edge and teetering there. It would have fallen, too, if it weren't for the hand that shot out over my shoulder at last second, reaching for the handle and steadying the ceramic cup before its contents were emptied all over my lap.

Logan's sheepish smile came into view as he moved the mug away from the table's edge and dropped into the chair next to mine. His sketchbook, his prized possession, was tucked beneath his arm. He held a hand to his head of sleep-tousled hair, his green eyes meeting mine.

“Sorry?” he ventured, setting his sketchbook on the table. I shook my head, fighting the urge to just drop it into my hands and sleep for days.

“It's fine, you just surprised me,” I replied. “What are you doing up?”

“I heard you out here, thought you might need company.” He grinned, lopsided and lethargic.

I peered at my best friend out of the corner of my eye, watching him eye my mug of hot chocolate. “There's more on the stove,” I told him.

He poured his own cupful and we sat in silence, staring at nothing, occasionally sipping, at a loss for words but certainly not emotions. Those hit the air in excess, like lightning streaks that crackled between our occasionally synergistic gazes.

Just as I was beginning to slip into a half-aware fugue, I felt the soft pressure of fingers against my arm. This time I relaxed, taking comfort in the familiarity of Logan's touch, and didn't open my eyes as I mumbled, “What?”

His response was quick and concerned: “Something's wrong. What is it?”

Nothing was the easy answer. Everything was the moody one. Mine was “Do you want a list?” and preceded by an incredulous snort.

“I mean it, Parker.” Logan squeezed my arm gently, and though this was nothing if not normal behavior, I found myself hyper-aware of the feeling. “What's going on?”

I might have told him, if I'd been up for it. And in hindsight, doing so may have saved some things later on. But there were too many words involved in the explanation of the exploding bulbs, my mother's return, and the phone call to Laury, and my tongue was a deadweight in my mouth. This, I decided, could wait until the morning, when I could at least pretend to be alive and coherent.

“It's nothing. I'm just tired,” I assured. A fierce yawn escaped my lips, proving my point. I was having trouble forming thoughts, not to mention keeping my eyes open. Staying conscious was growing significantly harder by the second, but idea of sleep made me cold. I felt my body betray me, swaying to the side under the pressure of exhaustion. Were it not for Logan, I would have ended up with a face full of cold linoleum.

As it was, I pitched embarrassingly into my best friend's outstretched arms. Juliette would have insisted that I did it on purpose. I would have been too tired to argue with her. I didn't even want to get up, to move from Logan's makeshift embrace, and it was because of more than just fatigue. It was also that his sweater was warm against my cheek, his heartbeat was steady, and his chin fit easily into place on top of my head.

“You need to sleep, Parker,” he murmured, his mouth against my hair.

I groaned. “I can't. Nightmares.”

Sighing, Logan shifted me away from him and held my shoulders so that I was forced to meet his eyes. “If you don't get some rest, you're not going to be able to get through another day,” he told me sternly. “I know you're scared of the nightmares, but that's all they are. They're dreams. They can't hurt you.”

That's all they are. The casual phrase made my ribs itch with imminent laughter. Even after all of this, Logan could still make believe that this was all a crazy dream.

I wished I could be so lucky.

“Parker?”

“I can't,” I said, and meant it. The idea of going to sleep, though undeniably appealing, struck a chord of fear in my gut as thoughts of my dreamland visitors materialized. The shaking bed; the shattering bulbs; the dark fingers brushing my face: I couldn't handle it, and I could no longer fool myself into thinking that I could.

“You can't just not sleep,” Logan insisted.

I shrugged, fixing him with a halfhearted glare. “Well, I'm not going back upstairs, so...watch me.”

I didn't have to say anything more. When you know someone for a long time, they can read all your thoughts through your eyes, through the little micro-expressions that flutter across your face. Logan didn't ask, but his gaze flickered curiously toward the stairs. His hands were still on my shoulders, but he pulled one away to rake it through his hair.

“You believe it, don't you? All of it? Everything that Laury said?”

I hunched over, lifting my shoulders to my ears in a silent shrug. “I can't not,” I admitted. “You're my best friend, Logan, but this isn't happening to you. I don't know much more than you do, but I know that you can't give a textbook definition to whatever is happening to me. You need to stop worrying over the fact that this is something you don't understand.”

Pressing my lips together, I glanced over Logan's shoulder, at the open doorway to the darkened sun room. Is it possible that only an hour ago, my mother and I sat there and dug up family secrets? And back an hour more, translucent shards of glass rained down from my ceiling? Time, I thought, was finding every way to confound me. It seemed hard to even focus on the here and the now.

But in this present, Logan was looking at me incredulously, a frustrated scoff leaping from his lips. He shook his head, reaching down to grab the base of my chair and pull it toward him, so that we were face to face.

“You think that's what I'm worried about?” he demanded. “Parker, are you even thinking? I realized that I don't understand this ages ago. And I'm still trying, but to be honest, I don't even care about that anymore.” He leaned closer, lightly shaking my shoulders. “I'm worried about you, okay? You're been my best friend, and I just want you to be all right.”

“I—” I swallowed hard, feeling my heartbeat kick into high gear. I wasn't sure, though, whether that was because of fear, or the close proximity of Logan's face to mine. My eyes darted, searching for a distant focus, but eventually ricocheted back to the pale green orbs right in front of me.

It was another one of those moments, like the one in Logan's living room, where I knew what was about to happen. I knew from the look in Logan's eyes, the hammering of my heart, the shrinking distance between our lips. Warning bells were going off in my head, because it was obvious: he was about to kiss me. Right now, in the middle of my kitchen at two in the morning, in the middle of so many other issues that were vastly larger than this, he was going to do something as painfully simple as pressing his lips against mine.

It couldn't have been too painful though, I suppose, because I found myself kissing him back. And it wasn't hesitant or awkward like the other times; this was the legitimate, sloppy breed of kissing best exhibited in sappy chick-flicks. Logan's hands slipped from my shoulders to rest on the small of my back, and somehow my fingers wound up laced behind his neck.

I didn't know what I was doing, but I suppose it was inevitable; and in some strange way, it felt right. There was still a lingering sense of this is my best friend, think is wrong in the back of my mind, but I managed to push it away long enough to savor the moment. At least, for as long as I could.

My eyes had drifted shut. This, I thought, was natural, because it wouldn't do to be staring at someone as you kissed them. But as I felt the need for air blooming in my lungs, I let them slip open to peer lazily over Logan's shoulder.

The auburn-haired boy was standing in the doorway.

I tore myself away from Logan, a hoarse shriek ripping from my throat as I locked eyes with the boy's ardent glare. His jaw was clenched, his arms crossed. I couldn't hold his gaze for more than a second, though, because my chair tipped, teetering at such an angle that I couldn't stop it from hitting the ground with a wooden clang and dumping me onto the floor. My head smacked painfully against the linoleum, but I was grateful for the subsequent blurring of my vision. I couldn't see the boy any longer—the picture of his onyx eyes was only in my head.

“Parker! Oh God, are you okay?” I couldn't see Logan either, for a moment, until my sight cleared. And when it did, I scrambled onto my knees, swallowing my buzzing fear to check the sun room doorway. The auburn-haired young man had disappeared. Flickering in and out of sight was their specialty, it seemed. They never waited to see the terror left in their wake.

I let Logan help me into a sitting position against the wall beside the refrigerator, trying to make sense of his garbled words through the rushing of blood through my ears. I thought I heard myself say, “I'm fine,” a few times, faintly, but it wasn't until Logan pressed his cool palm against my forehead that I jolted back to attention.

“Parker?” he prompted, looking worried. “What was it? What happened?”

I blinked myself back into reality, only barely managing to force out the words, “He was here.” Groaning, I pressed the heels of my hands over my eyes and let my head fall back against the wall. Logan rubbed my shoulder, his touch reassuring but not erasing. The disapproving ebony eyes were still burning into my skull.

“Hey,” Logan murmured, peeling my fingers away from my face, “what do you need?”

He didn't ask me who I was talking about. He didn't repeatedly ask if I was okay. He just sat there and held my hands and stared at me until I opened my eyes. I let my gaze wander over his face, taking in his dark, messy curls, his freckled face, his virescent eyes. His features were familiar and comforting, and I found myself wishing that I could rewind to when we were kissing, and make it so that I left my eyelids firmly lowered.

Logan stared at me, and I stared back, though the overhead fluorescents were making my eyes water. My fleece-clad legs were pulled up to my chest, but he still held my hands. I wanted to rip them away and cover my face, but at the same time, I didn't want him to ever let go. A part of me was convinced that if either of us moved, even by a mere millimeter, the auburn-haired boy would whisk in and drag me away.

It was entirely too much excitement for a single night.

“Parker, what do you need?” Logan's hushed voice was urgent now, because I had started up that strange shaking again, those tremors that attacked my entire body.

“Talk,” I managed finally, through chattering teeth.

“Talk?” His eyebrows raised in confusion.

I bit my lip, stilling myself as much as I could. “Please. Just talk. And keep talking. I can't handle the silence.”

He didn't ask. All he did was nod, slowly, and squeezed my hands. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. I'll talk. I'm just going to go into the other room for a second to get a blanket, but I'll keep talking.” He stood up, leaving my hands cold on my knees. “And I'm still talking.” He slipped into the living room. “I'm still here, Parker, I'm just trying to find the—goddamn it, the blanket is stuck. One second, okay? I'm almost done. Just this stupid blanket is caught in the couch, but I'm getting it, I've—there, got it. All right, I'm walking back now, and I have a blanket, a really warm one, it's—”

As Logan slipped back into the light of the kitchen, I interjected, mumbling the words, “You know I love you, right?”

I stared at my feet as he froze there, in the doorway, the blanket in his hands. “How could I forget when you keep reminding me?” he teased gently. His lips curved up into a small grin as he swiped his sketchbook off the kitchen table. As he settled in beside me and pulled the purple quilt over both of our shoulders, he added, “But I love you too, Parker. Obviously.”

I nudged him lightly, stretching out my legs as he shook the pencil out of his sketchbook and started talking again. His thoughts meandered and his words blurred the way I'd always know them to, but I was completely all right with listening to the simple cadence of his voice, focusing all the while on the way his socked foot would tap against mine every now and then, or the way our shoulders were pressed together. I tried to simultaneously block out the thoughts that were warning me against my own feelings and tell myself that this meant nothing, but in the end my brain was too tired to maintain any thoughts. Giving up, I let my head loll against Logan's shoulder and closed my eyes. It seemed that tonight, I was actually going to sleep.

Before I drifted off completely, I opened my eyes one last time to take a peek at the newest drawing in his sketchbook. It was a rough, penciled outline of a girl, hands by her side, mirrored necklace resting one her collarbone. Her features were detailed, though incomplete; Logan was still penciling in her hair. Behind her, faint but shaded, was a collection of humanoid, shadowy figures that loomed around her shoulders, menacing even on paper. The girl didn't seem scared, though, just resolute and impassive. I wished I could share her tranquility.

But I could, I suppose, do just that. After all—I knew who this girl was, standing there amidst the shadows. I saw her face every time I looked in the mirror, though she wasn't nearly as fearless in reality. Logan had drawn me as the girl I wished to be, standing calmly by myself and waiting for the darkness to take me away.

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A/N: all you larker shippers had better LOVE me for this, i swear.