The yellowed paper suddenly feels… gross.
Blood?
Demi-God or not, I highly regret not bringing gloves along on this search. Hopefully said blood doesn't transmit strange diseases.
And where the hell am I supposed to submit this thing? Does the App have a brick and mortar location? Business hours? A lab?
For one crazed second or thirty, I hold the paper to my phone, half-expecting it to disappear into the world of internet data and update my App.
Unsurprisingly, nothing happens.
"What are you doing?"
Cold, lemony breath blasts my ear and I jerk to the side in justifiably dramatic fashion, cringing my shoulder up to the side of my face to protect myself from Caeriel's breathing.
My spine does its best to shrink back against my skin, equally revulsed by how close he is. "What are you doing?"
"Observing." Pale fingers pluck the paper from my hand, and he sniffs at it, his face too handso for his creepy behavior. "How interesting. Good job."
How did he get in? I'm pretty sure Andrew would have followed him if it was through the front door. And when, precisely, did he arrive? I didn't hear the telltale jingle.
Caeriel examines the small bit of blood-streaked paper like it's truly so ancient artifact and not a possibly hazardous biosample, and I wonder if he can get any information just from sniffing at it… or if he's just weird.
Honestly, I'm betting on weird.
"Were you watching the whole ti?" I ask, even though I'm pretty sure he was, considering his earlier ssage.
"Mhm."
"So you were here?"
"Of course. It's my job."
I point at the paper with a disdainful flick of my finger. "Then why is this even a mission? You probably could have sniffed it out in half a second, and it took …" I'm not sure how long, but it was probably an embarrassing number.
Suddenly, I hope my washer is still on the 'wash' cycle, and not 'spin-dry'.
Silver eyes flick up from the paper, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising with them. His expression radiates condescension the way normal people radiate body heat. Seriously, I can practically feel it in the air.
"Were you anticipating a subjugation mission for your first foray as a Guardian, Miss Grace Harper?" His voice has an annoying lilt, the kind where even a patient old grandma would want to smack him for his sass. "Perhaps battling a demon horde single-handedly? Stopping a dinsional rift with nothing but your wits and a butter knife?"
Thanks, I know I'm weak, no need to bathe my ears in your sarcasm. "No, but—"
"Not every mission involves heroics, Miss Harper. We try to escalate our missions appropriately."
Way to make sound unreasonable. I was just trying to point out how inefficient and stupid the mission was, and he's turned into so glory hunter.
But…
I press my lips together.
Sarcasm aside, his logic is logical, even if it only increases my frustration.
One of the washers suddenly goes manic-high on a spin cycle, making the entire ground vibrate.
"Fine, but you have to admit it's a bit anticlimactic to find essentially nothing. A piece of old paper isn't exactly the stuff of legends, and it wasn't hidden very well."
He hums thoughtfully. The paper disappears sowhere into the folds of his ridiculously dramatic trenchcoat, and I wonder where his scythe is. Maybe it's out auto-collecting the souls of lesser mortals.
"Tell , Miss Harper," he says, and my na has never sounded so damn annoying in my entire life, "Why would a random demi-god's blood sample be hidden away in an establishnt catering to werewolves?"
He even crosses his arms and legs to lean against the wall as he questions , sounding rather Socratic. Apparently Wash-N-Were was only fronting as a laundromat to hide its real identity as Professor Creep's lecture hall.
But his question is a good one, and while I might not be thrilled over my assigned professor, I still have a mission to complete and I need help.
All the help.
So. Much. Help.
So I think it over. Demi-god blood in a shifter laundromat does seem... odd. My mind races through possibilities, none of them comforting, and most of them pulled out of fantasy books and battle-hungry animated shows, which ans they all basically end with either the threat or reality of world domination at the hands of so evil master villain.
Likely? Probably not. Then again, this world is apparently a lot more complicated than I ever thought it was, so who knows.
My entire life feels like the trajectory of so fantastical tragedy, so maybe so evil overlord isn't too far off as a possibility.
"I have no idea," I finally admit, deciding not to give voice to all the crazy scenarios in my head. If I don't say them out loud, no one will know I thought them, and then Caeriel won't think I'm so sort of crazy teenager who watches too much TV.
Frankly, I watch a lot less than most humans do.
"None at all?"
"Nope," I lie, even as I've already created an entire backstory of how angels and demons had babies and one of them started a laundromat in a poor backward werewolf town, only to be killed by a particularly evil sibling who didn't like them donating money to orphanages and increasing the goodness level of the world.
The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but definitely amusent at my expense. Outside, Andrew's still waiting in the car, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm having a conversation with Death's fashion-forward cousin.
Either he hasn't paid a lick of attention to in a while, or he can't see Caeriel. I'm not sure which option is better.
Wait.
Where's Sadie?
And the cat?
My head whips around, but neither animal is anywhere to be found. A faint, foreboding feeling snakes down my back as Caeriel pushes off the wall to step too close to , asking what I'm looking for.
He slls like lemon furniture polish with the faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke, and my eyes fall automatically to his fingers. His left index and middle finger have yellowed calluses near the first knuckles.
Huh. He's a smoker.
Too bad the possibility of lung cancer in his future doesn't help in this mont as I ask faintly, "Did you do sothing to my dog and cat?"
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