makes a difference, I’m pretty sure you were going to faint, anyway.”
“So why didn’t you let me faint?”
Imelda hesitated. “I should have let you faint. I’m sorry.” Her apology apparently over with, Imelda walked into the kitchen. “Have you had anything to eat?”
Amber didn’t answer. She was starving, and thirsty, but to respond was to forgive, and she wasn’t prepared to do that yet.
Imelda made herself a cappuccino without trying to engage her again in chit-chat. When she was done, she came over, sat where Milo had been sitting. She took a sip, placed the delicate cup on the delicate saucer on the delicate coffee table, and sat back. “You need to eat something,” she said. “I can hear your stomach rumbling from here.”
“That’s not hunger. That’s anger.”
“Your belly rumbles when you’re angry? I didn’t know that about you.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Well,” said Imelda, “that’s not strictly true.”
“You’ve barely ever spoken to me.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t know you. Your parents kept us all very well informed – and they know you a lot better than you think.”
Amber looked at her in silence for a moment. “What did you do to me earlier? My skin and … What was that?”
“You know what that was.”
Amber shook her head. “No. I’m not like you. I’m not a monster like you. What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything. You were born that way.”
“I wasn’t born with red skin, Imelda. I wasn’t born with frikkin’ horns.”
“No, but it was inside you.”
Amber glared. “Show me, then. Go on. Change. Transform. Go demony. I want to see it again.”
“Amber, I don’t think—”
“Go on,” said Amber. “I wasn’t really expecting it the first time. Now I’m ready. Let’s see you in all your glory.”
Imelda sighed. “Fine,” she said, and stood, and her skin reddened and her features sharpened and her horns grew, and Amber shrank back instinctively.
There was something about the very shape of Imelda now, the way the horns curved, the way her face – once a pretty face, now a beautiful face – caught the sunlight, there was something about all of it that sent a shiver down Amber’s back. This was the shape that nightmares took, deep in the darkest parts of her subconscious.
“You can do this, too,” Imelda said. Her teeth were pointed. She was taller. Her shoulders were broader. Her clothes were tighter. Her top had come untucked. “You just decide you want to shift, and you shift.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“Shift, change, transform. You can come up with your own name for it, if you want.”
“I don’t want. I don’t want to shift. I don’t want to be a monster.” Amber realised she was shaking.
“It’s really not that bad,” said Imelda. “You get powerful. You get stronger and faster and you feel something inside you just … alter. It’s like you’re becoming the person you were always meant to be.”
“Not person. Monster.”
The smile on Imelda’s face faded. “Monster,” she said. “Yes.” She reverted to her normal state, and tucked in her top. She looked almost embarrassed as she sat back down. “Well, there you go, anyway. That’s how it’s done. If you’re ready to listen, I’ll tell you how it started.”
“You’re not going to let me leave, are you? So go ahead.”
Imelda took another sip from her cup. “I’ve known your parents since I was your age.”
“I know,” said Amber.
“No, you don’t. I met your parents when I was sixteen years old. They were already courting.”
“Courting?”
“That’s the old word for dating. Which is probably an old word for whatever it is you call it now. We met Grant a year later. Bill befriended Alastair at Harvard, and Kirsty was added to the group after Bill and Betty got married.”
“Bill didn’t go to Harvard.”
“I think it’s safe to say that you don’t really know your parents, Amber. Is it safe to say that?”
A strange feeling overtook Amber, a feeling of being adrift, cut off from everything she had thought she knew. “Yes,” she admitted softly.
“I’m telling you this so that you’ll know that we were all friends by the time the world welcomed in the New Year … of eighteen hundred and ninety.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m one hundred forty-six years old, Amber, and your parents are three years older than me.”
Amber didn’t have anything to say to that.
“Bill and Alastair met some interesting people at Harvard,” Imelda continued. “There were all kinds of clubs and societies back then: curious people looking to expand their horizons. They started out by merely dabbling in the occult, Bill and Alastair. And they drew the rest of us in.”
“What do you mean by occult?” Amber asked. “You mean like black magic?”
“I mean all magic. Or as much magic as we could do, anyway. There were limits to the levels to which we could rise. I … I have no excuses for the things I’ve done. I let myself be swept along, but Bill and Betty … This was all they thought about. Early on, Bill came to us with a story he’d heard, of a deal with a being called the Shining Demon. In exchange for a tribute, this Demon would grant power, strength, magic and, if you obeyed the rules, eternal life.”
“By turning you into demons yourselves?”
“You’re skipping ahead,” said Imelda, “but yes.”
“Why would you want to be turned into demons?”
“Did you not hear what I said? About the power and the strength and the eternal life?”
“But you’d be monsters.”
Imelda gave her a soft smile. “Look at me. Do I look like a monster? We can hide. We’re very good at it. But you interrupted me. Bill came to us with this story he’d heard. We got interested. We wanted to know if it was true, and if so how we could get a deal like that for ourselves. It took us years, piecing together the different clues, following every lead …”
“And
