Slayer (Slayer #1)

Leo considers it, then relents. “Okay. It’s on the way.”

And with that ringing vote of confidence in my plan, we’re off to Naked Grains. I don’t even want to know what kind of establishment it is. We’ll find out soon enough.

24

“THIS IS DEMON DRUG DEALER Sean’s headquarters?” Artemis asks.

Her scathingly doubtful tone doesn’t hurt my heart this time. Based on the name, I had assumed Naked Grains was some sort of strip club. I mean, demon-dogfight-runner-slash-demon-drug-dealer using a strip club as a front made sense to me.

But this?

“Sorry,” a woman shouts. We turn around from where we’re standing next to the car. “Are you leaving? I want your spot.”

“No,” Leo answers. “We just got here.”

Scowling, she pulls away. The tiny parking lot is full in spite of the late hour. People are streaming into the store and leaving with bulging bags of produce. There’s an added urgency since it’s almost closing time. Everything is bleached of color under the yellow parking lot lights, rendering the scene surreal.

“Have you tried their new kale smoothie? Savagely good,” a girl says, walking arm in arm with her girlfriend toward the sliding glass doors of the trendiest health food store I have ever seen in my life. It looks like it belongs in Southern California, not Dublin. Even the buildings nearest it seem to lean away as though to say, We aren’t with him.

“This can’t be the right place.” Artemis scowls at the entrance.

“We won’t even blend in,” I whisper. “We’re not nearly cool enough.”

Leo has a pensive but dubious expression. “We could shave half your head.”

I squeak and reflexively cover my hair with my hands.

He cracks a smile. “I would never.”

“Let’s get this over with.” Artemis grabs a basket from a stack by the doors and holds it like a shield. The store greets us with the heady scent of citrus, underlaid with rich, bitter coffee, a hint of fresh bread, and the overall sensation that we’re healthier just for breathing it all in.

“I hate these stores,” Artemis says.

“Not exactly demonic, though.” Leo’s not as dismissive as Artemis, but it’s obvious he wants to get back to the castle. He sped the whole way here, and he has one eye on the door.

We walk the perimeter. It isn’t huge, but after two years in Shancoom, where the post office doubles as the town shop and has three whole rows, it’s overwhelming. There’s a bakery on-site and an entire section for buffet-style food. Most of the people are there, loading up for a late dinner. My mouth waters. Being a good Watcher-slash-Slayer leaves so little time for eating.

“I don’t see anything alarming,” Artemis says. “Maybe Sean works here on the side.”

“But isn’t this whole place kind of weird? It doesn’t belong.” I found this lead, and I desperately want it to pan out. I have to prove to Artemis I can do something right. I have to get her back on my side.

Besides, when I’m right, she’ll know Honora was wrong.

We walk up an aisle that’s entirely coffee beans. When did coffee start coming in so many varieties? Is there really a difference between coffee beans grown in Kenya versus Guatemala? If so, what?

We turn into the next aisle—loose tea—and Artemis stops so fast we almost bump into her. “Look at the salesclerk,” she mutters.

The rest of the clerks are all twentysomethings with effortlessly beautiful hair and elegant tattoos. But this guy is hulking. Buzzed head, aggressively tattooed, the Naked Grains apron straining around his bulging neck muscles. He stands, feet apart, arms folded.

Leo leans forward to inspect a label. “Wearing a gun on his hip,” he whispers. Sure enough, there’s a bulge covered by the apron that’s decidedly gun-shaped. He’s a security guard disguised as a clerk.

Guarding . . . tea?

We meander. There are a few varieties of tea I recognize—English Breakfast, which I like. Earl Grey, which tastes like old ladies’ underpants soaked in perfume. Chamomile and ten different types of green. But then there are bins with weird names and descriptions of the effects. Those don’t have any prices listed.

“Excuse me.” Leo steps in front of the fake clerk with an air of vague annoyance. “There are no prices. How much is the ‘Dreams of My Enemy’s Weakness’ tea? Is it caffeinated, or is it like Sleepytime?”

The guard raises one scarred eyebrow. “That’s available by special order only.”