“I know,” I reply. “But my brother’s in there. I need to find him. Mom and Dad have gone out for the night. He was supposed to leave the key to the back door for me, but he must have taken it with him. I can’t get in without it. Can I pop in and get the key from him? I’d leave again immediately.”
The doormen look at each other, then one of them says, “What’s his name?”
I’m about to say Art, but that’s not a common name. So I say “John” instead.
“John what?” the doorman asks.
Again, Fleck isn’t common, so I say the first name that comes to me. “Smith.”
“John Smith.” The doormen laugh.
“You’ve got to admire his nerve,” one of them says.
“Yeah, but not enough to let him in,” the other chuckles, then jerks his thumb at me. “Nice try. Now get lost.”
“You don’t understand,” I gasp. “I can’t get in without the key. I have to —”
“I can look for him if he really exists,” the first doorman cuts in. “But if I go in there and call for a John Smith and don’t find one — or find a few who aren’t your brother — I’m going to be very angry. So have a good long think about it, then tell me — do I stay or do I go?”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll look for him. He’s a bit... he’s slightly deaf. He wouldn’t hear you calling. I need to go in myself, to look for...”
The doorman takes a step forward, crouches, and in a low, foul curse tells me to go away. Then he returns to his post and waves forward the next few punks in line.
I’ve blown it. Defeated, I slink away, ignoring the catcalls of the punks, and find a quiet spot where I can think up my next approach.
More lights are floating into the building, faster now. I could wait until the concert’s over, then break in, but I don’t think I have much time. So I go looking for another entrance, figuring there must be a fire escape in the back.
A narrow, dirty alley runs behind the shops and bars. Garbage bags all over the place, empty cardboard boxes, bottles and cans. Dried blood, vomit and dog crap. I wade through the mess, trying to find the building where the concert’s taking place. The noise guides me, and a minute later I’m standing outside a pair of large doors, which are rattling from the vibrations of the music.
I try opening the doors but they’re locked from the other side. I push and pull, kick and punch, to no effect. I look for windows to sneak through, but there are only a couple and they’re both bricked over.
Back to the doors. They can’t remain shut all night. People will have to come through eventually. I’m sure they’ll be opened at the end of the concert, but that might be too late — the lights may have stopped by then. I just have to hope that someone comes through before that, for fresh air or to be sick.
There are a few garbage bins to the right of the doors. I crouch behind them and wait, planning on sneaking in if the doors open. Not a great plan, but in the absence of anything better, it’s my only hope.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Twenty. Thirty. I’m truly cold now. I don’t think the sun has ever shone directly on this horrible hole of an alley. My nose is running. I wipe the back of my left hand across it, but that doesn’t do much good.
The lights are moving very quickly, in greater numbers, powering through the walls and roof. I think a window is going to open soon. Maybe there’s a witch like Mrs. Egin inside, or perhaps the music is summoning the demons — this is the sort of din I imagine the Demonata would love. Maybe some of them are coming to check out the concert.
I grin as I picture Cadaver and the vulture-headed demon slipping through a window between the two universes to dance with the punks. As I’m grinning, the doors open and two men step out into the alley, a wave of metallic music bursting through with them. I’m immediately alert, praying for them to turn left so I can duck in without them seeing.
But they stand where they are, looking around. One is a punk, with jeans, a leather jacket, no T-shirt, a thin black scarf knotted around his throat, spiky purple hair, a ring through his nose. Scrawny. Not much older than me. The other is wearing an army-type uniform, boots and a beret. A bit older than the punk and much bigger. There are letters tattooed on his knuckles, but I can’t read them from here.
“This will be our getaway route if we have to run,” the man in the army clothes says, letting the doors half close, cutting out the worst of the noise. “We’ll split up if we’re chased. You go left. I’ll take the right. Meet again at the hotel.”
“Can we outrun it?” the punk asks.
“Depends on what it is. Some are slow, some fast. If we can’t stop it crossing, we’ll try to fight, but if it’s too strong we’ll have to run like hell.”
“I don’t like running,” the punk says.
“Me neither,” the army guy grunts, “but sometimes it’s the only option. These demons are fierce mothers. We can whup some of them, but others...”
At the mention of demons, a shudder of relief churns through me. In a rush, I scuttle out from behind the garbage bins. The army guy takes a step back, fists coming up protectively. The punk puts out a hand to calm him. “Relax. It’s only a kid.”
The army guy scowls. “What are you doing here? Trying to sneak in to the concert without paying? It won’t work. Scram, you no-good —”
“Excuse me,” I interrupt, “but are you... this might sound crazy... but I heard you talking about demons and I —”