The Demon Road Trilogy: The Complete Collection: Demon Road; Desolation; American Monsters. Derek Landy
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live with myself.”
“Now you know how we feel,” said Milo.
Glen ignored him. “You need all the help you can get. Don’t try to deny it. I don’t know why you’re even listening to Milo’s opinion. You’re paying him to be here, but me? I’m here for free. I’m here because I care. We are a well-oiled machine, and do you know what we’ve been built for? Stopping you from being eaten. That’s it. That’s our purpose. That’s my purpose. Don’t deny me my purpose, Amber. Don’t do it.”
She sighed. “Fine.”
His eyes widened. “Really?”
“Sure.”
“Thank you! You will not regret it!”
“I better not.”
“What was it that changed your mind? The team bit? The part about the well-oiled machine?”
“Mostly it was how pathetic you sounded.”
“That’ll work for me!”
“But don’t call it a quest.”
“Absolutely.” He turned. “Hear that, Milo? I’m coming with you.”
Milo ignored him and got in the car.
THEY LEFT SALT LAKE CITY and drove through a wide expanse of nothing. Mailboxes stood at the mouths of dirt trails that branched off from the road, trails that led to not much more than the rusted corpses of propane tanks and farm machinery. They passed a three-storey house that rose above the scattering of trailer homes around it, and a construction yard that had become a cemetery for old cars.
They drove until the flatness developed some hills. Amber preferred that. There was something so vastly empty about a featureless horizon, like they could drive and drive and the horizon would just fall away. There were moments when the earth seemed flat, and they were hurtling right to the nearest edge. Hills were good. Even the smallest and slightest of hills blocked her view of whatever lay beyond the next bend, allowing her some degree of hope. There was a certain kind of comfort in ignorance.
They got to a truck stop outside of Boise, Idaho, and Amber had a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and fries. She endured Glen talking about how everything in America came with fries – even when you didn’t order them – and then they drove on for another two hours. They reached a small motel in Baker City with only two free rooms available. Milo decided to spend the night in the car and wouldn’t change his mind, and they were on the road again before seven the next morning.
A little after midday on Saturday, their destination crept up on them. First there was nothing but trees rising up on either side, Douglas firs and red cedars mostly. The valley deepened, and there was a flower bed on a grass shoulder with a circular sign informing them that they were now entering Cascade Falls, and that the population was 9,243. A smaller sign beside that told them this was a Tree City USA. The first building they passed on their right was a nice-looking bar and restaurant – the first on their left was an Econ-o-Wash. They passed a feed and supply store, a used car lot, a drugstore, the Cascade Falls Heritage Centre, and a grand old hotel that stood tall and proud, looking out over the town.
“We’ll stay here tonight,” said Amber.
Milo nodded. His face was lined with tiredness, even though his eyes were bright. They parked in the front lot and got out. Amber and Glen eased the stiffness from their spines. Milo didn’t have to.
They passed through the stone archway into the foyer. Lots of dark wood and old paintings. The woman behind the desk smiled. “Welcome to the Varga Hotel. My name is Ingrid. Do you have reservations?”
“We don’t,” said Milo. “Is that all right? Would you have three rooms for us?”
“You may be in luck.” The smile stayed in place, like fresh flowers at a graveside, while Ingrid checked the outdated computer before her. “You’re in luck,” she said. “We do indeed have three rooms available. How long will you be requiring them for?”
“Tonight to start with,” said Amber. “We may need them tomorrow night, but hopefully not.”
Ingrid nodded. “Very well. But please do let us know at your earliest convenience, to make sure we can keep them for you if there’s a sudden rush. Please fill out these forms.” She slid them each a card and provided them with pens. “Have you been to Cascade Falls before?”
“First time.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll love it,” Ingrid said as they wrote and lied. “We have a surprisingly diverse community. I know the town looks white bread through and through, but we have so many different cultures and people – it’s a real American town, that’s what my grandmother used to say. I was born here, you know.”
“That so?” Milo asked.
“Born and raised,” said Ingrid. “I moved away when I was twenty, got married and started a family in Boston. I liked it well enough, but I came back here for a weekend to visit my folks and realised I never wanted to leave again. I let go of my husband and my kids and all my stuff. I didn’t need it. Didn’t need any of it. Everything I needed was right here. This is a wonderful town. The people are lovely. Wait till you meet Mr Varga. He owns the hotel. You’ll love him. Everyone does.”
Her eyes had glazed over while she was talking, and her smile had stretched so wide Amber thought her skin might tear.
“We’re actually looking for someone,” Amber said, her voice cutting through whatever daze Ingrid was sinking into. “Gregory Buxton. Do you know him?”
Ingrid blinked, took a moment to process the question, then shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t. I know an Althea Buxton, though. She’s a nice old lady. Maybe she’s related?”
“Maybe,” said Milo. “She live around here?”
“Over on Bleeker Street. My mom and her used to be friends. Then she got all religious. Or maybe she was always religious. Althea, I’m talking about, not my mom. You’d never find my mom in church. She never had any time for organised religion, said it was all a big scam. Of course, she was visiting psychics every week and forking over most of her disability allowance, and if anything is a scam it’s those crooks. She passed away two years ago. My mom, that is, not Althea.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Milo.
“Thank you. Taken before her time, that’s what everyone said. The Saturday after she died, one of the psychics she saw regularly called the house and asked why she’d missed her appointment. I said you can’t be a very good psychic if you didn’t see this coming. Know what she did? She offered her services as a medium at a reduced rate. I told her to go to hell, and hung up the phone.”
“Nothing but vultures,” said Milo.
Ingrid nodded. “That’s what I said. I told Mr Varga about it and that’s the exact word I used. I said she was a vulture. Mr Varga agreed with me. He’s a very smart man, and he’s been around the world, not just to Boston, like me. He knows a thing or two.”
By this time, they’d all slid their cards back to her, and she scooped them up and placed then carefully into a narrow wooden box. She took three keys from the board behind her and handed them over.
“You’re all on the second floor,” she said. “Dinner is served from seven till ten, but, if you aim to be in the dining room at eight, you might even get a visit from Mr Varga himself.”
“Well, that’d be lovely,” said Milo, and smiled.
They dropped their bags in their rooms – Amber’s had a four-poster bed and a heavy dresser with a huge