Salt

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“You never know,” she used to say while we licked batter from spoons, “when a demon will attack and you need to be prepared.”

Pop would call her “sweet lips” and remind her we were kids, much like he did when Connie and I stole cookies before dinner and she flipped out. Mom and Dad would reassure her that we were safe, and then take us home where bedtime was the biggest worry.

But that was before my parents died. Since then, Gran reminds me about having salt every time I so much as mention going outside. Her warning plays on a loop in my head. I’m trained to bring it with me.

Except for today, apparently.

The demon chasing me is going to love that.

I run, but there’s only so much I can do. Plus, I wasn’t paying attention and turned down an alley. The walls are narrow, only about seven feet across, so there’s no way I can maneuver around it. Demons are too fast. There has to be a way out at the other end. Maybe I can sneak past it.

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