He forced a smile. “I'll see you soon.”

“Good job,” Ryan said dryly, pulling me behind him.

In Ryan's truck, we took the short trip to the pub. Every bump, every pot hole, every street light seemed especially big or bright, as if my mind wanted to record every second of my last moments on earth.

The truck slowed to a stop in the parking lot across the street, and I looked out the window to the pub. College co-eds meandered on the sidewalk, congregating in small groups, laughing and chatting without a care in the world. I had seen a few of them in the halls of Brown, and I wondered what they would say when they heard the news, and what the news would even be. Would the papers call it an accident? A murder? A suicide? I shuttered when thoughts of myself post-mortem. Would demons allow me any dignity or mercy at all?

“Ryan? If it comes down to it, don't let them take me, okay? I don't know what things something so evil is capable of...but I don't want to....” I struggled to say it aloud, “Don't let me suffer, okay? Take care of it. You know what I mean?”

“What?” he said, his nose wrinkling. “You mean you want me to issue a mercy shot before they drag you off to torture you.”

I didn't remember Ryan being so blunt before. Perhaps the desert had taken every bit of sensitivity he had left.

“I don't want to be alone with those things. Even for a minute. If they take me, I'm giving you permission.”

“Stop,” Ryan said. “I won't let anything happen to you, and I know Jared, Claire and Bex are all watching. You act like you've never been bait before.”

I sighed. “Can't say that I have. Let's get this over with.”

Ryan stepped out, and then walked around, opening the door. We walked into the pub hand-in-hand, and Ryan scanned the dozen or so faces, picking a spot on the corner of the bar. He ordered a shot and two beers, and then rested his elbows on the dark wood in front of him. The music was blaring, and the loud, variable tones of conversation blurred into one another.

“So what's the plan?” I asked over the music.

The bartender set our drinks on the bar, and Ryan tossed him a twenty. “I don't know. I'm just following orders. So far it's to drink, but not too much where I can't aim straight., or it affects Claire.”

“Aiming's not going to help,” I grumbled. “Why do you get a shot and I don't?” I asked, watching him throw his back.

“Jared said you get one beer.”

“Just one?” I picked at the label on the bottle. “I guess he drinks when I do.”