Imelda hung up. “Want some breakfast?” she asked, walking to the kitchen. She poured orange juice into a tall glass and placed it beside an assortment of croissants and pastries. Then she looked back at Amber and waited.
“What’s happening?” Amber said.
“It really is a long story,” Imelda said.
“There’s a man outside with a gun.”
“That’s a friend of mine, Milo Sebastian. You don’t have to worry about him. You have to worry about your parents.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
Imelda managed a smile. “You think they’re behaving oddly? That’s just because you don’t know them very well.”
“They’re demons. Monsters.”
“Oh, Amber … We’re all monsters. Metaphorically, I mean. The whole human race. We hate, we kill, we do terrible things to each other and to the planet. But we are also, in our case, actual monsters. With horns.”
“I really don’t understand any of this,” said Amber. “Please just tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m going to explain everything. But to start with I’ll have to show you. I’m going to change now, all right? I’m going to turn into … well, into a monster, just like your parents. And I want you to remain calm. Can you do that?”
Amber swallowed, and nodded.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Once again, I want you to remain calm. You’re perfectly safe.”
Imelda’s skin turned red and her teeth grew sharp and she had black horns and it all took less than a heartbeat.
Amber screamed, picked up a potted plant and threw it, but it fell short and smashed to the floor.
“You killed Henry,” Imelda said, dismayed.
“Help me!” Amber screamed.
“You’re panicking,” said Imelda.
“You’re a monster!” Amber screeched.
“This is not news to me.”
Amber sprinted for the door.
“You tried that, remember?”
A wave of pain swept through Amber, making her stagger but not fall. She pushed herself away from the door and ran for the window.
“What, you’re going to jump?” Imelda asked. “Really? We’re on the thirty-fifth floor.”
Amber grabbed a cushion off the couch and held it out with both hands.
“I’m not entirely sure what you mean to do with that,” Imelda admitted.
“You’re a monster,” Amber said, her voice cracking.
“Yes,” said Imelda. “And I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but so are you.”
Amber looked at her hands. Looked at how red they were. Looked at the black nails that had pierced the cushion she held.
“Oh my God,” she said, feeling how her tongue brushed against teeth that were somehow longer than they had been a moment earlier. Her head swam. She raised her hands, felt horns. “Oh God. Help me. Please …”
Imelda the Monster walked forward slowly. “Amber, I need you to calm down …”
Amber backed away unsteadily, leaving a trail of floating feathers in her wake. She began to cry.
“Stay away from me.”
“You asked me to help you. I’m helping you.”
“Stay back,” said Amber, voice breaking.
“Okay.”
“Help me.”
“Make up your mind,” said Imelda with a faint smile.
“Please, just … why do I have horns?”
“Because you’re like me,” said Imelda. “You’re like your parents, and Grant and Kirsty and Alastair. You’re a demon, sweetie.”
The word stuck in Amber’s mind like a bone in her throat, so that she barely registered Imelda darting towards her until it was too late to do anything about it.
“Sorry about this,” Imelda said, and punched her into unconsciousness.
AMBER STIRRED FROM HER dreamless sleep, waking without opening her eyes. She snuggled down deeper into the pillow, slowly drifting off again, and then she remembered where she was and what had happened and she sat up so fast she almost fell out of bed.
Back in the bedroom in Imelda’s apartment. The curtains were open now. The day was bright and warm. She examined her reflection in the mirror on the wall. She looked normal. Her hair was a mess, but that was the full extent of the damage.
It had been real. She knew it had been real. She’d had horns. She’d grown them as her skin had turned red and her nails had turned black – just like she had before she’d pulverised Brandon’s jaw with a single punch. She’d grown them just like Imelda had grown them. Just like her parents had grown them.
But no. No, that couldn’t be right. There had to be an explanation. A reasonable, logical, real-world explanation.
She stood. She was fully dressed, in T-shirt and shorts and sneakers. That was good. She left the bedroom. The man with the guns sat on the couch, his long legs crossed, reading a tattered paperback. Milo Sebastian, she remembered. He looked up at her, then went back to reading.
“Where’s Imelda?” Amber asked.
“Out,” he said.
She waited for him to furnish her with more information, but apparently he wasn’t much of a talker.
“Out where?” she pressed.
“Out with the others.”
A wave of alarm rushed through Amber’s veins. “My parents? What’s she doing with them?”
“Pretending to look for you.” Keeping a finger on the page he’d been reading, he folded the book closed and raised his eyes. “You can wait for her here. She shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Amber hesitated, then took a few steps further into the room. “Don’t suppose you’d let me go, would you?”
“You’ve got nowhere to go to,” Milo replied. “The cops can’t help you. Chief Gilmore can only afford his luxury condo with the money they pay him. Your parents, and their friends, are very powerful people. You must know this.”
Amber didn’t reply. She didn’t mention the ease with which they’d had her principal fired.
She went to the couch across from where Milo was sitting, and sat on the edge, knees together and hands in her lap. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“I’m not the one to talk to about this.”
“So you do know. You know they’re monsters, right? You know Imelda is a monster? And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Does it bother you that you’re