My Friend is the Devil

Chapter 3

The cat meows in my face with fishy breath.

"Frrk awf," I groan. I try to push the cat away but it presses its cold nose against my fingertips and starts licking them. I jerk my hand back to check it.

No blood. There never was blood. Why would there be blood?

My mouth tastes of rotten cheese and vodka. I push the cat again until it jumps off the bed, landing on one of my shoes lying haphazardly on the floor. The cat's left behind a brown mark on the toe.

"Ew, cat!"

I grab the shoe to inspect the spots, but they're dry. It's blood. No-Chin's blood. Images of last night come flooding back. No-Chin, the kirkyard, the blood...

It's morning. Someone would've found No-Chin by now. If he's still alive, then the police might be looking for me. Trust me, Graeme said. Do I?

"Well aren't you a sight?"

I jump at the sound. Liz is standing in the doorway in a silk robe decorated with gold Medusas.

"I-I..." I start shaking my head, biding time to think of an excuse. If she's anything remotely like my mother, I'll be grounded for two months.

"It's okay," she says. "You're in Britain. Christ, I started drinking when I was twelve!"

"Really? My father, too?"

Her face falls. "Aye... Like I said, it's Britain. We all drink. It's our culture. There's nothing wrong with it." She wrings her bejeweled hands together. It seems like my question made her uncomfortable. I've put her off with the mention of my father. "I'll let you get dressed." She closes my door.

When her footsteps disappear down the hall, I grab my phone and Google "Edinburgh news" but nothing related to a dead man in Greyfriars comes up. It could've been part of my dream, if it weren't for the bloodstains on my shoe. But those stains could be anything. I need to check the kirkyard for myself.

I shower and put on clean clothes and my stained shoes, because I didn't pack anything other than these Converse and a couple of slip-on flats. When I leave my bedroom, I hear the Alexa radio playing upstairs.

"I'm going to get some coffee!" I shout up the staircase. "Be back soon."

"No rush, pet!" Liz calls back.

#

It's a twenty minute walk through the Meadows to get to the Kirkyard. Every few minutes I stop and consider turning back and just getting a coffee like I told Liz I would, but something keeps forcing me forward.

There's a large group of people in front of the Kirkyard's main entrance—not where we came in from last night. My breath catches in my throat at the sight of them looking around, holding cameras and phones to take photographs.

Reporters.

I put my hood up over my head, cursing my bright green hair. But Graeme's words come into my head again "Nothing's gonnae happen. Trust me" and then I see one man in a top hat holding a flag on a stick. It's just a group of tourists.

The Greyfriars' Kirkyard exploits the legend of Greyfriars' Bobby, a dog who never left its owner's grave. Disney even made a movie about it. The statue of the terrier stands in front of the entrance and its marbled grave is the first stone past the gates.

I squeeze past the tour group, unnoticed, into the Kirkyard. This place is old. Really, really old. The gravestones are black and brown, and chunks of words and dates engraved on them have faded away. Some of the death dates are older than the States itself.