Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2) (10 page)

 THE DAY of my graduation came. I was officially
assimilated. I had a black uniform, like Jep's. I traded in my slippers for
combat boots. I could open (certain) doors and computer programs with my
fingerprints. I went to the cafeteria for the first time and had real food
(sort of)—French toast with bacon. The food was like everything else in the
realm—simulated. It didn't taste bad, but it didn't taste like it should,
either.

“What happens now?” I asked Jep.

He frowned. “Not sure. You're a special case, that's all I
know. We're reporting to headquarters. You look sharp, Slaughter.”

I thought he'd salute or something, but he didn't.

We stood in front of the elevator. “Hit down,” he told me. I
activated the button with my finger and the metal doors slid open.

In the car, Jep said, “We're going outside. You'll get to
see a bit of the city.”

My mind turned over the information.
Outside
. What
could it possibly mean? That was the thing about the realm, I never knew what
to expect. So I stopped expecting.

We came out into a reception area with white marble floors,
black chairs and end tables; attractive but generic, like the lobby of a hotel.
My eyes sought the doors—glass turnstiles.

Angels, dressed like humans, passed by. Occasionally, their
eyes flitted over me and moved on.

Jep led the way, through the doors …
outside
.

Sunlight struck me in the face.
Not sunlight
.
Something a lot like it. I looked up. The sky was azure without a single cloud.
Ideal.
Of course
. Palm trees lined white streets. White Spanish style
buildings glimmered, tall and beautiful, like the Promised Land, like money and
glamour and movie stars. “Jesus, it's Rodeo Drive,” I said.

“Not quite,” Jep said.

“You must like it here,” I said.

“Venice was more my style.”

I thought of Zadie. My heart pounded. “Hey, did you—did you
know a lot of demons in Venice Beach?”

Jep nodded. “Sure. Big enclave there. Some of the most
powerful wayward demons in the world.”

“Did you—”

“
No
, I don’t know any famous movie stars who are
demons.”

I realized my question was about as dumb, but I asked
anyway. “Did you ever meet a blonde named Zadie?”

He stopped to look at me. “The last time I was in the human
world was 1981. Does that answer your question?”

“Yep.” I sighed.

“Come on,” he headed down the street, taking quick strides,
suddenly in a hurry.

But I was stuck on Zadie. Had she been turned? Could she be
my sire? Or was it possible she simply drowned in the lake that night?

Kaia’s words came back to me. “
If you hadn’t been engaged
in risky behavior …”

Everything about Zadie was risky.

“Get a move on, Slaughter. We don’t have all day.”

Headquarters was in the capital building; white,
neo-classical with Greek columns and porticos, a golden angel poised to take
flight from the roof. I’d found it weird that angels were always depicted with
wings, until I learned they flew in the human world.

Another thing I’d discovered, in the course of my
assimilation, was that angels, for all their glory and superiority, weren’t
suited to the human world. Those who went had to be inoculated against toxins
in the environment and diseases carried by humans. Angels received a tattoo
after they were inoculated. The tell-tale sign of a soldier or a missionary was
a purple heart on their arm—for bravery.

Inside, Jep turned to me. “Listen, Slaughter. You're going
to meet the archangels. All of them. Don't embarrass me. Because this never
happens.
I've
never met them. Not officially. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.” I saluted him.

“Cut it out.”

We went up the stairs, down a corridor, and knocked on an
average looking door. I wasn't looking forward to seeing Zillah again.

The door was opened by an angel wearing a suit. Seven purple
robed archangels sat behind a long table. We stepped in and bowed, heads
lowered until we were granted ease. Then, we stood before them, hands behind
our backs.

“That will be all,” an archangel with golden curls, like an
overgrown cherub, dismissed Jep. I didn't look straight at him but I could see
plenty with my peripheral vision, including Zillah. Her eyes were lasers boring
into me.

I felt a cold draft when Jep left the room.

“Devon, walk around for us,” Zillah said. “In a wide circle,
along the perimeters.”

There were four women and three men. Vashti's gold glinted.
One of the men had long red hair. They spoke among themselves, in a strange,
tonal language that wasn't reassuring. My heart raced, as if I was running the
Sierra Switchback.

“That's enough. Approach us.”

A woman with brown hair, and one of the men, came around the
table to get a closer look. “Show us your teeth …”

They poked and prodded, and spoke in their secret language.
Fire burned through my veins. I hated them all, even Vashti, who had seemed the
most human on our first meeting.

“How do you find the realm, Devon?” Zillah said.

My mind reeled.

“Be honest,” Vashti said, in her mellifluous voice.

I thought of my walk down the white street, how the sun
dazzled through the palm trees but didn’t burn my eyes, or make me hot and
sweaty. “Ideal,” I said.

There was an eruption of laughter. “Bravo!”

Zillah glowered.

They settled into their positions and gave each other nods.
Zillah gestured to the angel, behind me, who had opened the door. “Bring
Decimus.”

I kept my eyes straight ahead. But I heard him enter. His
footsteps thudded, and raised the hair on the back of my neck.

“Devon, you are fortunate today. You are meeting our most
powerful angel soldier, Captain Decimus. You may look at him now.”

We faced each other, the same height, same build. Our eyes
locked. It was surreal; his black eyes were mirrors of my own.

He was tall, and dark, with a trimmed beard, short-cropped
hair. He wore brown leather, high laced boots, gold cuffs on both wrists, and a
fur pelt around his shoulders.

 “Decimus, darling,” Vashti said. “Meet your protégé, Devon
Slaughter. He is a demon, as I’m sure you have noticed. It is your job to make
him a soldier.”

Though it was barely perceptible, Decimus flinched. 

I DIDN’T have to face Henry, for a while, as it turned out.
He was gone the rest of the week, to a conference. On the weekend, he went to
visit his parents and didn't call. The next week was midterm exams and everyone
went around half-dazed, both students and teachers. It was easy to avoid him.

But one morning, I saw him in the lounge. He mentioned
Spring Break. He wanted to go camping. I hoped he wanted to go without me,
though I didn't tell him so, and it gnawed at me. I worried over how to break
things off with him.

Dr. Sinclair said not to be hasty. “Just take it slow, and
see what develops,” she advised. “Certainly, don’t begin a sexual relationship
with him until you’re ready.”

My face got hot.

Oops.

I should have confessed right then and there, but I didn’t
know how. Dr. Sinclair seemed so satisfied with her advice, so impressed with
my progress, I told her about my writing workshop girls instead, to keep her
believing in me.  

But, by the time I got home, the cycle of shame had begun.

I took a whole Valium and a hot bath. Sordid images of
Henry—heaving and grunting on top of me—played across my mind. Over and over.

When he called, after I was in bed, I didn’t answer. I
stared at my phone on the night stand, at the blinking blue light. My stomach
churned. I listened to his message. “Hey, I just heard about tomorrow night.
Nine girls, nine stories? Pretty cool, Rain. We’ll talk tomorrow. Unless … you
want me to come over?”

Unless you want me to come over.

He thought everything was fine. How could I be so twisted up
when he didn't have a clue?

It was my fault. I hadn't told him I was a virgin. Things
had just happened so fast, and I'd been relaxed from the Valium—I told myself
there wasn't a need.

I lay in bed, staring at the walls. Downtown was so bright,
even at night.
Especially
at night. City lights seeped through the
chiffon curtains and made monstrous shadows. A wind had picked up and shook its
fist at the window panes.

Fear flitted at the edges of my mind. I felt like I was on
the top of a high building looking down. I had the urge to jump, to throw
myself into the darkness that waited for me, like a hungry mouth.

Deep down, I didn’t believe Dr. Sinclair when she said I was
not my mother. Though my grandmother had done all she could to keep me well,
she knew it too. There was no escaping the crazy gene that was already inside
me, the day I was born. 

My fingers twitched. I threw off the covers and got up to
fix a cup of herbal tea. It was bitter. I couldn't drink it.

I played the piano, gazing out at the building across the
street. Lights lit up the windows. I thought I saw someone moving inside. My
mind raced, my flesh crawled.

Outside, the storm gathered force. Rain lashed at the vista
window. I closed the blinds but I could still hear the rain, like tiny rocks
against the glass. 

I couldn’t decide what to do. I wanted to sleep for a long
time, until the storm was over. And yet, I felt an urgency to escape the
apartment (suddenly so small), and myself.

I pawed through the clothes on the shelves of my closet.
They were strange; cashmere sweater sets and skirts in colors I’d always hated,
like baby blue and buttercup, lavender and mauve. Beige? Why had I bought so
many new clothes?

I tore open a box in the back of my closet, ripping off an
acrylic nail. But I found what I was looking for, a long black dress with lace
sleeves.

The silky material settled over my skin like it belonged
there. I pulled up black stockings and clipped them to my lace panties. I
slipped into my trusty Doc Marten boots.

After teasing up my hair and spraying it with Aqua Net, I
powdered my freckles, and lined my eyes with charcoal.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I hardly recognized
who looked back. I was anyone, anonymous. 

As I rode the elevator, I counted the floors down to the
parking garage. Six, five, four, three …

I drove through the wet streets, listening to the squeak of
my windshield wipers, pretending I wasn’t doing what I was doing—falling into
old habits, habits that would undo me, in the end.

Just one drink, I told myself.
There will be a good band.
Everyone goes out once in a while.
But I wasn’t everyone, and that was the
problem.

A single outing to my favorite bar would turn into another,
and another, until it was a need, an obsessive ritual and the only way to get
through the night.

And yet, here I was, parking in my usual spot, hurrying down
the boardwalk, toward Embers, as if no time had passed at all, as if my
sessions with Dr. Sinclair had never taken place.

The rain had slacked. A light mist shimmered. 

The creaking boards, the glimmer of lights on the water, the
heavy smell of fried food mingling with the fishy scent of the river, evoked an
image in my mind. I saw a man’s face; black eyes, cruel lips. Footsteps rushed
up behind me.

I whirled around. No one was there.

He was a figment of my imagination; seductive and dangerous,
like all my fantasies. 

Ahead, Embers beckoned. I made a dash to the door, and
hurtled myself inside, gasping for air. The warmth of bodies surrounded me.
Voices and laughter swirled.

The band was already breaking down. The crowd was dense. I
tried to squeeze up to the bar, to order a 7 & 7. I thought of Henry
bringing a bottle of Seagram’s on our first date. Guilt gnawed at me. Why had I
turned against him? He liked me. At this moment, I could be wrapped in his
arms, instead of alone … at a seedy bar.  

“Look at you. All dressed up like a dark little angel.”

I turned to see who had spoken. It was the black-haired
woman from the white Escalade … the one who had blown smoke at me. And there
was her blonde friend, next to her. My pulse fluttered in my throat.

“What’s wrong, little rabbit? Can’t get a drink? Tell me
what you want and I’ll make it happen,” she raised her hand and snapped at the
bartender.

I no longer wanted alcohol. My stomach churned at the idea. 

Without meaning to, I glanced over at the blonde. Our eyes
locked, and I couldn’t look away.

She reminded me of someone from my childhood but I couldn’t
think who. It bothered me, suddenly, the niggling idea that I should know her.
I felt it was important but my mind was a tire in the mud, spinning without
traction.

The blonde emanated heat and electricity. The hair on my
arms stood on end. “Hey Inka,” she said to the dark-haired one. “It seems our
friend doesn’t want a drink, after all,” she gazed down on me. “You want to
dance. Is that it?” 

I wanted to be home in bed. I wished I’d never come. But my
grandmother would say I was getting what I paid for.

I tried to move away. They pressed closer. “I only wanted to
see the band,” I said. 

“Well, then you must see the band. Isn’t that right, Zadie?”

They exchanged smiles.

Zadie
. The name meant something to me. Or
should
.

“Um—” I glanced toward the stage. “The band is packing up.
I’m just going to uh …
go
.” I waved, feeling stupid as I did it.

I bumped into one person and the next. I stepped on
someone’s foot, as I pushed toward the door.

My cheeks burned when I thought of my dream, how I’d climbed
into the Escalade. Despite no sex actually taking place, the dream had been
erotic. I wondered if the blonde—Zadie—had felt my desire for her. I thought
maybe she could see into my mind … with her golden eyes. 

There was a clear path to the exit and I made bee-line for
it. In the next instant, Zadie was there, blocking the door. The green exit sign
glowed above her, like a taunt. 

I took a step back. Strong arms came around me. Zadie’s
friend, (she’d called her Inka) spoke in my ear, “The band is going to play
just for you, Ruby.” 

Ruby
.

Had I told her my name? Confusion spun webs in my brain.

Inka led me by the hand, onto the dance floor. The band was
set-up and waiting. The singer smiled at me.

“What’s your favorite song, Ruby?” Zadie said.

I shook my head, helplessly.

“You want me to guess?” she said.

Want me to guess? Want me to guess …
the words echoed
in the caverns of my memory, s Zadie came toward me.

We danced slow, though no music played. Her hand eclipsed
mine, her other hand rested on the small of my back. Her lips grazed my neck.

I shivered and saw his face …
Devon
. I knew him
intimately. His dark eyes glimmered. He stole me from Zadie and spun me around,
before pulling me in close, his arms around my waist.

“Devon,” I whispered. “It’s you.” 

The band began to play Guns-N-Roses,
Sweet Child of Mine
.
Heavy guitar riffs cut the air. Colors exploded behind my eyes.

“
Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place
,” the
singer crooned. “
Where as a child I’d hide
…”

I had seen Devon’s picture years ago, when I was in the
sanitarium. He was someone beautiful, who had died. I resurrected him in my
imagination. He had been my warm safe place, a place I could no longer find.
Now, he had come to me again.

I pressed my cheek against his sweater. I never wanted the
song to end. When it did, I was afraid I wouldn’t remember. I would go back to
my life with a big hole where Devon’s memory should be.

He knew exactly how to hold me. He knew what I wanted. There
was no need to talk. I held on tight, my arms looped around his neck. His heart
beat into mine.

“
And if I stayed too long, I’d probably break down and
cry
…”

The music stopped.

He tilted my chin. I waited for his kiss.  

Sharp teeth bit my lip. I cried out. Zadie’s face swam above
me. Her mouth opened with laughter. Tears stung my eyes.

I veered and stumbled toward the door, tasting blood.

“Where are you going, little rabbit?”

“Don’t leave now. We’re just starting to have fun.” 

I tripped and fell to my knees. The green exit sign blurred.
I felt drunk, as I stood up. I reached for the door. My fingers missed the
handle. I tried again, and managed to stagger out, into the night.

A cold wind tore at my hair and my dress. Memories careened
and ricocheted. I tried to run but my limbs were too heavy and clumsy.

At last, I saw the pink gleam of my car under the
streetlamp. I fumbled with my keys. Inside, I hit the locks.

Gasping for breath, I began to shake uncontrollably. Was it
real? Had it happened? Or would I wake in the morning … in a white hospital
room?