Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2) (11 page)

DECIMUS WAS a Captain, a leader of angels, and a decorated
hero. He was extremely young for his achievements, not even a century. He
claimed to be an old spirit, but that’s not what I saw in his eyes. I saw a
warrior, ruthless to the core.

He was a celebrity, a famous slayer of wayward demons, his
face on billboards across the realm. He out earned the combined salary of all
the archangels. Decimus action figures were coveted toys afforded only by the
wealthy. Vials of his blood (fake) were sold to women who dipped their jewelry
in it. His sweat, believed to be an aphrodisiac, was worth pounds of gold. 

He took me shopping, to boutiques where models dressed us,
and paraded around in lingerie for our enjoyment. I had sets of leather pants
and shirts, tall boots, gold cuffs.

We had massages, and our hair done. We were well-coiffed
twins, with our dark caps of shorn hair, and groomed beards.

Decimus took me places only angels were allowed;
restaurants, theaters, night clubs, his mansion. And he took me to the demon
quarters, where the streets were dark and twisted, the houses rotting behind
fences bolstered by the jagged edges of broken glass and razor wire. 

It was becoming more and more clear to me, the difference
between angels and demons, as Kaia had promised.

As far as I could tell (aside from angels sprouting wings in
the human world) it came down to a matter of class, a distinctive line between
‘the haves’ and ‘the have-nots’.

The first time I went to Decimus’s mansion, and he led me
through the expansive light-filled rooms, across white floors, kept spotless by
demon house servants, I got the sense I was being tested.

“What do you think of all this?” he said, as we gazed out at
the pool, royal blue, like the rolling sea beyond it.

None of it is real, I told myself. “Impressive,” I said.

Decimus laughed. “For Christ sake, Slaughter. You’ve got
some kind of stick up your demon ass. Come on … let’s have a drink.”

He brought out a bottle and drank from it, before handing it
to me. “Go on,” he said, his voice demanding.

It was the kind of scotch that would cost around a hundred
grand in the human world. And while I’d never poured that kind of money down my
throat, I figured I’d taste it right off, the difference between the real thing
and an angel fake.

It was dry, potent, slightly licorice. My father had always
kept a bottle of Glenfiddich around, for special guests and occasions. You
didn’t forget the taste, and maybe this
was
real, I thought. And far
superior. It must have been imported.

I felt so ignorant, so disadvantaged. 

“You know how you get to be me?” Decimus said.

“Kill a lot of demons?”

“Nope. Any asshole can do that. You have to want it,
Slaughter. You have to want it
all
—the fame and the power and what it
buys. You have to want it so bad, you do whatever it takes to get it.”

I licked my lips, and tried to hand back the bottle.

“Take another swig.”

I did.

“Don’t you want to get wasted? On money? Roll around in that
shit?”

I said nothing, though I was supposed to answer immediately,
when he spoke to me. The scotch was smooth. Warmth spread through my limbs, and
made me slow. 

“I asked you a question.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” I said.

“Yeah sure, what?”

“I want to get wasted.”

“On what?”

“On money.”

He grabbed the bottle from me. “Jesus, you’re pathetic. I’ll
ask you one more time. Do you have any idea how to be me? Because that’s what
they want. That’s what
I’m
here for, and that’s what
you’re
here
for. And I’m already bored as fuck, Slaughter. You feel me?”

“Yes, sir.”

He drank from the bottle. When he was done, a drop of scotch
clung to his bottom lip. He didn’t wipe it off. He got in my face. “You wanna
be me, huh? You wanna be me, Slaughter? Then learn how to be a
fucking
rock star.”

Whether I wanted it or not, it was hard to believe I’d ever
be Decimus. I was pretty sure I wasn’t meant to rise up that far.

I lived in a ware house, in a small room, segregated from
the other soldiers, who were all angels.

Occasionally, at night, Decimus took me out. If he had to.
He didn’t care much for my company but it was his duty, he said, “to get the
demon stink off.” He made it clear he didn’t think that would ever happen.

He was right about one thing. If what I did on the virtual
battlefield was what it was like to kill a demon, it
was
easy.

On the first day of training, Decimus handed me a wooden
stake. I laughed. “Is this a joke?”

It was no joke.

In the human world, angels and demons were equally matched
when it came to supernatural prowess. But an angel soldier had one advantage—no
weapon could kill an angel. Whereas, if a demon took a wooden stake to the
heart, or any major artery, it meant instant death; they were reduced to ashes,
just like in the movies.

The fact that angels didn’t die made demons
very
elusive. The longer a demon had been wayward, the harder they were to capture.
Even Decimus had been outwitted a time or two. He hated bounty hunting. He took
only kill contracts. “Why waste my time tracking bitches?” he said. “If I can’t
kill them?” 

That’s all I did in training. It was like going to the gym
with Jep and running the virtual tracks. Only I carried a wooden stake, and
stabbed virtual demons … from every angle.

I leapt rooftops for the kill. I traveled faster than a
speeding train. For the kill. I was a killing machine.

“When are we going to learn strategy?” I asked Decimus.

“We?”

“I.”

He gave me a strange look. “
I
? Who are you? The Nutty
Professor? This isn’t grammar class. Forget about strategy for a minute and
loosen up. Loosen the fuck up, Slaughter. You got that?”

IT WAS half past noon, before I rolled over and fumbled for
my phone on the night stand.

My head throbbed. I groaned. My memory of the night before
was splintered. I couldn’t tell what parts had been real and what pieces were
dredged up from my own unreliable perception of things.

I took a bottle of Evian from the fridge, and got back into
bed. I sat with my phone in my lap, staring at the screen. It was Saturday and
the first day of Spring Break.

Everyone was going on vacation, including Dr. Sinclair. At
the end of our last session, she’d advised me to stick to my regime. “It will
be tempting to stay up late and sleep in,” she’d said. (Exactly.) “But try to
be in bed by ten during the week. Schedule is so important, Ruby. On the
weekends, you can be a little more lax.” (Lax wasn’t the word for it.) “Go out
with your friends, though nothing strenuous. Asleep by midnight, no later.”

I desperately wanted to call her answering service and
report my emergency.

At the same time, I wanted to go on with my life, as if
nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At the very least, I wanted to make
it to tonight—for the open mic reading. 

I’d invited Wong over. We were going to have drinks and walk
to the cafe together. I’d been looking forward to it all week.

Just get back on track, I told myself.
Put one foot in
front of the other.

I drank a cup of green tea and dressed for the gym. I used
the Stairmaster in the corner and climbed and sweated, feeling tingly,
afterward. On my way home, I stopped at the liquor store.

Later, in the afternoon, while listening to
Nirvana
,
I washed up the dishes in the sink, and tidied my apartment. 

I took my time getting ready; bathing, putting my hair up in
a French twist. I wore a black cocktail dress, and ankle boots. I wanted to
wear my silver Gucci’s but they weren't practical. 

By the time Wong showed up, I felt as close to normal as I
would ever be. I felt proud too, like I’d swam to the other shore, instead of
turning back when the tide got rough.

“Wow, girlfriend,” Wong turned around in the middle of the
living room. Her sparkly gold dress twirled. “No wonder you're such a recluse.
If I lived here, I'd never want to go out either.”

We sat on the sofa, with our chocolate martinis, legs
crossed, facing each other.

“God, this is good,” she said. “I might get wasted.”

I'd made her martini according to the recipe, with a full
shot of vanilla vodka. Mine was practically a virgin with just a splash of
alcohol.

“Can I ask you a sort of personal question?” Wong said.

My stomach dropped. “Sure.”

“How can you afford a place like this on a teacher's salary?”

I smiled, relieved. It was an easy question. “I have an
inheritance.”

“Oh. That must be nice.”

I decided to be honest with her, to reveal a little of
myself. Dr. Sinclair said making friends took practice. “I'm fortunate, yes.
But the truth is … I have no family left. I would pay all the money I have to
get them back.”

She looked into my eyes. “I can imagine,” she said. “Well, I
have a huge troublesome family. Plenty to share. You'll have to come for dinner
sometime. They'll love you. My mother will adopt you, and try to run your
life.”

I laughed. “I need someone to run my life.”

Wong was in the bathroom when Henry called. I picked up. I
had
to. And I wanted to, I realized.

He was downstairs. I buzzed him up.  

I could still take things slow, like Dr. Sinclair suggested.
I thought of the movie
Annie Hall
, and how they kissed to get it out of
the way. So I'd got my virginity out of the way. I guessed sex was like making
friends. It took practice.

There was a feeling of spring in the night air, as we walked
to the Cafe.

Henry held my hand, and it reminded me of something, but I
didn't know what. I'd never walked down any street, holding hands with anyone,
except my grandmother, when I was little.

The cafe was packed, standing room only.

I found my girls at a table, white-faced and grim. The twins
were arguing.

“Miss Rain, thank God. Charity wants us all to go up
together. At the
same
time
.”

“No, no. You go up when it's your turn to read, one at a
time,” I said. “Don't worry, I'll announce you.”

“Miss Rain, there's a microphone.”

“It's open mic.”

I could smell coffee on their collective, nervous breath. I
should have warned them not to drink caffeine.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Charity said.

The din was deafening. I pulled my phone from my bag to
check the time. Ten to nine.

I resisted the temptation to pop a Valium. It seemed an
unfair advantage. I didn't have a chair, so I hovered over them, and scanned
the crowd for Wong and Henry. I found them in the back, leaning against the
wall. Henry held a beer. Wong sipped from a glass of red wine.

Chastity followed my gaze. “Oh my God! Mr. West is here.”

“Miss Wong too.”

“I dare you to go over and talk to Mr. West.”

“He's not all that. My boyfriend's better.”

“What boyfriend?”

“Miss Wong is hot.”

“Look at her dress.”

At last, a woman wearing a black top hat got on stage and
tapped the microphone. The noise quieted. “Welcome, fans. Are you ready?” 
(Hooting and cheering.) “Tonight we have special guests, Team Rain.” There was
a polite smattering of applause, followed by a long whistle from Henry.

“Go girls!” Wong shouted.

A small band—a cello, a guitar and a keyboard—played an
intro.

The girls stilled.

I'd signed them up third, thinking it would give them time
to settle down. But I should have taken the first spot. They were only going to
get more and more nervous. 

An entertaining poet who played a kazoo between stanzas got
the crowd worked up. I was dismayed by the cries of “More! More!” I glanced at
the girls. Were they intimidated?

The next guy was a hipster, in torn skinny jeans, flowers in
his beard. He got applause before he even started. My heart sank. He was going
to be a hard act to follow.

“I was thinking,” he said into the microphone, his voice
deep and honeyed. “About the letter B. So I wrote this little ditty, called,
The
Essence of B
.”

The room turned quiet.

We waited.

And waited.

He looked at us with imploring, tortured eyes.

“Any day now!” someone called out.

 He cleared his throat. “The Essence of B. Buh … buh.
Buhbuhbuh.
Buh!
Buhbuhbuhbuh
buh
...”

I put my hand over my mouth. I heard a low wheezing sound
from the table. Charity had her head down. Her shoulders shook.

“Buh!
Buh!
” 

The lady with the hat ran on stage. “Okay! Thank you. Thank
you very much.” She took the microphone and nudged him away.

It was our turn.

I went up and introduced Chastity first. The crowd stomped
and bellowed. “Hallelujah,” a man yelled.

Chastity held the microphone too close. Her breath was loud,
her giggle louder. But she pulled herself together.

“I was born with a caul,” Chastity’s story began. “Like my
mother, and her mother before her.”

The girls performed well, overall. There were a few mistakes
and giggles. One girl tripped going up the stairs but she took a bow and the
crowd cheered.

Afterwards, the girls were triumphant. And reluctant to
leave.

The cafe emptied.

We pushed two tables together. I bought a round of lattes.
Henry and Wong commented on the stories, in a serious manner, which thrilled
the girls. I felt their rush, the rush of making something out of thin air, and
sharing it with others, with the world. Henry's leg pressed against mine, under
the table.

I was warm, and content. 

We told jokes. The girls gossiped. Wong ordered pita bread
and hummus. The late crowd came in, and the cafe got noisy again. I had to get
up from the table and drag Chastity away from a man twice her age.

It wasn’t until Chastity and Charity’s mother called them
home by sending a cab, that the party broke up.

When the girls had gone, Wong and I finished the hummus, and
Henry tipped back another beer.

“I should have had you for a teacher, Miss Rain,” Wong said.
“You deserved to be nominated for Teacher of the Year.”

“That’s right,” Henry said.

“But Georgie was gunning for it,” Wong said.

“What Georgie wants, Georgie gets,” Henry said.

Wong gave him a look. “Does she?” 

Henry got up and put his bottle in the recycle bin.

It must have been nearing two a.m. when we left. We walked
three abreast, with Henry in the middle.

We turned onto Irving. Cars zoomed and honked. People walked
in groups, dressed for the clubs. Wong and Henry talked about Spring Break.

Up ahead, on the sidewalk, I saw Zadie. And her friend,
Inka. My mouth went dry.

Inka wore a biker jacket and a black mini-skirt, black thigh
high boots. Zadie was sleek in peach and black, a fur stole around her
shoulders. I could barely breathe. They were beautiful and terrible.

Zadie winked at me, as they passed. I touched my lip, where
she had bit me. I wondered if I was the only one who could see them.

But Henry spun around to stare. “Who are
they
?”

Wong glared at him. “Really? You slob.”

Henry put up his hands. “Sorry. I just—wow. You don’t see
babes like that every day,” his voice trailed off. He cast me a sheepish
glance.

I knew then, I hadn’t spun them entirely from my
imagination. My throat constricted. I forced myself to breathe.

Henry took my hand. “Those women have nothing on you, Ruby,”
he said.

I gripped his hand, and prayed he could keep me sane. If
just for tonight.