Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2) (12 page)

I MISSED Jep. And Claudia. I wondered what they were doing,
when I sat in my room, alone, without even a book for company.

One night, a smattering of gravel pelted the high
rectangular window above my bed. I looked out, and down, to the fenced yard,
expecting to see Jep, though I don’t know why.

It was Claudia. The motion light had detected her. She
shielded her eyes from its glare.

I went down the narrow, metal stairway to let her in.

She wore the same black outfit as before, black tights and
dress, sturdy shoes. It reminded me of something Ruby would wear, and I had
flash of memory; Ruby sitting at the bar, alone.

“Hey, you,” I said.

“Hey, stranger. I finally sniffed you out,” she came in and
glanced around at the sparse furnishings.

There was only a counter (where I ate my rations) a sink and
cupboards, the closed door to the cramped vestibule containing a shower, a
toilet, and a shelf for my toothbrush and shaving kit.

I had on black fatigues, which I mostly wore, and preferred.
My rock star wardrobe wasn’t really mine. When there was an occasion, like a
photo shoot promoting the New Army, or a campaign event for one of the
progressive archangels, a white limo picked me up and took me to a studio to be
dressed.

“Do you have any good booze?” Claudia said.

“No, I’m in training.”

She made a face. “Not even a bottle of Night Train stashed
somewhere?”

I laughed. “Night Train? What century are you from?”

She looked offended. Her gaze darted to the stairs. “What’s
up there?”

I ignored her question. “Claudia, really, where are you
from?”

Time was different in the realm, and escaping was tricky for
that reason. You never knew where you would come out. She had escaped twice,
she said. I wondered if she had time traveled, and it made me curious when
she’d been turned.

Before me, in what would be my past? Or after me, in my
future?

I thought of her use of slang, calling me baby when we first
met, like she was Janis Joplin. Night Train was a favorite of skid-row drunks
back in the day, and it struck me as a reference my father would make. I
guessed it was still around, but my generation got wasted on Everclear.

“The same as you,” she said.  She seemed defensive,
suddenly, nervous.

“How do you know what century I’m from?”

“Can we go upstairs?” Without waiting for my answer, she
went up, her steps ringing out on the metal rungs.

“They sure have you hidden away,” she stood in the doorway
of my room. “Shielded from society.”

“They dust me off and bring me out, as needed.”

She went in and sat on my bed, gave a little bounce. “Want
to take it for a test drive?”

I leaned against the doorframe and assessed her. Was she
coming on to me? I wouldn’t mind. I was lonely as hell. But I wasn’t supposed
to fraternize with demons. Nor could I even think about an angel in that way. I
was a man (a demon) without a country.

“I imagined you living in the lap of luxury,” she said.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You’re famous, you know. I read about you all the time, in
the tabloids. We all do … we’re jealous, we want to be you … or at least, fuck
you.”

“
You
want to fuck me?” I said.

Our eyes met, before she glanced down at her shoes. I
couldn’t figure her out. Was she shy, beneath her bravado? One thing I felt
sure of—she had secrets. I didn’t know if they were dangerous secrets, or just
sordid.

She got up, and came toward me. I was blocking the doorway.
I didn’t move. I watched her.

She reached up to touch my face, my beard. “I like this,”
she said. “It’s sexy.” Her thumb pressed my bottom lip and reminded me of the
archangels checking my teeth. My semi-aroused state went south.

She dropped her hand. “Have you ever been in love?” she
said.

“That’s kind of a random question.” 

She shrugged. “I was just wondering.” (Defensive again.)
“Don’t you want to tell me?”

“Sure, I’ve been in love. Have you?”

She blinked. “No. Not with a lover. I’m in love with a place
… a place I can never go.”

We snuck out, like teen-agers. She took me to the demon
quarter, where I saw my face painted on the sides of buildings, where we stood
by fires to warm ourselves and pass a bottle of Night Train, where sometimes I
was recognized (and it was alright), where she knew every secret place, where
demons acted out scenes from the human world; skivvy dance clubs, strip bars,
back rooms with pirated movies playing on the wall. 

We started meeting up, almost every night.

She revealed pieces of herself to me, through her lies.

I recognized her life story as fiction, a jumbled up, wacky,
modernized version of Anne Rice’s
Interview with the Vampire
. I saw how
much she romanticized the vampires, how she aspired to be like them, powerful,
and invincible.

I discovered her true love, the place she’d never been—the
human world.

I told her about Zadie and Ruby, and Nicaragua, the stars
over the desert, my fractured memories of being turned.

I confessed my yearning to see Zadie again, how I might have
come to the realm just to find her. 

Sometimes, Claudia curled up with me, on my bed, in the wee
hours before dawn cracked the faux sky.

It wasn’t sexual. It was just nice.

“Would you slay Zadie? If you had to?” she asked, propped up
on her elbows, gazing down into my face.

“Never,” I said.

“Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

“No.” Jep’s words haunted me.
They don’t want a real
soldier
. 

“You don’t think so?” she was shocked.

I shook my head.

“But they have to send you. They
will
. I know it. And
you can run away … and find Zadie.”

“Live happily ever after?”

“Why not?”

I’d given up on the future. I lived for the nights, when I
would see Claudia again.

HENRY WAS taking me rafting. He spread maps across my bar.
We pored over them, plotting a route down the Snake River that twisted through Hells
Canyon. I couldn’t make sense of it. The lines on the map were squiggly and the
names of the landmarks incomprehensible. 

“The rain isn’t going to last,” he said. His cheeks were
ruddy with anticipation. “The weekend will be hot.” He showed me the weather
report on his phone. There were five suns all in a row, starting Friday. The
high temp was supposed to hit seventy-nine in the city. “Always warmer in the
canyon,” he said. “Bring sunscreen.”  

He brought up a picture of a leafy green plant. “See the
shape of the leaves? It’s poison ivy. Don’t touch it. Once, my old girlfriend
and I set up camp on a bed of poison ivy. Can you believe it?” he shook his
head, as if he enjoyed the memory. “Turns out I’m not allergic. But boy, it got
my girlfriend. Welts as big as a baby’s arm. Nasty stuff.” 

Fear coiled in my belly.

“What about rattle snakes?” I said.

“Snakebite kit. Don’t worry, I’ll suck the poison out of
you. Hey, kidding. I’ve only run into a few snakes down there. You respect
them, they’ll respect you.”

Why did people always say that about dangerous wild animals?
The best way to show respect, I thought, was to stay home. In my own habitat.

I couldn’t imagine riding in a raft, trying to sleep on the
hard ground, poking bushes with a stick to check for snakes, and making coffee
over a fire. “Cowboy coffee,” Henry called it.

He left a giant green backpack on my living room floor, and
a list of what I was supposed to put in it.

After he had gone, I stashed the pack in my utility closet.
We weren’t leaving until Friday. 

* * *

In the days that followed, I stayed inside my apartment. I
was afraid of running into Zadie and Inka.

I ordered groceries, ate regular meals, took my medication,
and climbed into bed at ten. But I couldn’t sleep. I laid there and watched
shadows moving across the wall.

Friday was fast approaching. I’d done nothing to get ready
for my raft trip with Henry.

I felt a crawling beneath my skin, a low buzz in the back of
my mind, which was how it always started—the downward spiral.

On Thursday night, I called Henry at ten. He picked up. I
was relieved, until I heard noise in the background, music and voices, like he
was in a bar.

“Rubes,” he said. He’d never called me Rubes before. It
sounded strange in his drunken voice, and made me feel afraid, like if I fell
into poison ivy, he would laugh. I pictured his old girlfriend with welts all
over body.

“You got that backpack balanced?” he said, too loud.

I held the phone away from my ear. I had no idea what he was
talking about.

“Rubes … you there?”

I swallowed. “Can you come over?” I whispered.

“What? Speak up.”

“Will you come over?” I felt like I was yelling. My voice
was hollow, foreign. 

“Right now?” There was a long silence, followed by a
muffled, scratching sound.

“Please?”

“Um, yeah. Hold on. Get another pitcher,” he said to someone
else. Then to me, “I’ll come by later. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, but he’d already hung up. 

I put on a black silk dressing gown and combed my hair. I
played
The Smashing Pumpkins
and looked out my vista window at the
building across the street. Someone had moved in. Party lights edged the
windows. A pot of red geraniums bloomed by the front door.

The bars closed at two. It was half past.

I expected Henry soon. I ran a bath, with my phone nearby on
the counter, so I could let him in, when he came.

Only he never came.

I fell asleep, at last, just before dawn, and didn’t wake
until a gash of sunlight broke through a part in the curtains.

My head felt thick. My eyes were grainy.

I got up and retrieved my phone from the bathroom. It was
Friday, 1:39 p.m. Henry had wanted to leave for Hells Canyon no later than ten
this morning.

His first call had come in at eight. He left a voicemail.
“Hey, Ruby. Sorry about last night. I'll swing by in an hour or so.” He'd
called from downstairs at quarter past ten. “Look, I'm really sorry about last
night … where are you?” At 11:27, he said, “Really? This is how you're going to
play it? Grow up, Ruby.”

My stomach cramped. He thought I was purposely ignoring him?
Standing him up?

I thought of how many times he'd shown up late. Last night,
he’d blown me off completely. I couldn't quite grasp why he believed
I
was the one playing games. If not for the empty backpack in my closet, I would
have called Henry back and told him to grow up himself.

I ate a croissant and an apple, and graded a couple of senior
mid-term essays. Later, I showered and put on a red and white floral pattern
dress with a red cashmere sweater, and red strappy shoes.

The lowering sun made the sky pink and gold.

I meant to walk down to the cafe on the corner and get a
coffee (screw Dr. Sinclair and her damned green tea). I wanted a triple shot
cafe au lait, served steaming hot in a bowl.

When I came out of my building, I saw a battered Volkswagen
bug pulling in across the street. I watched as a dark haired woman got out. My
pulse raced. She’s familiar, I thought.

My hands trembled.

I waited for a car to pass, before crossing the street. The
woman had climbed the stairs to my favorite building. She was unlocking the
door. The way her black hair hung down her back, I suddenly knew why she was
familiar. She reminded me of Scarlet Rose. She had to be her mother. There was
no doubt in my mind.

“Excuse me! Hello!” I picked up my pace, trotting towards
her. I was wobbly in my heels. But I needed to catch her, to talk to her. It
felt paramount, in that moment.

She turned.

“Hi!” I waved.

She came down the stairs to meet me.

I was breathless, like I had run a marathon.

She had an open, lovely face, and big brown eyes, a
sophisticated streak of gray in her long hair.

“I'm Ruby Rain,” I said, my voice shaking, like it used to
when I talked to Henry. “I'm your neighbor across the street.”

“Oh, you live in the old hotel,” she said. “I hear it's been
magnificently redone.”

I was confused, thrown off track, like meeting a long lost
friend who doesn't recognize you. “I—are you Scarlet's mother?”

“Why, yes,” she smiled. “I'm Sarah.” Now, there was a
question in her eyes, and something else, awareness.

I knew she was psychic, at least, according to Scarlet. I
hoped she hadn't glimpsed a tragedy in my near future. Blood rushed to my head.
“I used to be one of Scarlet's teachers at the academy. How—how is she?”

“Well, I think she is doing quite well. As well as anyone
can at eighteen. She's in L.A. At art school.”

This was a relief to me, but not, I realized, what I wanted
to talk about.

I licked my lips. “I'm glad.”

“Are you alright, love? You look faint.” 

“I just need to eat,” I said. “I, um … I was wondering if
you do psychic readings? Scarlet mentioned something about it.”

She nodded. “I'm afraid I don't, anymore. I'm sorry.” She
looked as if she truly was, as if she pitied me, in fact.

“Oh … okay. Please tell Scarlet hi for me. She was one of my
favorite students.”

“Thank you. Of course I will. Next time she comes home, I’ll
send her over.” Her expression didn’t match her casual words. Her brows knitted
and she appeared severe. I almost felt afraid of her.

I hurried down the sidewalk.

“
Wait
… Ruby!”

I stopped and turned back.

“Can you come inside for a minute?”

She held the door for me.

Inside, it was cold. I thought maybe I wouldn’t like to live
here, after all. The ceiling was so high, and the marble floors would never be
warm. Not even in summer. My grandmother’s house had also had cold pockets. It
was one of the reasons I was glad I’d moved.

I followed her up the winding stairs, into an apartment,
where a furnace churned out moist heat. The antique furniture reminded me of my
grandmother’s house too. The wine colored Oriental rug across the dark wood
floor was almost identical to the one I’d left behind.

“Listen, love. I want to give you something I hope you’ll
accept.” She pulled a book from the shelf. It was thick, hardbound. The title
had gold and black lettering:
The Guardian Spirits
, by Sarah Rose.

I took it from her. “Is this why you don’t do readings
anymore? So you have time to write?”

She tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Her touch was so
tender, I could have cried. “I
can’t
do psychic readings,” she said.
“They drained too much energy and made me sick. But I can still help people.
Through my books.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Do me a favor, and read it right away. If you have any
questions, come over. We’ll talk. And have tea. Okay, sweetheart?”

I nodded.

She reached up and took off a necklace tucked into her
sweater. “I’d like you to have this amulet too.”

She stood before me, tall, like Scarlet. I gazed up at her,
thinking she could have been a Greek goddess; Athena, or Artemis.

“It’s a bit crude,” she showed me the necklace, a blue
stone, the color of a robin’s egg, attached to a silver chain. “You have such
beautiful clothes. I know it isn’t your style. But it’s a protective crystal.
Please wear it.”

“But—it’s yours.”

“It belongs to you now.”

A protective crystal. She has seen my doom
.

“May I put it on you?” She leaned down to clasp the chain
around my neck. Her skin, brushing mine, was soft, her scent exotic, like a
magical forest. She whispered in my ear, words I couldn’t fathom, but
understood were a prayer.