Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2) (13 page)

THE GIRL had been possessed by Devon. She would love him
until the day she died. Which should be sooner, than later, Zadie thought.

When she had held Ruby in her arms, Devon’s memory lit up
inside Ruby, and thus, inside Zadie. She tasted their first kiss, saw their heated
lovemaking, felt their passion coursing through her own veins.

“When are we going to kill Ruby?” she asked Inka, who was
being far too lackadaisical about the situation.

They were in their hotel room, getting ready to go out. Inka
painted red lipstick on her mouth. “We’re not going to kill her,” she said.

“You promised!”

Inka turned from the mirror. “
Devon
is going to kill
Ruby.”

Zadie’s breath caught. “Have you heard something? Is he
coming?”

Inka reached for her leather jacket. “He’s coming.”

“When?”

“Oh, Zadie. Don’t be so
boring
. You’re getting on my
last nerve.”

Inka drove, taking the freeway, toward China Town. As they
neared Irving Street, Zadie felt slightly mollified.

They cruised slowly past Devon’s building, where lights
warmed the windows. There was a light on in Ruby’s apartment too. Things were
looking up.

“This woman who has taken over Devon’s building,” Inka said.
“She is a famous psychic.”

“How do you know?”

“Bram has eyes and ears all over the city.”

“Is she terribly famous?” Zadie said.

Inka chuckled. “Not really. A local celebrity. I don’t like
her being so close to Ruby though. She could get in our way.”

“How annoying,” Zadie said.

“You can satisfy your blood lust, Little One. When we get
rid of the psychic.”

FOR OVER a week , I didn’t see Claudia. Just when I started
to worry, she rapped on my door.

“Hey, stranger,” I let her in.

Her eyes were bright, her face unusually pale. “Are you
high?” I said.

“A little,” her gaze darted around the room.

“Do you want to stay in?” I thought it might be nice, for a
change. I realized how much I’d missed her. I didn’t want to share her with the
demon quarter. The place had begun to depress me.

“Yeah, sure,” Claudia’s breath came fast, as if she’d been
running.

“Are you okay?”

She took a chair at the counter. Her foot tapped the rungs.
“Devon—I …” she rubbed her forehead with a shaky hand.

“Geez, Claud. What are you on? It doesn’t look fun.”

She gazed up at me. Her pupils were huge. “Devon … there are
things you don’t know about me. Things you don’t want to know.”

“Don’t I?”

She shook her head and glanced down. I saw a tear plop on
the counter. She rubbed it off with her finger.

I put my hand on her shoulder but she jerked away, slapping
at my arm. “Don’t touch me, right now. Okay?
Okay
? I just—I want to get
loaded. Let’s do some lines.”

“I’m in training.” I stared at her.
Fuck
. I was
missing something.

“You’ll probably be in training for the rest of your life.”

“What does
that
mean?” I said.

She ignored me and took out a small zip locked baggie of
white powder. She shook it at me. “You sure? Angel bootie. You know your friend
Decimus snorts this stuff like it’s going out of style.”

I thought of Decimus telling me to loosen up. If I was with
him, it would be a direct order. But just being with Claudia was illicit. I was
getting a bad feeling. 

“No thanks,” I said. “Put it away.” 

Her eyes went to the window. Then, in one swift move, she
dumped out the powder. 

“
Hey
,” I grabbed her arm. “I don’t want that shit in
here … all over my counter.” 

But I was too late. She stared up at me, and I saw the
betrayal in her eyes.

“You bitch.” 

They kicked in the door—the military police. A couple of
bruisers.

I put up my hands. “
Wait
. Let me explain.”

A fist shot out and hit me square in the mouth. I reeled
back, tasting blood. They punched me again, and again, before I fell.

I heard Claudia scream, and thought: Really? 

They rammed their steel toes up my ass. Handcuffs cut my
wrists. More blows landed on my ribs, and my head. 

Stars exploded behind my eyes. And the world went dark.

I TRIED to read the book Sarah had given me, but the words
got squiggly and jumbled, sliding off the pages, like alphabet soup; a sure
sign I was losing it. The same thing had happened to Sylvia Plath, I’d heard. 

Dr. Sinclair was still ‘
out of the office
’. Which
angered me. Someone in her position shouldn’t be allowed to go on vacation. I
needed her.

My own vacation was coming to an end. In a matter of days, I
had to report to work. If I didn’t get a hold of some Valium, or sleeping
pills, I wouldn’t make it.

I tried Dr. Sinclair’s answering service. “It’s
really
important,” I told the woman who answered. “Imperative.”

“If this is an emergency, you need to go to the E.R.”

“Do they have psychiatrists at the E.R.? Because that’s what
I need. A
shrink
.” I hung up on her, and threw my phone on the counter.

I made myself a salad but was out of dressing. Sitting at
the bar, shoving dry lettuce into my mouth, I was on the verge of tears. I
wanted to scream.

After taking a bath, I went to bed at nine. I hoped the bath
would relax me, but nothing ever did, except Valium.

When I finally slept, my dreams weren’t soft. I writhed on
the sheets.

Zadie and Inka chased me down narrow, twisting streets. My
legs pumped. My breath turned ragged. I ran and stumbled and veered. In the
end, I came to a wall, impossible to scale with its razor wire and broken
glass.

I woke, clutching my amulet, holding onto it for dear life. 

My hands trembled all the time now. I was obsessing over the
smallest things, like how many steps were between the door and my bed, how many
spoonfuls of sugar to put in my coffee. I wasn’t even supposed to drink coffee
but I was exhausted every morning. How else would I wake up?

Apparently, I’d damaged my phone when I threw it. Though I
plugged it in, it wouldn’t take a charge. I moved it from outlet to outlet,
with no luck. Technology was scary. You could never rely on it, and yet, the
whole world did.  

One night, I gazed out the vista window, to Sarah’s
building.

I noticed she didn’t have her party lights on. I found
myself trying to see inside. I was sure I saw movement behind her dark
windows. 

I threw on a sweater, and ventured to the lobby, holding my
breath in the elevator.

A man came in, and smiled at me, as he was folding his
umbrella. “Wet out there,” he said.

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Are you alright?” he frowned at me. 

Why did everyone ask me that? I must look a fright, I
thought. I licked my lips and nodded to him again. I was aware of his gaze,
following me outside. I stood under the awning, shivering in the damp air.

When there was a break in the traffic, I ran out into the
rain, across the street.

I
felt
someone was inside Sarah’s building who was
not Sarah. Because Sarah would have all the lights on. She would
never
scurry around in the dark.

There was a prickle beneath my skin, as I neared her stairs.

I stood at the bottom, gazing up at her door. She had
painted it purple. The sight of her soggy geraniums made me sad, for some
reason, like no matter how hard you tried, things got ruined. You were always
having to start over. Try again.

I decided to go up and ring the bell, to scare the burglar.
I wished my phone hadn’t died, so I could call the police.

I took a deep breath, summoning my courage. It incensed me
that someone was violating Sarah’s home, probably stealing her antiques. Maybe
I shouldn’t ring the bell, but run straight home to call 9-1-1 from my land
line.

For God sake, just do it. The police will be too late. 

I ran up the stairs and put my finger on the buzzer,
stabbing it angrily, again and again. Adrenalin surged in my veins. I felt like
I was yelling at everybody who had ever done me wrong.

And then, suddenly, I stopped.

My eyes fell on the doorknob that was silver and shiny. I
felt compelled to turn it. When I did, the door opened.

I stole inside.

“Oh!” I touched the stone on my amulet. I could barely
breathe. “Oh,
Sarah
.”

I rushed across the room. Icy needles pricked my flesh. A
cloying sweetness filled my nostrils. I thought of my mother’s lover, Javier,
shot in the chest. Red swirled in my vision and made me dizzy.

“
No
…”

Sarah lay at the bottom of the stairs; her head twisted at a
wrong angle, her eyes open and vacant. 

I CAME to in what could only be the dungeon. Cold seeped in
from somewhere. The flip of a switch in a control room?

There was a squalid stench. Utter darkness. Steel teeth bit
into my ankles.

I lay there, aware of a deep, internal hurt, an acrid taste
in my mouth. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

Naturally, they couldn't leave me here to die. What would be
the point? No, they'd drive their point home, probably into my groin area. And
then
,
my head would roll … to be mounted on a stake in the demon quarter.

Sure enough, the lights came on, as if at the end of a show.
I squinted against the sudden glare. The ceiling was metal, maybe nine feet
above me.

In the distance, a door clanged open and shut. Footsteps
approached. I laid there.

“Sit up!”

I recognized Zillah’s voice. The hatred in it was
unmistakable.

My fingers curled. My legs twitched in response, but I
didn't feel like sitting up.

“
You ...
arrogant bastard.”

I smiled. 

“Guards!” Zillah screamed.

I HAD to get a grip. I was obsessing over Sarah’s incomprehensible
death. But as the days slid by, I lost track of events. I couldn’t organize
what had happened into any kind of chronological order.

I’d kept a calendar on my phone, which I could no longer
access. I emptied out drawers, looking for a real calendar, the old-fashioned
kind with pictures of cats.

My fingers bled when I tore off my acrylic nails. I licked
my lips until they were dry and chapped. I paced and cried and worried.

I'd told the police Sarah was murdered. Why?

Why did I do such a thing? I'd been so convinced of it, and
distraught, when they questioned me. Now, I wasn't sure it was murder. I wasn’t
sure of anything, except, I'd gone and made myself the prime suspect. After
all, I’d found Sarah’s body …
and
I was the daughter of a murderer.

I closed the blinds on the vista window so I wouldn't keep
looking out, across the street.

But then … I opened them again.

The sky was bullet gray. The city looked flat and bleak.
Soon, it would be dark. I stood there, watching, and waiting. I wished I had
binoculars.

Oh!
A shape at the window.

Someone came and looked out.
Zadie
. Even from my
distant vantage point, I could easily see her hair, like a flame.

Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades.

I was rooted to the floor. I wanted to keep watching, though
Zadie  had moved out of sight.

Go. Call 9-1-1
.
Now.

But there was something wrong with the scene, like one of
those picture books where there is a clock with too many hands, or a person
with two left feet, but you can’t see it. Not right away. You have to look hard
for the thing that is askew.

Finally, I found it. There was no crime scene tape.

The police didn’t believe me. There wasn’t going to be an
investigation.

My ears rang. Pain throbbed at my temples. 

And
, as I watched, Sarah herself came out the door.
She had on a black raincoat.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

When I looked again, she was going down the steps, perfectly
fine, almost skipping. 

I couldn’t bear it. How could I have fantasized something so
gruesome?

I was in a bad way. Here I was ready to call the police and
I should be calling Dr. Sinclair’s answering service, reporting
myself
as the emergency, an accident ready to happen.

But I didn’t call anyone.

I slipped into my boots by the door. I had on a black silk
nightgown I’d been wearing for days. I grabbed my red cardigan to cover it.

I ran to the elevator. Biting what was left of my nails, I
rode down, willing the car to go faster. The elevator dinged, the doors opened
and I burst out into the lobby. 

I darted across the street, in front of a car. The driver
honked.  

Sarah stood at the corner, waiting for the light. I called
out to her, running, my heart racing, arms pumping.

I was so glad to see her. So what if I was insane.
Sarah
is alive
.

Only it wasn’t Sarah at all.

It was Scarlet. Her mouth opened in surprise.

I took big gasps of air. My lungs hurt. “Oh, Scarlet … it’s
you.” 

“Miss Rain? What—what are you doing?” her gaze took in my
disheveled appearance. I saw alarm in her eyes.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’ve been sick. I just—well, I
thought you were your mother and—” I took a deep breath. “I need to talk to her
… ” my voice trailed off.

“You didn’t hear?” Scarlet’s face was white. Her bottom lip
trembled. “She died.”

ZILLAH ACTED as if she knew me, like I’d slain her entire
family in their beds. I wanted to ask her, “Have we met before?” But I never
spoke to her again. Not a single word. It was the one thing she couldn't make
me do, no matter how many times she whipped me.

She enjoyed whipping me.

Touching me.

Shaming me.

As her house servant, I slept on the floor in her bedroom,
on a thin mat, next to her bed. I woke, to her leaning down, stroking me. My
body responded, which did shame me.

What did I care?

It was the knowledge in her eyes, the fact that she could
feel it when she pushed me far enough, past the barriers I constructed, every
time she tore them down.

My barriers got stronger.

I became an island, untouchable. Zillah could use me as she
pleased. And she did. But my mind floated away, back to the human world. I used
to dream of Zadie. Now, my memory sought Ruby. I wanted to hold her innocence
in my arms, and never let go. 

During the day, I pushed a mop around the marble floors of
Zillah’s mansion. Sometimes I found wine spills to swipe at, crumbs, squashed
fruit and odd bits of debris.

The other servants avoided me. I had become another kind of
symbol, an ugly one. I was failure, in the flesh. I had sealed their fate,
along with my own.

I let my hair grow long, and my beard. I did it out of
perversity and to remind myself of the passing of time. I would, eventually,
grow old and die.

I hung out in the library, after the maid who dusted had
gone. I found comfort there, thinking of Ruby and her suitcase full of books. I
read human classics written in English and familiarized myself with the angelic
luminaries of the day. Some weren't bad writers, but they were no Hemingway,
either.

I liked to rifle through the tabloids. I got a kick out of
them, especially the ones about me.

There were full page spreads of my exploits in the demon
quarter. I couldn't control myself. And to think—if I hadn't been caught
red-handed (red-fanged), with a spoon up my nose, I might have been unleashed
on the human world.
The horror
.

My favorite was a photo of Claudia and me, locked in a kiss
to end all kisses, her legs wrapped around me.

I studied the photo.

We’d never even kissed, but the proof was right there—it
would have been terrific.

She was an angel, a bit of a loser, I gathered. Hanging
around the demon quarter with the wrong crowd, a history of drug use, unable to
hold down a job, going nowhere fast. Until, she found a job for which she was
perfectly suited; taking me down, along with the whole progressive agenda.

I knew why Claudia betrayed me. For the one she loved—the
human world. I figured they’d promised her a mission. And I figured they had
lied. She probably knew that by now too.

I hoped it gave her hell. 

Just a few of the books, in the library, were written in
Celestial speech. It was only used for business purposes, and spiritual
enlightenment, both of which were of no use to demons (what with their lack of
business sense and soul). 

My favorite book was slender, an eerie little Gothic tale:
The
Ingénue and the Fiend
, written by an obscure angel poet.

It was about an incubus who coupled with young maidens, for
his own jollies, and to taste the secrets of their souls, because his own soul
was empty. He was cursed to walk the nights alone, for if he ever loved, he
would kill his beloved. (More than a single night with the fiend led to madness
and a slow, painful death.)

The fiend was quite immune to feelings, and rather full of
himself (truth be told), until he fell in love with a young maiden.

Night after night, he returned this maiden’s bed chamber,
taking her to the heights of ecstasy. As the curse predicted, the poor girl was
driven mad. Or so it seemed to those around her.  

They were used to the girl being quiet and doing as she was
told, but she began to act out, and to argue with people, and tell them her
opinions.

One night, with the fiend, the girl cried.

 “Why are you crying?” the fiend said.

“Because I have never cried before, and there are so many
sad things in the world. I think I should cry. Sometimes.”

After this strange behavior, the fiend knew his nightly
visits were taking their toll. He must leave. If he loved the girl. And he did,
much to his surprise.

But instead of returning to health, the girl became weak and
listless. Her mother agonized, her father stomped and yelled, her granny
crossed herself and muttered prayers. Doctors bled the girl with leeches.
Priests came to perform an exorcism. Nothing worked.

The girl took to her bed. News of her sickness spread far
and wide.  

The fiend didn’t know what to do. He wanted to go to the
girl, and hold her, in case she needed to cry again. But he didn’t want to make
the girl worse.  

He sought help from a witch, giving her three pieces of gold
to go to the girl, and see if there was anything to be done. He was hoping for
a miracle. 

“How is she?” he asked the witch. “Will she live?”

“She doesn’t want to live,” the witch said. “If she can’t be
with you.”

“It is a paradox,” the fiend said. “My love will kill her.”

“Not necessarily,” the witch said. “If the girl invites you
to stay with her, and your love is true, the curse will be broken. But only
with the girl. When you are not with her … you turn, once more, into an
incubus.”  

The next night, instead of stealing into the girl’s room,
and into her bed, the fiend tapped on her window. The girl got out of bed, to
scurry across the cold floor and let him in. “I thought you had forgotten me,”
she said. “Why did you leave?” A tear fell from her eye, onto her soft cheek.
The fiend wiped it away. 

“If you ask me to stay,” he said, “I’ll never leave you
again.”  

At night, lying on my mat, with Zillah’s hands roaming, I
often thought of the
Ingénue and the Fiend
. In my version, the ingénue
had Kool-Aid red hair.