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

I broke from Sarah’s gaze, and the spell of my own darkness.

There was a dull ache behind my eyes. I picked up the phone.
When I gave it to Sarah, I saw the skull and cross-bones on the wall above her.
I’d seen such skulls depicted in her demonology books. It wasn’t a painting
though. It was real. Human.

She reached up and touched it. Dried rose petals fell from
the eye sockets.

A gasp cut the air. Mine or Sarah’s. Or the skull’s.

She turned. “It’s time, Devon.”

* * *

We knelt on the hard floor, facing each other, holding
hands. Her phone was back in her pocket. There was no light. Though I saw clear
as day, Sarah couldn’t. “Don’t you need candles or something?” I said.

“It’s not the movies. I won’t be waving incense and dancing
around.”

I was struck by how brave she was. If I made it  through the
gates of the demon realm, she would be alone, without me to guide her back
through the tunnel. “You can get out on the boardwalk,” I said. “There are
stairs.”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna miss me.”

She didn’t respond, but bowed her head, as if in prayer. 

I heard it then, a distant humming. The sound was far away,
maybe even in my imagination. Sarah’s hands were clammy. No, mine were. I
wanted to wipe my palms on my jeans. I wanted to run.

“Will I still be the same on the other side?” I said.

Her fingers twitched. “I don’t know, Devon. I’m sorry I’m
not the best person for this. For you.”

In that moment, I hated her. She didn’t care what happened
to me. She just wanted me as far away as possible. And yet I didn’t let go of
her hands. I gripped them tighter.  

In this world, I was wrong. I’d seen it in Ruby’s pale
flesh, her lifeless body, her tears.

My bones ached. My soul, if I had one, was torn. I was
tired. Exhausted. 

It was time to go, and I knew it.

Silence engulfed us.

Then Sarah began to chant … incomprehensible words.

The earth trembled.

My head throbbed, ready to crack open, like an egg. 

Sarah talked faster and faster. 

The skull fell from the wall and shattered. Rose petals and
bone fragments rushed up into a dark cloud. The scent of roses and decay filled
my nostrils. 

Wind picked up and gathered force. It whipped at Sarah’s
hair. Her whole body shook but she never stopped chanting.

As suddenly as it came, the wind ceased.

Light filled the tunnel, so bright it seared my eyes.

Pain struck at my chest, my limbs, my flesh. My body arched
against it.

Darkness enveloped us again.

Sarah’s fingers were still entwined with mine, though I
could no longer see her, as if I had gone blind. I was afraid I would crush the
tiny bones in her hands but I couldn’t let go.

We were bound together. 

Dear God, was this how it ended? Both of us doomed to hell?
Sarah didn’t deserve my fate. Or did none of it matter?

So often, I had wracked my fevered brain trying to remember
what had happened to me, thinking I must have committed some awful sin to
deserve what I had become: a demonic entity stalking those I yearned to love.
But maybe I was just one more victim, like Ruby.

A crack of lightning splintered the dark.

Needles of ice pierced my skin.

Sarah’s relentless chants got more and more distant, and
then we were spinning … around and around.

I became aware of screaming. “Go, Devon.” It was Sarah. “Let
go
.”

I felt her hands break from mine.

“HOW ARE you feeling, Ruby?”

“Better.”

“Any dizziness with the new medication?”

“I’m just a little tired.”

“The drowsiness will go away eventually. Are you still
having trouble sleeping at night?”

“Sometimes it takes a while to fall asleep but I go to bed
at ten, like I’m supposed to.” I looked past Dr. Sinclair, out the window. Her
office was on the top floor and the sky was bullet gray. There was no skyline.
I felt like I could step off the ledge and float away into infinity.

“What are you thinking, Ruby?”

“Oh … nothing.”

Dr. Sinclair was young and pretty. Her auburn hair fell to
her shoulders, and she wore incredible office suits; dusky pastel pencil
skirts, polka dot blouses with long silk ties that looped around her neck. Her
voice was clear, like a bell chiming through the fog. My old therapist, and the
only one I’d ever known, Dr. Ess, had referred me to her. He was
quasi-retiring. So he said. How did someone
quasi
-retire? I couldn’t
help but wonder if his retirement only applied to me.

But I liked Dr. Sinclair. I felt calmed in her presence. She
inspired me to be a better person. I wanted to be just like her, honestly.

“Are you still on probation at work?” she toyed with a pen
and my eyes were drawn to her nails; French manicured, not too long, nor too
short. I wanted to hide my bitten down nubs and chipped polish, so I folded my
hands in my lap.

The medication helped me hold still. I no longer counted in
my mind. I no longer believed in lucky numbers. Well, not really. Occasionally,
I found myself counting, but I always stopped when I realized what I was doing.
Old habits die hard.

“I’ll probably be on probation forever. My boss hates me,” I
said.

“We talked about this last time.”

I sighed. “Right. What other people think of me is none of
my business.”

She smiled. “Do you remember what else we talked about?”

My gaze shifted to the circle of diamonds on her ring
finger. What would it be like to be so perfect?

I glanced down at my black dress, a vintage Chanel. Today,
it looked every bit the vintage part. I had a lot of black clothes. I should
get rid of them and wear more pastels.  

“Ruby? You seem distracted today. Will you tell me what
you’re thinking?”

“I remember what we talked about. You said I can have a full
recovery. And I’m not my mother.”

“It doesn’t sound as if you believe it.”

“I don’t know. Life is just—it seems so hard. How do people
do it? I guess … well, I guess you’re right. I don’t believe I’ll ever be
normal. I have to be medicated to sleep at night, like a normal person. That’s
just one tiny normal thing and I can barely do it.”

“What do you mean by normal?”

“You know.”

“I’m not sure that I do, Ruby.”

“Like you. You’re normal.”

“Am I? What makes me so?”

“Look, Dr. Sinclair. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m a
teacher. I know how this game works where you ask a bunch of questions and
pretend you don’t know the answers.”

She laughed. “I’m
not
a teacher, Ruby. I
don’t
know what you think it means to be normal.”

Wasn’t this session nearly over? I checked my watch, which
of course, thanks to Dr. Sinclair, wasn’t on my wrist. “Maybe I would feel more
normal,” I said. “If I could wear a watch.”

“No one said you couldn’t.”

“Well, you acted like it was a mortal sin.”

Her lips curved. “I merely suggested you experiment with not
wearing a watch and see how it feels. How does it feel, by the way?”

I frowned. “I’m not sure. I don’t like it. I think it must
be like not wearing underwear.”

She cocked her head and was silent. She always wanted me to
direct the conversation but I knew, if I waited long enough, she would take the
helm. I tried not to squirm.

After a while, she said, “Is there something bothering you
today?”

I uncrossed my legs and tapped my foot on the floor. Just
once. Twice. She noticed and made a note on her pad, which irritated me, for
some reason. I crossed my legs again and took a deep breath. “I feel like I did
something bad. When I had my mini-breakdown, and—and I can’t remember. After I
go to bed, I lay there imagining all kinds of terrible things I might have
done.”

She nodded. More silence. Sometimes I really hated her long
meaningful pauses.

“That’s what’s bothering me,” I said. “Since you asked.” 

“What do you mean by bad?”

“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling. There was this thing
that happened at school. Right before I had that breakdown. A student in one of
my writing classes dropped out. I know I offended her. We had an argument,” I
rubbed my palm on my skirt. “She told me I was a terrible teacher.”

But that wasn’t right. I’d told Miss Hartly,
Georgie
(the other English teacher and my nemesis) that
she
was a terrible
teacher.

“Wait,” I said. “The girl … Scarlet was her name … called me
a liar. That’s what it was.”

“Did you lie to her?”

“
No
. God, of course not. I would never lie to a
student. It was a misunderstanding.”

“What was misunderstood?”

I stared at her.

“Ruby?”

“I don’t know, Dr. Sinclair. That’s what I’m trying to tell
you. It’s like a missing page in a book. And the closer I get to the end, the
more missing pages there are.”

She steepled her fingers and nodded, which was encouraging. 
But then she said, “You’ll remember when you’re ready, Ruby.”

I won’t
.
I never have.

She had no idea what it was like to be me, to have holes in
your mind. “I
want
to remember what I
did
, Dr. Sinclair. I think
I should be hypnotized. I feel very strongly about it … actually.” 

She nodded again, which, I now realized, was a bad sign. “I
don’t
recommend hypnosis,” she said. “Not for memory retrieval. It can cause false
and distorted memories, Ruby. Not something you need right now.”

“But—”

She glanced at her computer screen. “That’s all the time we
have for today.” 

I need a watch, I thought.

HER LUCK ran out, as luck tends to do. The stars no longer
aligned for her. Maybe they never had.

She found Devon’s obituary on the internet and printed it
out. She showed his picture around, everywhere. No one had seen him. She made
her way north, to meet up with Inka but received no more messages at any of the
main stops, San Cristobal de las Casas, Mexico City, San Diego, L.A., San
Francisco, and at last, Portland, the city of roses.
Home
.

Along the way, she saw no demons. At least, none she
recognized.

She hung out in Portland for a while. Maybe she stayed too
long. 

But wouldn’t Devon come home? In the end? He should be
looking for her too.

She liked to walk across the Hawthorne Bridge at night,
after feeding downtown, always drawn to the familiar neighborhoods. Human
memories licked at her mind.

It troubled her to see her old house with strange people
living in it, though she didn’t miss her family. She just felt proprietary
about the house.

She checked the cemetery for people she had known. But so
many names from the past had slipped away.

She found her own tombstone.
Beloved Daughter
…
Rest
in Peace
. No rest for the wicked, she thought, running her hand over the
cold marble. What did they bury down there, anyway?

Devon’s grave wasn’t there. It was in Virginia somewhere,
next to the graves of his ancestors, she assumed. It should be next to hers.
His family were such snobs. 

Finally, she went east over the mountains to that desert
city, a haven for demons, according to Inka.

She took a bed in Coffeen sanitarium, and kept a calendar,
marking a big X over each day. She slept with Devon’s picture under her pillow.

Time crept slowly. 

She prowled the underground tunnels at night, looking for a
sign from Inka.

The tunnel was nothing like Inka’s stories. It appeared to
have been abandoned. There were no opium dens teeming with beautiful humans and
their beautiful drugged out dreams, no ceaseless parties with underground rock
stars, none of the glittering revelry she’d heard about. It was damp, dreary …
dead.

The boardwalk had a string of bars to sustain her but she
couldn’t help thinking Inka and the others had moved on to the next immortal
scene, leaving her far behind.

She wondered if Devon was with them by now. Jealousy flared
in her veins.

She wondered if angels had captured him. Rage came like
white heat.

When she was so lonely, she began to miss the realm, she
headed back down south, to California and the bigger cities, leaving no trace
of her existence, except for a pink lunchbox with her few belongings inside …
and a slew of victims in her wake. 

I WENT to China Town, driving through the rain soaked
streets, looking for the address of a hypnotherapist I found in the yellow
pages. My hands sweated on the steering wheel. I didn’t want to go against Dr.
Sinclair’s advice. I worshipped her.

But I had to know what I did to Scarlet Rose. Her sudden
absence from my student roster chastised me. The memory of what we’d argued
about was tangled up in my mind, lost in the haze of confusion preceding my
downward spiral.

I circled the block twice, and found the address on a skinny
brick building behind the old hotel that was rumored to be haunted. The parking
lot was torn with potholes and chunks of asphalt. I decided to park on the
street.

There was a dank smell in the stairway, as I went down.

I knocked on a red door with the name plate: Dr. Arnold
Ashbury. When no one answered, I tapped my foot eight times (
stop it
),
and went in. My pulse fluttered in my throat.

The room was cramped and square. It reeked of incense. Three
green cracked vinyl chairs lined the wall, across from a high counter with a
bell. A gold lamé curtain covered a doorway.

I shivered.

Just leave, Ruby, while you still can
.

I rang the bell.

A short, balding man came through the curtain. He wore khaki
pants and a gray plaid shirt, which didn’t go with the décor. I noticed he had
fat hands and fingers like small sausages.

I wondered why I got myself into these situations. There was
no reason I couldn’t turn around and make a break for my car. Yet, I was rooted
to the floor.

“Ms. Rain?” his voice was deep and rich.

He can make anyone do anything with that voice, I thought.
What if he did? Bent people to his will, while they thought they were being
cured of smoking?

“You’re here for memory recovery?” he said.

I nodded.

“It’s a hundred and fifty dollars for the first session.
Seventy-five, after that.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Payment up front.”

“
Oh
… oh, I see.” I had the perfect excuse for
backing out, but I pawed through my bag and found the bills I’d folded into the
side pocket.

His fees had been clearly stated in his ad. He didn’t accept
checks, credit cards or health insurance, so I’d stopped at the ATM machine
earlier, which was my trouble. Once I got obsessed with an idea, it was hard to
become
un
-obsessed. 

He led me behind the curtain, into a bigger room, with no
carpet to cover the cement floor. There was a glass counter, containing jars of
what, at first, I thought were dried spices, like sage and basil. But a sign on
the wall, with a green cross, told me it was medical marijuana.

“Go ahead, take a look around,” Dr. Arnold suggested in his
honeyed voice. “I’m not the fanciest dispensary in town, but I have the best
weed,” he chuckled, like I would appreciate his lack of professionalism.

“I
just
want to be hypnotized,” I snapped. I hoped he
wasn’t stoned.

“Well, then, this way,” he took me into a hall, and into
another room, surprisingly pleasant, with light blue paneling.

There was an old wooden desk, a mini fridge, and two brown
recliner chairs with a coffee table, like a living room. He gestured for me to
sit. I perched on the edge of one of the chairs. I expected it to be musty, or
stink of cigarettes, but it had a nice smell.

Dr. Arnold opened the fridge and got out two bottles of
water. He gave one to me. It was cold. “Sessions can be dehydrating,” he said. 

There were two framed diplomas on the wall; his hypnotherapy
license and a degree from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Even though I
knew they could be fake, I felt somewhat reassured.

He’d taken care to make the room homey. There were green
leafy (silk) plants in the corners, a blue curtain over the high basement
window. A thin slant of daylight came through.   

He opened his water, took a swig and sat in the other brown
chair. “Do you mind if I call you Ruby?” he said.

I shook my head.

“What’s your favorite color, Ruby?”

I shrugged. “Pink?”

“Pink is your code word. Once you’re under hypnosis, you can
end the session at any time simply by clasping your hands together, like this,”
he interlaced his fingers to show me. “And saying pink. Okay?”

I nodded.

“Why don’t you drink a little of your water, and relax into
your chair.”

I did as I was told.

“Take a few deep breaths, Ruby. Good. Now, pick a spot to
focus on, across the room … bring your gaze a little back, about half way, and
stop. I’ve put on some music. It’s very soft. Can you hear it?”

There was a low melodic hum.

“Close your eyes. I will be next you, in this chair, Ruby.
You are safe. You know how to bring the session to an end whenever you want.
You are in control. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” 

“Imagine yourself on a beach. You are lying down,
comfortable. The sunshine is warm on your face. You are calm. I am going to
count backwards ...”

As he counted, warmth spread through my entire body. I was
filled with a sense of well-being, like I’d never had before. I wanted to stay
there. On the beach.  

“You are very, very relaxed, Ruby. I want you to remember,
as you are lying on the warm sand … just remember what you did yesterday, and
tell me.”

I licked my lips. The image was clear in my mind, and
pleasant. “I woke up, in the morning. I went to work. I saw my shrink.”

“Yes. Good. Now, let’s go further back, to what took place
just before the time you can’t remember. See yourself. What are you doing,
Ruby?”

I swallowed. “I’m in my classroom. My girls are there. The
workshop girls.”

“Is this an ordinary day, Ruby?”

“No,” I whispered.

“What is different about it?”

“I’m upset with one of my students. I’m angry at her. But I
shouldn’t be angry. It’s wrong.”

“Why is it wrong to be angry?”

“Because …
because
…” A tear slid down my cheek.

“Don’t cry, Ruby.”

“I read her diary. I was jealous.” I rubbed my temples. “My
head hurts. I feel sick. I’m so eaten up by these …
awful
feelings.
Oh
,”
I groaned. “I hurt so much.”

A hand pressed my arm.

“You are on the beach, Ruby. You don’t hurt. The sky is
blue. There are no clouds. You are remembering something that has already
happened, and it’s okay. It’s over. Take a drink of water …
there
.

“Breathe deeply. When you’re ready, I want you to open the
diary and tell me what it says.”

I slumped forward. The diary was small and black. I stared
at Scarlet’s writing.

“What does the diary say, Ruby?”

“Nothing. I can’t understand a word of it.” And yet, my mind
raced.

Memories scattered like old photos; my mother’s torn wedding
dress on the floor in the attic, bloodstained sheets, a box of knives.

One knife missing …

I gasped. I clasped my hands together. “Pink.
Pink
…”