Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2) (6 page)

DEVON CAME to her in her dreams. She woke sweaty with lust
for her childhood sweetheart. They were only fourteen when they fell in love.

Young love is the best
.

They were imprinted on each other, carved into one another’s
souls. He’d left her once. But not for long, not compared to eternity.

Her human memories were fractured into disparate images. She
couldn’t sort out the order of events. It didn’t matter. Chronology wasn’t
important when your life expectancy was forever.

She remembered being lost and poor on the streets of L.A.
She remembered how it made her feel; horribly homesick. Not for a place. For
Devon. She had needed him.

And yet, he stayed away, on the opposite coast, living the
life she’ d always known he would, in a world where she didn’t belong.

She wanted him to be sorry about losing her. When she became
a star.

Her face was supposed to haunt him from magazines and
billboards and the golden screen (such sad human fantasies). She remembered how
it hurt when no one believed in her, how her parents cut her off so she had to
work two jobs. Her diner uniform had permanent stains in the armpits, grease
spots that wouldn’t come out.

One minute she was eighteen, the next she was twenty-eight.

Needle tracks marred her once perfect flesh and shadows
haunted her eyes. She was only still beautiful in the dark, so she hung out on
the fringes, in dive bars and night clubs, where she got what she needed to
make her feel alive for a little while; drugs and sex.

One night, she headed up to a party in the canyon. She
crowded into a car with her dealer, sat on someone’s lap, and tried not to get
sick when the car careened around the curves.

A famous band played. There was food and drink and so much
beauty. She floated on her back in a turquoise pool and saw stars, like
pinpricks in a blanket of black. The water held her.

She remembered everything about that night.

Inka sitting cross-legged on a fur rug
.
Passing a
glass pipe
.

“No one here is important.” Inka cradled Zadie’s head in her
lap, and stroked her hair. “They think they are but they are just pointless
people.” Her laugh was silvery.

Inka took Zadie under her wing. She brought Zadie low, for
her own good. To build her up. Scar tissue is stronger than virgin flesh.  

Zadie remembered Inka handcuffing her, parading her naked
past her friends.
Inka strapping her to the bed, whipping her … starving
her, and afterwards, bringing a bowl of steaming broth to Zadie’s eager lips.

Inka made Zadie beautiful again.

And she gave Zadie the most precious gift—a chance at
immortality. Though immortals
could
die, it was only the hands of
another immortal, and rare indeed. Most immortals lived infinite,
gorgeous
lives … forever young.

When Inka brought Devon back to Zadie, life was
so
perfect. The stars and the moon shone brighter than they ever had.

Zadie took Devon down south, to Mexico and Central America,
on to Nicaragua and Ometepe, that mystical island of volcanoes and white sand
beaches.

Inka stayed in the background, but she funded the trip.
“Your honeymoon,” she told Zadie, in private. “Make him your love slave.”

Those last days with Devon were now, constantly, at the
front of Zadie’s thoughts, turning obsessively on the wheel of her inhuman
mind.

The very last day, the sun slipped down into a glorious
sunset; red and pink and orange. Monkeys howled. The sound echoed through the
trees. Waves lapped on the shore of the lake, leaving tiny bubbles on the sand.

The last day, Zadie waited for Devon in the four poster bed.
A mosquito net fluttered, moved by a fan that hung from the beam of the
thatched roof.

At some point, she fell asleep. She woke to Devon’s hand
between her legs. Her breathing shifted. His erection stroked along her inner
thigh. He eased his way in, and her breath caught in the back of her throat. He
rolled her so he was on top. She tilted her hips and opened for him.

He pushed deeper, a little at a time, covering her cries
with his mouth.

Later, he propped himself on his elbows and looked into her
face. She saw her love for him reflected in his eyes.

Make him your love slave
.

But she couldn’t tell him what she wanted—to be together
forever, and never grow old. She knew him too well. She could just see his
scorn, once he understood she was serious, once he comprehended there was a
way. She imagined the disgust in his eyes. He would think her a monster.

Already, in their short time together, she felt him slipping
from her grasp, little by little. She wasn’t smart enough, educated enough,
cultured enough. She wasn’t
deep
enough for him, and all his lofty
notions about  life.

It was the sad truth. Not even his fault. It was how he’d been
raised by that hideous woman. His mother.

His mother was the reason Zadie had gone to California, and
not to school back east with Devon. She had taken Zadie aside the day before
they were to leave (Zadie’s bags were packed). “You might think you’ve got your
hooks in him now,” his mother said. “But it’s just sex, take my word. Be smart,
my dear. Don’t follow him. It will only lead to heartbreak. Yours.”   

The story enraged Inka. “Your heartbreak?
Yours
?” she
had howled, as she stomped around the room. “The bitch was afraid of you, oh
sexy powerful one. You had her son by the balls. Which is how it should be. We
must save him from his mother—the Oedipal nightmare.”

But the plan went all wrong, in unforeseen ways, starting
with Enid, that nasty little slut from high school. As soon as Zadie laid eyes
on her, in the bar, in Nicaragua (of all places) she wanted to kill her.

Enid was
born
a bad omen. A bad omen with big tits
and luscious lips.

“Enid? Oh my God,
Enid
…” Zadie caught her up in a
hug. Devon’s scent was everywhere on Enid, wafting from her pores. She’s been
screwing him for years, Zadie realized.

Fury burned inside her.

No doubt Enid had followed Devon to the backwoods of the
third world for one reason. To claim him. And take him away from Zadie.

Enid didn’t deserve to live.

Zadie would enjoy breaking Enid’s neck and burying her in
the lake. But there was a slight hindrance—Enid’s male entourage. (Enid always
picked up a following of admirers wherever she went.)

The men were handsome in a magazine quality way that wasn’t
to Zadie’s taste. They played guitars and bongo drums, looking awkward, in
their cut off shorts and flip-flops. Zadie bet they were more comfortable in
Armani suits. It would have been comical. If Zadie wasn’t deadly serious.

She danced with Enid, keeping her close, while Enid’s
companions watched, enthralled. (Or so Zadie thought). 

Devon headed out early, which was just as well. One less
complication.

The night wore on in a haze of sloshed drinks and dancing
and debauchery. Enid and her friends were on the deck, and Zadie came in for
another round of tequila shots.

It was a primitive bar, open air. They were the only
patrons. Earlier, a middle-aged couple had been eating dinner but they were
gone now, so Zadie was surprised when a strong hand grabbed her by the back of
the neck.

The collar of her dress cut across her throat. She choked.
Inka
.

“What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing?” Inka
hissed in her ear, before releasing her.

Zadie stumbled back. “Jesus … nothing. Nice to see you
too
.”
She rubbed her neck.  

The bartender hurried over. “Is there a problem?” he glared
at Inka. To Zadie, he said, “You okay?”

Inka was as tall as Zadie with a more athletic build. (Zadie
was model thin). Inka often dressed like a man but kept her nails long and painted
red. Her long hair was black, plaited into tight braids. Her face was
undeniably feminine; soft cheeks, big kissable lips. She had huge doe eyes,
which she turned on the bartender. “
We
are
faab-
ulous, doll.
Thank you for asking.”  

The bartender’s angry expression softened; he was besotted
in the span of seconds. “Bring those drinks to the party on the deck,” Inka
told him. “And
be
distracting.” She cast a glance outside.

Zadie watched the bartender scuttle off with a tray. She
glanced at Inka and realized Inka was afraid. She’d never known Inka to fear
anything.

“Come on,” Inka practically yanked Zadie’s arm from its
socket. She pulled her out the back door. “You
idiot
,” she said, when
they were outside. “Your little friend? Her boy toys are
angels
.”

Zadie’s mind reeled. She could barely comprehend Inka’s
words. 

They leaped off the porch and over garbage cans.

The night was black. “Through the trees,” Inka commanded.
And she was gone.

But Zadie’s reflexes had been numbed by shock. Unfamiliar
with the terrain, she couldn’t visualize her destination, which made her slow.
She could only run, like a human.

Through the trees … through the trees.

She ran in a jagged line toward the heart of the forest. A
terrible growl shook the earth, and struck terror into her soul.

The growling came from Howler Monkeys but to Zadie’s ears,
it was the sound of the devil rising up. With each foot fall, her power
drained, as her panic mounted. Blood pounded in her veins. Her heart strained.
She gasped for breath and veered away, toward the lake.

She burst out into the open, a fatal mistake. Sand stretched
white. Wings beat the sky above her. She plunged into the water, the opposite
of what Inka had told her to do.

Her arms flapped. She sputtered and flailed, as the poisonous
net of angels stung her flesh, like a swarm of sea wasps.

THE LOWERING sun dazzled yellow and gold, belying the fact
that it was barely above freezing outside. Earlier, when I’d hurried across the
parking lot, the wind nipped. Now, I stood by the radiator, warming my hands
and waiting for the workshop girls.

They straggled in one by one, except for the twins who
always seemed to be together.

We arranged our desks in a circle and I handed back the
short stories they’d turned in. They were quiet, reading my comments.

I suppressed a smile. There were moments when I was struck
by the fact that no matter how many countless things I’d done wrong in my life,
this one thing I’d done right—becoming a teacher. I loved almost everything
about teaching. With my students, I felt connected to the world. My life was
meaningful.

“Miss Rain, you said you weren’t sure I was being funny … on
this part, right here,” Chastity leaned across her desk and jabbed a pencil at
her paper. “The whole story is supposed to be funny.”

“Good,” I said. “It was.”

“It’s all
wrong
, Miss Dean, if you can’t
tell
.”
Her voice was nearly a wail.

“I’ve suggested some ways to improve your tone,” I said.
“Like a secret code between you and the reader.”

“Oh yeah?”

I glanced around. “Okay, girls. Finished?”

They were reluctant to turn away from their stories.

“Listen,” I said. “So you know this was a first draft,
right?”

No, they had not known. 

“How many drafts do we have to do?”

“As many as it takes,” I said.

Though they wanted their stories to be brilliant on the
first try, now they were eager to get to the rewrite and void my annoying
comments.

“The assignment for next week,” I paused to add weight to
what I was about to say. “Is to write a second draft employing all of my
advisory notes which you cannot miss. They are underlined in red, as I’m sure
you noticed.”

“What if … well, uh, what if we feel your comments … don’t
really apply? No offense.”

“Just do it my way. You’ll get to do it your way on the
third draft.”

“Oh my
God
.”

“
Three
drafts?”

“We’ll ruin it, Miss Rain. With all those drafts.”

“What if we’re dead … before we get to the third draft?”

“I’ll give your eulogy as an assignment. The thing is,
girls, you want your stories to shine. Because in a few weeks, you are all
going to read at the Downtown Café for open mic.”

“Wha-
at
? No way.”

“I’ve already arranged it. And open mic is very popular. The
place will be packed. So. Like I said. As many drafts as it takes.”

“Wow …”

“
Crap
.”

They all started talking. One girl shoved her books into her
bag and stood up to leave, her face bright with excitement. I rapped on my
desk. “Hold on, hold on. We’re not done yet. What do you want to call
yourselves? I’m going to make posters and we need to have a name.”

“Like what?”

“Anything. You know, like The Merry Pranksters.”

“
That’s
dumb,” Chastity said.

“Ken Kesey? Really?
You’re
the dummy,” her sister
said.

“Don’t worry. This will be a democratic decision.” I opened
my folder and took out an envelope containing nine perfectly uniform pieces of
paper. I’d cut them in the office this morning using the ruled paper cutter.
The blade was sharp as a guillotine.

“Careful you don’t get a paper cut,” I said to the girls as
I passed them each a slip. “Now write down your idea for a group name and we’ll
take a vote. Please don’t vote for your own idea.”

“Why not?” Charity said.

“
Think
about it,” Chastity said.  

It took a good five minutes. When I’d got all the slips
back, I got up and shuffled them at my own desk. Then I wrote each idea on the
board.

The Hermiones

Mysterious Muse

Merry Pranksters

“
Come
on,” Charity said.

“I couldn’t think of anything,” Chastity said.

“So you picked the one you said was dumb?”

BO$$

Liars

Catchers in the Rye

The Edward-ians

Eden’s Bitches

“
Really
?” (Chastity.)

“It’s better than plagiarizing,” Charity said.

“Ugh. Bitches? That’s just terrible. The worst.”   

Team Rain

I brushed chalk off my hands and delivered more slips. I
told them to write down their vote. When I’d collected the papers, I marked off
each vote on the board.

There was a hush in the room. I wished they would talk to
each other. Or something.

Liars – 1

Eden’s Bitches – 3

Team Rain
— 5

“You are all officially
Team Rain
,” I announced,
relieved. I had to agree with Chastity.
Eden’s Bitches
was the worst.
Personally, I liked
Liars
. 

They erupted into noise and motion, talking, laughing,
shouldering their backpacks and heading for the door. Charity’s cheeks were
flushed, as she followed her sister.

I checked the handwriting on the slip and confirmed my
suspicion that she had posed
Eden’s Bitches
. I also thought she’d voted
for it.

* * *

“You seem happy today,” Dr. Sinclair said.

“I got a make-over. I changed my hair.”

“I noticed. You look nice. Has changing your appearance
lifted your mood?”

“I hadn’t thought about it but yes. I’ve been more decisive,
lately. Not going back and forth so much and agonizing over every stupid thing.
I want to make choices, like you said. Be in charge of my life. So I can be
empowered. And not afraid.”  

Dr. Sinclair’s eyes smiled at me. She wasn’t an effusive
person. Maybe it was her professional presence but I got the feeling she moved
through her personal life in the same businesslike manner. I envisioned her
fiancé following her around with a check-list.

But I felt I’d pleased her. Which pleased me.

I smoothed a piece of fuzz off my baby blue skirt and
adjusted the cuff on my jacket. My shoes were silver Gucci stilettos. I loved
them very much, more than I should.

“What are you thinking right now, Ruby?” 

“Well, I had a date the other night.”

Now, Dr. Sinclair’s eyes
really
smiled.

“He’s a colleague. In the history department. Don’t worry, I
checked and there’s nothing in my contract against fraternizing.”

Dr. Sinclair nodded.

“Things went well. Mostly …”

She waited.

“He came to my house. We kissed. I—it was nice.”

She cocked a delicate eyebrow.

I gazed down at my hands folded in my lap and admired my
French manicure.

“Just nice?”

“Well, I wanted more to happen. But I was scared. I kissed
him
,
and then when things progressed, I chickened out.”

“It’s good to take things slow, Ruby.”

“I know. But. I guess I wonder if I’m addicted to my
fantasies. They are always so beautiful, Dr. Sinclair. And then … reality is a
disappointment.”

“Nice is good, Ruby. I promise you.”

* * *

That night, I had trouble falling asleep.

A voice whispered inside my head, soft as moth wings, but
sinister too, like the glint of a blade in the shadows. I almost caught an
image of who had spoken, but then the memory was gone, covered up, like a
coffin under dirt.