Personal Demons

by Stacia Kane

Her toes stung. They slipped against the wall, wet with her blood.

  Finally she managed to hook one arm over the sill and into the bathroom. The door shook as the beasts pounded on it. It needed to hold long enough for her to think, long enough to call Dante. Long enough for him to get there or send some hellbeasts or whatever he would do...

  She got her entire upper body into the bathroom and was in the middle of her final heave before the thing ... the demon ... the zombie ... the whatever it was, grabbed her ankle. Ice-cold fingers pulled harder than she'd ever imagine anything could pull. Megan screamed. She kept screaming even as she fought, as it pulled her partway back out of the window. Teeth sank into her calf. She kicked with her other foot as hard as she could, her body shaking. She kept kicking after she felt something cave, as something slick and cold and wet coated her foot and the teeth and hands holding her let her go.

  The bathroom door shook and bowed inward every time the creatures hit it. Megan grabbed the phone in shaking, hurting fingers. She could barely press the buttons.

  She called Dante. Holding the phone to her ear with her left hand, she hunted for a weapon with her right. Bottles and jars crashed to the tile floor as she scrabbled along the countertop for something, anything to use. The only razor she owned was a safety razor and it wasn't a very good one. She was a waxer. Once in a movie she'd seen a woman beat a man over the head with a toilet tank lid, but she only had one free hand at the moment. She grabbed a book of matches she'd used for a candlelight bath one night.

  In the cabinet under the sink she had an ancient aerosol can of hairspray, a bottle of bleach, a toilet brush, scrubbing cleanser, and a plunger. Her sweat-slick fingers slipped on the metal of the cans as she reached for the plunger's solid wood handle.

  The phone stopped ringing in her ear. Dante sounded wide awake. “Megan."

  A shout echoed in the room. Megan swung around. The man and woman were just outside, their faces in shadow from the moonlight shining on the backs of their heads. It gave them an oddly haloed look as they yowled, reaching in through the small window. Reaching for her.

  Megan screamed. “They're in the house, Dante, they're in the—"

  The door broke. The phone fell from her hands. She lunged for the plunger, wielding it like a baseball bat, and swung.

  She hit the one closest to her across the forehead. The noise in the room was deafening. Her screams, the screams of the things outside and inside reverberated through the tiny tiled room. Nothing existed in the world but noise and confusion and the revolting smell, the stink of decay and filth.

  The thing fell. Megan pulled back the plunger to hit the other. The handle was broken. She sobbed and fumbled for the hairspray.

  Her fingers closed over it just as cold hands clutched her head, pulling her entire body to the right. She shrieked and swung the can up towards it with both hands. The can vibrated in her hands when the blow connected.

  It let go of her, but the first was already moving again. Megan grabbed the matches. She put the can between her thighs and yanked one match from the pack, her hands shaking as she pressed the head of the match against the sandpaper strip with her thumb.

  Nothing happened. One of the creatures reached for her again. The match lit.

  With her left hand Megan picked up the can and sprayed, dropping the book of matches onto the floor. Her aim was off but when she lifted the match the flame caught. She felt the heat but no pain as a ball of flame poured from the can, igniting the thing closest to her, driving it back against the wall. It fell in a heap to the floor.

  The spray kept flaming. She turned it on the other creature, ignoring the cacophony of howls that filled the room, seeing only the flames rising from the two bodies. Hot, horrible triumph filled her as they shrieked and writhed.

  One of them got up, still intent on capturing her. Flames spread as its ragged clothes caught fire. Megan stepped into the tub, only to feel hands in her hair. She threw herself forward, hitting her shoulder on the wall. A flaming hand reached for her. She swatted at it, burning her fingers, terrified of catching fire. With her left hand she fumbled for the shower spigot. The water was cold, but she barely felt it as it plastered her hair to her head, made her T-shirt stick to her skin.

  One of the creatures was down, a ball of flame on the pale gray-and-tan tile floor of her bathroom. Its writhing slowed as she watched. She might risk extinguishing the flames on the other one with the water, but she didn't want to burn to death. She wore only an old cotton T-shirt, highly flammable.

  Megan wrenched the detachable shower head from its metal cradle and beat the creature with it. Water flew into her eyes and up her nose, into her raw and burning throat. She could barely see, barely breathe. Her feet slipped beneath her but somehow she kept her balance, bracing her feet against the sloping sides of the tub.

  She turned the water off, her shoulders aching as she kept beating the creature. Its charred hands flailed in the air, reaching for her, not taking its focus away from her even as its nose broke under the nozzle. Fingers dug into her flesh. White-hot pain riddled her body, adding to the adrenaline and terror already forcing her to keep going, keep fighting. She continued to beat the thing, her mind free of all conscious thought except to kill, kill, kill. Kill it, beat it, live, win.

  Her screams seemed to come from her entire body. Her arms moved on their own accord, lifting the makeshift weapon, bringing it back down.

  The thing's skull caved under the nozzle, now slick with black slime and water. Her fingers ached from holding it.

  Finally the thing fell, half into the tub. The two things outside still poked shriveled arms through the bathroom window, but they couldn't reach her. Megan forced herself not to look at them, not to go near them. She stood, soaking wet in the tub, her body shaking and covered with blood, her legs trembling with the effort of standing.

  Dante called her name.

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  Chapter Eight

  "Officer, she's already told you what happened,” Dante said. “Miss Chase is very grateful you arrived, but she's also been injured. I'd like to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible."

  Megan said nothing and huddled further into the blanket draped around her. Beneath, her shirt still stuck to her cold, wet body. Her muscles ached from shaking.

  The policeman—Officer Barrow, his name tag said—peered at her. “You sure you don't want us to call an ambulance, ma'am?"

  Megan nodded.

  Officer Barrow tucked his notepad back into his breast pocket. “We've got people out looking for them, but I wouldn't count on us finding them, to be honest. They probably had a car parked somewhere and took off."

  The police wouldn't find the broken, charred bodies. Somehow Greyson managed to get them out to her garden shed and give her bathroom a perfunctory hose-down with the damaged shower head before the police arrived. She had no idea what kind of mind control or psychic push he might be using on them to make that good enough to fool them. She didn't think she wanted to know.

  "'S the way it usually works. You sure you never seen them before? You haven't been getting any threatening letters or anything?"

  Megan shook her head.

  "A woman alone in a secluded house like this can be pretty vulnerable.” Officer Barrow glanced at Dante, who wore only a pair of black silk pajama bottoms and a loose black T-shirt. The tiny spikes of his spine poked at the cloth, but none of the officers seemed to see them. “You might want to have your—attorney—stay here for a while. Just a word of advice."

  "We'll find someone to stay with her,” Dante said, offering his hand. It was a dismissal, and the officer knew it. “Thanks, Officer Barrow. Let us know if anything turns up."

  Officer Barrow nodded, gave Megan one last look, and left. The other cops, who'd been standing in the entrance hall drinking coffee and chatting, followed. Greyson closed the door behind them and rested his forehead against it. “Get dressed."

  "Where are we going?
"

  He turned around. His dark eyes looked black in the pallor of his skin. “Are you serious?"

  "Yes."

  "We're going to the hospital. Get dressed."

  "I cleaned the bite. I cleaned all my...” she swallowed. “Wounds."

  "The hell with Bactine and Neosporin. You need a damn tetanus shot.” Drawers opened and closed.

  "I'm—"

  He reappeared in the doorway with a bundle of clothes in his arms. “Put them on, now. You were bitten by a zombie. They're filthy things. You might want to get a course of antibiotics, too, just to be—"

  "Zombie?"

  Greyson jerked the blanket away from her and peeled off her wet T-shirt, leaving her clad only in her bra and panties. Some dim part of her knew she should be embarrassed, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

  "Yes, a zombie. You're just learning new things every minute, aren't you?"

  "But, am I going to, I mean ... turn into one?"

  The fabric of the fresh, dry T-shirt obscured his expression while he yanked the top over her head. “This isn't Dawn of the Dead,” he said. His hands brushed her breasts as he helped her get her arms through the sleeves. “These are similar to voodoo zombies. Powered by demons. Somebody put a contract out on you. They were sent to fulfill it."

  "Art?"

  Greyson tried to help her put on her jeans, but she smacked his hand away. Shocked and horrified she may be, but she could get herself into her own jeans. At least, she could after she'd slipped on some dry panties.

  His voice followed her into the bedroom, but he stayed physically where he was while she finished dressing. “I don't know for sure. I suppose it's possible, but I don't think Art has the connections."

  "Is he a demon? You didn't answer me before."

  "I don't know what he is, but he's not something you want to get involved with."

  She wanted to ask more, but the insistent ring of the doorbell made her jump, almost falling into the doorframe as she left the bedroom.

  Greyson cursed. He reached into the leather briefcase he'd brought in with him when the cops arrived and pulled out a sleek little black gun.

  "I don't like having guns in my house, Dante—"

  "Tough."

  Moving on silent bare feet, he walked down the hall, holding the gun upright like a cop in a movie. Megan watched him peer out the peephole. His shoulders sagged. “It's Brian. Just a minute!"

  He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pajama bottoms. “Not a word,” he said to her. “Stick to the same story we told the cops."

  Not waiting for her nod, he opened the door. Brian rushed in. “Megan!” He grabbed her, pressing her to his warm, broad chest. He smelled of soap and laundry detergent. “You're all right. I was worried—"

  "Why?” Megan heard a click behind her. Dante must have stowed the gun back in his case.

  "I have a police-band radio ... lots of journalists do ... and when I heard your address—” His arms relaxed, letting Megan go. She sat back on the couch in time to see Brian take a long, hard look at Dante in his pajama bottoms and T-shirt. At Megan with her jeans still unbuttoned. The conclusion he came to was obvious.

  "I called Greyson,” Megan said. “When I heard the sirens. I thought I might need a—counselor.” Behind her, Dante made a face.

  "Right."

  "Oh, hell, Brian. Greyson isn't a counselor."

  "I know. I googled him right after we met. That's something else I knew you lied about."

  "Sorry."

  He shrugged. “Now you know why—"

  "Why don't you two discuss this on the way to the hospital?” Dante suggested. He held out a set of keys. “Megan, I had your car brought back while you were sleeping. Brian can drive."

  "I don't know—"

  "I do. You should go now. I'll clean everything up here."

  * * * *

  Luckily, the nearest hospital was not the same one Megan had visited Monday after blacking out. Coming back so quickly as a crime victim might have raised more than a few eyebrows.

  It was almost five in the morning by the time they got back to her house. Megan, stuffed with antibiotics and holding a bottle of painkillers, hobbled her way up to the front door with Brian's warm and reassuring hand on her elbow.

  Every light in the house was on and she was grateful for it. Greyson's way of telling her the house was clean and clear, she imagined. Or maybe he just didn't give a damn about her electricity bill. At that moment, neither did she. The lights were reassuring for now, but she had no idea if she would ever feel truly safe there again.

  The unfairness of it all, the sick, miserable unfairness, hit her as they entered the house and walked down the hall. In three days, her life had gone from being neat, orderly, and relatively happy to messy, dangerous, and horrible. There were demons after her. They'd sent zombies to her house to eat her or whatever zombies did. There was nothing she could do about it and the one man who knew what was going on was as enigmatic as the goddamned Mona Lisa.

  Said man was lying on her couch eating chips and watching infomercials when they entered the living room. “Back so soon?"

  "We were gone for almost three hours,” Megan said as Brian helped her into her chair. Dante hadn't lied about cleaning. The room was spotless. He'd even vacuumed.

  He caught her looking. “Everything's taken care of,” he said. “I boarded up your windows and I have a friend who installs glass. He'll be here tomorrow while you're gone."

  Shit. The photo shoot.

  "We can reschedule the pictures if you're not feeling up to it,” Brian said, seeing her face. “We can do it Thursday or Friday."

  She shook her head. “We'll see how I feel, okay?"

  "Okay. Do you want me to stay?"

  "I just want to sleep. You might as well go home."

  He glanced at Dante, then patted her on the shoulder. “Try to get some sleep."

  "You, too."

  "Good night,” Dante as the reporter turned to go. Brian mumbled something Megan couldn't quite make out before he closed the door behind him. Dante got up to lock it.

  "Well, that was fun. Interesting how your reporter friend managed to get here so quickly, don't you think?"

  Megan did think, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. She glared at him. He looked as bright and cheerful as if he'd been out for a brisk jog, sitting on the couch with his chips. “What did you do with the bodies? Did you find out anything?"

  "The bodies are gone,” he said. “No need to worry."

  "What if they're traced back to me?"

  "They won't be."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because I incinerated them."

  Megan glanced towards her back yard. “There's ashes and stuff in my shed?"

  "I cleaned everything up, okay?” Dante leaned back. “It's done. Why don't we worry about what's important, instead of these minor issues?"

  "Dead bodies in my yard are not minor issues,” Megan said. “They're big issues. Felonious issues."

  "I didn't come all the way over here in the middle of the night to get you sent to jail."

  "No, you didn't, did you, Mr. I-didn't-say-I-was-an-attorney?"

  He shrugged. “I didn't."

  "You are, though."

  "Among other things."

  "Like what? A housekeeper? You must have worked like a demon—” She bit her lip.

  Dante's mouth twisted, but he didn't reply. The whole thing suddenly struck Megan as funny, and she started to giggle.

  He watched while her giggles turned to laughter, and by the time the laughter turned to tears he was next to her, pulling her close to him, letting her rest her head on his broad chest while she sobbed.

  It didn't last long, and his muscles were stiff and careful as he held her, but he didn't pull away and she was grateful for it. He let her break the embrace when she was ready, and handed her a handkerchief that she had no idea where he'd kept.

  He looked at the heavy silver
watch on his wrist. “It's very late, Megan. I suggest you go to bed and try to sleep. Did I hear you have a photo shoot later?"

  She nodded. She didn't want to go to bed. The thought of being alone in her bedroom again, even with the sun rising outside the windows, made her nervous. With the room boarded up...

  Dante glanced towards the bedroom, too. “I'll be right here,” he said. “Unless you've changed your mind about—"

  "I haven't."

  He stretched out on the couch and folded beneath his arms beneath his head. His T-shirt rode up, exposing a thin slice of tanned skin. “I'll be here if you do,” he said in a falsetto, batting his eyelashes.

  Megan grinned, grateful for the change of mood. “I won't."

  Chapter Nine

  "Is she sleeping?"

  Smack. “Whad'ya think? Is she sleeping, ‘e says. Don't she look like she's sleeping?"

  "Yeh."

  "That is a sleeping woman, if ever I saw a sleeping woman,” the second voice continued.

  Megan opened her eyes.

  The three men standing next to her bed jumped back, their expressions ranging from terror to curiosity.

  "She's awake!” said the one closest to her. She recognized his voice as the second speaker, the one with the strongest cockney accent.

  "You just said she was sleepin', Lif,” said the next one. He was the tallest, with a large nose and scarred, gin-blossomed skin.

  They were all big, broad men with small eyes and stubbled chins. They were all dressed in hitman casual: black trousers, black turtlenecks, black rubber-soled shoes, black windbreakers, black knit caps. Gold rings and watches completed the look.

  Megan caught only a glimpse of these things before she seized the lamp on her bedside table and held it over her head. The cord refused to come out of the wall. She yanked at it with her left hand, aware not only that she looked silly, but that the men in her room had ample time to attack her while she sorted out her weapon. Their restraint from doing so provided her some comfort, but her heart still pounded in her chest.

  "Who are you?” she demanded. Her voice squeaked.

  The men glanced at each other, chagrined. The tall one spoke. “M'lady, didn't—"