Dead Demon Walking

by Linda Welch

  Surprised, I opened my eyes to find Mac up on his hind legs, front paws on my knees. His ears perked up, went flat, perked, went flat. What was this, some kind of doggy semaphore? He wagged his tail. Then, paws still on me, he hopped.

  As if he wanted me to pick him up.

  Dumfounded, I looked into his dark-brown eyes. Mac does not like to be held. He lies on my feet, but I’ve wondered if it were just to inconvenience me. He likes his belly rubbed, and behind his ears, and he loves his back scratched. But holding, cuddling? Not that kind of dog.

  I leaned over, got my arms around his barrel body and lifted him on my knees. Yeah, it hurt. I didn’t care.

  He snuggled against me.

  “What is it, boy?” I murmured. “Do you know something’s wrong? Does it worry you?”

  He rumbled deep in his throat.

  Smiling, I held him to me and rhythmically stroked his wiry brindle coat.

  ***

  The phone rang as I eased Mac back down to the floor. The machine could get the call. I didn’t know whether I could pry my aching body upright again.

  “Tiff?” Royal said.

  I came up fast and suddenly couldn’t breathe. Ignoring lack of breath and the crowbar trying to pry my ribs apart, I launched my protesting body at the counter.

  “Tiff?”

  I grabbed for the phone, knocked it off the cradle, got it in my hand and to my ear. “Royal? You’re talking! How can you be talking?”

  “Like most people, I open my mouth and the words come out.”

  “Jesus Christ, Royal! You shouldn’t be on the phone to me. You should be resting.” He should be asleep. Didn’t Gelpha doctors believe in sedation?

  “I had to know you are all right.”

  My eyes stung. Hearing his voice was so good. “Me? You’re asking if I’m okay?”

  “I thought of nothing else when I woke.”

  “Well that was a waste of energy. You’re tired. I can hear you’re tired. Stop trying to be a super hero and get some rest.” My eyes wouldn’t stop watering.

  “I will, when you tell me what happened.”

  I frowned at the phone. “Nobody told you?”

  “They speculated. You were there.”

  I told him matter-of-factly, as if I had been an observer, not a participant.

  “But you were hurt.”

  “Ah, left that out, didn’t I. Honest, Royal, it isn’t much. I’m feeling better already.”

  His voice sounded fainter now, as if the effort to speak exhausted him. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Tough. Now put down the goddamn phone and rest.”

  “I will. Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  “Goodnight.” I carefully replaced the phone in the cradle and let my head drop on my folded arms.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Four days after waking up in a hospital room, I sat stiffly on one of Royal’s dining chairs. Getting up from a hard-backed chair is easier than from a low-slung couch when your body is sore.

  The plastic divider still hung across the living room, the furniture still huddled at the end near the kitchen. Royal didn’t believe in letting workmen of any profession loose in his home when not there to watch them, so nothing had been accomplished for over a week.

  I didn’t know what to do. I’d tried pacing slowly, but it didn’t relieve the jitters. I sat, lacing and unlacing my fingers, rubbing my thumb over the crucifix and Celtic knot again and again, straining to hear footsteps outside. I couldn’t stand this silence much longer. I felt small in Royal’s big, high-ceilinged apartment. And lonely. I’d never been here alone before. Royal was always near, cooking in the kitchen, listening to music, reading, chatting, cleaning up. Holding me.

  I was learning to live with my cracked ribs. I ate industrial strength ibuprofen like candy, true, but only to get me through the night. I could cope if I moved slower than my usual brisk pace and didn’t put pressure on my chest by bending over. I rigorously took deep breaths to stave off pneumonia.

  I listened to the muted traffic buzz and muffled voices on Twenty-Second, and considered going back down, across the road and along to Sunnyside Bakery for some white chocolate cranberry scones. Royal’s sweet tooth adored those scones. I could watch for his return through their window.

  The front door opened. I put my hands flat on the chair and pushed up.

  Royal stood outside between two demons who held him by his upper arms. I saw them as demons but not the specifics of their appearance; I concentrated on Royal. He looked awful, his skin sallow, not burnished. His hair gleamed, but not with the bright luster familiar to me. But all in all, not bad for a man who should be dead.

  The demons stepped back, and were gone.

  Royal came inside and closed the door behind him. He moved slowly, as if with care, looking ahead with deliberation.

  I went toward him. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I wanted to reach for him, but should I? What if I hurt him?

  “Tiff, you are in pain.”

  There he went again, thinking of how I felt when that fiend near enough ripped his back apart just days ago. “It’s nothing.”

  “You are moving lopsided,” he pointed out.

  I hitched my body higher. Really, it wasn’t too bad; countless people cope with cracked ribs. “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay. Just a little tired.” He laid his palm on my hair.

  I felt his heat on my scalp. “Did your friends whiz you here?”

  He nodded as his fingers moved in my hair. I wanted to lean into his hand. “That didn’t . . . put stress on you?”

  “No. I’m fine, sweetheart. But I think you should sit down.”

  I did want to get off my feet - not that I’d admit it. He dropped his hand and moved past me. I stayed at his shoulder as we went to the dining table and chairs, then put on speed to get ahead and pull a chair out for him.

  His brow creased. “I won’t let you treat me like an invalid.”

  “Try and stop me.” I patted the chair.

  He eased into the chair. I stood over him. “Do you want coffee? Something to eat?”

  “Ah, coffee.”

  I started for the kitchen, with all the furniture pushed together just a few paces away.

  He stood. ”Sit down, Tiff. I can get my coffee.”

  I flung my arms out, and wished I hadn’t. “No, you sit down.” I made a face. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m fine.” He sounded exasperated. “Just tired, but that is natural.” He gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it up a few inches.

  “What are you doing?” Dismayed, I went back to him and grabbed both his wrists.

  “I want you to see this so you will stop babying me. You can help me if you like.”

  I stared him in the eyes, my mouth flat. “I don’t want to see. I saw enough in the infirmary.”

  He pulled on his shirt, taking my hands up too. Worried he would do himself some damage, I gave in, rolling his shirt up little by little. When it bunched under his armpits, I reluctantly got behind him.

  An ugly bruise in colors I didn’t know existed covered his entire back from shoulders to waist, with ridged scar tissue like latticework pushing through the discoloration. I inhaled deeply, but not because the doctor told me to. I let his hem fall.

  “Okay, so it’s horrible on the outside, but you look whole. What about the inside?”

  “Everything in its place and functioning perfectly.”

  What the medical profession, the government, wouldn’t give for a sample of Dark Cousin blood.

  My palm hovered at his side. Touching Royal was automatic; I had to exert my willpower to bring my hand down.

  He faced me with a grin of white teeth. “I showed you mine, now you show me yours.”

  “Ha ha. Now sit!”

  He sat, and I sat in the chair next him, close enough I could put my hand over his where it rested on his knee.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened?” he ask
ed.

  Should I repeat what Gia told me, how Dark Cousins healed themselves? Did he already know?

  I’d have to think about it. Whether he knew or not, it would trigger an animated conversation and I wanted him calm. I couldn’t convince myself he wouldn’t keel over at any moment. “We already did, on the phone. Now close your mouth and rest.”

  He had other ideas. “You know you are the talk of the High House?”

  “I am?”

  “You put me in awe, and I am not alone. I’m told they speak of nothing but the human woman who felled the monster when their best warriors could not touch him.”

  “Huh. Like all monsters, he made a mistake. He left me till last ‘cause he wanted to take a better look at me.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “He told me so.” I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. “He said, ’I have never seen your like before.’ Freaky, huh?”

  I looked up to see his eyelids flutter as if blinking back tears. Were his eyes moist?

  Something was wrong. “Royal? Are you okay?”

  His gaze skipped away. “Who can fathom the mind of a crazed man?”

  He stood, again. I didn’t bother saying anything this time; he’d ignore me. He moved his chair so it touched mine, retook his seat and laid his arm along my shoulder. I heard a sigh in his voice. “I wish I could hold you, but I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I leaned to the side so my shoulder nested under his arm. “This is nice, Royal. We can wait.”

  I thought he said something under his breath, I felt it as a burr in his chest, but when I sought his eyes, they were closed, so I let him alone.

  We sat together, in silence, and it was enough.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Someone’s in the front yard,” Mel said.

  I tried to lighten the mood. “They’re not wet, or naked, or both?”

  She had her spectral nose to the windowpane. “No. A rather nice-looking man.”

  I glanced at the clock. He was early. I would wait till he knocked.

  I poured another coffee as I reached for the sugar canister. A high-pitched, panicked voice suddenly shrieked across the room. “Don’t let him in!”

  Not exactly a shriek, more like a hoarse attempt at one.

  “He’s coming up the path,” from Mel.

  Jack zipped to the hall, and promptly zipped right back to the kitchen window. Then off he went again.

  I put my coffee mug on the table and started across the kitchen. “Jack! Calm down!”

  “I am calm!” he said, halfway back in the kitchen now. He stopped mere inches from me; his tone changed from panicked to pleading. “Please, Tiff, don’t let him in.”

  Mel said. “Is he dangerous?”

  “Phht! He’d faint if he stepped on a spider.” Jack ground his hands together. “He’s so old! What happened to him?”

  I looked out the window to see Dale Jericho, who stood hesitantly on the path to the front door. “You’d be the same age had you not taken that hike.”

  Jericho didn’t know where to put his hands. First he stuck them in his hip pockets, then his back pockets, next he folded his arms. He spotted us - I mean, me - watching from the window.

  “Jack?” I said as I turned.

  “He’s lurking in the hall,” Mel said.

  Jack’s voice whispered from the hall. “I am not lurking.”

  I walked in the hall to see him looking through the glass next the front door. “Talk to me, Jack. One minute you want to see him, now you’re in a dither. What’s going on?”

  Up came his chin and away he went back to the kitchen. “Nothing’s going on.”

  “Then I’ll go out there and ask him in.”

  His head came through the wall. “Don’t you dare!”

  I opened the front door and went outside. I moved fairly fluidly, I thought, for a woman whose ribs were cracked just over two weeks ago. My doctor was pleased with my progress. He said he had never known ribs to knit this fast.

  Jericho stiffened as he saw me come through the door. I went to him with my hand out. He took it in a limp grasp. His skin felt like ice. His face looked pale. “Mr. Jericho, are you okay?”

  He couldn’t meet my eyes. His gaze darted everywhere but at me. “I’m not sure I want to do this, Miss Banks.”

  “How come?”

  “On the phone, you didn’t sound happy. You have bad news.”

  I drew in a soft breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  He swung his head. “I’d rather hear it now.”

  Early morning air chilled my face. A breeze with ice in it came off the mountains, an omen of the winter to come. I plunged hands in pockets and shivered with an uncanny and irrational feeling nothing would ever be the same again. Creepy. I shook it off.

  During the past few days, Jack had wavered between wanting to see Jericho, not wanting to see him, and not knowing what he wanted to do about his old buddy. In the meantime, Dale Jericho called me twice to verify our meeting. I wanted it over. I had to get the man inside the house and get this business done. “It’s not quite what you think. We should go inside where we can talk.”

  He hung his head. A sigh seeped out. Then he looked up sharply. “Yes, let’s do this.”

  I hoped he would not freak out when I explained.

  He followed me through the open door and I stood to one side to close it. We went in the kitchen. Partly merged with the tiled wall, Jack stood in the corner nearest the back door. Lord, he was anxious. Mel waited next the refrigerator, her body vibrating ever so slightly with excitement.

  I should have taken him in the living room, but now I had a nice room for visitors, I found I wanted to keep it private for me and Royal, our special place.

  I must be getting sappy.

  I pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, asked Jericho to take a seat and went to the opposite side to sit in my preferred chair. I would get through this in as professional a manner as able, though pretending to be a medium went against the grain. Yes, cool, calm, professional, and it would be over.

  Unfortunately, professional and MacKlutzy are not compatible.

  In an immense sulk, the beast in question lay against the back door, chin on his big red rubber chew bone, which lay across his front legs. You see, Mac thought I owed him after being away so often during the last few weeks. He thought I should atone by feeding him treats nonstop and playing you-just-try-to-get-my-rubber-bone-away-from-me.

  Jericho spotted the menace on four legs, leaned over his bent knees, dangled his hand down and wiggled his fingers. “Aren’t you a cute little guy.” He lifted his head to grin at me. “It is a boy dog, right?”

  I sprang from the chair. “No! Don’t do that!”

  “Don’t worry. I love dogs and they know it.”

  Mac trundled around the table like a small locomotive, ears perked, eyes bright. He didn’t fool me. We arrived at Jericho at the same time, Mac from his left, me circling in from his right. I bent and snatched at Mac’s collar, but I couldn’t move fast enough. He avoided my hand and his teeth fastened on those wiggling fingers.

  Oh, shit.

  The man screamed. I mean he screamed.

  I went to my knees and grabbed Jericho’s wrist. “Do not move!”

  I swear, he was nearly in tears. “He’s eating me!”

  “What a big baby,” Mel said.

  I eyed Mac sternly. “Drop it, Mac!”

  Mac rolled his eyes in my direction. His ears flattened.

  “Pull him off!” Jack wailed.

  Sure, if you want your buddy to lose a couple of fingers. “Mac, drop it!”

  Odd. “That usually works,” I told Jericho.

  “I knew he’d do serious damage one day,” Jack said as he stood over me, twisting his hands together.

  I lightly squeezed Jericho’s wrist. “Listen to me. He’s not biting, just holding. You’ll be fine if you keep still. I’m going to the pantry for a dogg
ie treat. Please don’t move.”

  I released his wrist and went to the pantry, dipped up a handful of kibble and brought it back to my fearless companion. “Here, Mac.”

  The little monster ignored me, and the treat.

  I frowned down at him before going back to the pantry.

  Milk Bone.

  Didn’t work.

  Marrow Bone.

  Didn’t work.

  Liver treats. “You sneaky little terror!” I declared as Mac let go of Jericho’s fingers and gobbled the tiny pellets. This did not bode well. Mac never ignored that command before, but it looked like he had blackmail down to an art. He knew precisely what he did when he latched onto the man.

  I took Mac to the living room and shut him in. Back in the kitchen, I got a few ice-cubes from the refrigerator and wrapped them in a clean dishcloth. I offered them to Jericho. “There could be a little bruising, this might help.”

  He took the wadded cloth and balanced it on back of his fingers.

  “You should do something with that little cannibal,” Jack said.

  Back to business, and I didn’t see a way to do this except plunge in. I regained my seat opposite Jericho and waited till I had his focus. “Mr. Jericho, there’s no easy way to say this. Jackson Trewellyn died in 1986.”

  All color washed from his face, leaving bleached planes and angles of tight skin. His eyes dewed with pain. I think he stopped breathing. The dishcloth hit the floor, ice cubes clattering on tile like pebbles. He forgot his bruised fingers as the nails of one hand dug fiercely in the back of the other.

  He dropped his head in his hands. “Oh God!” His shoulders shook. He lifted his head to show me a man in emotional agony.

  I let him be, until he shuddered and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why it took me like that. I knew Jack must be dead.”

  Someone behind me gulped loudly.

  We sat in silence for a few heartbeats. Jericho met my eyes. “When did this come to light? Why didn’t Detective Spacer call me? Where are Jack’s . . . remains?”

  “I don’t know,” I lied, using every atom of willpower to look him in the eyes and not appear guilty.

  “What do you know?”