Accidentally Demonic

by Dakota Cassidy

  Wanda pushed a strand of Casey’s tangled chocolate brown hair from her forehead. “Are you okay?”

  “Don’t ask her that, Wanda. Of course she’s not okay,” a blonde with shoulder-length hair, and a chic sapphire blue, formfitting sweater dress with a gold chain-link belt draped casually over her hips, chastised. “She’s wearing orange—a color I assure you isn’t even close to her color wheel. It makes her look sallow and almost yellow around the gills. And she’s in”—the blonde leaned in and whispered—“jail. Jail, Wanda. There’s nothing okay about jail.”

  Another woman, as dark as the blonde was light, and a stark fashion contrast to her in faded jeans and a sweatshirt that read, “Yellow Sucks,” nudged the blonde hard with a flat palm to her shoulder and an irritated look. “Shut the fuck up, Marty. A—the color wheel bullshit is now a thing of the past. Or did you forget Heath, the director of marketing you hired, shot that shit all to hell and renamed it an ‘Aura Arc’ or some such crap? B—stop whispering the word jail like it’s the plague or something, and quit acting like you’re all above this, Miss Hoity-toity. Jesus! Don’t you think the poor kid feels bad enough without being reminded her color wheel’s out of whack, and she’s in jail? Sometimes you’re so fucking insensitive.”

  The blonde—Marty, from what Casey had distractedly gathered—gasped and fiddled with the black coat she had draped over her arm, clenching tight fingers on the collar as though she was warring with the idea of a little physical violence. “Excuse me, but if you remember, I voted Heath down on the ridiculous idea a color wheel should be anything but what it is. A color wheel. And me? Insensitive, Nina? Um, helloooooo, Miss Potty Mouth. Who’s insensitive? Wasn’t it you who just the other day—”

  “Nina, Marty, knock—it—off!” Wanda intervened with a stern look, putting a hand up between both women. “Now, my sister’s in crisis. This isn’t the time to have a knock- down, drag-out about arcs and wheels—especially here where I just might allow the nice policeman in the corner over there to haul you both off to cells. You know those dank, dark cages where you all have to share the facilities and some woman named Inga makes you her cellblock missus? Cut it out and behave accordingly.”

  Wanda turned back to Casey, plastering a forced smile on her lips, but it didn’t hide the disgust she just knew her sister was undoubtedly experiencing. Casey could see it in the wrinkle of her pert nose and the pinch of her glossed lips. “Now, back to you. Are you okay?”

  Casey glanced at the other prisoners in the gray, institutionally colored visiting area and blanched. Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus—she was in jail. She fought for the calm, unruffled demeanor that was almost always her outward appearance. She liked to call it her “work face.” The face she used when someone had to remain calm in the midst of all the chaos and madness her employers’ twenty-something daughters created.

  How you did that in the visiting room of the pokey while surrounded by criminals with something called a “grill” in their mouths was going to be a primo effort. Casey gathered what was left of her sane, levelheaded self and laid it right out there for her sister to see. “I’m about as good as can be expected in jail. Did you pay the bond? I know it was a bundle of money. I swear I’ll pay you back for all of it—every penny. I have most of it in my savings account. The rest I’ll make payments on every month. Promise.”

  Wanda threw up a dismissive hand as though money was no issue. “Don’t be silly, honey. The money isn’t the problem at all. I took care of it, and I know you’re good for it. Here’s the real problem—you assaulted an off-duty officer, Casey—in a bar. What the ef, young lady? You’re standing here in front of me all stoic, like this is no big deal. I don’t even know who you are.You were always so studious—thoughtful—quiet, and I can’t ever remember you going to a bar. Don’t you remember how we were always saying, ‘That Casey, always with her nose in a book. She’s so quiet.’ So quiet in fact, now we hardly ever hear from you. Since when did you go all vigilante?”

  Good question. If someone had the answer, she’d be all in for hearing the explanation. “I don’t know.” And she didn’t. She couldn’t remember past . . . well, she couldn’t remember. Period. Fear rose again like the swell of froth on a freshly tapped beer. “I don’t even remember what happened, Wanda,” she blurted out, then silently damned herself for not thinking before she opened her big mouth. Shit. Casey let her head hang low, dropping it to her chest to hide her eyes—and, okay, her shame.

  But Wanda would have none of that. She tilted up her sister’s chin and forced Casey to gaze into blue eyes so different from her own. “You can’t remember? But you always remember—everything. Details are your thing. Wait . . . were you . . . drunk?” Wanda frowned with distaste, whispering the word so no one would hear her—as if that was the worst offense you could commit in a place like this. Wanda’s nostrils flared in an obvious effort to find alcohol on her breath.

  Hah. Drunk.

  As if there was ever enough time to so much as breathe the air designed especially for her when she was too busy breathing it for the Demonic Duo, Lola and Lita—her boss, Calvin Castalano’s, twin daughters. Spoiled, self-centered socialites who did virtually nothing but plan their eyelash-curling time around their next Botox injections and drive-by implants. Though drinking wasn’t a vice she heartily pursued—if anyone could drive someone to become a shoo-in for AA, it was Lola and Lita.

  Casey focused on Wanda’s face again and replied with as much succinct calm as she could muster, “No. No, I wasn’t drinking or drugging or doing any of the things that would make me forget how I ended up here in jail for . . . assaulting an officer.” Casey cringed, folding her fingers together to rest at her thighs. She’d hit a police officer. Her. Casey Louise Schwartz.

  And she hadn’t just hit him. According to what she’d overheard, she’d slammed one Arvin Polanski up against the far side of the bar’s wall—with just a single, delicate hand.

  Oh, and then she’d hurled herself at him, suspending him approximately three feet above the ground, but not before she made an extra special effort to threaten to sacrifice the heart she’d rip from his chest in a ritualistic offering of satanic worship.

  And sheep.

  There was also a reference to sheep she neither understood nor wanted clarification for.

  That the two arresting officers had even been speaking with the smallest, most remote reference about her and satanic rituals might just mean a psych eval was in her very near future.

  She’d never raised a hand to anyone in her life, but clearly, when she chose to throw down, she did it with a thundering hand and wild abandon. And that could be handy info to have on her side should she ever encounter, say, a mugger.

  Or a brutal serial killer.

  Whichever came first.

  Yet those moments she’d only heard bits and pieces of as they were booking her remained a complete blur. The only thing she did remember was the aftermath. The aftermath that included hog-tying her and hurling her like a sack of potatoes into the back of a police car while Lola and Lita stood mortified on the outskirts of the biggest crowd she’d seen since the last Flock Of Seagulls concert she’d gone to as a teenager.

  “Casey? Care to explain that statement?” Wanda pressed, giving the visitors area the once-over with a scathing glance. “Because here you are. In jail not remembering how you got here.”

  “Here I am,” she confirmed. In jail. To say anything else, to defend herself without all the details, would just be stupid. She’d clearly blacked out, but the how and why was a big, honkin’ blank.

  “Did you have a drink?” Marty asked, her eyes warm and clear with concern. “I read an article a long time ago about how dangerous it can be to set one down in a bar. Freaks put all sorts of things in them—like maybe psychotropic drugs or something. You can’t ever be too careful these days.”

  “I didn’t have anything to drink,” Casey said, thwarting that idea. There was never enough time to do anything as self
- indulgent as get your own drink when you were too busy finding the best champagne in the house for the demon twins.

  Wanda’s one hand went instantly to Casey’s forehead, prying one of her eyes wide-open with the other to gaze into it. “Did you hit your head? Are you having some kind of neurological issues you haven’t told me about?”

  She shrugged off her sister’s fingers, forcing down her irritation. “No.”

  “No,” Wanda repeated plainly. “That’s all you have. Just no.”

  Yep. That about sized it up. “Yes.”

  Nina stuck her head between the two of them. “Am I outta line here or would it be too much to ask you two to worry about the explanations and memory recon missions later? You know, after we get the fuck out of here,” Wanda’s friend Nina said, saving Casey from having to offer any further explanations. “I hate to rub salt in the wound, but we are in the slammer. And I’m not much likin’ the seedy dude over there in the corner who, if he keeps eyeing my booty and thinking the shit he’s thinking, is gonna be pulling my fist from his throat by way of his ass. I know I said I’d almost rather do anything than go to that fucking spa slash B and B with you two wing nuts, but this wasn’t high on my list. So can the interrogation, Wanda, and let’s get Casey home before I beat the fucking snot out of that freak.”

  Wanda gave Casey one last sympathetic glance before she nodded her head in agreement. “For once, Nina, you have a point. They have to out-process you or something police-ish like that, is what I’m told. Paperwork, I guess. We’ll meet you out in front of the jail,” she said with intended emphasis. “In the parking lot.”

  Casey watched her sister tuck her purse between her arm and side, her short, quick steps brisk and efficient as she and her friends exited the visiting area’s locked doors. Just as Nina passed the “seedy dude,” she leaned in with a narrow gaze of her black eyes, letting loose an odd, menacing sound from her throat.

  A shiver ran the course of her spine.

  The Nina chick was scary.

  How she’d become friends with her sister, meek and about as confrontational as Mother Teresa, escaped her.

  When she broke out of the big house, Casey made a mental note to make nice with the scary chick at all costs.

  “OFFICER?”

  “If you’re here ta file a complaint, sit over there.” The police officer pointed a finger to the left without looking up, his Brooklyn accent distinct. “If you’re here ta bail somebody out”—he thumbed over his shoulder—“it’s the room on the right.”

  Clayton Gunnersson stuck his hand under the officer’s nose, giving him a cheerful grin. “I’m not here to file a complaint.”

  “Then it’s the room on da right, buddy,” he offered distractedly.

  “Actually, I was wondering if the Unabomber has visiting hours. I baked a cake for him. Chocolate. It’s his favorite.”

  The officer’s head snapped upward, eyeing Clayton. “Yer a funny guy.”

  “Now that I have your attention, I’m not sure exactly where I need to be. So before I take door number one or two, I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Look, pal . . .” He drifted off when Clay captured his eyes, holding them in a stare.

  Clayton leaned over the high desktop and smiled. “I only need a moment of your time. Promise. I’m looking for someone who was involved in an incident at Crimson Lips. I don’t have her name, but there was only one arrest, so it shouldn’t be difficult to locate her.”

  The policeman began to move his head in an “absolutely not” fashion, but Clayton caught him, directing his attention back to his eyes. “Nuh-uh-uh, now, don’t go all rules and regulations with me. Be nice and help a guy out. Ready?” Clay motioned his fingers up and down, and the officer’s head followed with obedience. “Nice. Now, where’s the girl who was arrested at Crimson Lips?”

  His eyes were shiny and glazed, but his lips moved in a sluggish response. “Posted bail—her sister, I think.”

  Clay smiled once more with approval. “Excellent. And what’s the young lady’s name and address?”

  “I can’t give you that inf—”

  Clayton gave him a mock pout. “Oh, Officer Kilpatrick, you do know it’s pointless to deny me, don’t you?”

  Kilpatrick nodded, transfixed by Clayton’s stare.

  “Perfect. Now, do me this—look it up on your computer, and then write it down on one of those sticky things for me. I forget a lot lately, and this is important.” Clay pointed to the stack of sticky notes, his eyes never leaving the officer’s face. “Use a yellow one, please.”

  Officer Kilpatrick gave him no trouble at all, typing in a few words, then transferring the information to the sticky note Clay requested. He took the note from him, sticking it to the front of his jacket and holding it out to show Kilpatrick. “So I’ll remember.”

  He nodded again, slow and wooden.

  Clay reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good egg, Officer Kilpatrick.”

  Looking down at his shirt, he glanced at her name, saying it with a silent movement of his lips, then cringed.

  He’d done a bad, bad thing.

  With a grimace, he pondered this Casey Louise Schwartz.

  She was in for a surprise.

  Though the throwing of confetti was probably inappropriate.

  CHAPTER 2

  Casey led the women to her apartment off the main living quarters and though they remained silent for the most part, the occasional grunt from Nina bounced off the cavernous walls of the Castalano residence.

  “Nice digs out there,” Nina commented with a thumb over her shoulder as Casey flipped the light on, illuminating her small living room.

  Marty set her purse on the coffee table. “Wanda? Did you see the Picasso? I think it’s real. Like, really real.”

  “It is,” Casey confirmed, flopping on the couch, drawing a worn blanket over her shoulders. “Worth millions, I think.”

  Nina snorted. “That big-assed thing hanging in the hallway? It looks like a kindergartner finger painted it after slam- dunking too many gummy bears.”

  Marty sat on the arm of the chair Nina had positioned herself in and flicked Nina’s dark hair. “You’re such a heathen, Nina. You wouldn’t know real art from the pictures in a comic book.”

  In anticipation of Nina’s response, Wanda raised a threatening finger. “Shut. It.” She turned to Casey, tucking the corners of the blanket under her chin. “Now, what do you say we talk about how you landed in the pokey?”

  A groan escaped her lips. How could she possibly explain to Wanda that she had absolutely no clue how she’d found herself in jail? How could she explain threatening an officer of the law if she didn’t remember doing it? In fact, she only remembered what happened just before she’d apparently offered to kill an innocent man, and she was so embarrassed by the lengths she’d gone to protect Lola and Lita, she for sure didn’t want Wanda to know what she’d been trying to prevent before she’d blacked out. When she finally spoke, her shame kept her words simple. “Let’s not.”

  “All right, then. How about we talk about what’s all over your shirt?” Wanda pulled apart either side of the blanket to point at the angry, dark splotch on her white, tailored blouse. “It looks like blood, Case. So what is it?”

  The proverbial broken record continued to play when she repeated, “I—I—”

  “Don’t know,” Wanda finished in that uppity older-sister tone. “Right. Got that part. If you don’t know what happened—and blood was involved—I hate to be the one to point this out, but that’s a pretty big ‘I don’t know.’ Blood was shed, Casey.You know, the stuff that runs in your veins or, say perhaps, drips from your finger when you have an owie. From the looks of your shirt, there was a lot of it, too. How could that have happened without your knowing? There were witnesses who identified you. People in the bar who saw you accost this officer ‘like you were possessed,’ as one man described it. It’s obvious we need to talk.”

  Ind
eed. Talking would be fine, but pointless if she couldn’t remember a damned thing about how she got blood on her shirt. Plus, she just didn’t know if she had any words left in her to talk with. She’d been up all night, hovering in the corner of a damp cell filled with angry hookers and female knockoffs of the Zodiac Killer. All while she gnawed her nails to their cuticles, trying to make herself as small and unnoticeable as possible. “There’s nothing to explain,” she said once more, for lack of anything valuable to offer.

  Wanda pursed her lips. “Um, wasn’t it just me who paid a butt-load of money to get you out of jail? It costs a lot of money for the kind of bail you’re given when you assault an off-duty officer and end up in jail. Jail, Casey Louise Schwartz. I think I deserve at least an attempt at an explanation.”

  Which seemed to be the ever-elusive most popular quest of the day. An explanation. “If I don’t have one, then I can’t give you one, Wanda.” Which was a very logical answer, considering her very illogical position. She avoided her sister’s eyes by scrunching farther into the couch and bowing her head, then found herself face-to-face with the ugly stain on her shirt. How she’d missed that when they’d out-processed her could only be chalked up to exhaustion.

  Wanda wasn’t buying it. Her eyes grew determined and her tone no-nonsense. “How could you not have an explanation for being arrested? What happened before you beat the off- duty officer up?”

  Cutting Wanda off, Nina snorted with a grin she obviously fought. “And threatened to sacrifice some organ or other while you fed it to a sheep. Believe me, I don’t say this often, kiddo, but I’m not worthy of your kind of creative threats. You da man.” She tilted her head at Casey in apparent admiration.