He stared at me for another few seconds, then turned away. He pulled out his phone and started texting. That did nothing to assuage my fear.
At the next stop, I took the opportunity to shoulder my backpack. I tried to look casual and unconcerned, but I kept stealing looks at Mr. Punk Rock and wishing to hell he’d get off.
He didn’t. He busied himself with his phone, only occasionally flicking his eyes in my direction. It was less aggressive, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
We finally made it to my stop, and I practically flew through the door in my desire to get away from this asshole. Three other people got off. Mr. Punk Rock was not one of them. I thought I might cry in relief.
Shook by the whole experience, I turned towards home and started walking quickly. The building was only two blocks from the bus stop, and I covered them in what seemed like only seconds.
But before I could get safely inside, I got spooked again. This huge guy – also in a grey hoodie, black jeans, and combat boots – was leaning against my building. His hood was pulled farther forward than Mr. Punk Rock’s, so I couldn’t make out any features. He leaned with his back and one foot on the wall, his hands shoved in the pockets of his hoodie. I would have to walk right past him to get to my door.
There was no way in hell I was doing that.
I crossed the street and passed my building as though it weren’t my destination. My plan was to go around the back and climb up the fire escape to get in.
But as I turned the corner, I heard this deep, booming voice.
“Cecily Kincaide,” it called.
I knew instantly I was in deep shit.
Two
W hen someone you don’t know calls you by your name, you know it can’t be good. How do they know who you are? What are they doing there? It wasn’t someone from the Ohio Lottery telling me I’d won a million bucks, so I could not think of a good reason for them to know me.
In my particular case, him calling me by my birth name was a really bad sign. Everyone, I mean everyone, who knows me calls me “Sassy.” Most of them don’t even know Cecily is my given name. So for this dude to call me “Cecily” meant he was a cop or worse.
I turned around slowly. My blood turned to ice cream as soon as I saw it was the big bastard in the hoodie who’d been leaning against the building.
Two and two added up quickly in my head. He was dressed the same as the asshole on the bus. They must have been working together. Mr. Punk Rock had made sure I got on the bus and watched me. He stared at me carefully to make sure it was me. And when he had confirmation, he texted it to whomever he was working with. They made sure Andre the Giant here was waiting for me.
Shit. Whoever these guys were, they wanted me. There was no way in hell that could be any kind of good.
“My mama’s the only person who gets to call me Cecily, asshole,” I said. “And she’s dead. If you don’t want to join her, I suggest you go looking for trouble somewhere else.”
It wasn’t a bluff. I didn’t just carry a katana for show. I knew how to use it. On top of that, I’m a third-degree Kenpo black belt.
Like I mentioned, I grew up mouthy, and as a result it became pretty important to be able to defend myself. Turns out people don’t always like a smartass.
So I took karate – Kenpo karate to be precise. None of that bullshit, Tae Kwan Do stuff. This ain’t sport karate. This is real street-fighting to protect your life when you get into trouble.
After I got my black belt, I started working on weapons training. They generally teach sticks, staff, and knife. Those are good, and I learned them. But since I’m a total geek girl, I wanted to be able to swordfight. I mean, let’s face it, playing D&D, watching Game of Thrones and Star Wars, and reading fantasy lit and all that shit makes you interested in certain things. I naturally wanted to be able to go toe-to-toe with Darth Vader.
I’d never had to use my Kenpo or my Kendo for real before. So I was scared as shit. But I was totally prepared to carve this asshole into tiny pieces and let the cops try to put them all back together.
Enough of his face was showing that I could see a toothy grin spread up his cheeks. He looked like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world. Oh, this guy was all cocky confidence. It didn’t matter that he was almost seven feet tall. He was about to be taught a major lesson by a five-foot-four dynamo.
I started to reach for my sword when he vanished. I mean, like, disappeared in a puff of smoke like a magic trick. A second later, he rematerialized right in front of me and hit me in the jaw with an uppercut that lifted me off my feet and sent me sailing backwards like I was some kind of toy.
I landed hard on my back. My backpack broke my fall. I didn’t lose any skin to the pavement, and miraculously, I didn’t hit my head.
“You are mistaken, Cecily Kincaide,” the behemoth called. “It is not I who will die tonight but you.”
If I’d had even one second to think, I probably would have panicked. He didn’t give me that time, which I suppose is lucky. He teleported over to me again and raised an enormous, red fist to smash my face in.
Instinct kicked in. I rolled onto my hands and knees and hit him with a tiger kick. Unfortunately, he was so tall, I missed his knee. My foot came in too low, and I hit him in the shin.
A thrust kick of any sort drives a lot of power, and I’m a woman, which puts my natural strength below my hips instead of above like a man’s. So despite the fact that I didn’t break his knee like I’d intended, I put a hella bruise on the front of his lower leg. He roared in anger and aborted the deathblow he’d been intending to deliver.
I took the opportunity to get up. While he was still wincing, I drove a back-spinning sidekick into his abdomen that folded him in half and knocked him on his ass.
His hood came down. And I froze again.
He was no man. Dude had red skin. Like fire-engine red. He also had a couple of ugly, black ram’s horns that protruded from his forehead and wrapped around his ears.
With a snarl and an evil grin, he got to his feet. Then he unzipped his hoodie and removed it to reveal a bare chest with the same crimson skin and a tattoo of a giant, ornate dagger.
“You could have died quickly, with little pain,” he growled. “Now, I will make you suffer.”
He put a gnarly hand to his chest. The tattoo glowed with evil, red light, and then it became a real knife in his hand!
What the hell kind of real-life, D&D nightmare had I stepped into?
The demonic-looking brute launched himself at me, thrusting with the knife. I barely dodged out of the way and yanked my katana out of its sheath.
No sooner than I’d dropped into a defensive stance, he whirled around, slashing at me with his giant dagger. I parried the blow and felt the reverberation of his strength shoot down my blade and into my hands and arms. It was tough to hold on.
I stepped back to disengage and attempted to counterstrike. He parried easily, and we spent the next few seconds dancing and slashing at each other, each trying to find an opening and cut the other open.
He was good, that’s for sure. He moved like lightning. I’d never fought anyone so fast, especially someone so large. Usually, being the smaller fighter, I can get inside my opponent’s defenses quickly and easily. Not this guy. Mr. Big-ass Demon was a flurry of blows that were difficult to see. I don’t know how the hell I kept up with him.
But it didn’t last. I feinted to the left to draw his guard, then spun to bring a mighty slice across his undefended side. Somehow, he got his knife between my blade and his body, locked me up, and drove a kick into my stomach.
I flew backwards, landed hard on my ass, and bounced across the pavement. My katana slipped from my hand and clattered away, just out of reach.
“You’re a fine fighter, Cecily Kincaide,” he said. “But you are no match for me.”
He threw his knife at me. It hit me dead-center in the chest.
And it shattered into a thousand tiny, red shards before they
all dissipated like sparks from a fire.
Mr. Big-ass Demon stared at me, stunned. I had no idea what had just happened, but he was obviously surprised and scared. He stood slack-jawed for three seconds.
Then he teleported away.
Expecting another attack, I rolled to my sword, snatched it up, and got to my feet. I turned every direction, trying to anticipate where he would rematerialize, so I could eviscerate him before he made his next assault.
But he didn’t return. My blowing up his magic knife apparently spooked him badly enough that he decided to get out of Dodge.
I let another full ten seconds pass. My heart pounded in my chest. I panted from the fear and the exertion of fighting for my life against a creature that should not exist, that I would have expected to encounter playing D&D, not on the street outside my apartment building.
Then my flight reflex kicked in. I hauled ass to the main door of the building, went in, and raced up the stairs – all five flights – without sheathing my blade.
When I got to my apartment, I looked in both directions down the dirty, dingy hall. I kept expecting him to teleport back in and kill me just as I keyed the lock.
My hands shaking, I dug into my pocket to find my key. I pulled it out, but I was trembling too badly to slip the key into the lock one-handed. Cursing, I leaned my sword against the wall, grabbed the door handle with my right hand, and shoved the key into the lock with my left.
As soon as the handle turned, I put my shoulder into the door to knock it open. Then I snatched up the katana and dove into my apartment, kicking the door shut behind me.
Dropping my sword, I shot the deadbolt, turned the knob lock, and put the chain across. I picked up the sword again and stood facing the door in a defensive pose, waiting for someone to start beating at it.
A full minute ticked by without anything happening.
Suddenly, I had the urge to vomit. All the adrenaline coursing through me didn’t have anything to do, and I wanted to puke it all out.
Instead, I got my phone out of my pocket. Somehow, it hadn’t been damaged in the fight. God bless the good folks at Otterbox.
I pulled up Felicia’s number and called her. She picked up after three rings.
“Hey, what’s up?” she said. “I’m still at work.”
“Listen, tell Mark I can’t make it to D&D tonight, okay?”
“What? Why not?”
“Just tell him, Felicia. I can’t make it tonight.”
I tried really hard to keep my voice from cracking or shaking, but it was no good. Too much adrenaline. Too much fear. Too much weird shit.
“Sassy, are you all right?”
I tried to say, “I’m fine.” Really I did.
“No, I’m pretty fucking far from all right,” I said instead.
“What happened? Do you need me to come over?”
“No!” I practically shouted.
A mental picture of that demon suddenly materializing in my apartment and skewering Felicia roared into my mind. I couldn’t bear that. I couldn’t risk her. She was one of the few people on Earth who made me feel okay in my own skin. Maybe the only person.
“Sassy—”
“I said, ‘No!’ Don’t fucking come over, Felicia! Please. I’m begging you. I’ll . . . I’ll call you in the morning.”
I ended the call before she could say anything else. I gave it only a seventy-percent chance she would listen to me. Felicia had it bad for me, and if she thought I was in trouble, there was a good chance she would ignore what I told her to do and try to help anyway.
I still couldn’t stop shaking. Now that it seemed to be over, everything I’d ever feared in my life got ahold of me. What if I’d died? I’d never have gotten to say “I love you” to Ben one more time. I’d never have seen Felicia again. I’d never make tenth level with my character. And a whole host of other stupid shit.
I went to the kitchen and grabbed my bottle of Svedka. Cheap, I know, but I couldn’t afford Grey Goose or Belvedere. It was half-full. That would do.
Returning to the main room, I dropped onto my sad, worn-down sofa and faced the door. I set the katana next to me, still unsheathed, so I could be ready for action immediately. Then I shrugged off my backpack and unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle.
I took a long pull from it, my face twisting in disgust at drinking it straight. I liked it better in orange juice or tonic water. But I didn’t have time for that shit tonight.
Minutes slowly ticked by, turning into hours. I sipped my Svedka and watched the door. Eventually, the exhaustion and the alcohol got the better of me. I passed out sitting up.
Three
I had nightmares all night. The worst one came right before I woke up. That same big-ass demon was chasing me. He pulled his magic dagger off his chest, then he grabbed some older White guy by the hair. Dude had freckles like mine – I remember that distinctly. And red hair. And the same green eyes. It was like some of my features had been transferred onto a White man. Dreams, right?
Anyway, the demon grabbed this dude by the hair and stabbed him in the gut with his magic dagger, driving the knife upwards so it would penetrate the heart. Fear and pain lit the victim’s eyes, and his mouth fell open. Blood welled out of it and ran down the man’s chin and cheeks.
Then the light left his eyes. The demon twisted the knife unnecessarily to make sure his prey wouldn’t be coming back. Then he dropped the dead man on the ground, turned, and looked right at me, a feral, frightening grin on his face.
Someone banged on my door, waking me up. Light poured into my apartment from the window. My back and neck hurt. My head was roaring.
Another bang-bang-bang erupted from the door. Alarmed, I grabbed my katana, stood up and faced the door. Was the assassin back, trying to bust it in? Surely he could just teleport through it.
“Police, Ms. Kincaide,” a muffled voice called through the door. “Open up.”
Police? Oh shit.
Few things light terror inside a Black person’s soul like the police knocking on your door. It doesn’t matter if you’ve done nothing wrong. You never know if the cop at the door is a good person trying to uphold the law, or a bad person using a badge to inflict his bigotry. And even good cops profile Black folks.
I moved cautiously to the door. Then I looked through the peephole.
Outside stood a middle-aged White man in an ill-fitting suit and a trench coat. Next to him was a large Black woman, with short hair, wearing a blazer and a skirt. They both had wallets open with badges inside them.
Shit. It was definitely the cops.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“We need to ask you some questions,” the man said. “Open up.”
With a heavy sigh, I set the sword down next to the door. Then I undid the chain and the locks. I pulled the door open and stared at them, trying to look both innocent and pissed.
“Cecily Kincaide?” the man said.
Terror burbled up from my stomach like a pot of water about to boil over. There it was again: the use of my given name.
“Who wants to know?” I replied, trying not to look scared.
“I’m Detective Wallis,” he said. “This is Detective Weiss. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What sort of questions?”
My mind raced. I had no idea what they were doing here. They wouldn’t be here about the demon. He’d run off. Had someone seen the fight, recognized me, and called the cops? If so, why were they just getting here now? And why was it a couple of plain-clothes detectives instead of uniformed police?
Fueled by the hangover and amplified by fear, my head pounded, making it difficult to think.
“Ms. Kincaide, do you know a man named Eli Silverman,” Wallis asked.
Eli Silverman? That name rang no bells. I tried to sift through my memories to see if I’d forgotten something, but the headache made it too difficult.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
“There was a murder last ni
ght,” Wallis said. “We thought you might know something about it.”
“Why would I? I was here, and I just told you I don’t know this Silverman dude.”
“Ms. Kincaide, you’re not in trouble,” Weiss said, speaking for the first time. “You’re not a suspect. We just need to ask you some questions.”
I frowned at her, mostly because my head was pounding like three burly guys with jackhammers were going to work on my skull. Weiss looked sympathetic. Offhandedly, I wondered if she got to play Good Cop when they tag-teamed a perp.
“What do you want to know?” I said.
“Do you mind if we come in?” Wallis asked.
“Yes.”
He sighed heavily and offered me a disappointed frown. I returned it with a fuck-you stare.
Wallis reached into his trench coat and pulled out a photograph. He handed it to me.
“Ms. Kincaide, this is Eli Silverman. Are you sure you don’t know him?” he asked.
I studied the picture. It was a head shot like for an actor or author. The guy was older, forties or fifties, I’d guess. He had close-cropped red hair that was shot through with grey streaks, green eyes, and freckles across his nose and cheeks. He looked familiar, but I had no idea from where.
“Nope,” I said. “Should I?”
“Well, that’s what we’d like to know,” Wallis said. He pulled another photo out of his coat and handed it to me. “He was murdered last night.”
I glanced at the new pic. It was the same dude, except he was lying on his back in a massive pool of, presumably, his own blood. A giant, ugly gash dominated his chest. He was wearing a nice-looking suit that was ruined by all the blood.
A lightning bolt shot through my mind. I looked at the head shot again. Holy shit, it was the guy from my dream.
“My condolences to his family,” I said, hoping my voice wasn’t shaking. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say that, Ms. Kincaide,” Wallis said. “But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Why then?” I asked.
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