Demi Mondaine: Volume One

by N. R. Mayfield

  “Just some tweakers,” a man’s voice announced, his shiny black shoes slapping against the hardwood floor. He came around the bed and stood over Shawna’s stash. “Looks like they already made a break for it.” She stared at the legs of his sky-blue pants, a darker stripe running down the middle.

  The officer closed the window Steve had left open, then paused for a long time. Shawna’s heart was thumping loudly, less from the stress of the current situation and more the massive amount of crystal she’d ingested. But either way, she was sure he would hear it. Her eyes scanned the floor around him, spotting a lacy black thong at his toes. She squeezed her fist around the clothes in her hand. Jeans, shirt, bra—sure enough, she’d missed the panties, the only black pair from Stacy’s entire collection.

  “Huh,” the cop said to himself, and Shawna’s breath caught in her throat. “Not bad for a tweaker.” He bent down, using a pen to pick up her undergarment. The base of his neck was visible now, and if he turned just a little bit to the side, he would have spotted Shawna for sure.

  “What’s going on in there?” another cop called out.

  “Nothing,” the first officer said, straightening up. “Just taking a souvenir.” Shawna listened as he sealed her pipe and the crystal in a plastic bag. He shuffled around for a moment afterwards, and she realized he had stuffed her panties in his pocket. Something about that summoned a wetness between her legs, and she fought the urge to crawl out and offer herself up. The demon—or her imagined version of it—had been right. She really hated herself. If she had even a shred of self-respect left to her name, the cop had just shoved it in his pocket and walked out with it.

  The radio crackled in the other room, but she couldn’t make out the words. “Another one?” the panty-stealing cop asked.

  “We got a psycho on our hands or what?” his partner asked.

  “Nah,” the first cop said. “This was a murder-suicide. Must be a full moon bringing all the crazies out.”

  Their voices grew more distant, and eventually disappeared with the sound of a door slamming shut. She stayed under the bed, fingers rubbing furiously between her legs until her body tightened and she let out a squeal of release. She went slack, enjoying the brief moment of relaxation before she began to tingle with desire once again, and she slid out from under the bed. She immediately leapt up to look for her stash, but sure enough the cop had cleaned her out. The only thing left on the nightstand was a picture frame laying facedown. She set it upright and saw a family of five staring back at her—a young couple, probably in their thirties, their daughter and two sons all looking under ten.

  Shawna’s eyes lingered on the picture for a while, remembering a time she’d had a family of her own. She closed her eyes and saw Blair on the floor, her neck broken next to Colin with a knife in his heart, and Brooke with her black eyes and cruel smirk standing over both of them. She shuddered and slapped the picture back down against the table. There was a dresser on the wall opposite the bed, and Shawna pulled the drawers open. The woman in the picture was about Shawna’s height and figure, so her clothes might be a good fit. The top drawer was filled with plain cotton underwear, and while it wasn’t sexy, it would do.

  She found a walk-in closet in the master bath, and to her surprise she found a sleek black leather bomber jacket and more mom jeans and flannel shirts than any one woman had business owning. She tossed the rest of the house, looking for anything that might be useful, but aside from a few crinkled dollar bills, an assortment of expired prescription painkillers, and a jumbo-sized bottle of cheap whiskey, she came up empty.

  There was a set of keys in a drawer in the kitchen that looked like they might belong to a car, so she checked the garage. There was no car. Instead, it was a pair of massive motorcycles, black behemoths that dwarfed her scrawny bike out back. She chuckled to herself, and after she dragged her bike to the garage and swapped out their plates, she sat on one of the motorcycles, her fingers dancing on the handlebars. The engine howled beneath her, sending tremors through her body.

  She pulled out into the street, pausing for a moment while she considered where to go next. There was no need to find Steve. She had everything she needed for the moment, at least until she could score again. She blinked, realizing there was blood on the road, painting an arrow to the left. She turned that way and found three wavy lines connecting between three circles, all painted in blood and glowing with a hellish light that Shawna was convinced only she could see.

  She flicked the visor of her helmet closed and revved the engine. Apparently, the demon had left breadcrumbs for her after all.

  Devil’s Trap

  Zanesville, September 2014

  The door burst off its hinges, and Demi barged through, dressed in black fatigues and brandishing a military-style assault rifle. “Careful,” Doug said, coming up behind her with his own gun raised. He turned to cover the doorway of a shadow-filled den near the front door. Demi continued on down a short hallway to the kitchen.

  “Don’t worry,” Demi muttered, more to herself than to him. “I haven’t had a beer since breakfast.”

  “You sure we got the right address?” Doug whispered. Unsure of what to expect, they crept slowly towards the kitchen. Usually they had a fairly good idea at what they were hunting, but this one had them stumped. Whatever it was had a much higher body-count than they were used to.

  “You saw the car out front,” Demi replied. “It matched the plates of the car stolen from the victims in Norwich two nights ago. This is the place.” Their killer—whatever sort of creature it was—had been slowly trolling the interstate, getting off every couple of exits to massacre a family or two, then starting all over using the latest victims’ vehicle.

  “Oh, here we go,” Demi said, flicking on the kitchen lights to find a family of four sitting around a small diner table, their eyes and tongues ripped out and sitting in a bowl between them.

  Like every other house Demi had searched since she’d picked up on the pattern outside of Akron, the walls had been painted in the victims’ blood, strange flowing glyphs and geometric lines inside hastily drawn circles. Demi hadn’t been able to figure out what they meant. She’d emailed them to Owen, but he hadn’t gotten back to her yet, and she and Doug had been on their feet all week trying to keep up with the relentless killings.

  “We’re too late,” Doug said, shaking his head. He lowered his gun and began riffling through kitchen drawers. “Whatever did this is long gone.” He held up a wad of papers and started leafing through them, discarding old coupons and faded receipts until he was left with a small paper card. “Expired insurance for a gray Chevy minivan.”

  “Jesus,” Demi said. “What the hell is this thing?”

  “Sure as hell ain’t a werewolf,” Doug said, shaking his head. “They would have at least eaten what they killed.”

  “Let’s get rid of all this before someone calls it in,” Demi said. They’d scrubbed down each crime scene tirelessly, removing all trace of the strange graffiti. The last thing they needed was some overzealous detective linking these homicides together and declaring the existence of a serial killer. Demi and Doug were equipped to handle the local authorities, but if the real feds got involved, their hunt was as good as over.

  They went through the house room by room, removing any trace of the occult and restaging the bodies, tossing the bowl of eyes into the garbage. At the other scenes they had taken different approaches—burying the bodies, repositioning them, even burning one residence to the ground—anything to throw the police off the scent for as long as they could.

  When they were done, Demi collapsed in exhaustion into a dining room chair, laying out a roadmap with the demon’s previous crime scenes marked in red. There were other sites marked in yellow, including the neighborhood they were currently in—Demi was starting to get the hang of figuring out where this thing liked to hunt.

  The police radio on Doug’s belt crackled and hissed an indecipherable message. “Hold on,” he said. “G
ot something on the scanner. Sounds like it could be related.”

  “We’re about done here,” Demi said, folding up her map. “Better change into our fibbies and ditch the hardware,” she added, almost as an afterthought.

  In twenty minutes, they had both donned suits and sensible shoes and driven twenty miles back east on the interstate. Their quarry had been consistently moving in one direction, first north up I-77, then west on I-70, but it hadn’t been uncommon for them to backtrack along the way, since not all of the creature’s kills had been discovered in order.

  “Are we still in Ohio?” a groggy voice asked from the backseat. Adria sat up, rubbing her eyes before staring out at the dense green trees rising up along either side of the road.

  “Almost forgot you were back there,” Doug said with a nervous chuckle. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “I thought I told you no talking while we’re hunting,” Demi snapped, glaring back in the rear. Adria raised her middle finger, and Demi shook her head with a mixture of annoyance and begrudging pride. Half of her still didn’t trust the former zombie hypnotist, and the other half saw her as the kid sister she’d never had.

  “This is it,” Doug said from the passenger seat, flashing red and blue lights appearing ahead. Demi slowed and pulled onto the shoulder.

  “Do I need to change?” Adria asked. “I didn’t know we were going to be posing as feds tonight.”

  “We pose as feds every night,” Demi growled. “Just keep your head down.” The car came to a halt behind half a dozen black patrol cars with striped yellow decals, and the teen dropped back out of sight. Demi and Doug got out of the car and wandered down an embankment where a number of deputies in dark green uniforms stood shining their flashlights near a broken fence.

  “Morning, fellas,” Demi said, flashing one of her fake badges. “Agent Mondaine, FBI. This is my partner, Agent McKnight. Heard you had something strange on your hands.”

  “Nothing that would interest the feds,” a bald-headed deputy said, scowling in the early morning twilight. “Just a few dead cows. What brings you all the way out here?”

  “We’ve been working some murders along the interstate,” Demi said. “Heard you call this in over the scanner.”

  “Murders?” the deputy asked, his scowl deepening. “Who the hell called you guys in? I told the guys over at state we had this covered.”

  “State police didn’t call us,” Demi said, her voice cold and firm. “We’re the FBI. Nothing happens without us knowing. And since obviously you boys are too busy trying to figure out who killed Babe-In-The-City over there, it’s a good thing we’re here.”

  Doug grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her away. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Babe isn’t a cow—it’s a pig.”

  “What?” Demi asked. “No, it’s not. That big blue cow Paul Bunyan rode around on?”

  “That… what?” Doug asked, blinking in bewilderment. “Then it’s not from the city. And it was an ox. Paul Bunyan didn’t ride his ox! They just walked around together.”

  “If he had an ox, why wouldn’t he ride it?” Demi asked. “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Your references don’t make any sense,” Doug said, turning back to the deputies. “Sorry about that,” he said with a solemn nod. “FBI business. So, what have you got here?”

  “Twenty or so mutilated cattle,” the sheriff said slowly. “Some freak ripped their guts and just left them here to die.”

  “Sure it’s not an animal?” Demi asked. “Wolves maybe?”

  “No wolf I’ve ever seen,” the sheriff said. “Come take a look.” He waved them down, ducking between the rails of the simple wooden fence. A noxious smell hit Demi as the wind picked up, and she nearly gagged at the stench.

  “What the hell is that?” she gasped. The sheriff chuckled darkly at her expense.

  “Sulphur,” the deputy replied. “We’re not sure why, but it’s everywhere. Stinks to high heaven. See anything that us poor country bumpkins missed?” he asked. He shook his head in exasperation and walked away, leaving them standing before more than a dozen dead cows, all lying on their sides with their bellies sliced open and viscera pulled free.

  “What do you think?” Demi asked, clutching her nose to escape the horrible smell of rotten eggs. She crouched down in front of the closest cow, examining the rough, irregular tearing along the belly. The violence was sloppy, but not animalistic—just like the creature they’d been chasing.

  “Werewolf?” he asked, his face going pale as he held his breath.

  “No,” Demi said. She stood up, and blood rushed to her head. “Werewolves have claws, and their kills are cleaner than this. Whatever did this just ripped the guts out like it was playing around. This wasn’t a werewolf or a nahual.”

  “Well, ghouls don’t eat living meat… usually,” Doug said, scratching his chin. “Obviously not vampires because the blood hasn’t been drained. And I’ve never heard of a ghost killing animals before. Maybe it’s aliens.”

  “Oh my God,” Demi groaned. “You always want it to be aliens.”

  “Hey, one of these days it will be,” Doug said with a shrug. “You’ll see.”

  “Yeah,” Demi said, rolling her eyes. “Just like you saw that chupacabra.”

  “Fine,” Doug said. “Don’t believe me. So if it’s not aliens, what is it?”

  “I have no idea,” Demi admitted. “But this smell… reminds me of that haunted cabin we looked into out in Tennessee a couple months back.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Doug said. “That was a fun case.”

  “What are you talking about?” Demi asked. “We camped out for two weeks in the mountains and didn’t find a thing. Big waste of time.”

  “That’s one way to describe it,” Doug replied. “The way I see it, we got to camp out in the mountains and nothing tried to kill us. Me and Adria had a great time.”

  “Don’t get soft on me,” Demi said. “Let’s call Owen. I emailed him days ago and he hasn’t gotten back to me.”

  “You know he’s not big on email,” Doug said. “Calling him is better.” They hurried up the embankment and got back on the road, and Demi put her phone on speaker and dialed Owen’s number. The old hunter had helped them in the past, and even though it was before dawn, he answered on the third ring.

  “Whadya want?” he growled on the other end of the phone. “This better be about a case.”

  “You’re a crotchety old man,” Demi replied. “Why else would I call you? We’ve got a weird one.”

  “Aren’t they all?” Owen replied. “Go ahead, lay it on me.”

  Demi quickly gave him the facts—the killings, the mutilation, the bloody sigils, the stench of sulphur. “Whatever it is likes to kill—a lot. We’ve been tracking it up I-77 since Charleston, but we fell behind when it took a detour west on I-70."

  There was a long pause before Owen replied. “Let me call you back,” he said finally, a slight quiver in his voice. “Don’t do anything stupid until I do, ya hear?”

  The line went dead. “What’s gotten into him?” Demi wondered aloud. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was scared.”

  “I’m pretty frickin’ scared,” Doug said.

  “You always are,” Demi said, rolling her eyes. “But this is old Metal-Plate-In-His-Head Owen. He’s been doing this stuff for a long time. He doesn’t scare easy.”

  “Maybe we’re overthinking it,” Doug said. “We’ve been at this for days with hardly any rest. Let’s get some breakfast. You heard Owen. We should hold off on tracking this thing until he calls back.”

  “Oh yeah?” Demi muttered. “And if we’re not chasing this thing, just what the hell are we supposed to do?”

  “Let’s get the kid something to eat,” Doug said quietly. “And you too. You haven’t eaten a real meal since this all started. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Never better,” Demi said through clenched teeth, willing herself to believe that was true. “I haven’t b
een drinking.”

  “I know, I’m impressed,” Doug said with a chuckle. “I don’t think you’ve had more than two beers since we caught this case. There was a time you had more than that before breakfast.”

  “We’re on a job now,” Demi said, her eyelids heavy as she stared at the bleak road ahead, barreling forward at eighty miles an hour. But much as she wanted to keep pushing onwards, she knew Doug was right. Whatever they were dealing with, they wouldn’t stand a chance against it if they were half dead before they even caught up to it. She needed real food and a solid four hours of sleep.

  She pulled off on the first exit with a sign for food services, and she stopped in front of a small diner with a white façade and “open twenty-four hours” sign. She couldn’t count how many dives like this she’d eaten at since taking up the life on the road, but it wasn’t nearly enough. If there was one thing that gave her the strength to put one foot in front of the other, it was the greasy, deep-fried heaven places like this whipped up.

  “They don’t have salad, princess,” Demi said, glaring at Adria from across the table. The teen stared disinterestedly at the sausage links and scrambled eggs on her plate. “Eat up.”

  “Lay off her, would you?” Doug asked with a heavy sigh. “She’s been through enough—her parents and brother starved to death while they were hypnotized, and you threw her sister out a window—”

  “And down a mountain,” Demi added, grinning proudly. “And don’t think I won’t do worse to her if I even get a hint of that freaky gray-eyed hypnosis crap again.”

  “I told you!” Adria said, slamming her fists against the table. “I don’t even think I can do that anymore.”

  “Well, don’t even think about trying,” Demi growled. “Cuz I’m just looking for an excuse to end you.”

  “Ugh,” Adria groaned, sliding her chair away from the table. “I hate you!” She leapt up and raced towards the door, tears streaming down her face. The door chimed to mark her departure.