Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  Dixie’s voice fades in, “So she could have gotten out of the house, away from Bane. Then The Disaster started and who knows what happened after that. If she’s still alive, which we think is a real possibility, she could be anywhere. I didn’t want to tell you and get your hopes up, but I can’t keep it to myself anymore.”

  Dixie turns left onto Fort Apache from Sahara Avenue. She makes another left on Lake South Drive. The road winds through and around small parks and ponds with shallow waterfalls. Geese and ducks scamper across the road.

  “I’m glad you told me.” My thoughts are mixed, my emotions on fire. “In a way, Lucy was my Sufferings.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She taught me how to transform, the secret to it. She gave me hope. I thought I was the only one of my kind who wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, until I talked to her. She saved both our lives that night, remember?” The houses and streets rush by; I’m only half aware of them—my mind is on Lucy.

  Dixie gives me a sideways glance after she parks the car. “Are you okay? I shouldn’t have told you. Are you sorry you came with me?”

  I rest my hand on hers. “Not a chance. I’ll ask Aunt Rose about Lucy when we get back later. Let’s go.” A smile appears for her benefit. “Time to start suffering.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  The houses are modern cookie-cutter stucco homes, no different from the thousands of others on the west side of town. I get out of the car and glance at the row of brown, beige, and tan homes lining either side of the street. Palm trees tower above our heads and different kinds of cactus fill many of the front yards.

  Dixie points to a house across the street, a tan one story on the corner. Rocks and Joshua trees spread out in front of it leaving no discernible walkway to the front door. We step across the rocks and skirt around cactus on our way up the grade. The door opens when we arrive at the porch—perfect timing, as if we were being watched.

  A small voice calls out, “Are you Dixie?”

  Dixie nods.

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “His name is Adam Steel. He’s a friend.”

  The door opens wider, the owner of the voice still concealed in darkness. “Only you.”

  “But Aunt Rose, er, I mean Rosalyn Chase said—”

  “Only you.”

  Dixie turns. “Please wait for me. I left the keys in the car if you want to listen to the radio. It’ll be okay.”

  “No. I’m sticking with you.”

  “It’s gonna be all right. Aunt Rose sent me here, and she would never put me in harm’s way.” Her arms wrap around me in a big bear hug. I bear hug her back, not wanting to let go.

  “It’s too hot in the car. I’ll wait right here, just outside the door, okay?”

  She nods and gives me a peck on the cheek. “I shouldn’t be too long.” She turns around and steps into the house.

  The door slams shut.

  Chapter Twelve

  The pungent odor of things unseen forced Dixie to cup a hand over her nose. She stood as still as a sculpture until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The form of a small person materialized in front of her. Was it a child?

  “Follow me.”

  “Why can’t my friend come in, too?”

  “Follow me.” Ignoring the question, the small figure turned and strolled down a long hallway, sometimes disappearing as it blended into the shadows.

  Dixie followed, taking small, tentative steps. “Wait for me.” No response. “Will you wait, please?” She used her hand against the wall as a guide; one step after the other, feeling her way down the hallway. “Please wait for me. Please? Why won’t you answer?”

  “Stop.” The voice was calm, cool—almost indifferent. “Wait here.”

  Dixie heard no air conditioning unit, but shivered against the freezing temperature. She wrapped her arms around herself and watched, or imagined, the small figure scurry away. The cold, the darkness, and the silence unnerved her. If Aunt Rose hadn’t insisted on her coming, this was the last place she would want to be. If only I hadn’t bought that damned crystal ball. There were so many things to learn.

  “Dixie Mulholland, welcome.” A new voice—older, deeper, and almost cheerful. “Welcome to The Sufferings.”

  Dixie strained against the blackness, but saw nothing. “Where are you?”

  “You’re older than I expected. Nice head of hair, though, and a good complexion. A little on the thin side. Don’t you eat?”

  “I eat. Why can’t I—”

  “You’ve only known for two years. Why?”

  “Known what? I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “Known you’re a Daemon. What’s the matter with parents these days?”

  “My parents are dead.”

  “Sorry. Ah yes, Rosalyn. Your aunt is your guardian. Still, she should have told you ages ago. Most Daemons endure The Sufferings in their teenage years.”

  “So I’ve heard, countless times. Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Sit down.”

  Dixie bent down and felt for a chair in the darkness. “Where? I can’t see a damn thing.”

  “Language,” the voice admonished. A spotlight snapped on, illuminating a red velvet easy chair. “Sit.”

  Dixie sat down. The spotlight turned off. “Why can’t I see you?”

  Whispers darted across the room followed by unseen giggles. “Your aunt didn’t tell you much, did she? Ah well, we work with what we’re given.”

  “Aunt Rose said I needed to learn a few things, learn what it means to be a Daemon. I assume you’ll teach me.”

  Another round of snickers. “You are so green for your age. Ah well, I suppose we’d better begin at the beginning, work through the middle, and get to the end.”

  “Who’s here with us?”

  No answer.

  “How long is this going to take? I have a friend waiting for me outside.”

  “Ah yes, the dog. Shall we begin?”

  Dixie’s eyelids felt like lead. When they closed, she fell into a sudden sleep—no dreams, only darkness as deep as death.

  “There you are then, how do you feel?” The voice sounded cheerful.

  Dixie rubbed her eyes and shook her head. She cleared her throat. “Did you drug me?”

  “Ha, nothing as crude as that.” The voice now sounded hesitant, lacking the power it once carried. “We entered your mind.” Another pause. “There’s greatness in you, Dixie Mulholland. More than you know.”

  “We? I don’t understand.”

  “Someday perhaps, not today.”

  A different voice—deeper, older than the first—purred somewhere in the distance. The purring sound evolved into a croon, and settled into a chant:

  The sunshine has returned,

  In truth the secret lies.

  The night it must be burned,

  In love the body dies.

  The lines repeated as Dixie closed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “Someday perhaps, not today.” The speaker cleared her throat and continued in a businesslike tone, “In any case, we conveyed to you all the knowledge you may, or may not, want to use: performing spells, translucent teleportation, shape-shifting, and the like; all the Daemonology you could ever wish to study. Do you have any questions?”

  Dixie sucked in a deep breath. Her question wasn’t really a question, rather a command, “Show yourself.”

  A harsh light bathed the room at once which wasn’t a room at all, but more of a cavernous hall—much bigger than the house she’d seen from the outside. In attendance, hundreds crowded together, their eyes all fixed on Dixie. Just as fast, the light flickered and died, throwing everything into darkness. Dixie’s heart raced. She was sure the image of the multitude was an illusion.

  Giggles, chortles, and snickers drifted through the shadows.

  She wrinkled her brow and sniffed the air. The light, exotic scent of jasmine made her smile. “Is that my scent? I suppose it could have
been worse,” she said, recalling Charlie Nguyen’s wretched smell. Thoughts filled her mind; new thoughts—recent memories of things she’d never done, places she’d never been. Everything she wanted to know about being a Daemon, and it had only taken a few minutes.

  Laughter filled the darkness.

  “Why are you laughing? Stop laughing at me.”

  The same calm voice that led her into The Sufferings answered, “Two days have passed.”

  “Two days? Oh my God, where’s Adam?”

  “Ah yes, your companion banged at the door repeatedly, quite annoying. In any case, The Sufferings have concluded.”

  Dixie bolted out of the chair, fell down, threw up, and winced in pain. “What have you done to me?” Her head felt heavy and thick, as if she’d been put through the spin cycle.

  “You have not been harmed,” the voice said. “A common side effect of The Sufferings.”

  “But, where’s my friend?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. At the end of the second day, he got in your car and drove away.”

  “He drove my car? But he can’t drive.”

  “Truly. He motored right through the stop sign at the end of the block. Curious, not a drop of rain in sight, yet he turned on the windshield wipers.”

  Dixie stood up and bent over as a wicked cramp churned through her stomach. “What’s the matter with me? I’m going to be sick again.”

  “The Sufferings, my dear. No need for alarm.”

  “But I’ve got to find Adam, to know he’s okay. There’s no time to be sick.”

  “Then may I suggest you simply…go. You know how.”

  Dixie closed her eyes, doing her best to ignore the pain, and rummaged through her new found knowledge. Yes. Imagine a place; imagine the journey, close your eyes—deep breath and just…go. Silver mist swirled around her feet, rising until it covered her completely. In an instant, the room vanished.

  ****

  I’ve experienced so many feelings as a human: love for Dixie Mulholland, and hate for Sonny Russo; delight at being human, and fear when I thought I was the Werewolf Killer. There are, of course, so many more emotions that cover the spectrum of being human; they come and go as my life unfolds, but the worst of them all (at the very top-of-the-bad-list) is panic.

  Panic makes me feel useless—even worse, hopeless. Dixie has vanished from the face of the earth. I thump on the door, bang at the windows, and yell until a woman across the street promises to call the cops. I give her my word I’ll keep it down, and I do for about a minute. I kick the bottom of the door until my foot hurts, pound on the side of the house, and run around to the backyard to see if there’s another way inside.

  Black drapes hang at the windows hiding everything inside from view. As I make my way back to the front, I hear a car drive down the street. It’s a Metro cruiser, so I duck down low behind a prickly bush and watch it come to a stop. The woman across the street scurries out of her house and talks to the officer in the patrol car. She points in my direction, and the officer looks my way. I’m certain neither he nor the nosy neighbor have any idea where I’m hiding so I remain still.

  The officer parks at the curb and walks through the maze of rocks and cactus to the front door. I hear him knock. “Metro.” He waits for a minute, knocks again, then walks back to his car.

  “House is empty,” he barks at the nosey lady. “Give Metro a call if there’s another disturbance. I’ll be close by—here’s my card.” The officer drives away, and the woman goes back into her house.

  Maybe I should make another disturbance, wait for the cops to show up, and tell them about Dixie being kidnapped. But that could get messy—they’d probably ask for my ID, my relationship to Dixie, the nature of our business here, and I’m not ready for those kinds of questions. The worst part is I have no idea what’s going on inside the house. Dixie called it The Sufferings. It seems the only one suffering right now is me. Panic is an emotion I can do without.

  I decide to sit in the backyard with my back to the wall and wait, listening for something—for anything. The house, the neighborhood, even the sky is still, no birds, no wind. When the sun starts to fall, my panic rises. Standing up, I turn around and put my palms on the stucco wall. It’s still warm to the touch after baking all day.

  With my eyes closed, I try to contact Dixie telepathically. It’s almost the silliest thing I’ve ever done, but with all the talk of communication with the other side, I give it a shot. I even try to communicate with Major Ransom, hoping she can get a message to Dixie. That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever done.

  Time to stop trying silly things and start taking action. After backing up several steps, I reach down and grab a good-sized rock. Looking left, right, then straight ahead, I throw the rock at the window. It bounces off. I pick up another rock and throw it harder. It bounces off faster, ricochets back at me, and makes me jump. The windows are thick, probably bulletproof panes of glass. This house is an unsolvable puzzle.

  Running around to the front, I attack the door again with both fists. The lady across the street opens her door, and I high tail it out of there to avoid a confrontation. It doesn’t take me long to sprint down the street and hide in one of the parks we’d driven by earlier. The sun settles behind the Spring Mountains, and I wait for a while before returning to the house. I have no choice but to find a comfortable hiding place in the backyard and dig in for the night ahead.

  Funny how time races by when it’s spent doing something enjoyable; like the night I spent with Dixie. Tonight, however, will crawl by like a bug. I sit in the backyard, never moving, never closing my eyes; listening, watching, waiting until the stars come, then go—and that takes forever.

  The lady across the street is up early, watering her front lawn with a garden hose. Groups of children lugging heavy backpacks hurry down the sidewalk, probably on their way to school. Overhead, a jet cuts through the clear, blue skies leaving white smoke lines in its wake. Everything is as it should be, another peaceful day in The Lakes except for the Daemon house holding its dark secrets—holding Dixie prisoner.

  I sneak back to the front of the house, planning to try one more assault on the main entrance. Assuming it’ll take the lady across the street a minute or two to get through to the police and five more minutes for them to respond, I have six, maybe seven, minutes of noise to make.

  Thanks to Colonel Dayton, I’ve already formulated another plan in case this one fails. The back-up plan makes me nervous, but at least I have a Plan B. In my best imaginary British voice, I say, “There’s always a Plan B.”

  I pick up another rock and pound on the windows. After stepping back a few paces, I throw the rock, full force, against the stubborn door and shout, “Dixie.” No answer. “I know you’re in there.” Nothing but silence.

  The lady across the street appears, phone in hand. “Yes, that same man is back. He’s trying to break in. Please hurry.”

  Time for Plan B.

  The keys are indeed in Dixie’s car. My heart races as I turn the ignition and hit the gas. The car doesn’t move. What am I doing wrong? That’s right! I have to put it into Drive. I pull the shifter-stick-thing, but the car doesn’t move. With a glance across the street at the lady in full voice, I step on the brake pedal and try the stick again. This time it slides into D and the car lurches forward. The engine dies. I turn the key again, but it won’t start.

  I have to calm down. I’ve seen people drive before and know what pedals they step on to go and stop, but there are so many knobs and buttons and levers and switches and gadgets and gizmos. I should have paid closer attention. How do they do it?

  I push the shifter back into P and turn the key again. With my foot on the brake, I pull the shifter into D, and press down on the gas pedal. The car moves forward. My hands grip the steering wheel so hard it makes me think more of my fear than what I’m doing. I definitely have to calm down, so I take a deep breath and turn the wheel, pushing down the gas pedal a little harder. The speedometer ne
edle climbs, reading about twenty miles an hour. It feels like flying. When I get to the corner, I spin the wheel to the right. My hand touches a lever and the windshield wipers scratch against the window. I’m too busy trying not to crash to worry about how that happened.

  There’s a red stop light up ahead, and I’ve got to do something quick. I mash on the brakes and the car stops, lurching me forward in my seat. The car dies about a hundred yards from the intersection and somebody honks a horn behind me. I turn the key and hit the gas, then stomp on the brakes. Another honk. It’s going to be a long road trip to Aunt Rose’s house.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clouds of blue mist faded as Gorgeous materialized. She glanced about the cavernous room, nodding a silent approval of the décor. Her flowing white gown stood in sharp contrast to the murky walls surrounding the chamber. She turned toward the sound of water trickling down a large wall made of glass. The water illuminated by the glow of a fire pit behind the glass.

  “Cinnamon and roses, what a delightful aroma.” His voice, soft and sweet like music, drifted across the room.

  Gorgeous stepped toward a plush armchair near the wall of water. The speaker, The Mystic, faced the wall, his back to her. She tried penetrating his thoughts, but they were blocked. He couldn’t be human; she could always penetrate their frail minds. He seemed to know who she was by her scent. If that were true, if he knew her identity, he kept quite calm about it. “There’s no fear in your voice.”

  “Fear,” he said smoothly, “what is fear?”

  Gorgeous glided next to The Mystic and stared down at him. He looked smaller than she imagined. Maybe the black robe he wore had something to do with that. His hands were pressed together under his chin, as if in meditation or worse yet, prayer. He sat in lotus position, barefoot, and relaxed. He did not return her gaze. She raised her voice, “Fear: defined as an apprehension; concern for what is not known.”

  At last, his gaze, gray and cold, turned up to her. “You quote Webster; one of my favorite books. Concern for what is not known. And how does Webster define that which is not known?” His voice remained smooth, even, and direct as he answered his own question. “The unknown: something not yet discovered. I believe the fear of what is yet to be discovered is a waste of time, a waste of energy, nothing more. One must simply not worry about the unknown. To paraphrase another one of my favorite books: an anxious heart weighs us down.”