Demon Night

by Meljean Brook

  The clench of her teeth could have ground peanuts to butter. Like hell she’d serve him more.

  “Yo, Stevens. Ease off, man. It isn’t her fault.” Her ally. His tie now hung limply around his neck, but she managed to restrain herself from reaching over and yanking it tight again when he added, “Listen to her. She’s sick or something. Couldn’t get off for the night, Blondie?”

  His tone was sympathetic, but his assumption scraped her already raw nerves, and the rasp in her voice deepened along with her frustration.

  “No.” Charlie pointed to the jagged white line crossing the bottom of her throat. She’d ripped out the sleeves and collar of her Metallica T-shirt, and the resulting boat neckline was low; she couldn’t believe they’d missed the scar. Unless she was wearing a turtleneck, she usually couldn’t get new acquaintances to look at her face. “The Emerald City Slasher.”

  His eyes widened; so did Stevens’s and the others’. “No shit? Thaddeus White, right?”

  She nodded. “Seventeen years ago. I was twelve.” Hopefully they were too loose and warm to recall that the Slasher had fixated on adult women, not kids.

  “How’d you get away?”

  “I had to saw through my ankle. Then I crawled to a neighbor’s.”

  “Holy shit.” The exclamation made the rounds, and two of the jerks actually tried to lean over the bar for a look at her legs. Did they think she’d pop off a prosthetic foot for them?

  A throat cleared behind her. Her savior had come. Charlie turned; Old Matthew’s determinedly solemn frown wrinkled his raisin-dark face. “You want to take that break now, Charlie?”

  “God, yes,” she muttered and limped past him. Just before she reached the “employees only” door, she heard him telling Stevens and company that, when probed too deeply, the memories of the Slasher were liable to send her into a psychotic rage.

  Good Old Matthew Cole. He’d likely have them gone by the time she returned—or at least moved to a table in the restaurant.

  She grabbed her navy peacoat from the hook inside the break room, slid it on, and dug her knitted cap from the pocket before slipping out through the kitchens. The heavy length of her hair against her back annoyed her, but she didn’t untuck it from beneath her collar. Trapped as it was between the coat and the wool hat, it’d be as flat as a one-dollar beer by the end of her break.

  But flat could be fluffed; drowned rat could not.

  Rain misted over her face and sparkled beneath the halogen security light. Cardboard wilted in the recycler to her left. The lid on the brown Dumpster was up. She grimaced, imagining the sodden garbage, and tipped it closed. The clang shot through the alley, disturbing a yellow-striped cat and echoing in her ears until she reached the gated stairwell to the roof.

  The gate was wrought iron, with a metal screen to prevent anyone reaching through the bars to the interior knob. As a safety measure, only the outside knob locked—if someone dropped the key over the side of the roof, they could still open the gate from the inside.

  Every Cole’s employee had access to the key, but Charlie was one of the few who used it, even when—as now—the air was cool enough to nip at her face, but not enough to make her shiver. Luckily, in Seattle, extremely cold days were as rare as a perceptive drunk.

  The top of the stairwell was dark, but the light above the bar’s kitchen door shined through the gate, casting shadowy diamonds against the rough brick wall. Charlie ran lightly up the stairs, her feet slapping tinny chimes from the aluminum treads.

  In the middle of the roof, a few potted plants edged an Astroturf carpet and surrounded a porch swing better suited to a verandah in Savannah than atop a bar in the trendy Capitol Hill neighborhood. Small firs from a Christmas tree farm flanked the swing’s support posts. A white string of lights spiraled around the evergreen branches, though the holidays had passed four months earlier. Steam floated from the ventilation hoods over the kitchen and caught the streetlights in front of Cole’s, then dissipated as it rose. The scent of grease and fried potatoes it carried did not fade as easily.

  Old Matthew called the roof garden his little piece of Heaven; when Charlie had utilized the sand-filled planter that doubled as an ashtray at the end of the swing, it had been hers. Still was.

  She’d kicked the habit, but the scene was too good not to revisit. Though the old movie theater across the street obscured most of the downtown skyline, there was just enough glitter to offer a lovely view.

  The chill from the seat soaked through her black cotton pants, but the canvas awning had kept it dry. A push of her foot sent it swinging, and she fished her cell phone from her coat. For the space of a few seconds, the rocking tempo perfectly matched the ring of the phone.

  Jane answered on an upswing. “Char-lie.”

  Charlie’s brows rose. She’d heard a couple of men say her name like that, but never her older sister. “I’m just checking to make sure you haven’t forgotten about lunch tomorrow.”

  “Nuh-uh. I wrote it on a sticky. It’s stuck on the fridge at home.”

  “Fridge” was kind of a moan, too. Charlie unwrapped a piece of gum—not the square kind anymore—and folded it over her tongue before she said, “Actually, I wrote it. You just stuck it.” At home? “Are you still at the lab?”

  “Yeah.”

  Charlie rolled her eyes. “Did you remember to eat today?”

  “Uh-huh. We ordered in. Sushi. And wine.” A giggle came through the earpiece. Jane didn’t giggle.

  “You’re with Dylan,” Charlie guessed. “Isn’t this why you moved in with him? It still shocks me that Legion doesn’t dock you both for…what’s the word? It starts with F.”

  “Fraternization?”

  “That’s good enough. With the regional head, while you’re at work. Isn’t there a policy against that kind of thing?” It seemed like there should be, but Charlie couldn’t be sure; both the corporate and academic research worlds were mysteries to her. Jane’s descriptions of internal politics, red tape, and the hoops she had to jump through at Legion Laboratories could have been set in another universe.

  “Nuh-uh.” Breathily. And her ridiculously articulate—if absentminded—sister was spouting two-syllable nonwords.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Charlie realized. “You’re fraternizing him right now. Naked?”

  “Almost.”

  Charlie tried not to imagine that, even though Dylan was…well, yummy. All dark hair and eyes and sinful lips. But he was her sister’s, and they were so cute together. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I couldn’t decide if that would be more awkward.”

  “Nerd. You didn’t have to answer the phone.”

  “It was you.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet. Except now I feel dirty.”

  “Imagine how I feel.” The dry tone was familiar—it was Jane.

  Charlie grinned at the phone. “Alrighty then. Try not to be naked at noon.”

  “I’ll try.”

  That ended on a bit of a scream, and Charlie hastily disconnected. The call time flashed up at her from the backlit screen: fifty-six seconds. Her smile faded.

  Adding in the minute it had probably taken to come up here, she had thirteen minutes before she had to return. Shit.

  She should have brought a book. Or her knitting bag. How long had she been relying on Jane being available when she needed a distraction? God knew Charlie had been dependent enough in her life; she should have recognized the signs by now.

  But she shouldn’t be feeling this envy. If anyone deserved happiness, it was Jane. Charlie didn’t know if Dylan deserved her sister, but if Jane was happy with him, Charlie would be, as well.

  With effort, she forced away the self-pity—that emotion was addictive, too.

  She rocked a little harder, let her head fall back against the cushion, and closed her eyes. Why had she let a guy like Stevens get to her? She never had before. She didn’t know why she was so tense of late—or why she couldn’t shake the certainty that she was con
stantly under observation. Surely after two months, she couldn’t blame her paranoia on nicotine withdrawal.

  At least she could be confident that no one could see her for the next ten minutes. Determinedly, she occupied herself with a game of pinball on her cell phone until she heard a swell of laughter and voices.

  Charlie left the cover of the swing and looked over the low wall at the front of the building toward the Heritage, where an old-fashioned marquee declared it “James Stewart Month.” Groups of twos and threes spilled from the theater’s doors, many of them folding their collars up against the rain.

  The second show must have ended earlier than usual, or there’d been a problem with the projector—Old Matthew always scheduled her break before any theater patrons straggled in.

  Most of the moviegoers turned right, walking down the sidewalk toward Harvard Street and the parking garage. One large group of twenty-or thirty-somethings, males and females in tailored trousers, long, belted coats, and chic haircuts, headed straight for the bar. None of them carried umbrellas, but many Seattle urbanites viewed them with disdain—as if getting soaked honored some sacred Cascadian tradition.

  A few minutes remained before Charlie’s break ended, but she might as well head back and give Old Matthew a hand.

  She walked to the stairwell, hoping Stevens and friends had left—or at least migrated to the restaurant—and hoping that the newcomers wouldn’t offer their own variety of condescending bullshit and a pseudo-intellectual discussion of the film over cocktails.

  But two steps down, still enshrouded by darkness, Charlie froze. Thoughts of annoying customers fled. She stared through the gate at the wet asphalt in the alley, her heart hammering in her chest.

  For an instant, the shadowy diamond pattern at the bottom of the stairs had thickened and congealed into a human shape.

  Around her, the soft pattering of rain steadily increased. From Broadway, the rumble of a bus engine was followed by the gassy release of its brakes.

  No voices. No footsteps.

  It could have been nothing. Someone using the alley as a shortcut. A person who’d just left the bus, or taken in the movie. Someone in the kitchens bringing a bag of trash out to the Dumpster, and she just hadn’t heard the door open and close.

  But it had been so fast. Furtive. And though she hadn’t seen anyone cross in front of the gate, the light source was close to the stairs. For someone to have cast a shadow, the person had to have been near as well.

  Silently, she edged back up to the landing. It might be nothing, and in a moment she’d call herself an idiot—but better than being mugged or raped in a dark alley.

  She looked over the back wall, and her breath caught. A man in black stood directly beneath her. Though the halogen light illuminated his long blue black hair and whitened the skin at his hairline, hands, and the tops of his ears, the depth of the shadow pooled around his feet seemed to enfold him in darkness.

  Stopping for a smoke in the rain? Charlie tried to convince herself of it, but he didn’t reach into his trench coat pockets for a cigarette. And he was too still—almost expectant. Waiting.

  For what?

  So absolute was his stillness, Charlie nearly jumped when he leaned away from the wall, turning his head as if searching for someone. His shadow slid like oil, a dark slick spreading the width of the alley.

  Charlie looked in time to see a man and a woman melt out of the darkness beyond Cole’s street-side corner. Gooseflesh prickled her arms. Their steps seemed sped up, like the cartoonish pace of old black-and-white newsreels.

  But there was nothing jerky in their predatory glide, nothing comedic. It was too smooth, too quick, too…

  Inhuman.

  A shiver raced down her spine, drew the skin tight across the nape of her neck. Her breath skimmed in between her lips.

  As if he’d heard that soft sound, the figure below tipped his pale face up. His mouth was half-open in a smile. Sharp teeth gleamed.

  Long sharp teeth.

  Charlie jerked away from the wall and dropped into a crouch. Her legs trembled. Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Had he seen her?

  Had she just seen fangs?

  She was crazy. Fucking crazy. One strange incident two months ago, and now she was imagining vampires.

  She squeezed her eyes closed, willing away the vision of his teeth, hoping her blindness might be his, too. They flew open again when the singsongy voice drifted up the stairwell.

  “Charlotte…”

  She was suddenly light-headed, dizzy. Her inhalations were too fast, too shallow. Hyperventilating. She was going to pass out if she didn’t get ahold of herself.

  She forced her breathing to slow, forced herself to think. Had she been panicking like this from the time she’d seen the first shadow?

  If so, that might explain why they’d seemed to move so quickly. Her perception could have been distorted.

  But he’d said her name. How could he know her name?

  She hadn’t gotten a good look at the other two. Her job put her in contact with a lot of people, and she was on a first-name basis with many of them. Had anyone mentioned a costume party? A rave at a Goth club?

  But a casual acquaintance wouldn’t know to find her up here, and would only use her nickname.

  Still shaking, her breaths ragged, Charlie half-rose from her crouch. She moved quietly to the head of the stairs and peeked around the stairwell housing.

  No array of diamond shadows. The stairs were completely dark, the light blocked by the three figures staring up at her through the gate.

  Though she could barely see the outline of their features, she was instantly certain she didn’t know any of them.

  Was instantly certain those smiles weren’t friendly.

  Oh, God. She turned and flattened her back against the brick wall, frantically searching her coat pocket for her cell. The rough corrugated stone dug into her spine.

  An eerie screech tore through the air. She realized what it was at the same time the first ring sounded in her ear.

  Cold wrought iron, bending.

  A hard-edged feminine laugh accompanied another metallic squeal, and Charlie’s throat tightened. It wouldn’t do any good to shout or scream. She couldn’t attain any volume, and nothing pitched higher than a middle C would ever come from her scarred vocal cords. Come on, comeoncomeoncomeon—

  “Cole’s—”

  “Old Matthew! There’s someone in the alley—”

  And now deep male laughter, as if they were relishing her fear.

  “Charlie?”

  “—trying to get up here, hurry hurry—”

  Through the earpiece, she heard Old Matthew calling Vin’s name and the crash of the phone to the counter. They’d be out within seconds.

  To face these things? Old Matthew was huge, intimidating, and Vin strong and quick, but she hadn’t warned them that whatever they were running to confront might be much, much stronger—

  A familiar flat clang almost stopped her heart, her breath. The Dumpster. Someone had jumped on top of the lid. And the rough scraping could only be boots against brick.

  One of them was climbing the wall.

  Charlie shot to her feet, prepared to run. But where? There was no access to street level except the stairs. She whirled in a circle, looking for a place to hide. Nowhere was safe.

  The lights from the Heritage penetrated the gray haze of fear clouding her vision. It was only a twenty-foot drop or so. Better to risk broken legs and go over at the front of the building than wait around here for…

  Her mind shut off before she could contemplate that.

  Blindly, she sprinted away from the wall and slammed into another. Pain exploded over her cheek. The impact spun her around, she almost fell, but something wrapped around her chest and pulled her back up tight against a surface as hard as the brick, but warm.

  What—?

  Not a wall. One of them had gotten upstairs.

  It was no use, but she tried to yell, kicking her heels a
gainst his shins, elbowing his stomach and chest. Her struggles were as ineffectual as her screams, and she hated the desperate whistling noises she made almost as much as she hated this thing for scaring her.

  “Easy, Charlie. Easy.” A male voice. A soft rumble in her ear. “I’ll take care of them.”

  It cut through her panic, and she had a heartbeat’s time to see the arm extended over her shoulder, and the crossbow in a large, capable hand. A heartbeat’s time to see the dark form launch onto the roof and the shock on his pale face before the bolt thunked into his forehead and he tumbled back over the side.

  The female shrieked, a piercing note of surprise and terror. One of the males—probably not the one with an arrow through his brain, Charlie realized—cried a name like a warning. Gideon? And then running footsteps, boots against pavement, echoing in the alley…so fast. Prestissimo agitato, and the tempo of her heart not much slower.

  “Can you stand, Charlie?”

  She didn’t know. She couldn’t think of her legs when her entire existence narrowed down to a stranger’s arm and his weapon. The rain beaded on his sleeve, then soaked into the rough weave. There weren’t many dark spots on the material, as if he’d donned the coat in the past minute or two.

  “Charlie?”

  She blinked. “Yes,” she rasped, and then he was setting her feet down and running silently past her, a tall form in a long brown duster, the split coattails flaring out behind him. A round-brimmed hat shadowed the side of his face as he jumped atop the wall and went over.

  Her stomach quaking, Charlie raced to the edge, looked down.

  All of them, gone.

  Vertigo struck. The world swam dizzily, and Charlie shook her head. Not real. Not real.

  She was trying to convince herself of that as Old Matthew and Vin burst through the kitchen door. A shotgun glinted dully in Old Matthew’s grip. They rounded the Dumpster.

  “Charlie?” Shock hoarsened the older man’s voice and twisted his face when he saw the gate. He lifted the weapon to his shoulder, turned in a long sweep of the alley.

  It took her two attempts to moisten her tongue enough to reply, to stop the chattering of her teeth. “Up here.” It was little more than a whisper, so she added a wave.