Demon Night

by Meljean Brook

  Jake’s jaw clenched briefly and regret darkened his face. “I found the data you requested.”

  Ethan’s gaze fell to the paper that appeared in his hand. He swallowed past the sudden chokehold on his throat and read the header as he unfolded it. “Arizona State Library?”

  “In their microfiche. There wasn’t much. Just this short mention, from a Wilmont newsletter dated August 1886.”

  The month after he and Caleb had ridden into Eden. Ethan frowned, shook his head. “Wilmont? That’s east of Tucson. I told him to head west.”

  “That’s why it took me so long to find it. I was looking in the wrong direction.”

  Jake was correct; there wasn’t much. Just a single line: Caleb McCabe, murder and thievery. Hanged.

  Ethan vanished the paper before it crumpled in his fist. The goddamned fool. He should have gone west.

  CHAPTER 4

  “So, you remind me about lunch, but it’s you who forgets—Jesus, Charlie!” Jane abandoned her superior tone when she finally opened the door wide enough to see her. “Get in here. Did you put ice on it down at the gym? Did you forget to duck or forget to weave?”

  “Neither.” Charlie self-consciously lifted her hand to her face. A dark bruise flared from cheekbone to jaw. “I ran into a wall.”

  Jane rolled her eyes, grabbed Charlie’s hand, and pulled her down the hall toward the kitchen. Charlie dragged her feet on the hardwood floors, smiling for the first time since she’d woken—late—and found the feather gone. She’d looked for almost forty-five minutes before giving up, missing her regular workout routine—though her frantic search through her blankets and throughout the apartment had left her almost as sweaty, and halfway to tears.

  She hadn’t predicted Jane would assume the bruise came from kickboxing, but it saved Charlie from making up a story she’d believe.

  With the feather missing, Charlie wasn’t quite certain she believed the story anymore.

  “Ice isn’t going to work,” she said when Jane pushed her onto a chair at the dining room table and headed for the freezer. “This is from yesterday.”

  “Oh.” Jane tossed a handful of ice into the sink and wiped her hands on her jeans. “Then why were you late? And I called you about five times this morning.”

  “Really? I didn’t—” Charlie pulled out her cell and frowned down at the display. Five voice messages. She’d checked before leaving her place. There hadn’t been any calls then, and she hadn’t felt it vibrate on the bus ride from Capitol Hill to Queen Anne, or on the short hike up Jane’s street. “Okay, weird. The radio station was out, too, because my alarm didn’t work. I woke up to static around eleven thirty.” She glanced back up at Jane. “Did you cut your hair? Without me?”

  Jane’s hair had been on the verge of shaggy last weekend. Rich chestnut highlights streaked through the brown strands now, and they perfectly framed her small, pointed chin and large green eyes.

  “Yes.” A light blush stained Jane’s cheeks. “Sorry. I’d planned to wait for our usual salon day, but Dylan purchased a couple of hours at a spa and arranged the time off from work as a gift—”

  “No, it’s okay. I didn’t mean—” Charlie shook her head, immediately feeling like a bitch. “I was just surprised.”

  “You like it?”

  “You look like an elf. But it’s cute.”

  “Cute? I was hoping for ravishing.”

  Charlie dragged her fingers through the thick, messy tumble of her hair. “That’s me. You can have cute.”

  “Thanks a lot. Your roots are starting to show.”

  “I’m trying to convince everyone that I have hidden depths.”

  “You’ll have to grow it out at least another inch to even begin to persuade anyone.”

  There was only one response to that: a fuck you combined with the flip of her middle finger, and then wondering how a minute in Jane’s presence turned them into giggling thirteen-and fifteen-year-old girls.

  Those had been the best years. Before their parents’ divorce—before they’d been separated by a continent and too wrapped up in their own obsessions to find each other again. Before their father had brought them together again to announce that he was dying; before Charlie had destroyed her own life, and brought another year of separation on them.

  And if not for Jane slapping her awake when she most needed it, Charlie knew they’d be separated now.

  Jane pulled two diet sodas from the fridge, set one in front of Charlie. “We’re in trouble today.”

  With her drink halfway to her lips, Charlie stopped and stared up at her sister. “What does that mean?”

  “Dylan’s gone. He had a meeting.”

  “Oh, no. Did he leave something for us to eat? Or are we going out? And maybe a movie?” Charlie asked hopefully.

  Jane grimaced. “He left instructions. And shopped for ingredients while I was sleeping this morning. If we didn’t at least make the attempt…” She trailed off, and her expression seemed caught between pleading and stricken.

  “You’d feel bad.” Charlie would, too, but not as bad as—“Food poisoning would be worse. We can make sandwiches. Something we don’t have to cook.”

  Jane pointed to the grid of yellow stickies on the refrigerator. “I thought of that. But one of those was supposed to remind me to buy bread.”

  “Oh, God,” Charlie groaned. “Okay, you’re smart, and I can mix drinks. I suppose we can try.”

  After a fortifying chug of her soda, she joined her sister in the kitchen—and then stared in disbelief at one of the drawers Jane pulled open. Each spatula and serving spoon was perfectly aligned. A glance in the icebox revealed the same: everything neatly stacked and labeled.

  With such organization, they might actually be able to cook whatever he’d planned for them.

  “You know, Jane,” Charlie said. “I’ve thought for a while that you spliced and diced DNA to create Dylan, because he’s too good to be true. Now I’m convinced of it.”

  “You should see his closet.” Jane threw a wry glance over her shoulder, then stood on her toes to retrieve a pan from the rack above the island.

  A roasting pan. Charlie frowned, some of her apprehension returning. “What are we making, anyway?”

  “I can’t pronounce it.” A wave of her hand directed Charlie to the recipe lying on the counter. “Something with duck, I think.”

  “Canard rôti au thym et miel, sauce airelles et pommes de terre rôties,” Charlie read aloud, and managed not to wince as her voice butchered the fricatives. “Roasted duck with thyme and honey, a cranberry sauce and roasted potatoes? Is he crazy? I was thinking macaroni and cheese or spaghetti. I can do those.”

  “I don’t think Dylan’s ever had mac and cheese.”

  She scanned the directions. “This is going to take a couple of hours. I won’t be home until—” Almost dark. Closing her eyes, she fought the wave of panic that rolled through her.

  “Oh. Are you going to be late for work?” Jane sounded almost hopeful—glad of the excuse.

  Charlie shook her head, determined. She could be out in the night; no one was watching her, no one was waiting. At least not here. “No. My shift doesn’t start until eight.”

  “Maybe we can turn the oven up to a higher temperature. I’m too hungry to wait that long.” Jane slapped a paper-wrapped duck on the island. “How’s work, anyway? Old Matthew?”

  “Both good. Except for the assholes that make a mess with the peanuts. And Legion?”

  As they did each time she spoke of her research, Jane’s eyes lit up, and her smile creased two dimples in her cheeks. “Good. Actually, fantastic. I’ve never seen anything like the blood samples we’ve been getting, Charlie, and the implications for medicine are astounding—spontaneous cell regeneration and repair. And not just trauma usage, which is intuitive, but reversing any degenerative disease. But though we’ve successfully replicated the blood composition, we can’t force it to behave in the same way as the original.” Jane continued, pepp
ering the rest with jargon; the duck lay naked in the pan and they had unloaded most of the contents of the fridge when Jane halted mid-sentence and glanced at Charlie. “Okay, I got a little carried away.”

  “You lost me at ‘platelet storage lesion.’” Grinning, Charlie waved away the apology. “You’re talking about changing-the-world stuff. You have a reason to be carried away.”

  “I could save it for Dylan, because he has to love everything I say. Or for everyone at Legion—but most of them have been so tense lately they’re just as likely to snap my head off. At least you don’t mind when I…Do we really need all of this butter? Our arteries are going to clog overnight.” Jane arched a brow. “And I said ‘clog’ just for you.”

  “Bitch. I’d look that up, but I don’t know if it starts with a C or a K.” She waited until Jane stopped laughing before she added, “I don’t see why we can’t use half the amount.”

  “You decide how much. I trust your math skills more than mine. The very thought of your accounting course makes me break out in hives.”

  “I like it.” Which had surprised Charlie two years previous, when she’d begun taking the online classes offered by the University of Washington, mostly to fill the afternoon hours. And, she had to admit, so that Jane wouldn’t think she was as directionless as she’d felt. She’d been a late registrant, and a business class had been the only one open—but she’d taken to it. Not easily, but she enjoyed the challenge. “That laptop you gave me is making a big difference, too. I think I might have killed myself if I went through another term with the dial-up on my old piece of crap.”

  “Well, don’t get too attached to it. In six months I’ll replace my new one, and if I don’t give it to you, I’ll just throw it away.”

  Charlie shook her head; the computer Jane had just bought was worth about five months’ rent. “That’s stupid.”

  “I know.” Jane shrugged. “But Legion’s confidentiality clause says it has to stay within my household. So I just consider you part of my household.”

  “Aw,” Charlie said, though if her hands hadn’t been covered in butter, she might have given in to the emotion that swelled up in her and hugged Jane embarrassingly tight. “I don’t really need it, though, and I’d have to redo my settings.”

  “Oh, the horror,” Jane said, rolling her eyes.

  “Fuck you. It took me forever just to set up online banking this week. I don’t want to go through that again.” She paused, took a long breath; it always made Jane uncomfortable when she brought this up. “And if you send me your account info, I can transfer my payment to you each month instead of writing the check out.”

  Two bright spots of color appeared high on Jane’s cheeks. A half-inch-thick potato peel unwound beneath her knife. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

  Charlie waited until Jane looked up, and steadily held her gaze. “Yes, I do.”

  Charlie’s resolve to walk the four blocks to Cole’s—boldly and unafraid—faded with the setting sun.

  At seven thirty, she swallowed her pride. She might be crazy worrying about vampires, she decided, but she wasn’t an idiot: the twisted gate at Cole’s wasn’t a figment of her imagination. And there was no sense in going alone when she could just ask Ethan to take her.

  It didn’t occur to her until she was on the balcony, calling Ethan’s name over the wall, that a normal person would have knocked on his front door—and that if he wasn’t outside, he couldn’t hear her voice. But he either had very good timing or hearing, because a moment later his door slid open.

  She pressed her hands against the wall and rose up on her tiptoes as if the extra three inches might let her see over, and only succeeded in looking at a spot on the next piece of vinyl siding. “Ethan?”

  “Charlie.”

  That voice, so warm and smooth, and with a hint of amusement. Her fingers curled, her nails rasping faux wood grain. “Remember I told you last night I had an incident?”

  The amusement vanished. “Yes.”

  “I’m still a little jumpy.” She drew in a deep breath. “Okay, I’m freaking out. So I wanted to ask a favor.”

  “You want your cigarettes back?”

  “No.” Yes. Yes yes yes. Her eyes squeezed shut. “Though I guess we won’t be Pyramus and Thisbe anymore. I was hoping you’d drive me to work.”

  “I would, Charlie, but my automobile is in storage.”

  Startled, she blinked her eyes open. “Really? I thought I was the only one who didn’t drive much.” And she’d never heard “automobile” drawn out so long, like a word that sat foreign on his tongue. Had he exaggerated it, knowing that his drawl made her laugh and hoping to ease her anxiety a bit?

  It worked. She sank back down to her heels, waited for his reply.

  “I’ve got no need for one here. But I’ll be happy to walk with you.”

  The anxiety returned full-force, but underscored by giddy excitement instead of fear. “Okay. All right. I have to be there at eight, and I’m almost ready. Go and get dressed, Ethan, and I’ll be at your door in five minutes.”

  “Get dressed—?” His chuckle roughened the night air. “Am I to wear something special?”

  Her skin heated, but she wasn’t going to admit that she’d been babbling like a schoolgirl with a crush. “No, I just assume when people are alone in their apartments, they walk around naked. I know I do.”

  He was silent for a long second. “Well now, Miss Charlie, I wish you’d told me that two months ago. I might have come on over for a cup of sugar.”

  She grinned, but only said, “Five minutes,” as she backed into her apartment, her pulse racing. A check in the mirror. Jesus, the bruise made her look like a hooker who’d been slapped by her pimp. But slathering foundation on it would just make it worse, not to mention hurt like hell, so she left it alone. Her brows and lashes were naturally dark, but she touched up both. Her hair was good…great, actually, even with brown at the roots. She’d leave her hat off as long as possible.

  Her coat still smelled like burnt duck, but only when she sniffed it up close. Ethan wouldn’t be that near her.

  And she didn’t usually wear jewelry, but she selected a two-inch cross dangling at the end of a long black cord. It had been a part of a Halloween costume, and was supposed to hang between her breasts—but she wound it around her neck like a choker.

  A lot of women wore similar necklaces; Ethan probably wouldn’t think anything of it.

  The knock made her heart stop, and she forced herself to walk slowly to the door. He hadn’t waited, but maybe his apartment was a mess, just like most guys’, and—

  Tall.

  Charlie was used to being level with a man’s face, if not his eyes. She had a large frame, though she’d pared down and hardened her soft singing weight at the gym, and she was above average height.

  But Ethan was tall. And not at all as she’d imagined, when she had let her mind wander that way. She’d seen urban cowboy, blond, with a big hat and a bigger buckle, Wrangler jeans and pointy-toed boots.

  She hadn’t pictured short, melting-chocolate-brown hair—thick and uncovered—that just brushed his forehead. Eyes the color of fine whiskey, caught between amber and caramel. Shoulders broad enough to carry a woman easily, hips lean enough to wrap her legs around.

  He wore boots, but with a rounded toe and sturdy like a construction worker’s. The rough weave of his brown trousers caught at her memory, but Charlie couldn’t focus below his waist long enough to pin it down, not when his face had those roughly hewn planes and angles, like he’d been carved from oak, and his jaw looked strong and absolutely lickable.

  “Hello, Miss Charlie,” he said with the voice that matched his eyes. A scar cut through the left side of his thin upper lip, and crooked his smile just a little.

  “Hi,” she said, and for the first time was glad that the rasp in her throat hid her croak.

  His gaze fell to her cheek. His jaw clenched, and oak hardened to stone before he met her eyes again. �
��You all right?”

  “Yes.” Beneath his tan corduroy jacket, she saw the edge of brown leather suspenders.

  She should have been bold. Should have been unafraid.

  She was in so much trouble.

  Charlie couldn’t think of a single thing to say. It wasn’t like her; there was always something to talk about. But she walked the first two blocks in silence, Ethan a huge presence next to her. The problem with a man that tall was any glance up at his face was obvious; she couldn’t steal a look.

  She stared into the familiar storefronts that lined Broadway instead, watched the passing cars, fiddled her hands in her pockets and cast her gaze everywhere but at the one thing she wanted to study.

  Narrow shadows lurked between the buildings, tiny slices of darkness that the bright streetlights couldn’t penetrate, and she felt her apprehension returning. Even someone of Ethan’s size might not protect her from what she’d seen the previous night.

  Her guardian angel had been big, too, but she thought Ethan must be bigger…though it was difficult to tell. Her protector had held her above the ground, but it could have been one inch or ten.

  And she’d probably be similarly speechless if her guardian angel showed up, though out of awe rather than attraction. What would she say to such a being? Thanks, nice shot?

  Would she even want him to show up? She’d almost convinced herself that it had been her paranoia and imagination; his appearance would just be a confirmation that he had been real…and so were vampires.

  Nervously, she glanced away from the shadows, and squinted against the headlights of an oncoming car. Their glare recalled her to another kind of fear: the gut-wrenching instant of certainty that her voice would fail her when the curtain rose and the shine of the spotlight in her eyes rendered the audience dark and faceless. But that was a fear that never penetrated; her confidence in her ability was too strong to let it take root, the knowledge that the music was hers. And the terror always fell away with the first note, until the world narrowed down to the composition and the lyrics.