Demon Night

by Meljean Brook

  Charlie shook her head. “No, there was this guy I knew…” And she was already losing him. His brows were drawing down and she thought he looked ready to pull a DVD out, sit her down, and educate her. “Never mind. And yes, I’ve seen it.”

  He fell quiet as she began wrapping her knuckles, but when she glanced up she realized it was only because he was keeping himself from exploding with laughter.

  “What?” she asked warily.

  “I was trying to put you at ease, going to play it innocent and naïve, see how long it took you to catch on. Instead we ruined each other’s jokes.”

  “Oh.” She wound the tape around her hand a few more times. “Maybe we should have a signal, so we know whose turn it is to pull a story over on someone else. Obviously it won’t work on each other.”

  “You’re a smart lady, Charlie. I team up with you, and I might be able to pull one over on Drifter for once.”

  “You can’t now?” She jogged in place, rolling her shoulders. Lord, but this deck was incredible. Stretching and warming up in a gym that was lighted and clean, but always smelling slightly of body odor and sounding of thin carpeting and exercise equipment, couldn’t compare to the lake, the sun, the wind through the trees.

  “Not only was he my mentor for a while, I’ve been playing poker with him too long. I can’t bluff him for shit—pardon my language.”

  She shot him an incredulous glance, but his embarrassment seemed genuine—and his flush was so cute—that she decided not to point out that she worked in a bar and often said worse. “Where is he now?”

  “Drifting, so you don’t have to worry that he can hear our diabolical plan. It’s like meditation,” he added when she cast a puzzled look at him. “Deep breathing and focusing on an inner point, until all of the buildup just drifts away.”

  She pulled her arm over her head until she felt the burn in her triceps. “Is that why they call him Drifter?” She’d assumed he’d gotten his name by never staying in one place very long.

  “Well, the spaghetti western bit doesn’t help.”

  That response had come quick, and Charlie smiled to herself. Jake was apparently a talker, one of those gregarious types who couldn’t keep something to themselves if their lives depended on it, and she was suddenly very glad she’d come down. Ethan’s description of the events surrounding his brother’s death had left a lot of holes and raised more questions—but she wouldn’t ask him to revisit those memories just so that she could catch up.

  Jake might be able to provide some answers. And if she started him out by showing that she was already in-the-know, he’d probably be less likely to balk at sharing personal information.

  “He said the western bit was something he’d adopted.”

  “Did he?”

  Responding with a question was never good—so maybe Jake was more careful with information than she’d thought. Or maybe just aware of when someone was manipulating him; he’d quickly recognized her tall-tale mode. A glance beneath her lashes confirmed the cuteness had dissolved into pointed, sharp attention.

  “Yes,” she said.

  He regarded her with that expression for a long moment. “Drifter tells me that your privacy is important to you.”

  Dammit. That sounded like a polite way to tell her to mind her own business. She sighed and nodded. “It is.”

  Jake rubbed his palm over his head, in much the way she’d imagined herself doing only a few minutes before. His grin appeared again. “The thing is, I’m the kind of guy who’s a big believer in equality, and I got him a lot of information on you. And I don’t suppose there’s anything I could tell you that you couldn’t just look up in a history book, anyway…or by digging around a few obscure archives and rifling through copies of personal letters. Some of it, like his name on a list of graduates from Harvard Law School, 1878, you can find just by searching for it online. And his brother’s name is there, two years later. You ready to start?”

  Not if it was going to interrupt his recitation of Ethan’s history. “Can you talk while…” She looked him over as he stepped in close, his hands at his sides, and she frowned. “Are you just going to stand there while I punch and kick you?”

  “Basically. Anything else would be picking on you—but don’t worry, I’ll give you a workout. And we’ll make a wager: when you hit anywhere on my body or head, you win.”

  Charlie bounced up on her toes, flexing her fingers, her eyes widening. “Win what?”

  Her enthusiasm seemed to amuse him; he closed his eyes like he was fighting a laugh and turned his head to the side. Sucker. Pulled in by the same tactic he’d attempted to use on her. “A few details that you can’t find in history books…” He huffed out a breath when her fist connected with his ribs. “Hot damn!”

  “Sorry,” she said as he rubbed his side. “Okay, not really. He told me he was born on Beacon Hill.” Many of the wealthy opera patrons in the Boston area had Beacon Hill addresses; she’d been there a couple of times, and the houses were old, but not all of the money was. Ethan might have been from either. “A good family?”

  This time, Jake was ready, and he blocked her without effort, simply sliding his flattened palm in front of her fist, using his forearm to brush aside her kicks. “His mom, yes—his dad, no. McCabe, Sr., worked himself up through a law firm. Made a nice name for himself, but when the war started, he enlisted. The Civil War,” he clarified when she paused for a second.

  “That was…” She blew a strand of hair out of her face, tried desperately to remember. “1860? So Drifter was six?”

  “Yes. Does this ever make you feel like saying, ‘Wax on, wax off’?”

  Only a strange gravity beneath the question kept her from rolling her eyes, and she said carefully, “It might have twenty years ago. Why?”

  Jake ran his hand over his hair again, but this time his expression was troubled. “The only exposure I’ve had to pop culture is the magazines and books the others brought back through the Gate. So I’m figuring out where it all fits, what’s passé and what’s relevant, so that when I go active duty I can pass as someone who hasn’t lived forty years on Caelum—or sound like a hippie.”

  “Ah.” What had Ethan’s adjustment been like? Even with news coming in from outside, Charlie imagined going from the 1880s to the 1980s would be even more difficult than adapting to all of the changes in four decades. “Well, okay—for someone like me, I’ve just heard the Karate Kid thing too many times. But if you said something similar to Jane, she’d probably laugh her head off.”

  In fact, Jane had done exactly that when Charlie had made a similar joke not long after she’d first begun visiting the gym.

  Jane. Charlie’s fists clenched as anxiety grabbed hold.

  “Just a second, Jake.” She didn’t have much hope that Jane would answer, but she used the cell phone and left yet another voice mail. She closed the phone, noted the time, and realized she had another call she needed to place. A heavy weight settled in her stomach. “I’m not going to make it to Cole’s tonight, am I?”

  “Probably not.”

  She’d done this before, at all of the crappy little jobs she’d had before Cole’s, before Jane had given her ultimatum and Charlie had been forced to decide between her self-pity and her sister. With Charlie’s voice as hoarse as it was, no one had questioned whether she was really sick—at least not the first few times. And she hadn’t cared when they’d eventually told her not to bother coming in, only felt a vague sense of relief that they weren’t depending on her anymore.

  She certainly hadn’t felt the horrible guilt and disappointment that tore at her when Old Matthew answered and she lied her way through his concern, assuring him she’d be better tomorrow.

  Goddammit. She made her way back to Jake, anger and dread dragging at her steps. What if this hadn’t been settled by tomorrow? And even if they got Jane away from Dylan, would they be staying in Seattle?

  Aside from Jane, her job and the offer Old Matthew had made to her were the
best things Charlie had going—and she was about to fuck it all up.

  “Just let me know when you’re ready to talk again,” Jake said quietly.

  Her hair was in a sweaty tangle around her face, her shoulders and back aching, her calves and thighs screaming when she finally eased up and began to shake it out. She hadn’t landed a single blow past his blocks, but it was more relieving than frustrating—she hadn’t had to hold back, hadn’t had to worry about hurting anyone or pushing anyone but herself too far.

  “Okay,” she said, her chest heaving, “talk.”

  “Okay,” Jake said. “So his dad got out of the Confederate prison camp in 1864, and a few years later he bought a big place near what would spring up as Leadville, Colorado, and moved there.”

  She moved in on him again, but lighter now—just cooling down. “How long was he a P.O.W.?”

  “Not sure. And everything after that is sketchy until after Drifter and his brother graduated from Harvard—but that’s just likely because they didn’t attend any public schools, so there’s no record.”

  Remembering what Ethan had said about his mother’s reaction to his speech, Charlie put in, “I think his mom might have schooled them at home.”

  Jake nodded. “It wasn’t unusual. And after Harvard, Caleb went into a practice in Denver. Drifter was already working for a couple of different agencies, tracking down criminals who’d fled west, or who just hid out in the smaller towns. There’s quite a few mentions in various papers of him bringing in outlaws, swindlers, that sort. Then around 1885, it all seems to go to hell.”

  “How?”

  “His mom died. Killed, actually, because there was a murder trial not long after. The defendants were acquitted. Then McCabe, Sr., dies, and although the papers aren’t specific about this, there’s just enough to make me think it was suicide. Then reports of ‘The McCabe Boys’ start showing up—the trains and banks they’ve hit, the rewards on their heads, news of the bounty hunters and lawmen they’ve killed while evading capture, the jails they’ve broken out of when they did get caught.”

  Charlie stopped dead, stared at him. “You’re serious?” Please, let him be pulling something over on me.

  But a solemn expression had settled over his features, and she couldn’t find a hint of a joke behind it. “Yes. But it wasn’t until 1886 that Drifter’s death is finally recorded—then Caleb’s, right after.”

  She let that sink in. The ache in her chest wasn’t just from the exercise or frustration now—she wanted to see Ethan, hold on to him for a long, long time. A spot of trouble, he’d said. And he’d given up his life to get his brother out of it.

  “So, I can’t tell you what Drifter was like when he first got to Caelum, or anything much before 1968—and even then, I only saw him a few times before he was assigned as my mentor in the early nineties.”

  “I—” Imagining the span of Ethan’s lifetime was knocking her loopy. Charlie huffed out a breath, tried again. “I’m slow adjusting to thinking in these time periods, but I’ll catch up.”

  “I understand. I still can’t fathom Michael’s age, and he’s God-knows-how-old.” He laughed a little, but Charlie had just gotten the joke when he added, “Anyway, when I first met Drifter, he was with another Guardian, a really pretty young…Hot dog, that had your back behind it. Are we going for another sweaty round?”

  “Sorry,” Charlie muttered, and reminded herself that she was cooling down.

  His grin flashed, all too knowing for her comfort. “Anyway, it was nothing serious. I think they were just fu—” Jake cleared his throat. “Friends.”

  “Fuck buddies.” Which was all Charlie would have asked for. Impossible for her now. Not just his determination not to use her as a salve, and her determination not to be used as one—there was no chance that she could keep that emotional distance from him.

  Her sister, her job, the most fascinating man she’d ever met…Charlie’s life was just getting more and more fucked by the second.

  At least she had too many endorphins running through her to feel sorry for herself right now.

  “Yes. Until she Ascended with the others, and then I think it’s just been random human women, because I’d have heard if it was a Guardian. Back in the eighties, there was a rumor about things going sour between him and a vampire, but I don’t know if it was legitimate, and I only knew him by his coat and his height then.” Jake turned his head. “Do you think you’re even? Because he’s lowered the spell around his room.”

  No. She wanted to hear more about the vampire and about where he lived on Caelum and what Ascending was. But she only nodded and said, “I think so. Thank you.”

  He streaked into the house, leaving Charlie alone on the deck. The sun was setting over the city, painting oranges and purples in long strokes across the sky and the water. The air was cool, and now that she wasn’t active, it pricked gooseflesh over her sweaty skin.

  She tried to keep the fear from her voice in her final message to Jane, just convey a sense of urgency, but she wasn’t certain she managed it. When she hung up, only the knowledge that the phone was the one way Jane could reach her prevented Charlie from throwing it into the lake.

  “She’ll be all right,” Ethan said softly, coming to stand beside her. He leaned his elbows on the rail, clasped his hands, and stared out over the water. “Sammael cares for her. I don’t rightly know how corrupt it is, but he’s protective. He won’t allow her to be hurt.”

  “If he’s the one telling the vampires to kill me—”

  “Turn you into one of them.” His gaze lowered to his hands. “They’re looking to transform you.”

  Her breath hitched. “Either way, he’s got to be one sick and twisted motherfucker not to realize that hurting me would hurt Jane pretty damn bad, too.”

  Ethan nodded, a tiny smile kicking up the corner of his mouth. “He’s a demon, Charlie, which means he’s both sick and twisted—and since it pertains to you, I’m laying it out straight. This is why I’m not taking you with me at night, even if it means it won’t be as easy to get to Jane. I don’t want you out there, because the vampires can hurt you. The demons can’t.”

  A short laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. “Well, as much as I’d like to hang outside her window and wave until she sees me, I don’t want to become a vampire target, either.”

  He glanced at her. “That’s not a half-bad idea. And I reckon I’ve seen enough of you to try it for a minute or two.”

  That didn’t make any sense, but her body was making it very clear that he hadn’t seen as much of her as she’d have liked. Not just the cold—every nerve seemed aware of his presence. The slight brush of her inner thighs as she shifted her weight was enough to have her attention zinging low, and her gaze settled on his mouth.

  But that was done with. And though she couldn’t be immune to him, it wasn’t anything a little self-denial and a lot of self-gratification wouldn’t ease.

  “Are you feeling okay now?” She searched for any difference, but he looked as easy and relaxed as he had their first walk to Cole’s. “After drifting?”

  His smile deepened, and he turned toward her. He was wearing almost the same clothes as when the vampires had attacked—the jacket, brown trousers, knee-high boots, and holsters. His shirt was a deep blue now, but it still looked eminently touchable. “Has Jake been running his mouth again?”

  “I won a bet,” she said.

  “You ought to be careful making wagers; if they’re ever with a demon, it can land you some serious trouble.” His gaze ran over her face, down to her chest. He turned back to the lake. “You worked him over pretty hard?”

  She touched her hair, wondered how matted and stringy it looked. “Yes.”

  “That’s good. That’s real…” His lips tightened, and he swallowed. “I’d best go. You ought to get inside, so I can lock the house down. I’ll try to bring Jane back to you tonight, Charlie.”

  “Thank you.” She bumped her hip against his thigh, smiled
up at him. “For sending Jake to be my punching bag, too.”

  His nod was abrupt, but his attention lingered on her mouth. “I sure wish I—” His jaw clenched. “Hell and damnation. Don’t lay your hands on me, Charlie.”

  Frozen, she watched his head descend, felt his warm breath, the light brush of his lips against hers.

  He immediately stepped back. “That’s all I meant to do before.”

  She closed her eyes. “I guess drifting did work, then.”

  “It cleared a few things for me, that’s for damn certain,” he said, low and forceful. Startled, she glanced up and his amber gaze locked with hers. “The first is that I won’t be torn up forever. I hope not much longer than it takes to fetch Jane for you, get you both settled again. Then we can see where we’re at, and if it’s still agreeable to you, maybe scratching this powerful itch we’ve got. Most likely, we’ll be scratching a long time, and more’n once—but we’ll figure that as we go.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and a slow lick of anticipation curled deep. “I’d like that,” she managed. “And you don’t have to worry that I’ll let myself need more from you.”

  Or ask for more, if she couldn’t stop herself from needing it.

  “I only recently figured that, too.”

  She couldn’t interpret the wry note in his voice, so she said, “What’s the other thing?”

  “That I ought to staple Jake’s lips shut before he heads back to San Francisco.” His grin was slow. “But I’ve since added another realization to those: you look awful good when you’re all sweaty.”

  She returned his grin. He was such a tease, but she could give a little back, then wait for the rest. “If you’d ever peeked over that wall, you’d know that I look better sweaty and naked.”

  Ethan groaned, dropped his head into his hands. “You hush, Miss Charlie.”

  CHAPTER 11

  A few minutes after sunset, Ethan went out to the deck and formed his wings. Charlie watched him through the French doors until he flew too high for her to see, then she took her time through her shower, fixing her hair, and dressing in her favorite gray pants and a blue camisole.