Adelaide Upset

by Penny Greenhorn

  The compliment missed its mark, serving only to make me wonder if I’d indeed chased Lucas. There had been no flocking, of that I was sure. Urg, I wouldn’t think of it. He’d be home soon enough and then I would know one way or the other.

  “Will you give this to him?” The dish was a pie, and she fussed over the Saran Wrap. “And... and tell him that I hope to see him at the next senior’s night. I’ll be looking for him.”

  “Sure thing, Florence.” I didn’t have to hide my pity, I didn’t do pity. But she was the picture of injured dignity on the walk back to her car, so much so that it tried my forbearance.

  I watched her ease out of the lot, moving slowly. It was the careful driving of someone who knew their reflexes were shot to shit. Once her fenders were out of sight I went back to brooding. I’d already contacted Reed and Francesca, putting in calls first thing after getting to work.

  My conversation with Reed had gone something like this:

  “Lars Hurst sent Raina Thompson after me again.”

  “Don’t worry, Adelaide, I’ve taken care of it.”

  Needless to say my call to Francesca had been vastly more informing. Francesca’s mother was the godfather of gossip, and in typical Tammy fashion, she’d heard of Raina’s fate. Some concerned passerby had called in her location to the police. The responding officer was one Robbie Jordan, the son of Susan, who Tammy Wainer (Francesca’s mom) knew from church. Now Robbie had been inclined to take pity on Raina, but that only lasted until the moment she awoke. Her mood had been black, her tongue even blacker. Apparently she’d given poor Robbie and the surrounding crowd a verbal lashing. But ranting hadn’t helped her any and whatever pity she’d won was lost. Robbie took her in for questioning, flour, honey and all. She’d clammed up at the station, making one phone call before zipping her lips. Shortly after, literally in minutes (record time according to Tammy) a posh lawyer showed up and Raina was released, with no grounds to hold her.

  She must have called Lars Hurst and he’d sent someone to come and get her. I wasn’t surprised and I wasn’t disappointed. I wasn’t anything. The outcome of yesterday’s events didn’t bother me in the least—it was my own actions the day before that rankled.

  I’d been so blasé about smashing Raina over the head with a rolling pin, but revisiting the mere memory made me cringe. So how had I managed the actual feat?

  Raina, that was how.

  I woke up this morning, shocked by my own callousness, but realized shortly thereafter, it hadn’t been mine. Raina’s desperation had fed me, enabled me to act. Lucky for me, but what would I have done if Raina’s own emotions hadn’t betrayed her? Playing Nancy Drew was fun and all, but I sort of lacked the killer instinct.

  I was disturbed by what I had done, but in a contrary fashion, I was equally concerned that I couldn’t do it again if the situation required such drastic measures. So I brooded over that for a while, then Lucas, and eventually the rest of my conversation with Francesca. She’d thrown her involvement during the previous night back in my face, citing it to extort a favor from me. Tomorrow, before work, I was going with her to look around Botticelli’s. “Just to window-shop,” she swore.

  I didn’t enjoy shopping, but I planned to make up for it by treating myself after work. I’d already picked up a family sized bottle of NyQuil from the store, and I would put it to good use after reading a passage from Demidov’s diary. Raina’s visit had instilled a sense of urgency to it all. I couldn’t afford to wait because I was afraid. If I wanted to know, then I needed to read.

  * * *

  I cannot say whether the information I learned from Luitger Fuerst is true, though the fact that he garnered much of it from a demon dilutes my mind with incredulity. Regardless, his words sparked in me a burning for knowledge, and they were the touchstone from which my own research sprouted. From experience I knew that humans were not beyond a demon’s reach. For a select few, those ‘gifted’ like myself, the demon’s wealth of information was obtainable, but at a price. They could take a man, build him up and make him powerful. Such men were easy to find throughout history, and close beside them was their demon, hiding in human skin. For example, Alexander the Great knew a lifetime of expansion and victory, but was it truly earned? I am persuaded that his success was somewhat unnatural, though I am torn between two theories. The first, that his demon was inherited, a present if you will, from his father Philip. I know not if Philip was ‘gifted’ or if a demon, once reaching this side of the veil sought him out, knowing a king of Macedon was powerful in his own right and could easily coerce a man to forfeit his own body for a demon’s use. If this was the case, my immediate next question is to the identity of such a creature. It was Aristotle that Philip chose to be his son’s tutor, a far-seeing, brilliant mind, learned in every topic of the day, who often encouraged Alexander to eastern conquest. It sounds absurd to say, but I am half convinced that he might have been a bit too bright for the times. Was he perhaps a demon? Did he mold Alexander and other kings, using their power for his gain? The second theory is that Alexander was ‘gifted’ and dealt directly with one demon or more. With Alexander’s help, the demon would likely have possessed someone close, a friend, a general, a bodyguard. Hephaestion was all three to Alexander, and the likely choice. It is a subject of speculation whether they were lovers, but if Hephaestion was Alexander’s demon guide, giving instruction on what was more or less world domination, then Alexander would have been devastated by the loss, which he was. Hephaestion’s passing was purported to be an illness of some sort, though demons do not thrive inside human flesh and blood. They are compelled to experience every sensation, pain as well as pleasure, and can destroy a body even as they revel in it. In my research I found other names, mostly military strategists, as ‘might makes right’ has been the theme of Earth’s history. There was Sun Tzu, an ancient Chinese general, believed to have written ‘The Art of War.’ It is said that Sun Tzu was tested by the King of Wu, asked to turn the king’s harem of 180 concubines into soldiers. When the king’s two most favorite concubines giggled instead of following orders, Sun Tzu had them executed to make a point, even against the king’s wishes. This artless cruelty struck me as a demonic attribute, and I searched for it too in our histories. There was Hannibal, famous for crossing the Alps with war elephants in tow. Considered the ‘father of strategy,’ he was often outmatched, facing an enemy with superior forces and experience, but even so, he defied the odds, ringing in the victories. Genghis Khan with his Mongols employed a psychological approach, using fear to do his work for him. There was Julius Caesar, Charlemagne, Napoleon and Hitler, all men who wielded great power, with an insatiable appetite for more. But in these late centuries, as the world takes on change, modernizing, power has turned from brute force to a more subtle form. Religious and political figures now reign supreme, money and influence becoming more necessary than soldiers and weapons. If Raulriechmydl, or any other demons of my acquaintance, used the issue of my invitation to breach the veil and seek out more influential members of society, I do not wish to know it. I am a coward, for I do not want to contemplate the possibility of what my actions might have wrought.

  Chapter 17

  As agreed, I accompanied Francesca to Botticelli’s the following morning. I was a little groggy. The NyQuil had suppressed my nightmares, or maybe Smith hadn’t been around to wake me and I simply forgot the terrible dreams. Either way, I’d slept, but not restfully. Francesca noticed the moment I ducked into her car.

  “You look like a crack addict.”

  “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Did you have to bludgeon another intruder?”

  “No, nothing so dramatic.” I hurried to add, “And I wasn’t having marathon sex with Lucas either.” Not wanting to rehash the Raina incident or the current state of my relationship, I changed the subject. “So tell me about your wedding dress.”

  She used the excuse of checking her rearview mirror to turn her nose up at me. “I don’t know what you�
��re talking about.”

  “So you haven’t sewn the whole thing up in your head already?” She absolutely had, her enthusiasm and intent were concentrated and anticipatory. It was the feeling one gets before unwrapping a present. “Be honest,” I admonished. “You want a wedding, and you’re willing to marry Conner to get it.”

  “Be honest?” she scoffed. “So you can be all quiet and secretly judgmental?”

  “You think I’m petty?” I tried not to sound defensive or, heaven forbid, judgmental. “How about this as a compromise: I give you my opinion, forthright and unblinking, and then, no matter what you decide, I’ll support you completely.”

  “Alright,” she said, perking up. “Hit me, I can take it.”

  “Are you in love with Conner?”

  I knew she wasn’t.

  “Maybe,” Francesca lied.

  “So he could be, like, your soul mate then?”

  She snorted, unable to keep up the charade. “Who the hell believes in soul mates?”

  “People that are in love!” I let go of my frustration, it wasn’t helping. If I was going to get through to Francesca another tack was in order. “Okay, so he’s not your soul mate. You are compatible with lots of people, but that’s my point. If you could shack up with anyone, anyone in the whole world, would you really choose Conner? It’s a lifetime commitment, sickness and health, balding and weight gain. Do you really want him as your partner through all that?”

  “Oh, honey.” Francesca spared me a tender look, she truly felt bad for me. “You really are pathetically romantic. The problem is that you’re thinking along the lines of ‘until death do us part’ and my thoughts are more, well, Kardashian.”

  “So you’re going to get married with an expiration date in mind?” I’ll admit, my tone just then was a bit judgy.

  “Well?” she shrugged.

  “What about the astrologist, what did she have to say?” I asked, growing desperate.

  “You know it was odd,” Francesca said slowly, recalling the conversation. “She mentioned all that promising stuff about alignments, and then it was all solstice this and solstice that, night and day—”

  “Yes, but did she say you would be happy with Conner?”

  She better not have.

  “Well,” Francesca dithered, stalling a bit. “She did say that he would offer me security, you know, in a material way.”

  I pressed, “And?”

  Frustrated, Francesca sort of shouted, “And if I don’t like him we’ll just get divorced!”

  I’d set out to convince her that she was abusing the concept of marriage, but in the end, I was the one to sway. It was difficult to win a debate when you could feel an opponent’s emotions treading all over your resolve.

  “I’m not sure if I’m being provincial or not, but it doesn’t matter,” I finally stated. “It’s your decision, and like I said, I’ll support you.”

  Francesca relaxed as her backburner anxiety dispersed, leaving us both feeling better. “Now that you’re on board, let me tell you all about my dress.”

  * * *

  I’d been to Botticelli’s before. It was the little boutique Francesca had brought me to when I needed fancy dress for one of Reed’s events. I didn’t like the place because it required constant interaction with the staff, though if Dominique heard me call him such, he’d probably stab me with the fabric shears.

  They had clothing, mostly gowns, displayed out front, but the apparel for trying on was under lockdown, hidden in the back, probably in a vault of some sort. Francesca had to discuss with Dominique the style of dress she had in mind, the size and fit, the fabric and color. He would bring them out one by one, carrying them like a baby, before carefully ushering them through the curtain to Francesca. And when she was all zipped up and buttoned in (thanks to me) she would step onto the raised platform and do twirls in front of the full-length mirror. After more than an hour I was contemplating suicide, not seriously, just the casual fantasy of my messy demise, and Dominique’s face when he saw all that blood on his precious babies.

  “What do you think of this one?” Francesca asked for maybe the hundredth time. “Just picture it in ivory or clam shell.”

  “Nice.”

  She turned to look at me, the dress shushing as she swiveled away from the mirror. “You’ve said that about every single one!”

  “It’s your decision,” I answered wryly. “I’ll support whatever dress you choose.”

  Francesca didn’t bother with my opinion after that, but it didn’t matter, Dominique was more than happy to oblige. They had a symbiotic relationship which I found odd but interesting. She was like his muse, a living mannequin on which to work his art. And he was her provider, with taste and talent she adored. But it wasn’t until after Dominique mentioned the fact that he went to New York for every fashion week that her eternal awe was cemented in place. They were a match made in heaven, and together they planned her wedding dress, discussing the smallest of details.

  I waited patiently until it was time to go, knowing that I would be late for work. It wasn’t until the ride back that I finally asked Francesca for a favor.

  “Another one?”

  I didn’t begrudge her that. After the last one, she was right to be worried. “It’s not a big deal,” I promised. “I just want you to give something to Stephen.”

  “What is it?”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what, anything, you decide. Ask him to hold it for you, like, a loan or something.”

  “Alright,” she agreed, feeling puzzled. “But I swear, if you pull weird shit like this during the wedding preparation I’m going to ask my cousin to be the maid of honor.”

  “Man-shoulders Melissa? You wouldn’t dare.”

  * * *

  Ben was in the office when I arrived. He never stayed behind the front desk unless he was waiting to nab me for being late, which I was by more than an hour. He blew up, ranting until the steam ran out and then, unbent and feeling better, he finally went home, earlier than usual I might add.

  Stephen came in some time later to report that Francesca had stopped by. Apparently she pulled up to the room he’d been cleaning and honked until he popped out to see what was what. Waving him over, she handed him a penny, saying to hold on to it, a loan until she asked for it back. When he questioned her, obviously finding her behavior odd, she just shrugged and said, “I’ll be damned if I know what it’s all about.”

  You could say my plan backfired, but I didn’t admit that to Stephen when he gave me a gentle but probing look. “What would I know about it?” I asked. “She didn’t stop to see me.”

  After work I downed a substantial amount of Vicks syrup, closing myself inside the closet where I could read until I felt its effects take hold.

  The warmongers throughout history were an easy target which I used to search out demon influence, but through my explorations I discovered their less obvious presence. It flickered through myth, stories carrying a germ of truth, the subtlest hint of a demon’s touch. There was Hades, Greek god of the ancient underworld. It was said that he ‘enriches himself with our sighs and our tears.’ In their effort to appease Hades, his followers would sacrifice black animals, usually sheep, and bang their hands to the ground so he would hear them. As demons were stuck in a realm of their own, with no physicality about them, their power structure remained in stasis. Their leader, the one who had separated them from the rest, continued on as the most forceful figure among them, wielding charisma and clever plots, while those close to him fell slightly lower on the totem pole. Hades may or may not have been one such creature. It is plausible, and I conclude that once he breached the veil, he used his considerable intelligence to set himself above the most powerful of men, above even kings, making himself a death deity to be worshiped by all. There are others. In Hindu scriptures the lord of death is called Yama, or Yamaraj. He rides a black buffalo while carrying a rope lasso which he uses to bring souls home. In Irish mythology the death messe
nger of the underworld is a banshee, a fairy woman who will scream to herald the cessation of life. Then there is the more common grim reaper, and its variant, the black moth. Such figures are peppered through every time and culture, a dark being, inhuman and tied to death. The grim reaper is especially fascinating in that it is represented by a cloaked figure, beneath which often lies a skeleton. What if the walking, reanimated corpse had been that of a human, taken over to house a demon? Such a sight may be the origin of our myths. Although I must put down that, according to Luitger, a lifeless body is unpleasant to their ilk in that it offers no sensation and little pleasure to the possessor, but I cannot say whether that would stop a demon.

  I had stopped reading, a little creeped out. This was a bit of foreshadowing, though it had come too late. Anastas was dead either way, but he really should have paid more attention to his own inference. It would have saved his niece a heap of trouble, not to mention myself.

  I turned the page, reluctantly prepared to keep reading when I heard some small sound. I dug my elbows into the wall, hauling myself upright in my rush to hide the diary. My ears were peeled and the sound came through the door more clearly, a slight tapping. Demidov’s entry had put me on edge, and I was half tempted to stay hidden away in the closet as my last visitor had been hostile, but I girded my loins and cracked the door.

  My stomach seemed to drop, my mind dizzy with thoughts as I stepped out and carefully shut the door behind me, willing myself to cross the kitchen. The reckoning had come, and I wasn’t the least bit prepared. A ruffled half-curtain clipped the top of the backdoor’s window, and between its part I could see him. He watched me through the glass, his knuckles still pressed against the pane.