Night Call (Book 2): Demon Dei

by L. J. Hayward

  “William,” she countered.

  “Don’t do this to me again.” He tried to sound angry and stern, but his intention was well masked under a thick layer of tiredness. It strained his voice and stole the hard edge.

  It stabbed Erin in the heart to hear it, to be reminded so keenly of what he’d been through. She’d gone home from a long week chasing leads in Sydney with a sniffle, completely unthinking of what she did. All she’d wanted was to go home and sit with William and moan about her job, complain about other people and let him reason her back to civility. She’d wanted to sit in her own tub full of steaming, bubbly water, to drag herself out and fall into her own bed and sleep until she’d caught up on every wink she’d missed. Instead, she’d come home only to argue with him about the time she’d spent away, to find him pushing himself by doing the gardening and cleaning the house. They’d argued and then they’d made up, sitting on the couch, kissing and touching as they hadn’t in a long, long time. William’s immune system, compromised by chemo and the underlying cancer, couldn’t fend off the weak little bug she passed to him.

  And at the same time, she got angry with him. She hurt, too. Did no one understand that?

  She couldn’t stop the thoughts. They were there intermingled with all the grief and anguish she felt for her husband, twined as intimately as lovers, one undistinguishable from the other. To feel sympathy for William, to understand his pain, she had to resent it as well.

  Sickened by herself, Erin asked, “Do what?”

  “Block me out. I don’t see you for two days, don’t hear from you. I had to find out from Ivan you’d been in an accident. And you’re not even on a case this time.”

  “This time?” she repeated numbly.

  “You don’t even realise you’ve done it. You didn’t last time. Or at least you felt you had your excuses.”

  “I still don’t understand. What other time?”

  “Six months ago. That deal with the case that saw you shot at, attacked by a mad dog and then disappearing mysteriously from the hospital. You refused to talk to me then as well.”

  “My cases are confidential.”

  “Doesn’t stop you usually. You don’t name names, sure, but you always come home and talk about the frustrating ones.”

  Erin scowled. “Not always, apparently.”

  “Yes, not always.” The underlying annoyance vanished, leaving nothing but the weariness. “What’s going on, Erin? Ivan said something about you helping another investigator. Don’t tell me everything, but please, just tell me something.”

  Damn Ivan.

  As if reading her mind, William said, “And don’t blame Ivan. He didn’t want to tell me anything either. I had to make some serious threats to get even that much out of him.”

  He was right. She had intentionally blocked him out of this mess. Hawkins was right, try as hard as she might, she knew she wouldn’t be able to shield Ivan from the supernatural world. But she could keep William out of it. He’d been horrified enough when she’d been dealing with drug dealers, wife bashers and child abusers. The last thing he needed was the added worry of things like vampires and demons.

  She’d never told William about Matt, not even the barest bones of his case. Back then, her only desire had been to forget him, to forget the dark, dangerous circles he moved in. How could she tell her husband anything now without it sounding like she’d been hiding something?

  “William,” she began.

  “No. Look, let’s not do this over the phone.” He sighed. “I have to go anyway. Nurse Ratchet is heading this way. If I don’t pretend I’m resting she’ll insist on something to help me sleep.”

  Horribly, Erin felt relieved. “Okay. Please, do rest.”

  William snorted. “I’ll cancel the bungee jumping trip, then. Come see me as soon as they let you, okay?”

  “I will,” she promised. “Love you.”

  “Me too.” And he was gone.

  Erin stared at the phone for a long time. She didn’t know what she was supposed to be feeling. Everything he’d said—accused her of—was true, and more besides. Why did keeping Matt Hawkins a secret feel like a betrayal?

  “Excuse me.”

  A woman stood in the door to her room. She wore a long, straight, dark grey skirt and white silk blouse, her frame tall and slender. Her hair was perfectly black and perfectly straight, falling almost to her waist. Erin didn’t know her.

  “Erin McRea?” she asked, taking a small step in.

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  The woman smiled and came to the bedside, sinking into the chair and crossing her long legs gracefully. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. I waited until you’d finished your phone call.”

  Erin wondered how much this woman had overheard. “I’m hardly rushed off my feet,” she muttered, thinking of William’s dry comment about bungee jumping.

  A manicured hand was presented to her for shaking. “I’m Lila Reyes, a friend of Matthew Hawkins.”

  Erin eyed the proffered hand. “He’s not mentioned you to me, though that’s hardly surprising. He’s never been very forthcoming about a lot of things.”

  Neither Lila’s smile nor hand faltered. “Oh, we only met two days ago. And with your accident and his current jobs, I can’t imagine he’s had much time to tell you about me.”

  Because it seemed as if the woman wouldn’t get discouraged, Erin shook her hand, quick and perfunctory. “No, we haven’t had much time to talk.” Or much desire to after yesterday morning’s effort. Connections formed up in Erin’s head. “You’re the demon specialist.”

  Content with the abrupt shake, Lila nodded. “Though I don’t know if I’ve been much help to Matt. I’m afraid our views regarding the existence of demons differ somewhat.”

  Erin’s lips quirked up before she could think. “I understand your side of the argument, though.”

  “Well, thank you, but I think I’m going to have to rethink my position. Matt certainly believes they exist as corporeal beings. Do you?”

  The question caught her off guard. Erin was still trying to figure out what this woman was doing here.

  “Is that why you’re here, Ms Reyes? To ask me if I believe in demons?”

  Lila smiled ruefully—an expression that seemed almost naughty on her full lips. “Not exactly. I’ve actually come to ask a favour of you.”

  Erin motioned to her bandages and drip lines. “I hope you don’t expect too much.”

  “Oh no, don’t worry. It’s nothing taxing. I just have some questions.”

  “About?”

  “Matthew.”

  She should have expected it. “I don’t know that I can tell you too much about him. We’re not close personally and I won’t reveal anything I’ve found during my investigations.”

  Lila sat back, eyes wide. “Not close? I’m sorry. I thought you and he were friends. When he spoke about your accident he told me you were a friend. He was very concerned about you.”

  “I’m sure he was.” It was out before Erin could stop it. She gave Lila an apologetic shrug. “Friendship is a funny thing. Different people define it in different ways. What Hawkins and I have is… difficult to define.”

  “I can sympathise with that. He’s definitely different.”

  “Definitely.”

  Erin found herself sharing a knowing smile with the other woman. The smile faded from her face but Lila’s remained.

  “What did you want to know?” Erin asked to pass over the moment.

  “It’s not any precise details I’m after. I don’t think you would betray either your… relationship with Matt, or your professional integrity. What I’m after is more your impression of him. As an investigator, I’d trust your instincts.” Lila sat forward and her voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. “Matt has asked me to do something for him. To other people, it might not seem like much, but to me, doing this for him means I must trust him implicitly.” She sighed. “I’ve known him two days, and while I feel we hav
e a deep connection, I have to admit I don’t actually know him that well.”

  “So you want to know if I trust him.”

  “Yes.”

  Letting out a long, slow breath, conscious of her aching ribs, Erin contemplated the bandage on her right arm. Courey had asked her this two nights ago and she’d been unable to answer it. She didn’t think she’d get away with sidestepping it this time.

  “Can I ask what he wants you to do?” she asked Lila.

  “He wants to summon a demon.”

  “Summon a demon?” What the hell did he think he was going to do with a demon? Unless it wasn’t just any demon he was after.

  “You can see my dilemma,” Lila said, misinterpreting Erin’s shock. “If I tell him how to summon a demon, and if I’m right about demons being nothing more than constructs of the subconscious, then I’m helping him further his delusions and possibly harm his psyche. On the other hand, if he’s right about demons being corporeal beings and I tell him how to summon one, then I’m helping him trap a possibly innocent entity. I’d be helping him force a sentient mind into slavery. Summoning a demon is not a meeting of equals.”

  Erin listened with half an ear, her mind racing through the possible reasons Hawkins would want to summon a demon. When it came down to it, there was only one, truly plausible answer. If he summoned the demon that was after him, he could command it to stop, and tell him who the original summoner was.

  “I trust him,” she said when Lila finished.

  Lila was quiet for a moment. Then she slowly nodded. Erin might have imagined it, but for an instant, she thought Lila was disappointed. Then Lila smiled.

  “That’s good to know. I’m relieved you have a good opinion of him.” She stood and straightened out her skirt. “Thank you for your help.”

  “No worries. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise.” Lila leaned forward and pressed her hand to Erin’s arm. “I hope you recover soon.”

  She left swiftly, closing the door gently behind her.

  Erin looked from the closed door to her arm, where Lila had touched her. It had been a strange gesture, not a hold and not a pat. And now it felt as if her arm was growing warm.

  Before Erin could begin to wonder what it might mean, darkness crept in on the edges of her vision and her body grew heavy. Her eyelids drooped and her head fell back against the pillow. She was suddenly so very tired…

  Chapter 26

  I trained it into Roma Street and from there to Rocklea. My bruised hands and torn face ensured I got plenty of room on the crowded morning commute—about the only good thing to come out of the previous night. I hadn’t slept well, or at all, if you want to be precise about it. Mercy hadn’t stirred but when the sun rose, there had been a little sigh and I’d felt her shift from unconsciousness into sleep. I chose to take it as a good sign.

  At the new estate, most of the work crews were congregated around several of the half-finished homes. Seems the hole in the wall warranted little concern, especially after the cops had gone. Crime scene tape crisscrossed the Mercy sized hole and the front yard, but no one remained for me to worry about. I got the Moto Guzzi from the garage next door, wheeled it as far down the road as I dared, then got on and roared away, heading for the Mentis Institute.

  Back when Brisbane had been little more than a flourishing colony town, John Spencer had bought a large block of land in the area that would eventually become the suburb of Auchenflower. He built a big house, had a big family and died a poor man. Too many kids and, probably due to the kids, a massive gambling problem. His kids sold the property to the Catholic Church and invested their money, hopefully, wisely. The Catholic Church turned the old house into a convent, stocked it with nuns and sold off the surrounding grounds.

  Around the 1940s, for reasons I’m not savvy with, the convent was closed down and remained empty until the seventies, when a psychiatrist, with a dream of a private hospital for difficult cases, leased the building from the Church. Thus the Mentis Institute was born.

  It gained a rep for a progressive, occasionally aggressive, treatment scheme for its patients. There were accusations of cruelty, of unorthodox methods, but in the end, they got results. Specialists came from around the world to observe the techniques employed at Mentis.

  When I’d arrived to rescue the staff from Mercy, the place had dated itself by its history. It looked like an old house turned into a convert turned into a psychiatric hospital. There was cheesy, checkerboard linoleum, ‘soothing’ institutional-green paint on the walls, an overabundance of fluorescent tubes and an air-conditioning system that left the place too cold in winter and too hot in summer.

  Thankfully, since then, things had changed. The Institute had moved from Auchenflower and into a purpose built building in Spring Hill. From a squat, red brick building lost amongst the bigger, newer buildings around it, they’d upgraded to a glass spire that reflected the city in near perfect images.

  I parked the bike and trotted up the stairs to the front door, practicing my English accent. Inside, the foyer was mostly empty, with only a small, plump, dark skinned woman at the front desk talking with one of the staff. The checkerboard linoleum was gone, replaced by dove-grey carpet, and the harsh fluorescents had been switched to soft lighting. Gentle, modern artwork decorated the walls and chairs and couches of cream leather were gathered here and there in cosy little groups around coffee tables artfully displaying pamphlets and information sheets.

  As I approached the front desk, the woman stepped back, as if her discussion could wait. I nodded my thanks and she gave me a wan, tired smile and began poking around in her bag.

  “Can I help you?” the young man behind the desk asked me.

  “I hope so.” My pretend accent didn’t sound too convincing to me, but the guy didn’t seem disturbed. “Apparently my brother has been admitted to this institute. I would like to visit him.”

  “Of course. Your brother’s name?”

  “Karl Roeben.”

  Two sets of eyebrows reached for the sky. The woman beside me stopped in mid rummage and looked between me and the staff member, who looked between me and the woman.

  Something was definitely wrong here.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked them both.

  “Well, for starters,” the little woman said, “your accent is atrocious.” She was qualified to judge, since her words came out on a cultured British accent. “And secondly, my husband doesn’t have any brothers.” Her frank, once over of myself added that if he did have brothers, they wouldn’t be pale and or tall and skinny.

  Oops. I suppose I should have known this ruse would have little chance of working the second time around.

  “Mrs Roeben, I presume,” I said to the woman.

  She merely cocked one brow and pursed her lips.

  “Just why are you here?” the man behind the counter asked, tone very close to hostile. Couldn’t blame him for that.

  “Perhaps I should talk privately with Mrs Roeben regarding that.”

  “Perhaps we could talk right here.” Mrs Roeben’s tone wasn’t hostile, but it was suspicious. “If you’re another bastard come sniffing after Karl’s research, then there’s nothing to hide. I’ll tell you what I’ve told all the others. That you can fu–”

  “I’m not after his research,” I blurted out.

  She clamped her mouth shut and eyed me all over again. “Then why are you trying to see my husband?”

  The guy stood and crossed his arms, silently letting me know that he too was very, very interested.

  There was nothing else for it. “I’ve been hired to look into Geraldine Davis’ death.”

  Mrs Roeben’s eyes narrowed. “Mr…?”

  “Hawkins, Matt.”

  “Mr Hawkins, as much as I am sorry that Gerry Davis is dead, my husband is not in a fit state to answer anyone’s questions. He’s…” She trailed off and waved her hand about.

  “He’s here,” I finished for her.

  �
�And you know what that means,” Mrs Roeben said pointedly.

  Meaning he was in such a state he was only allowed family members as visitors.

  I glanced at the guy. His arms were still crossed but he seemed more intrigued than incensed.

  “I was informed of your husband’s situation by Dr Long Jones,” I said to her.

  “Long told you he was here?”

  “Yes. Dr Jones is helping me with my investigation.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I call him to confirm that.”

  “Of course not.”

  There were two things I learned very quickly about Mrs Roeben. One, she was very thorough. She interrogated Dr Jones to the point of almost making him bend over and cough. Two, you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of her. She might look like a meek housewife, but I was willing to bet even her physicist husband couldn’t win an argument with her. Dr Jones definitely couldn’t and the guy behind the desk winced several times in sympathy as Mrs Roeben conducted her phone interview.

  In the end, she had a description of me from Dr Jones good enough to give to a composite artist and ensure I’d be picked up like that (finger snap), an almost word for word repetition of the discussion Dr Jones and I’d had and a detailed accounting of Tobias Waldbridge’s credentials.

  I’d like to say I weathered the wait while she confirmed my identity with all sorts of grace, but I’d be lying. I sweated buckets. Hey, I knew I was telling the truth but the way Mrs Roeben was digging, I wasn’t too sure she wouldn’t have my pants size and primary school grade average before she was done.

  Luckily, everything fell down in my favour and with an impatient nod, Mrs Roeben led me toward a cluster of chairs against the far wall under a series of pictures showing a broken landscape in sepia tones. Once seated, she took a moment longer to think, then turned to me.

  “Gerry’s husband hired you,” she began, stating a fact Dr Jones had spilled like a man undergoing Chinese water torture. “I thought he did it.”

  From the sounds of it, if it were up to her, Chris would be sentenced without benefit of a trial in the presence of his peers. There was something more going on here and I started to get an inkling Chris hadn’t told me everything. I decided to proceed with caution.