Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2)

by Alice Bell

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Kaia lifted her chin. “I’m sure you are. But I think we’re done here.”

  The door banged open.

  My black-clad escorts hauled me up out of my chair, and dragged me away … back to the cold metal walls of my room.

  9. Ruby

  HENRY STOOD, while the waiter seated me.

  I was late, due to an out of control shopping spree.

  “You look different … I mean great.” His eyes studied me.

  I’d had a make-over at the Aveda salon, and my hair was still red but the color was toned down, more mahogany than Cherry Kool-Aid. He doesn’t like it, I thought.

  I’d got a French manicure too, with acrylic nails I hoped wouldn’t poison me if I accidentally chewed them.

  I put my napkin in my lap, and then I thought it was too soon. Henry’s napkin still lay folded on the table. I’d gone to restaurants with my grandmother but only when I was very small and no one cared if I did the wrong thing. I realized growing up with my mother had been a little like being raised by wolves.

  “You’re beautiful,” Henry said.

  “I changed my hair.”

  “I like it.”

  “Really?”

  “How about an appetizer?” he glanced down at his menu. “Tomato tartlets?”

  I stared at my own menu and the words got jumbled and squiggly. “Why don’t you order for me,” I said. “I’m going to … freshen up.”

  Oh, God. I was talking like my grandmother.

  He started to stand.

  “Please. Don’t get up,” I wanted him to act like he did at school. All the standing up and sitting down was making me dizzy.

  I headed for the bathroom and took a wrong turn. I ended up in a bar with black wainscoting and crystal chandeliers. It wasn’t unlike my grandmother’s house. The thought struck me as funny but when I caught sight of my face in the mirror behind the bar, I looked stricken.

  “Honey, you have to be twenty-one to be in here,” the bartender said.

  I went back down the corridor and found the women’s lounge; pink and softly lit. A vanity was stocked with lotions and atomizers and mint candies. Two women freshened up. I sank into a floral patterned chair, and fished in my new handbag for a Valium. Like my mother used to do, I split a pill in half. I swallowed the tiny crescent, no bigger than the half-moon on my pinkie nail.

  My mother had called her pills little charms, and they were, until they weren’t. Dr. Sinclair doled them out to me, no more than ten at a time. They were only to be used in an emergency.

  I was already feeling better before I got back to the table. By the time the Tiramisu arrived, I was thinking about Henry’s lips and what it would be like to kiss him again.

  We’d kissed once before and he flirted with me a lot but something always got in the way. Like Georgie.

  He helped me into my faux fur coat and guided me out of the restaurant, his hand on the small of my back.

  “Oh, look. The stars,” my breath came out in a little puff in the frosty air.

  As I gazed up at the stars, they seemed to swirl. Déjà vu swept over me. This had not only happened already, but it had happened many times over, as if time could get caught, like a butterfly in a web.

  “It’s cold out here,” Henry blew on his hands. He wore only a tweed sports jacket but I wondered how he wasn’t arrested by the beauty of the moment.

  “Come on, Ruby. Where’s your car?” his tone was the slightest bit sharp.

  And just like that, my nerves were shot. I itched for another pill but getting hooked on such things—drugs and men—had been my mother’s undoing.

  She’d shot her lover three times. Months later, she contracted pneumonia and died herself. I believed she had willed herself to die. Or, in my darkest moments, I wondered if someone had unplugged her I.V. or smothered her with a pillow. She had murdered a man, after all.

  You are not your mother.

  Henry walked beside me. The asphalt was slick. I concentrated on not falling.

  “Sorry we had to take separate cars,” he said. “I wanted to pick up my Jeep before the shop closed.”

  I glanced at him and realized he wasn’t really tall, it was just that I was short. For some inexplicable reason, I felt disappointed. I couldn’t understand why. What did I care if Henry was tall?

  At this moment, I just wanted a little romance in my life. And Henry was as handsome as a Ken doll, the heartthrob of the academy where we taught. I should count myself lucky he would even look my way.

  I unlocked my car door.

  He held it open for me. My pulse raced against the false calm of Valium. The lights in the parking lot cast a surreal glow.

  “So, what do you say? My place or yours?”

  My heart skipped a beat. I looked up into his eyes. “My place?”

  “I’ll see you there,” he said.

  I drove faster than usual. My mind raced. I was nervous about the date continuing at my place but at the same time, I couldn’t imagine going to his.

  Traffic was heavy across the bridge.

  I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Headlights glared, but by the time I turned down my street, there was no one behind me.

  Suddenly, I felt bereft and alone. I imagined Henry getting a call … a better invitation, maybe even from Georgie.

  Stop it. He’s coming.

  I hurried into the house and carried my shopping bags down the hall. The house was so big and empty, full of nothing but memories. Each room had its own little secret.

  I threw my bags in my old childhood bedroom. It was musty and unused. The bed was made up with pink ruffled sheets and a violet comforter. A maid used to change it regularly but I’d got rid of the help after my grandmother died. The maids had rotated from week to week, often young women, and I felt uncomfortable having them in my home, arranging my personal things, when I only knew their names from a nametag.

  But it was too big a house for me to handle alone. I couldn’t keep it dusted, or the dark wood polished. Just thinking about doing any of these things overwhelmed me.

  Dr. Sinclair had talked to me about renting out the house, or even selling it, so I could have a place of my own. It would be a new beginning, she said. It would build confidence.

  I washed my face in the bathroom, and put on fresh lipstick.

  Downstairs, I lit the gas fireplace. No candles. That ritual had ceased. But I knocked on the mantel. Three times. For luck.

  I went around picking up books and putting them back on the shelves, fluffing the pillows on the sofa and the love seat, peeking out the window.

  It wasn’t until the front gate buzzed that it hit me—I need to change into something more comfortable.

  I pressed the button to open the gate, kicked off my pumps and raced upstairs. I searched through my new Fox and Rose lingerie and chose black and white lace. My hands were shaking as I did the straps. Lights shone through the window and arced across the wall.

  I was scampering down the stairs when the doorbell rang.

  I’d changed into a loose silk blouse (dusty rose) and a blue lace skirt, trusty pink sneakers. I flung open the door. “Hi,” I was suddenly breathless.

  Henry stood on the porch holding a bottle in a brown bag. He slid it out to show me the label. Seagram’s 7. “This is what you like?”

  A faint memory flared at the edge my mind. The earth shifted. I grabbed onto the doorframe.

  “Ruby? Shit. Sorry. I know it’s cheap. You were drinking a 7 & 7 that night at Embers.”

  I had danced in the arms of someone tall ...

  Nausea swept over me.

  I swallowed. “You’re right,” I said. “I do like Seagram’s. Of course.” I touched his leather gloved hand. No man had ever paid so much attention to me as to notice what drink I ordered.

  But I wondered: When was I at Embers with Henry? I couldn’t recall ever seeing him there. It used to be my favorite bar but I hadn’t been there in such a long ti
me.

  Had we danced? Was it him?

  “Come on,” I pulled him inside.

  He laughed and the sound followed me through the foyer and into the kitchen, along with his footsteps.

  “What a swanky place,” he peeled off his gloves and stood close.

  I poured a finger of whisky into two glasses. I didn’t plan to drink much of mine. Just tiny sociable sips. I wasn’t supposed to drink with my new medication.

  I wasn’t ever supposed to drink, if you want to know the truth. But I didn’t want to have to explain that to Henry. He’d already caught me in the depths of a downward spiral. Of course, I’d blamed it on the flu—delirious with fever. People believe what they can understand. Even if it’s not true.

  “So. Is this your ancestral home?” he said.

  He took the glass I handed him, then walked across the kitchen to stand in the doorway. His gaze scanned the living room where a fire blazed and the crystal chandelier sparkled. “It’s like those mansions in the old movies,” he said.

  “You want to go in?” Nerves and excitement shivered across my skin. Something was happening, something good, something I wanted. And I hadn’t ruined it yet.

  I gestured to the love seat. It was nearer to the fire and the coffee table where we put our drinks on marble coasters. Henry ran his hand over the carved wood. “Is this American?”

  “French Provincial,” I said, and it seemed a strange conversation, dry and far off the point.

  He turned to me. Our knees touched. He leaned back into the cushions and I did the same.

  “Do you like having so much room all to yourself?” he said. “I think I’d ramble around and go half insane.”

  I hated the word insane. I grabbed my drink and took a shaky sip. Ice rattled.

  “Did you ever see that old movie?” Henry said. “With what’s-her-face with the great big eyes … Bette Davis. Now, Voyager?”

  I nodded. “‘Now, voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and find.’”

  His expression clouded. Was I really quoting poetry? “The Untold Want,” I said. “By Walt Whitman?”

  God, things were getting awkward, and yet, I kept talking. “The movie is based on a novel by Olive Higgins Prouty.” Heat crawled up my neck. “She, um—well, she was one of Sylvia Plath’s patrons.”

  “Oh, Plath. Yeah. The poet who put her head in the oven, right?”

  I was starting to feel slightly miserable.

  “She was a genius,” my tone was edgy.

  “You remind me of her,” he said.

  “Plath?”

  “God no. Bette Davis.”

  God no.

  It bothered me the way he said it, like he could only think of Plath’s tragic madness, and not her talent, or the mark she left on literature, on the world. My mind roved over the idea that Henry would dump me if he knew very much about me.

  He looked so handsome in the flickering firelight. I just wanted him to kiss me. I couldn’t think about later, or I would ruin everything.

  What would Dr. Sinclair do?

  I reached out and put my hand on Henry’s face, a move I’d seen countless times in movies.

  I felt him still. His breath was sweet with whisky.

  I kissed him, like I knew what I was doing, like I was Bette Davis.

  His hand groped under my blouse. Instead of falling into his touch, I pulled away. I was afraid. Of the unknown. Disappointment caved inside me. I hated myself sometimes. Why couldn’t I finish what I’d started?

  I smoothed my skirt over my knees with shaking hands.

  Henry watched me. “Too fast?” he said.

  I nodded. I couldn’t look at him. I’d led him on. He would leave now, and I’d spend the night alone, as usual.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. (Just as I knew would happen). “I should let you get some sleep.” But he reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, a gesture that made me want to lay my head in his lap.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “It’s fine, Ruby,” his eyes held mine. “We have time. Don’t we?”

  10. Devon

  I DIDN’T know how long I was there. Minutes … hours … days. It felt like a long time. I was bored as hell. Bored in hell?

  I slept on the narrow bed.

  I woke.

  I stared at the ceiling. At home, spiders made webs in the corners. But everything here was pristine … sterile.

  I found myself yearning for instructions from the computerized voice. I made mini-movies in my mind where I followed a series of increasingly bizarre orders from the voice. The plots went from slap-stick to macabre.

  Eventually, old Muscles came for me, with the redhead. “Let’s try again,” she said, and led the way. Muscles shoved me through the door, down the hall.

  We waited for the elevator.

  “We’re going up, right?” Muscles said.

  “Yeah. Weird, huh?” Red answered.

  “Why is it weird?” I said.

  They shook their heads at me.

  “Be smart, dude,” Muscles advised. “Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Geez, how’d you go and piss off the church lady, anyway?”

  Red gave me a small, sympathetic smile, as the elevator opened.

  Inside, she said, “We’re going to the top floor.” She was looking at me and there was a question in her eyes. Obviously, she didn’t expect me to have any answers so I didn’t offer any.

  “It’s either good news or bad news,” Muscles announced.

  Jesus, the guy was a fucking oracle. I took in his combat boots, his black fatigues and shirt, exactly the same as Red’s. I was pretty sure they were in uniform. “Are you guys demons?” I said.

  Muscles rolled his eyes but Red said, “Yeah. We are.”

  Like before, the lack of movement in the elevator, as if we were going nowhere, was unnerving. But, at last, we were spit out onto a different floor … a different world, sparkling and opulent.

  The ceiling must have been fifty feet above us, onyx and back-lit. Immense pillars gave off a reddish glow that warmed the limestone walls. The floor was marble, inlaid with gold.

  There were a few people, or rather angels, I supposed, since they weren’t wearing state issued pajamas.

  Bronze lamps shed a muted light. A receptionist sat behind a shiny black desk that was hung from the ceiling by golden chains. She had a sleek cap of dark hair, elaborate make-up; crimson lips, purple eye shadow. She looked up and an expression of surprise crossed her face when her gaze landed on me. She quickly turned away but not before I saw her disgust.

  Two men (angels) passed by, dressed in suits. They too turned their heads to gawk, before averting their eyes.

  I felt dirty in my fatigues and pitiful slippers.

  “Come on,” Red nudged me. I followed her across the expanse of marble, past the desk.

  We entered a foyer that gleamed under crystal chandeliers. A wide marble staircase went up and up. The stairway to heaven, I thought. And yet, there was no doubt in my mind, I was going to the other place.

  We started our ascent.

  “Pretty wild,” Muscles said, behind me.

  “No kidding,” Red said.

  I got the impression they’d never been here before and I tried not to think too much about what that implied. I was grateful to have something to focus on; one stair at a time.

  Only the sound of our steps and our breath marred the pristine quiet. Above us, on the Cathedral ceiling, medieval angels spread their wings in glorious oil painted colors.

  “That’s it, huh?” Red said.

  “It has to be. There’s no other door.”

  It was a giant wooden door, like an entrance to a castle.

  “Do we knock?”

  I thought it was self-explanatory, since there was a gold horse’s head knocker, but I did as I’d been told, and kept quiet. I let them mull it over, resisting the urge to reach up and give a few loud raps. After all, what did I know? I kind of liked Red. I did
n’t want her to get in trouble, should knocking prove to be some unpardonable sin. Or the trigger that unleashed the dragon.

  Finally, she stood on tip-toe, lifted the knocker and brought it down once, like a polite question. The door opened immediately.

  The scent of roses permeated the air. Silver vases placed throughout the darkly lush room held roses of all colors; red, white, pink, fuchsia, yellow, blue, black.

  Two archangels stood at a desk, gazing down at a huge flat screen perched on it. One had obsidian hair worn in an afro. Giant gold hoops gleamed in her ears and a gold braided necklace lay over the collar of her purple robe. The other archangel was her physical opposite. My throat constricted at the silvery glint of her white blonde hair.

  Zadie.

  They looked up when we entered.

  God, help me, I stared.

  My heart thumped.

  My ears rang.

  Not Zadie.

  I dropped my gaze too late. The blonde leveled a glare that stole my breath. I averted my eyes. I was so focused on not looking at her, I didn’t realize that next to me, my escorts were bowing.

  When I caught on, heat burned the back of my neck. I tried to bow, casting a sideways glance, to see how it was done.

  As I held my position, on one knee, head lowered in extreme deference, I vowed that I would find the escape portal … if only to kill Sarah.

  The blonde waved her hand dismissively. “Go demons. Leave us.”

  My escorts made for the door and I followed.

  “Not you.”

  It was worth a try. I figured Kaia had sent word that I was a moron. Why not use it to my advantage?

  I stopped. When I turned, I heard the door close behind me.

  “Hello, Devon Slaughter,” the dark-haired archangel said. Her voice was musical, her smile so glorious, I found myself smiling back at her, before I remembered to show deference.

  I lowered my eyes.

  “You can look at me,” she said. “I’m Vashti.”

  The blonde didn’t introduce herself. She came around the desk and stood in front of me. I was careful to train my eyes on a point beyond her. I felt her animosity, hot like her breath in my face. My skin crawled. “Put your hands behind your back,” the blonde said.