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

by Alice Bell

  She was the opposite of gross. Her eyes were so luminous, her lashes so long, her lips so red, it was hard to believe she wasn’t wearing make-up. But demons weren’t allowed to adorn themselves, so I assumed she wasn’t.

  “Did they spare you the dungeon?” I said.

  “Hell no. What’s the matter with you? Haven’t you learned anything yet? Do the crime, do the time. And take your lickings.”

  “Lickings? Did they beat you?” I looked for signs of bruising but most of her flesh was covered.

  “I got whipped a few times. On my back.”

  My mind spun. “What—is that … legal?”

  “Legal? You’re such a cutie.”

  “But—”

  “You’re still in the brainwashing phase, aren’t you? All that crap they teach you about laws. Constitution this and constitution that, blah … the covenant of the archangels. Surely, you didn’t think any of it was for your benefit? Go back and read the fine print. See if you can find a single right for demons. News flash. You’re not a citizen in the realm any more than a dog is a citizen in the good ole U.S. of A. Angels created demons to serve them. Simple as that.”

  Despite my fears, or maybe because of them, I’d wanted to believe I had a chance, if I stayed. I’d even held onto the idea I’d be part of a cause, a cog in the wheel of change.

  But say I made it in the New Army? What if I became a symbol for the progressive movement? What was the point, in the end? An all-expense paid trip to the human world to kill my own kind?

  “Oh, baby, I’m sorry,” Claudia said. I heard the sadness in her voice. “I’ll get you through. Don’t worry. There are ways to have fun and I know them all.”

  “Fun?”

  “Enjoyment out of life. Whatever you call it.” But her sparkle had faded. I’d depressed her.

  “So. What’s with the hat?” I said.

  She rewarded me with a wan smile. “I’m a maid in a very grand house.”

  21. Zadie

  ZADIE TOSSED and turned on the California King in her suite. Sunlight glared through the crack in the black-out curtains.

  It was late when she and Inka had come back from the desert and stumbled into the casino. There’d been no time to visit Devon’s building but the information on that small slip of paper tore through Zadie’s dreams.

  Ruby Rain … Ruby.

  The girl was alive and this is what tortured Zadie, as she tried to find a comfortable spot on the mattress. She pictured Ruby as a more beautiful version of herself, which, in reality, was impossible. The girl was only human.

  She woke out of sorts.

  Inka roused her early, pulling back the covers. “Come. Put on your party dress. We’ve got things to do and a certain person to see.”

  Twilight streaked the sky purple and gray, as they drove across the bridge. Lights sparkled on the water. Traffic was jammed up, as humans made their way home from work or out to dinner.

  “You’re a real buzz kill, Zadie,” Inka said. “I wish you’d snap out of it. It’s good we know about the girl. You can thank me later. When you pull your head out of your ass.”

  “I’ll thank you when she’s dead.”

  “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your pretty little face. We can have plenty of fun torturing her, but we are not going to kill her. No, no, no. We are going to use her to lure Devon out of wherever he is hiding.”

  Zadie drove, her knuckles white, as she gripped the steering wheel. “You think the girl is that important to Devon?”

  Inka was quiet.

  “You really don’t think the angels … you know, slayed Devon?” Zadie said.

  “Listen. If you were to be stabbed in the heart with a wooden stake, Ishtar forbid, I would know. I would feel it in my bones the exact moment your bones crumbled to ash. It is the same with Devon. You are both my progeny. He is not dead.”

  Zadie slowed. There was a snarl in the middle of the bridge. A van had stalled in the outer lane. The man behind them honked. Zadie stuck her arm out the window and raised her middle finger. She had half a mind to rip the idiot from his car and throw him off the bridge. Humans had no idea how thin a line they walked. Or drove, in this case.

  “But … but do you think he was captured?” she said.

  “The northern portal is no longer a viable escape route. It hasn’t been used for centuries. This is the last place the angels will come.”

  Traffic moved again and Zadie turned right off the bridge, toward China Town.

  “I have the sense Devon is quite well,” Inka went on, her voice full of arrogance. “Wherever he is. You must trust my instincts. This human girl is our only link to Devon. We cannot kill her. Yet.”

  A part of Zadie trusted Inka but another part of her believed her bond with Devon was stronger than Inka’s. She disagreed with Inka’s sense of Devon’s well-being. Something was very wrong, or Devon would be with them now. Of course, Zadie also wanted to get rid of the human girl, whose existence she considered a personal affront.

  “Turn left at the stoplight,” Inka said. “Onto Irving.”

  It was the oldest part of the city. The buildings were made of stone and brick. Windows were lit in a homey way. The street lights were imitation gas lamps, Victorian era. The neighborhood had been gentrified, and high end European cars were parked on the street. Potted flowers decorated windowsills and porches.

  “There it is. 1975 Irving. Pull over, Zadie. Oh, I see a spot. Park in front of the dumpster.”

  The building was unoccupied but workers had been there during the day. It was being remodeled. A heavy lock hung on the door. Zadie broke it and hurled it off the porch, into the bushes.

  Inside, they left footprints in the dust from the recent construction. They went through all the rooms and Zadie became morose. Devon’s presence was everywhere. “He hasn’t been gone long,” she said, despair caving inside her. How had she missed him?

  “He’s coming back,” Inka said.

  “Who’s having the renovations done?” Zadie’s tone was clipped.

  “We’ll see soon enough. Come here.”

  They were upstairs and Inka stood in front of one of the long rectangular windows facing the street. Zadie sidled next to her.

  “There she is,” Inka pointed. “Ruby Rain. See her playing the piano?”

  Zadie frowned. Something cold pressed against her heart. “Are you sure that’s her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She isn’t even beautiful,” Zadie said.

  “She’s a scrawny thing,” Inka agreed. “But you were scrawny too. As a human. I think it must be what our Devon likes. Human frailty. Ruby will be frail indeed. By the time we’re done with her.”

  22. Ruby

  ON MONDAY, Melissa Wong came to see me during lunch. “You always hide out in here,” she said. “I never see you in the lounge, or even in the library. What gives?”

  I shrugged. “Trust me, no one misses my presence.”

  “Not even Henry?” she winked.

  I smiled. Wong was on the nosy side, but I couldn’t help but like her. As I’d got to know her better, I saw that no matter what, she meant well. She was a bubbly kind of person who said whatever came to her. I was in no position to condemn her for being clumsy on occasion.

  She carried a folder and opened it to pull out a shiny piece of paper, which she held up. “Ta-dah.”

  I grabbed it from her. “Oh!”

  It was a poster, featuring nine black umbrellas under red (ruby) raindrops. The lettering was austere and Gothic.

  Nine Girls

  Nine Stories

  TEAM RAIN

  9-midnight

  Downtown Café

  Saturday

  Open Mic

  “It’s gorgeous,” I looked for the artist’s signature and found it in the corner, a red rose. My breath caught. Scarlet.

  A vision lit up in my mind; stars across the sky, the desert cool and glistening. It was a view I must have glimpsed from Coffeen. The sanitarium
was on the edge of the desert. I used to look out from the top floor, at night, when I couldn’t sleep.

  Loneliness engulfed me.

  It was as if I'd already met my soul, and loved and lost. But it was only a feeling of emptiness, I realized. Not a memory, but regret, the difference between Henry and the one I had yet to meet.

  Catherine had felt the same about Heathcliff who was not the man she would marry. That man, she said, was as different from Heathcliff “as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”

  Grief threatened to rip open inside me. I knew if I let myself shed a single tear, I might never stop crying.

  I envisioned my tears as red as the raindrops on the poster.

  “Ruby, what’s wrong?”

  I laid the paper down, and stared at a spot on my desk. One look at Wong, and I would lose it.

  But she wouldn’t let me be. I was aware of her getting up. She smelled like French perfume, something light, and floral. She was behind me. Her arms came around my neck. “Oh, Ruby, I’m so sorry,” she said, into my hair.

  She had done it, unleashed my sorrow.

  Tears coursed down my face, unstoppable. I choked on them. I gasped tiny breaths.

  “What is it, Ruby? What is it?” Wong’s voice trembled. She stroked my hair.

  I thought of Henry’s insensitive hands, his face above mine, as he thrust himself into me. At the time, it had felt only fumbling and awkward. Not so much a disappointment, as unexpected, the opposite of what I’d fantasized a million times.

  But in this moment, it seemed a horror, like a scar exposed in the unforgiving glare of the sun.

  * * *

  I clenched the steering wheel as I descended into the dungeon of the parking garage.

  It took four turns to get to my space. I didn’t like the number four, with its hard lines and sharp points. Maybe because my grandmother and mother and I had always been three. Any fourth person who had come into our lives got eliminated. One way or another. And the number three just looked friendlier. Two smiles, one on top of another.

  But counting things for good luck was superstitious. Not to mention OCD.

  I steered my car around and around. With each turn, I went deeper underground. I tried not to think about the fact that there was no way out should the random, strange and tragic happen.

  No matter what Dr. Sinclair said, the random, strange and tragic did happen. Therefore, it had to happen to someone. Why should I imagine that someone wouldn’t be me?

  At last, I arrived at my space marked by a silver name plate on the burnished concrete wall. Pulling in gave me a surge of pleasure.

  I lived here. On my own. In charge.

  The universe unfolds as it should.

  I sat in the silence and took a moment to enjoy the curve of the letters on my plaque—R. Rain.

  It’s all going to be okay.

  And then I heard (and felt beneath my seat) the thump of bass coming from an encroaching car.

  Above me, tires squealed around every corner.

  The car got closer. The music got louder.

  I snatched my bag from the seat and debated whether or not I had time to get my valise too. I didn’t want to leave it behind but I couldn’t lug a suitcase full of books up twelve flights of stairs.

  I should make a bee-line for the elevator, I thought. Because that is life. You have to do what you have to do, even when you don’t like it.

  I debated too long, standing there, next to my Cadillac .

  The on-coming car raced around the last corner, a giant white SUV—Cadillac Escalade. Bass pounded from its dark interior and went straight through me, electrifying and hypnotic at the same time.

  I stared, frozen, as the car came straight at me. Unbelievably, it slowed, as if I was the destination.

  The driver’s tinted window slid down.

  Hip hop music spilled out.

  The tragic headline flashed across my mind: Ill-Fated School Teacher in the Wrong Place at the Wrong Time.

  “Hell-lo,” the driver surprised me by being a woman. A beautiful woman with white blonde hair wisping around her heart-shaped face. She looked a little ragged; no make-up, hair mussed. Her golden eyes had a wild glean. Yet her smile struck heat into my belly.

  I had the absurd thought that she could save me from something. I got a crazy idea to hop into her car, obnoxious music and all, and ride away with her somewhere. Anywhere.

  And I also realized she could be the doom I’d been desperately trying to avoid all my life. I reached behind me for the handle of my car.

  She made a movement and the music faded. “Sweet ride,” she said.

  A face, framed by short black hair, peeped around her from the passenger side. “Come here,” the woman said. “Come on, I want to show you something. Don’t be afraid.” She leaned across the blonde’s lap.

  Against my will, I stepped closer.

  She had huge, dark eyes. Her full lips were painted red. She lifted a pipe to her lush mouth with hands that were surprisingly large (nails sharp, like blood red talons) and blew a puff of smoke at me. The smell reminded me of the pot my college roommate had smoked, only sweeter and more cloying.

  I stepped back. They laughed.

  “Want to party?” the blonde said.

  I blinked. A strange heaviness came over me, like my limbs had thickened. Still, I managed to shake my head.

  The blonde lifted a brown bottle. “Maybe you prefer to drink?” She held the bottle out to me, through the window. “Try it,” she said. “It’s just a little Spanish Fly. To make you feel good.”

  My heart fluttered. I shook my head again.

  She took a swig and tossed her head, as if to show me how good she felt.

  “You’re missing out,” the dark one said.

  Now, I nodded. I figured I probably was.

  I couldn’t make my mouth form words. My mind raced but my body was slow to respond.

  The music came back on, even louder. The SUV roared off.

  I sank against my car, thinking I had narrowly escaped.

  Some part of me wished I hadn’t.

  Some part of me wanted to be whisked away into the night.

  Later, in bed, I tossed and turned. My dream was darkly beautiful, caught somewhere between my greatest fantasy and my worst nightmare. I dreamed I drank from the bottle. I said yes.

  I climbed into the white Escalade—a chariot come to take me home.

  We drove down by the river, along the waterfront. Music filled the car; hip-hop and reggae, rock, pop, opera and classical. We drove with the radio station in constant flux.

  We drove across the bridge. Starlight danced on the water.

  Plumes of red smoke billowed on the horizon.

  The color red floated into the car and lit the blonde’s hair.

  I lost my sense of direction. We stopped somewhere. I didn’t know where. I wasn’t afraid. I took nips of Spanish Fly.

  We were walking toward a Pabst Blue Ribbon sign. Black water flowed under creaking boards. Music and voices spun around me. I moved to the music. Bodies writhed on a dance floor.

  I was caught by strong arms.

  “Ruby … Ruby …” someone whispered into my hair.

  I couldn’t see him.

  I held onto him; my arms looped around his neck, my cheek pressed against his sweater.

  I wanted him.

  I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything.

  He was my soul.

  * * *

  I woke, tangled in my sheets. The sweetest scent wafted from my skin. I pulled the blankets tighter around me, like a cocoon. I yearned to go back to that glittering dreamland. And never wake up again.

  23. Devon

  THE DAY of my graduation came. I was officially assimilated. I had a black uniform, like Jep's. I traded in my slippers for combat boots. I could open (certain) doors and computer programs with my fingerprints. I went to the cafeteria for the first time and had real food (sort of)—French toast with b
acon. The food was like everything else in the realm—simulated. It didn't taste bad, but it didn't taste like it should, either.

  “What happens now?” I asked Jep.

  He frowned. “Not sure. You're a special case, that's all I know. We're reporting to headquarters. You look sharp, Slaughter.”

  I thought he'd salute or something, but he didn't.

  We stood in front of the elevator. “Hit down,” he told me. I activated the button with my finger and the metal doors slid open.

  In the car, Jep said, “We're going outside. You'll get to see a bit of the city.”

  My mind turned over the information. Outside. What could it possibly mean? That was the thing about the realm, I never knew what to expect. So I stopped expecting.

  We came out into a reception area with white marble floors, black chairs and end tables; attractive but generic, like the lobby of a hotel. My eyes sought the doors—glass turnstiles.

  Angels, dressed like humans, passed by. Occasionally, their eyes flitted over me and moved on.

  Jep led the way, through the doors … outside.

  Sunlight struck me in the face. Not sunlight. Something a lot like it. I looked up. The sky was azure without a single cloud. Ideal. Of course. Palm trees lined white streets. White Spanish style buildings glimmered, tall and beautiful, like the Promised Land, like money and glamour and movie stars. “Jesus, it's Rodeo Drive,” I said.

  “Not quite,” Jep said.

  “You must like it here,” I said.

  “Venice was more my style.”

  I thought of Zadie. My heart pounded. “Hey, did you—did you know a lot of demons in Venice Beach?”

  Jep nodded. “Sure. Big enclave there. Some of the most powerful wayward demons in the world.”

  “Did you—”

  “No, I don’t know any famous movie stars who are demons.”

  I realized my question was about as dumb, but I asked anyway. “Did you ever meet a blonde named Zadie?”

  He stopped to look at me. “The last time I was in the human world was 1981. Does that answer your question?”