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

by Alice Bell

  “Yep.” I sighed.

  “Come on,” he headed down the street, taking quick strides, suddenly in a hurry.

  But I was stuck on Zadie. Had she been turned? Could she be my sire? Or was it possible she simply drowned in the lake that night?

  Kaia’s words came back to me. “If you hadn’t been engaged in risky behavior …”

  Everything about Zadie was risky.

  “Get a move on, Slaughter. We don’t have all day.”

  Headquarters was in the capital building; white, neo-classical with Greek columns and porticos, a golden angel poised to take flight from the roof. I’d found it weird that angels were always depicted with wings, until I learned they flew in the human world.

  Another thing I’d discovered, in the course of my assimilation, was that angels, for all their glory and superiority, weren’t suited to the human world. Those who went had to be inoculated against toxins in the environment and diseases carried by humans. Angels received a tattoo after they were inoculated. The tell-tale sign of a soldier or a missionary was a purple heart on their arm—for bravery.

  Inside, Jep turned to me. “Listen, Slaughter. You're going to meet the archangels. All of them. Don't embarrass me. Because this never happens. I've never met them. Not officially. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir.” I saluted him.

  “Cut it out.”

  We went up the stairs, down a corridor, and knocked on an average looking door. I wasn't looking forward to seeing Zillah again.

  The door was opened by an angel wearing a suit. Seven purple robed archangels sat behind a long table. We stepped in and bowed, heads lowered until we were granted ease. Then, we stood before them, hands behind our backs.

  “That will be all,” an archangel with golden curls, like an overgrown cherub, dismissed Jep. I didn't look straight at him but I could see plenty with my peripheral vision, including Zillah. Her eyes were lasers boring into me.

  I felt a cold draft when Jep left the room.

  “Devon, walk around for us,” Zillah said. “In a wide circle, along the perimeters.”

  There were four women and three men. Vashti's gold glinted. One of the men had long red hair. They spoke among themselves, in a strange, tonal language that wasn't reassuring. My heart raced, as if I was running the Sierra Switchback.

  “That's enough. Approach us.”

  A woman with brown hair, and one of the men, came around the table to get a closer look. “Show us your teeth …”

  They poked and prodded, and spoke in their secret language. Fire burned through my veins. I hated them all, even Vashti, who had seemed the most human on our first meeting.

  “How do you find the realm, Devon?” Zillah said.

  My mind reeled.

  “Be honest,” Vashti said, in her mellifluous voice.

  I thought of my walk down the white street, how the sun dazzled through the palm trees but didn’t burn my eyes, or make me hot and sweaty. “Ideal,” I said.

  There was an eruption of laughter. “Bravo!”

  Zillah glowered.

  They settled into their positions and gave each other nods. Zillah gestured to the angel, behind me, who had opened the door. “Bring Decimus.”

  I kept my eyes straight ahead. But I heard him enter. His footsteps thudded, and raised the hair on the back of my neck.

  “Devon, you are fortunate today. You are meeting our most powerful angel soldier, Captain Decimus. You may look at him now.”

  We faced each other, the same height, same build. Our eyes locked. It was surreal; his black eyes were mirrors of my own.

  He was tall, and dark, with a trimmed beard, short-cropped hair. He wore brown leather, high laced boots, gold cuffs on both wrists, and a fur pelt around his shoulders.

  “Decimus, darling,” Vashti said. “Meet your protégé, Devon Slaughter. He is a demon, as I’m sure you have noticed. It is your job to make him a soldier.”

  Though it was barely perceptible, Decimus flinched.

  24. Ruby

  I DIDN’T have to face Henry, for a while, as it turned out. He was gone the rest of the week, to a conference. On the weekend, he went to visit his parents and didn't call. The next week was midterm exams and everyone went around half-dazed, both students and teachers. It was easy to avoid him.

  But one morning, I saw him in the lounge. He mentioned Spring Break. He wanted to go camping. I hoped he wanted to go without me, though I didn't tell him so, and it gnawed at me. I worried over how to break things off with him.

  Dr. Sinclair said not to be hasty. “Just take it slow, and see what develops,” she advised. “Certainly, don’t begin a sexual relationship with him until you’re ready.”

  My face got hot.

  Oops.

  I should have confessed right then and there, but I didn’t know how. Dr. Sinclair seemed so satisfied with her advice, so impressed with my progress, I told her about my writing workshop girls instead, to keep her believing in me.

  But, by the time I got home, the cycle of shame had begun.

  I took a whole Valium and a hot bath. Sordid images of Henry—heaving and grunting on top of me—played across my mind. Over and over.

  When he called, after I was in bed, I didn’t answer. I stared at my phone on the night stand, at the blinking blue light. My stomach churned. I listened to his message. “Hey, I just heard about tomorrow night. Nine girls, nine stories? Pretty cool, Rain. We’ll talk tomorrow. Unless … you want me to come over?”

  Unless you want me to come over.

  He thought everything was fine. How could I be so twisted up when he didn't have a clue?

  It was my fault. I hadn't told him I was a virgin. Things had just happened so fast, and I'd been relaxed from the Valium—I told myself there wasn't a need.

  I lay in bed, staring at the walls. Downtown was so bright, even at night. Especially at night. City lights seeped through the chiffon curtains and made monstrous shadows. A wind had picked up and shook its fist at the window panes.

  Fear flitted at the edges of my mind. I felt like I was on the top of a high building looking down. I had the urge to jump, to throw myself into the darkness that waited for me, like a hungry mouth.

  Deep down, I didn’t believe Dr. Sinclair when she said I was not my mother. Though my grandmother had done all she could to keep me well, she knew it too. There was no escaping the crazy gene that was already inside me, the day I was born.

  My fingers twitched. I threw off the covers and got up to fix a cup of herbal tea. It was bitter. I couldn't drink it.

  I played the piano, gazing out at the building across the street. Lights lit up the windows. I thought I saw someone moving inside. My mind raced, my flesh crawled.

  Outside, the storm gathered force. Rain lashed at the vista window. I closed the blinds but I could still hear the rain, like tiny rocks against the glass.

  I couldn’t decide what to do. I wanted to sleep for a long time, until the storm was over. And yet, I felt an urgency to escape the apartment (suddenly so small), and myself.

  I pawed through the clothes on the shelves of my closet. They were strange; cashmere sweater sets and skirts in colors I’d always hated, like baby blue and buttercup, lavender and mauve. Beige? Why had I bought so many new clothes?

  I tore open a box in the back of my closet, ripping off an acrylic nail. But I found what I was looking for, a long black dress with lace sleeves.

  The silky material settled over my skin like it belonged there. I pulled up black stockings and clipped them to my lace panties. I slipped into my trusty Doc Marten boots.

  After teasing up my hair and spraying it with Aqua Net, I powdered my freckles, and lined my eyes with charcoal.

  Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I hardly recognized who looked back. I was anyone, anonymous.

  As I rode the elevator, I counted the floors down to the parking garage. Six, five, four, three …

  I drove through the wet streets, listening to the squeak of
my windshield wipers, pretending I wasn’t doing what I was doing—falling into old habits, habits that would undo me, in the end.

  Just one drink, I told myself. There will be a good band. Everyone goes out once in a while. But I wasn’t everyone, and that was the problem.

  A single outing to my favorite bar would turn into another, and another, until it was a need, an obsessive ritual and the only way to get through the night.

  And yet, here I was, parking in my usual spot, hurrying down the boardwalk, toward Embers, as if no time had passed at all, as if my sessions with Dr. Sinclair had never taken place.

  The rain had slacked. A light mist shimmered.

  The creaking boards, the glimmer of lights on the water, the heavy smell of fried food mingling with the fishy scent of the river, evoked an image in my mind. I saw a man’s face; black eyes, cruel lips. Footsteps rushed up behind me.

  I whirled around. No one was there.

  He was a figment of my imagination; seductive and dangerous, like all my fantasies.

  Ahead, Embers beckoned. I made a dash to the door, and hurtled myself inside, gasping for air. The warmth of bodies surrounded me. Voices and laughter swirled.

  The band was already breaking down. The crowd was dense. I tried to squeeze up to the bar, to order a 7 & 7. I thought of Henry bringing a bottle of Seagram’s on our first date. Guilt gnawed at me. Why had I turned against him? He liked me. At this moment, I could be wrapped in his arms, instead of alone … at a seedy bar.

  “Look at you. All dressed up like a dark little angel.”

  I turned to see who had spoken. It was the black-haired woman from the white Escalade … the one who had blown smoke at me. And there was her blonde friend, next to her. My pulse fluttered in my throat.

  “What’s wrong, little rabbit? Can’t get a drink? Tell me what you want and I’ll make it happen,” she raised her hand and snapped at the bartender.

  I no longer wanted alcohol. My stomach churned at the idea.

  Without meaning to, I glanced over at the blonde. Our eyes locked, and I couldn’t look away.

  She reminded me of someone from my childhood but I couldn’t think who. It bothered me, suddenly, the niggling idea that I should know her. I felt it was important but my mind was a tire in the mud, spinning without traction.

  The blonde emanated heat and electricity. The hair on my arms stood on end. “Hey Inka,” she said to the dark-haired one. “It seems our friend doesn’t want a drink, after all,” she gazed down on me. “You want to dance. Is that it?”

  I wanted to be home in bed. I wished I’d never come. But my grandmother would say I was getting what I paid for.

  I tried to move away. They pressed closer. “I only wanted to see the band,” I said.

  “Well, then you must see the band. Isn’t that right, Zadie?”

  They exchanged smiles.

  Zadie. The name meant something to me. Or should.

  “Um—” I glanced toward the stage. “The band is packing up. I’m just going to uh … go.” I waved, feeling stupid as I did it.

  I bumped into one person and the next. I stepped on someone’s foot, as I pushed toward the door.

  My cheeks burned when I thought of my dream, how I’d climbed into the Escalade. Despite no sex actually taking place, the dream had been erotic. I wondered if the blonde—Zadie—had felt my desire for her. I thought maybe she could see into my mind … with her golden eyes.

  There was a clear path to the exit and I made bee-line for it. In the next instant, Zadie was there, blocking the door. The green exit sign glowed above her, like a taunt.

  I took a step back. Strong arms came around me. Zadie’s friend, (she’d called her Inka) spoke in my ear, “The band is going to play just for you, Ruby.”

  Ruby.

  Had I told her my name? Confusion spun webs in my brain.

  Inka led me by the hand, onto the dance floor. The band was set-up and waiting. The singer smiled at me.

  “What’s your favorite song, Ruby?” Zadie said.

  I shook my head, helplessly.

  “You want me to guess?” she said.

  Want me to guess? Want me to guess … the words echoed in the caverns of my memory, s Zadie came toward me.

  We danced slow, though no music played. Her hand eclipsed mine, her other hand rested on the small of my back. Her lips grazed my neck.

  I shivered and saw his face … Devon. I knew him intimately. His dark eyes glimmered. He stole me from Zadie and spun me around, before pulling me in close, his arms around my waist.

  “Devon,” I whispered. “It’s you.”

  The band began to play Guns-N-Roses, Sweet Child of Mine. Heavy guitar riffs cut the air. Colors exploded behind my eyes.

  “Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place,” the singer crooned. “Where as a child I’d hide …”

  I had seen Devon’s picture years ago, when I was in the sanitarium. He was someone beautiful, who had died. I resurrected him in my imagination. He had been my warm safe place, a place I could no longer find. Now, he had come to me again.

  I pressed my cheek against his sweater. I never wanted the song to end. When it did, I was afraid I wouldn’t remember. I would go back to my life with a big hole where Devon’s memory should be.

  He knew exactly how to hold me. He knew what I wanted. There was no need to talk. I held on tight, my arms looped around his neck. His heart beat into mine.

  “And if I stayed too long, I’d probably break down and cry …”

  The music stopped.

  He tilted my chin. I waited for his kiss.

  Sharp teeth bit my lip. I cried out. Zadie’s face swam above me. Her mouth opened with laughter. Tears stung my eyes.

  I veered and stumbled toward the door, tasting blood.

  “Where are you going, little rabbit?”

  “Don’t leave now. We’re just starting to have fun.”

  I tripped and fell to my knees. The green exit sign blurred. I felt drunk, as I stood up. I reached for the door. My fingers missed the handle. I tried again, and managed to stagger out, into the night.

  A cold wind tore at my hair and my dress. Memories careened and ricocheted. I tried to run but my limbs were too heavy and clumsy.

  At last, I saw the pink gleam of my car under the streetlamp. I fumbled with my keys. Inside, I hit the locks.

  Gasping for breath, I began to shake uncontrollably. Was it real? Had it happened? Or would I wake in the morning … in a white hospital room?

  25. Devon

  DECIMUS WAS a Captain, a leader of angels, and a decorated hero. He was extremely young for his achievements, not even a century. He claimed to be an old spirit, but that’s not what I saw in his eyes. I saw a warrior, ruthless to the core.

  He was a celebrity, a famous slayer of wayward demons, his face on billboards across the realm. He out earned the combined salary of all the archangels. Decimus action figures were coveted toys afforded only by the wealthy. Vials of his blood (fake) were sold to women who dipped their jewelry in it. His sweat, believed to be an aphrodisiac, was worth pounds of gold.

  He took me shopping, to boutiques where models dressed us, and paraded around in lingerie for our enjoyment. I had sets of leather pants and shirts, tall boots, gold cuffs.

  We had massages, and our hair done. We were well-coiffed twins, with our dark caps of shorn hair, and groomed beards.

  Decimus took me places only angels were allowed; restaurants, theaters, night clubs, his mansion. And he took me to the demon quarters, where the streets were dark and twisted, the houses rotting behind fences bolstered by the jagged edges of broken glass and razor wire.

  It was becoming more and more clear to me, the difference between angels and demons, as Kaia had promised.

  As far as I could tell (aside from angels sprouting wings in the human world) it came down to a matter of class, a distinctive line between ‘the haves’ and ‘the have-nots’.

  The first time I went to Decimus’s man
sion, and he led me through the expansive light-filled rooms, across white floors, kept spotless by demon house servants, I got the sense I was being tested.

  “What do you think of all this?” he said, as we gazed out at the pool, royal blue, like the rolling sea beyond it.

  None of it is real, I told myself. “Impressive,” I said.

  Decimus laughed. “For Christ sake, Slaughter. You’ve got some kind of stick up your demon ass. Come on … let’s have a drink.”

  He brought out a bottle and drank from it, before handing it to me. “Go on,” he said, his voice demanding.

  It was the kind of scotch that would cost around a hundred grand in the human world. And while I’d never poured that kind of money down my throat, I figured I’d taste it right off, the difference between the real thing and an angel fake.

  It was dry, potent, slightly licorice. My father had always kept a bottle of Glenfiddich around, for special guests and occasions. You didn’t forget the taste, and maybe this was real, I thought. And far superior. It must have been imported.

  I felt so ignorant, so disadvantaged.

  “You know how you get to be me?” Decimus said.

  “Kill a lot of demons?”

  “Nope. Any asshole can do that. You have to want it, Slaughter. You have to want it all—the fame and the power and what it buys. You have to want it so bad, you do whatever it takes to get it.”

  I licked my lips, and tried to hand back the bottle.

  “Take another swig.”

  I did.

  “Don’t you want to get wasted? On money? Roll around in that shit?”

  I said nothing, though I was supposed to answer immediately, when he spoke to me. The scotch was smooth. Warmth spread through my limbs, and made me slow.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure,” I said.

  “Yeah sure, what?”

  “I want to get wasted.”

  “On what?”

  “On money.”

  He grabbed the bottle from me. “Jesus, you’re pathetic. I’ll ask you one more time. Do you have any idea how to be me? Because that’s what they want. That’s what I’m here for, and that’s what you’re here for. And I’m already bored as fuck, Slaughter. You feel me?”