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

by Alice Bell

  And then, suddenly, I stopped.

  My eyes fell on the doorknob that was silver and shiny. I felt compelled to turn it. When I did, the door opened.

  I stole inside.

  “Oh!” I touched the stone on my amulet. I could barely breathe. “Oh, Sarah.”

  I rushed across the room. Icy needles pricked my flesh. A cloying sweetness filled my nostrils. I thought of my mother’s lover, Javier, shot in the chest. Red swirled in my vision and made me dizzy.

  “No …”

  Sarah lay at the bottom of the stairs; her head twisted at a wrong angle, her eyes open and vacant.

  32. Devon

  I CAME to in what could only be the dungeon. Cold seeped in from somewhere. The flip of a switch in a control room?

  There was a squalid stench. Utter darkness. Steel teeth bit into my ankles.

  I lay there, aware of a deep, internal hurt, an acrid taste in my mouth. I drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Naturally, they couldn't leave me here to die. What would be the point? No, they'd drive their point home, probably into my groin area. And then, my head would roll … to be mounted on a stake in the demon quarter.

  Sure enough, the lights came on, as if at the end of a show. I squinted against the sudden glare. The ceiling was metal, maybe nine feet above me.

  In the distance, a door clanged open and shut. Footsteps approached. I laid there.

  “Sit up!”

  I recognized Zillah’s voice. The hatred in it was unmistakable.

  My fingers curled. My legs twitched in response, but I didn't feel like sitting up.

  “You ... arrogant bastard.”

  I smiled.

  “Guards!” Zillah screamed.

  33. Ruby

  I HAD to get a grip. I was obsessing over Sarah’s incomprehensible death. But as the days slid by, I lost track of events. I couldn’t organize what had happened into any kind of chronological order.

  I’d kept a calendar on my phone, which I could no longer access. I emptied out drawers, looking for a real calendar, the old-fashioned kind with pictures of cats.

  My fingers bled when I tore off my acrylic nails. I licked my lips until they were dry and chapped. I paced and cried and worried.

  I'd told the police Sarah was murdered. Why?

  Why did I do such a thing? I'd been so convinced of it, and distraught, when they questioned me. Now, I wasn't sure it was murder. I wasn’t sure of anything, except, I'd gone and made myself the prime suspect. After all, I’d found Sarah’s body … and I was the daughter of a murderer.

  I closed the blinds on the vista window so I wouldn't keep looking out, across the street.

  But then … I opened them again.

  The sky was bullet gray. The city looked flat and bleak. Soon, it would be dark. I stood there, watching, and waiting. I wished I had binoculars.

  Oh! A shape at the window.

  Someone came and looked out. Zadie. Even from my distant vantage point, I could easily see her hair, like a flame.

  Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades.

  I was rooted to the floor. I wanted to keep watching, though Zadie had moved out of sight.

  Go. Call 9-1-1. Now.

  But there was something wrong with the scene, like one of those picture books where there is a clock with too many hands, or a person with two left feet, but you can’t see it. Not right away. You have to look hard for the thing that is askew.

  Finally, I found it. There was no crime scene tape.

  The police didn’t believe me. There wasn’t going to be an investigation.

  My ears rang. Pain throbbed at my temples.

  And, as I watched, Sarah herself came out the door. She had on a black raincoat.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  When I looked again, she was going down the steps, perfectly fine, almost skipping.

  I couldn’t bear it. How could I have fantasized something so gruesome?

  I was in a bad way. Here I was ready to call the police and I should be calling Dr. Sinclair’s answering service, reporting myself as the emergency, an accident ready to happen.

  But I didn’t call anyone.

  I slipped into my boots by the door. I had on a black silk nightgown I’d been wearing for days. I grabbed my red cardigan to cover it.

  I ran to the elevator. Biting what was left of my nails, I rode down, willing the car to go faster. The elevator dinged, the doors opened and I burst out into the lobby.

  I darted across the street, in front of a car. The driver honked.

  Sarah stood at the corner, waiting for the light. I called out to her, running, my heart racing, arms pumping.

  I was so glad to see her. So what if I was insane. Sarah is alive.

  Only it wasn’t Sarah at all.

  It was Scarlet. Her mouth opened in surprise.

  I took big gasps of air. My lungs hurt. “Oh, Scarlet … it’s you.”

  “Miss Rain? What—what are you doing?” her gaze took in my disheveled appearance. I saw alarm in her eyes.

  “Don’t mind me,” I said. “I’ve been sick. I just—well, I thought you were your mother and—” I took a deep breath. “I need to talk to her … ” my voice trailed off.

  “You didn’t hear?” Scarlet’s face was white. Her bottom lip trembled. “She died.”

  34. Devon

  ZILLAH ACTED as if she knew me, like I’d slain her entire family in their beds. I wanted to ask her, “Have we met before?” But I never spoke to her again. Not a single word. It was the one thing she couldn't make me do, no matter how many times she whipped me.

  She enjoyed whipping me.

  Touching me.

  Shaming me.

  As her house servant, I slept on the floor in her bedroom, on a thin mat, next to her bed. I woke, to her leaning down, stroking me. My body responded, which did shame me.

  What did I care?

  It was the knowledge in her eyes, the fact that she could feel it when she pushed me far enough, past the barriers I constructed, every time she tore them down.

  My barriers got stronger.

  I became an island, untouchable. Zillah could use me as she pleased. And she did. But my mind floated away, back to the human world. I used to dream of Zadie. Now, my memory sought Ruby. I wanted to hold her innocence in my arms, and never let go.

  During the day, I pushed a mop around the marble floors of Zillah’s mansion. Sometimes I found wine spills to swipe at, crumbs, squashed fruit and odd bits of debris.

  The other servants avoided me. I had become another kind of symbol, an ugly one. I was failure, in the flesh. I had sealed their fate, along with my own.

  I let my hair grow long, and my beard. I did it out of perversity and to remind myself of the passing of time. I would, eventually, grow old and die.

  I hung out in the library, after the maid who dusted had gone. I found comfort there, thinking of Ruby and her suitcase full of books. I read human classics written in English and familiarized myself with the angelic luminaries of the day. Some weren't bad writers, but they were no Hemingway, either.

  I liked to rifle through the tabloids. I got a kick out of them, especially the ones about me.

  There were full page spreads of my exploits in the demon quarter. I couldn't control myself. And to think—if I hadn't been caught red-handed (red-fanged), with a spoon up my nose, I might have been unleashed on the human world. The horror.

  My favorite was a photo of Claudia and me, locked in a kiss to end all kisses, her legs wrapped around me.

  I studied the photo.

  We’d never even kissed, but the proof was right there—it would have been terrific.

  She was an angel, a bit of a loser, I gathered. Hanging around the demon quarter with the wrong crowd, a history of drug use, unable to hold down a job, going nowhere fast. Until, she found a job for which she was perfectly suited; taking me down, along with the whole progressive agenda.

  I knew why Claudia betrayed me. For t
he one she loved—the human world. I figured they’d promised her a mission. And I figured they had lied. She probably knew that by now too.

  I hoped it gave her hell.

  Just a few of the books, in the library, were written in Celestial speech. It was only used for business purposes, and spiritual enlightenment, both of which were of no use to demons (what with their lack of business sense and soul).

  My favorite book was slender, an eerie little Gothic tale: The Ingénue and the Fiend, written by an obscure angel poet.

  It was about an incubus who coupled with young maidens, for his own jollies, and to taste the secrets of their souls, because his own soul was empty. He was cursed to walk the nights alone, for if he ever loved, he would kill his beloved. (More than a single night with the fiend led to madness and a slow, painful death.)

  The fiend was quite immune to feelings, and rather full of himself (truth be told), until he fell in love with a young maiden.

  Night after night, he returned this maiden’s bed chamber, taking her to the heights of ecstasy. As the curse predicted, the poor girl was driven mad. Or so it seemed to those around her.

  They were used to the girl being quiet and doing as she was told, but she began to act out, and to argue with people, and tell them her opinions.

  One night, with the fiend, the girl cried.

  “Why are you crying?” the fiend said.

  “Because I have never cried before, and there are so many sad things in the world. I think I should cry. Sometimes.”

  After this strange behavior, the fiend knew his nightly visits were taking their toll. He must leave. If he loved the girl. And he did, much to his surprise.

  But instead of returning to health, the girl became weak and listless. Her mother agonized, her father stomped and yelled, her granny crossed herself and muttered prayers. Doctors bled the girl with leeches. Priests came to perform an exorcism. Nothing worked.

  The girl took to her bed. News of her sickness spread far and wide.

  The fiend didn’t know what to do. He wanted to go to the girl, and hold her, in case she needed to cry again. But he didn’t want to make the girl worse.

  He sought help from a witch, giving her three pieces of gold to go to the girl, and see if there was anything to be done. He was hoping for a miracle.

  “How is she?” he asked the witch. “Will she live?”

  “She doesn’t want to live,” the witch said. “If she can’t be with you.”

  “It is a paradox,” the fiend said. “My love will kill her.”

  “Not necessarily,” the witch said. “If the girl invites you to stay with her, and your love is true, the curse will be broken. But only with the girl. When you are not with her … you turn, once more, into an incubus.”

  The next night, instead of stealing into the girl’s room, and into her bed, the fiend tapped on her window. The girl got out of bed, to scurry across the cold floor and let him in. “I thought you had forgotten me,” she said. “Why did you leave?” A tear fell from her eye, onto her soft cheek. The fiend wiped it away.

  “If you ask me to stay,” he said, “I’ll never leave you again.”

  At night, lying on my mat, with Zillah’s hands roaming, I often thought of the Ingénue and the Fiend. In my version, the ingénue had Kool-Aid red hair.

  35. Ruby

  SARAH’S FUNERAL was held at a cemetery across town, not too far from the river.

  Rain pelted my car. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, as I drove.

  I parked behind a line of cars.

  I hadn’t brought an umbrella, but I wore a black hat with a brim and a veil. I had on one of my favorite dresses. The skirt was black and ruffled, long enough to graze my ankles. The bodice was black lace. The only jacket I could find to match was a black velvet blazer with faux ruby buttons.

  I should have brought an umbrella.

  I made my way to the grave site, carrying a bouquet of white peonies. Cold rain soaked through my clothes. I shivered, and stood in the back.

  There were so many people, like the funeral of a celebrity. Everywhere I looked I saw black umbrellas.

  I thought of the poster Scarlet had made, and felt faint with deja vu, as if the poster had been a warning I should have heeded.

  The peonies trembled in my hands.

  Afterwards, I lined up to lay flowers on Sarah’s grave. When it was my turn, I gave my condolences to Scarlet.

  “I’m so sorry,” I choked out the words, hating their hollowness.

  I had been in Scarlet’s shoes. Of course, no one went to my mother’s funeral, except my grandmother and I. And the pastor.

  Scarlet leaned down to hug me. Whatever we’d argued about seemed to have happened another lifetime ago.

  When I got back to my car, I thought I caught a glimpse of white blonde hair. I sucked in my breath. Lately, I saw Zadie everywhere, but it was like the time I’d lost my mother in the mall, and everyone looked like her but they weren’t.

  Though I knew Zadie and Inka could be seen by others, I didn’t know how much of what had taken place—the dancing, my terror—was just me … falling down into the black abyss of my mother’s legacy.

  I got in my car and locked the doors. The rain had ceased, for the moment. I took off my hat and laid it on the seat.

  I was about to put my key in the ignition, when I saw a light arc across the cloudy sky.

  A tingling sensation stole over my flesh. Images came to me; a cat with one blue eye and one green, hands on my flesh, the curve of beautiful lips, a wedding dress. Blood on white sheets.

  The scenes unleashed memories. I remembered what I’d read in Scarlet’s diary. She had described (in great detail) a sexual encounter with—I slumped forward—Devon.

  Was it possible? Wasn’t he my personal fantasy? My Heathcliff? Or had Scarlet seen him too?

  Nausea coursed through my veins. The steering wheel felt cool on my forehead.

  I had to ask Scarlet about the diary, to decipher what was real, or I would lose my mind, right here, in the cemetery.

  A feverish ache had me in its grip. I peered out the windshield and watched people get in their cars and drive off.

  Don’t bother Scarlet with your lunacy. She is grieving.

  And yet, I climbed out of the car and made my way back to where Scarlet stood, gazing down at the flowers covering her mother’s grave. She glanced up. “Miss Rain?” there was surprise in her voice.

  “I’m sorry, Scarlet. I don’t mean to interrupt. I just—I know how it feels. I lost my mother too. When I was young.”

  It was a lie. I had no idea how Scarlet felt. Her mother had been a compassionate person, doing for others. My mother was the opposite. She’d brutally taken a man’s life to sate her own jealousy. Scarlet’s loss had to be so much greater than mine.

  Still, (like my mother) I pressed on with my agenda. That was the nature of madness. It took precedence. “Scarlet, I wanted to apologize for … for the way I acted. You know, with what happened with your diary.”

  She blinked.

  I licked my lips. “We argued …”

  “Oh. Yeah. The day I realized I was done with high school,” she said. “You did me a favor, Miss Rain. I hated every day of high school. Except for art class. And your class. You were right to be concerned. If what I’d written in my diary was true, I’d have been in serious trouble. Having sex with a stranger who showed up on my doorstep?” She shook her head. “It was just a fantasy. I was so lonely back then.”

  Just a fantasy … a fantasy.

  “So the man you described was pure fiction?”

  “No. I didn’t invent him. He was trying to steal my cat. That part was true. Crazy as it sounds.”

  “Did you … happen to get his name?”

  She gave me a puzzled look. “His name? It was a random, weird encounter,” she cocked her head. “Why?”

  “He sounded familiar to me.”

  Her mouth formed an O. She seemed about to say something, th
en changed her mind.

  “I shouldn’t have brought it up,” I said.

  “It’s okay, Miss Rain. I get it. Look, nothing happened, I promise.”

  “I know,” I said. “That wasn’t actually what I was worried about. Anymore.”

  “Was he your boyfriend? Or, I mean, did you think the guy I described might have been your boyfriend. At the time?”

  I shook my head. “Some things happened to me I can’t remember.” A chill snaked down my spine. I shuddered.

  “Is that how you knew my mother? She was helping you remember?”

  “Your mother felt sorry for me, Scarlet. She wanted to help me, the way you would a drowning kitten, or a starving dog.” I pulled the amulet from under the collar of my dress. “She gave me this.”

  Scarlet made a sound in her throat. “God, I miss her so much. I never got to tell her good-bye.”

  I touched her arm. “No one ever does,” I said. “Not really. I like to think it’s because the best parts of the ones we lose are always with us. Until we meet again.”

  She sniffed. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, then turned her gaze on me. “You have to trust your instincts. My mother would tell you the same. Of course, she would help you listen to your instincts.” Her eyes misted. She reached out and touched the blue stone on the amulet. “There’s a reason my mother gave this to you. It’s angelite. To ward off evil spirits. Don’t lose it, Miss Rain. Sew it to your chest, if you have to.”

  I thought of Sarah taking off the necklace, and clasping it around my neck. As I walked back to my car, over wet grass, my body ached with fever. And guilt.

  Would Sarah still be alive if she hadn’t taken off the amulet?

  36. Devon

  I PUSHED my mop back and forth on the marble floor. Outside, the night glittered. Above me, a shimmer of stars arced across the open dome, showing off the unreal sky.

  I tried not to think but that was as futile as mopping.

  I thought of Zadie. And Ruby.

  I felt torn between them, as if I would ever see either of them again. I figured I was losing my mind. Which would be a blessing.