by Nikki Sex
This magic is cold, dark, still, and soundless. Not only does it stink, it hurts. Yet the more I study it, the greater my vision and understanding.
More precisely, the more I look, the more my demon sees.
This tangled yarn of demonic energy fascinates my inner monster. Me? Not so much.
I just want this whole thing to be over.
My pulse jumps in my throat, my heart speeds. I have a death-grip on the detective’s hand, but holy shit! I feel weak, sweaty, and queasy. Pain is one thing, while relentless nausea takes away one’s will to live.
I shake and tremble in my effort to go on. I’ve spent my lifetime mastering my emotions, but nothing has prepared me for this. All my energy feels as though it’s washed away.
This is a spell! Only a spell! I tell myself over and over.
Suddenly, I’m in agony! I’ve been doused in gasoline and set alight! I smell my flesh burn. My body is a molten flame of pain. I struggle to remain motionless. I won’t run!
I’ve survived more difficult situations, but this seems like the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I need only pull back from the enchantment. No one would blame me for giving up. Why don’t I wrench myself free?
Terminal stubbornness can’t be ruled out.
Heat and fire leave me, now terrifying images cloud my mind. I’m thrown head-first into my appalling nightmare, flung back onto the cesspool of insects, snakes, pus, bile, and excrement. Again, something foul crawls up my spine, moving with sluggish feet.
It scuttles up my back, along my ribs and over my neck. When it crawls on to my face, I clench my jaw so savagely—I fear I’ll break my teeth.
It’s a dream. Not real.
The raven with the red, red eyes is watching.
I make a small, inarticulate sound. Bitter cold, and a sense of impending doom stiffens me, chilling my limbs to the bone, and obliterating all thought.
Reason is gone. What remains is primitive. Primal.
I’ve never been so scared in my life.
In my mind’s-eye I’m in my grave. Shovels of dirt fall on to me. They cover me, one after another. I am being buried alive. I’ll be eternally trapped. Forgotten. Alone. Freezing in the dark forever.
This is part of the enchantment. It isn’t real.
Suddenly, as though opening a box to view the mystery inside, the answer seems obvious. Like a ball of yarn, once I find the end of the twisted knot of dark magic, I pull on it.
Oh, the pain!
Every muscle in my body tightens.
This frigid cold is excruciating, but I refuse to make a single sound. Silence is the one thing I can control. As long as I maintain my silence—fear and pain are bearable.
If I can keep quiet, I’m still in charge. It may not be true, but if I keep my mouth shut, I feel as though I’m winning.
Slowly, oh-so slowly, the forcefully entwined tangle of sorcery begins to unravel. The ball of magic, like a ball of string, rolls apart. Five, yes, it’s as I thought. Five souls have been metaphysically glued together.
If I free them will they release as separate souls, or remain unnaturally joined?
I doubt they could ever cross another plane as one big, bound soul.
As the dark enchantment peels away, blinding light abruptly shines through. Too bad it’s a burning, white-light energy. Like a crack of thunder, followed by lightning that sets an entire forest ablaze—this new power literally makes me burn at a whole new level of intensity.
Christ! Not again!
My body temperature flashes from subzero to instant blistering heat.
It fucking kills! I’m boiling alive.
I restrain myself from even the slightest whimper. I hold back an agonizing scream. If I start screaming, I’m afraid I’d never be able to stop.
Urgent now, beyond desperate, I rush to rip away the remainder of that clinging blackness. To my horror and despair this only fans the flames of hot white energy.
I see small, black conduits running from each soul. They lead away from this place, moving through the walls, off to somewhere else—
—to him. To the demon Legion, and the murdering sorcerer he rides.
The solution is suddenly obvious. Dazzled with blinding clarity, I visualize cutting these black threads with mental scissors.
So, I do.
Like snipping tightly stretched strands, they sever with a roar of wind, and a shriek of released power. Raw magic burns so hot along my skin. I cry out loud in a broken scream—I’ve lost what fragile control I have.
John Joseph tightly grips my fingers, but I fear I’ve gone too far. Sweating and shaking, I work to lock another panicked shriek inside. Frantic to hold on, I unknowingly bite my lip hard. A familiar taste of copper eases over my tongue.
My mouth is bleeding.
Not good. Not good at all.
Blood contains the essence of the soul. It’s a common offering used to kick start any spell. Is the unmaking of a spell also aided by blood?
Blood! Fresh blood!
Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Now I’m really in trouble. Either that, or I’ve been saved. Will blood open the door to this prison? Is it a worthy payment for the release of these captives?
Unfortunately, after tasting fresh blood, my demon loses his shit.
Savoring a glorious sense of liberty and lust, my inner monster breaks free. With supernatural ease, he joins the spell of unmaking, glorying in this unseen, unknown, and awe-inspiring power.
Raw magic hits me, fueled by the intense, potent energy of five human souls.
What was once burning heat blazes into a massive bonfire. My head bows back, my back arches, every part of my body convulses. I scream as the electric heat of magic spills over me, metaphysically lighting me up like the North American power grid.
My eyes—no doubt demon-red, remain tightly closed. I view everything so clearly when I look through my monster’s vision. The whole world is different.
Pain is intense and so, so beautiful! I see it now.
Above me, a tunnel of bright light explodes open, stunning me senseless in its savagery. Five ghosts, all stuck together, immediately separate—thank God! Four cross over to the other side.
Their joy blasts as loud as Gabriel’s trumpet, calling all lost souls home.
The first person killed, the man I assume was an alcoholic, departs, along with two girls, and a boy—the last three have Down syndrome. With the sweet, innocent hearts of children, their joyous laughter lifts my spirits.
Pain and terror disappear—they transform into the direct opposite. Agony turns into euphoria. Fear converts to sheer delight.
In a breath-stealing rush, a surge of ecstasy races through my bloodstream. I shake and tremble once more, this time with intense pleasure. When showered with otherworldly energy from a spirit crossing over, I call it Heaven’s Mana.
This mana is the ultimate.
A fine, soft wind soothes over me in a gentle caress. A young male ghost with Down syndrome appears, smiling.
“You were trapped,” I say to him with my mind.
“Thank you for freeing us.”
“I’m glad I was able to do it. What’s your name?”
“I’m Ray Mitchel Delaney.”
“Nice to meet you, Ray. I’m Jan. What can you tell me about the bad guy?”
“He has red hair and is as tall as the detective. He has a black chain around his neck with a green stone in it. The stone is like a circle.”
“Excellent. Can you tell me what happened?”
He regards me with a tranquil gaze, surprising me with intelligent, eloquent eyes. “You know what happened.”
I long to interrogate him, but I resist the impulse. Generally, ghosts are literal, direct, and honest. If he says I know what happened, I do. “Then why are you still here?”
“I need to pass on a message.”
“Oh?”
“When you can see no way out, don’t forget. There is always hope.”
With t
hat cryptic comment, he flies up through the open portal to another world, following in the “footsteps” of his friends.
As he crosses over, once more I’m showered with pure and perfect energy. This time, I see a rainbow of purple, rose, and violet. I smell cinnamon and apple, and I hear music so pure, so lovely I could weep with joy.
My demon backs off, pulls away. Utterly sated, he’s glutted with energy and magic.
So am I.
Chapter 55. What Happened?
No longer betrayed by demon-red eyes, I open them, surprised to find myself being held in John Joseph’s lap. His muscular arms feel safe and warm around me.
Unbelievably languid and boneless, I laugh.
A concerned furrow mars his brow. “I was worried. Are you alright?”
Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.
A veritable flood of conversation! For this normally reserved man, it’s the equivalent of verbal diarrhea. The idea of the detective in this dilemma makes me laugh even more.
I begin with a muffled snort which quickly turns into a fit of uninhibited laughter. Every time I think I’ve got my inexplicable hysteria under control, I burst out in another torrent of inappropriate and rather unfortunate giggling.
The poor man waits patiently, his expression unreadable.
My laughter bounces through the subterranean cavern, mixes with a score of other noises, and returns as an imperfect echo. Exactly like that echo—a flawed copy of the original sound—I’m not quite myself.
I feel distant—far, far away. It dawns on me that I’m utterly intoxicated.
I’m drunk with power.
“I feel good,” I say lazily, as if from somewhere on the other side of the room. My voice is strange and thick.
The detective has seen me like this before—well, maybe not quite as bad as this. But he knows when I help a spirit cross over I can become overly happy.
John asks, “Do you know what happened?”
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five. Oh, God! Stop counting! I have to quit this stupid game.
“Yes, but I need coffee.” I feel as though I’m speaking under water, or in slow motion. “Can we get out of here? I’ll tell you everything I know the minute I get my brain back.”
Nodding, he lifts me up by the waist, returns me to sit beside him on the iron girder. I take a few deep breaths, shakily gather my feet under me, and successfully manage to stand.
John Joseph places his arm under my elbow, picks up his jacket and half-carries, half-guides me away from the underground murder scene.
I stumble clumsily from time to time, but Detective Joseph prevents me from falling.
I know it’s inappropriate to feel so stupidly happy near the scene of a brutal massacre, but I can’t help myself. I try not to laugh, I truly do. Somehow it only makes the problem worse.
A ton of disapproving looks are flung my way from numerous public servants of this fine city. I hope they didn’t hear me earlier when I really let go. I can’t imagine what I look like. Nothing lessens my goofy smile. I can’t seem to get this euphoria under control.
I hope they don’t decide to consider me a suspect.
Apparently, I have a stiff backbone of control when it comes to pain, but I’m a spineless marshmallow when confronted with joy.
A younger cop looks down his nose at me. I say younger because he doesn’t even need to shave, judging by the peach fuzz on his face. He’s so damned censorious. He acts as though he’s caught me stealing from the church collection plate.
I wonder what he’d think if he knew I was two-hundred years old?
The kid’s stick-up-the-ass stare makes me snicker, but I haven’t completely lost my IQ. I put my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound, and hide my smirk. I don’t want to embarrass Detective Joseph, although I’m sure that ship has sailed.
He’ll forgive me when he breaks this case with the information I have for him.
It’s an hour before I’m sensible enough to speak a full sentence coherently. By then, we’re back in the Green Interview Room at MacLeod International. I’ve downed many hot, black coffees, and eaten more than my share of chocolate chip cookies.
Chocolate is just the thing after the day I’ve had.
“Tell me,” he says.
Twenty-six, twenty-seven. Jesus, I can’t stop. Shoot me. Shoot me now.
Tight faced, I refuse to allow myself to smile. When will I get past the giggles? This is some serious shit here. Death. Dismemberment. Demons. The three D’s.
The three D’s!
Snickering, I put my hand over my mouth. Man, that’s so not funny. Why do I have the irrepressible urge to laugh?
The answer comes to me: I have a right to be happy. What happened in the underground parking area had been ghastly. No one would’ve blamed me if I ran—but I didn’t run. I stood strong. I made myself proud.
Today I’ve come through a fire of my own. I faced my fears, I suffered agonies. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t give up.
My demon and I saved five souls from a fate worse than death.
A vivid image of Ray Delaney comes to my minds-eye, making me smile. “You know what happened,” he told me.
I suppose I do.
“OK, detective, I’ll tell you what I’ve found out, but you’re not going to like it.”
John pulls out a notebook, a pen, and prepares himself to write.
I lean back on the couch, recalling Owen’s words: “The wolf couldn’t talk—he was a wolf, but the vampire called the gibbering, stinky man, Legion.”
I expel a deep breath. “A person unknown, a man, decided it would be a good idea to summon a demon. I guess this would be last week, probably last Thursday night. To do this, he first killed a man who—from the smell of cheap whisky—I presume was a homeless alcoholic. To conjure a powerful demon to appear, there must be at least one death. Clear so far?”
Meeting my eyes, the detective says nothing.
I don’t openly demonstrate my gifts to many people, but John is one of the few I trust. His tribe has many stories of Eyak, an evil spirit. While we haven’t discussed demons, I figure he would be more open to the idea than most.
I blow out a breath. “Something went wrong, and this is the part you really won’t like. You see, the demon took control of the sorcerer. Our murderer is now demon-possessed.”
He then called two supernaturals to him, a werewolf, and a vampire, but I can’t tell the detective that. Evil spirits are one thing, other supernaturals are something else.
His face an emotionless mask, John remains silent.
Undeterred, I continue, “Next, the sorcerer somehow found four people with Down syndrome. He brought them to the site of the pentagram, tortured them, and murdered them.”
“Four of the victims have Down syndrome?” the detective asks, demonstrating low key excitement, while pulling his phone from his jacket.
Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two. Shut up! Shut up!
“Yes, I’m positive,” I reply.
Delighted by this break in the case, John is surprised into what—for him, is an outpouring of garrulous conversation. “I’ll check local group homes,” he says.
God Dammit.
The action is automatic, the desire overwhelming. With a sigh, I surrender to my newest bad habit. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, and thirty-seven.
“The ghost I spoke with had Down syndrome,” I add. “His name was Ray Mitchell Delaney.”
The triumphant smile John Joseph gives me makes me grin.
He hits speed dial, speaks to a coworker at the station, tells her what to look for, where to look, and gives her Ray’s full name. I don’t feel the need to count these words, although John naturally uses the minimum necessary to get his message across.
When the detective hangs up I say, “The man you’re looking for is your height, with red hair. He’s wearing a black chain ar
ound his neck with a circular green stone in it. Your perp smells really bad, too. That’s all I was able to find out from Ray.”
He nods while jotting these details down. “Why Down syndrome?” he asks.
Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.
I pour myself another coffee, take a sip. “Maybe the sorcerer is afraid of people with mental disabilities? Or else he genuinely cares for someone with Down syndrome. For whatever reason, the demon brought them to torture to death. Most likely that was Saturday morning.”
John nods, still taking notes.
That was the morning after Hope and Owen’s near death attack. I wonder why the demon left them alive? Had they been discovered by someone? Owen reached out to me, but he and his sister were alone when I arrived.
I certainly wouldn’t have scared a demon off. More likely it upset the sorcerer to think of Owen and Hope slowly dying beside a filthy dumpster.
I take a few bites of another chocolate chip cookie, wash it down with coffee. “There are a million ways to torture someone. Physical pain is only one way, and it’s not always the most painful, by any means. Demons enjoy forcing their victims to do things they would never ordinarily do. For example, if a person is terrified of snakes or spiders, a demon might make him eat the object of their phobia—squirming and resistant, while it’s still alive.”
Alertly absorbing every word, John says nothing.
“Demons feed on fear, blood, and pain. This one used people with Down syndrome to psychologically torment the sorcerer. By the way, the last man died before the full moon on Sunday. He’s the one whose face wasn’t disfigured, nor was his body dismembered.”
He was the wolf shifter who was killed in wolf form, and changed back to human after death. He had to die before he became uncontrollably moonstruck. The vampire died then, too, but no one will know scattered ashes at the site were the remains of another victim. I wonder if Legion made them kill each other?
John puts his notebook and pen down, sits forward, places an ankle on his knee, holds it with both hands. His eyes lock to mine.
“Suggestions?”
Forty-one. The man is a master. You gotta admire his verbal economy.
“Somewhere out there is a bad, bad man, who is possessed by an even more depraved demon. He will kill again, and he prefers to murder people with Down syndrome.” I pause, take a deep breath. “You cannot destroy a demon. The only way to get rid of a demon is to kill the er…human horse he rides.”