Razor Dreams: The Seventh Jonathan Shade Novel

by Gary Jonas

  The door buzzed and I entered her building. The elevator was out of order, so I took the stairs. I half expected to see the smoke demon on one of the landings or in the hallway leading to her apartment, but everything looked normal. I knocked on her door.

  When she answered, she threw herself into my arms. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said. She stepped back, embarrassed, and pulled me into her apartment.

  “No worries,” I said.

  Her place was small but clean. Incense burned in the living room, the scent of jasmine trying to fight off the aroma of marijuana. It was losing.

  Starving artist paintings hung on the walls. A small television sat on a stand, and a sofa with throw pillows stood against one wall. A rocking chair had a place of honor on the hardwood floor, and a large rug filled the center of the room with a coffee table anchoring it before the sofa. Two hardcover books decorated the table. I recognized the one about stone gargoyles. The other was about African masks.

  Past the living room was a dining room with a small circular glass table and silver chairs with black cushions. A large sliding glass door opened onto a balcony from the dining area. Off to the right was the kitchen. A hallway led to the bathroom and bedrooms.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Isabel asked, moving straight into the kitchen. “I have water, wine, or iced tea.”

  “I'm not thirsty,” I said.

  “Maybe a snack?”

  “I'd rather check your place to make sure everything's cool.”

  “Of course,” she said. “I'll give you the two-cent tour.”

  She led me down the hall, pointed out the bathroom, a small bedroom, and the master bedroom. The bed in the master had not been made. An overflowing laundry basket sat in the closet, and the top of the dresser was packed with perfume bottles, papers, a glass jar full of coins, and a box of tissue paper.

  “It's kind of a mess,” she said.

  “It looks lived in,” I said. “That's a good thing.”

  “You think?” she asked, facing me and placing a hand on my chest.

  “I'm here because you felt you were in danger,” I said.

  “I feel much safer now that you're here. And danger is sort of a turn-on. Don't you think I'm pretty?”

  “I do,” I said. “But that's not why I'm here. Where did you see the demon?”

  She pointed to the bedroom window.

  I swept the curtains aside and looked out. It was getting dark, but I could still see the brownstone next door. I opened the window, but the screen was in place. Traffic noises from the street drifted up to us. There wasn't a balcony here, so if someone tried to look in, they'd have to either rappel down from the roof on ropes, or they'd have to be Spider-Man.

  “All clear here,” I said and closed the window. “Let's check the balcony.”

  “This way,” she said and led me back to the dining room.

  She opened the drapes. Two small plastic lawn chairs stood guard on the narrow balcony. A plant sat in the corner by a door. The black metal railing had a fire escape ladder on one side. I opened the door and stepped outside. I peered over the railing. Nothing to see but the alley below.

  “Storage unit?” I asked, pointing at the door.

  She nodded. “It has boxes of pictures and Christmas decorations. That's about it.”

  “I don't see anything here to worry about.”

  “It's a nice night. We could sit out here and have a glass of wine. This is where my parents used to go when they wanted some alone time.”

  “You shared a small room with your brother and sister?”

  “It was cramped, but we never complained. We didn't know anything else. And I had the room to myself after Juanita and Pedro died.” She turned away. “Sorry, sometimes the old memories come back.”

  “It's all right,” I said.

  “I've lived here all alone for years.”

  “You never got married?”

  “Came close. Asshole lived here for five years after my folks passed. Finally kicked that bum to the curb, and I've been alone here ever since. I date sometimes but I guess I'm too picky. I just don't want to spend my life with someone who won't respect me. It gets lonely, though.”

  I nodded. I understood about loneliness.

  “Did you really see the darkness?” I asked.

  She looked at me a moment without answering, then said, “You sure you don't want some wine?”

  “I'm sure. I will take a glass of iced tea, though.”

  “Good. I don't want you to leave just yet.”

  “I'll stay for a while. Make sure you're okay.”

  “It's nice to have company.”

  She touched my arm then returned to the apartment. I followed her inside and slid the door closed.

  The glass shattered behind me. Something slammed into my back, and I fell forward, crashing into Isabel and knocking her into the dining room table. She careened off the table, knocked over a chair, and hit the ground. I hit the table right behind her, but something had hold of me and it smashed me right through the glass. I hit hard on the metal support struts. The wind burst from my lungs, and something shoved off me.

  My eyesight dimmed in pain for a moment, but I looked up and saw a man made of darkness leap away from me. His hands ended in massive claws. Those claws smashed the light fixture above the former dining room table. Glass and pieces of metal rained on me.

  Isabel screamed.

  The man of the dark grabbed her, pulled her to her feet. He slashed her twice, once across the face and once across the chest. He reared back to slash her a third time.

  I pushed myself up and launched myself at him. Since he clawed her, he had to have physical form. I tackled the dark man, and we all fell. Isabel landed on her back, and I landed on the dark man. As we hit the floor, he burst into smoke, and I hit the hardwood, taking the impact on my forearms. I grunted and winced in pain.

  The smoke swirled and darted out the broken door, losing itself in the night.

  I crawled to Isabel. “Let me see,” I said pulling her hands away from her face.

  Deep gouges ripped her cheek to the bone. Blood flowed like water. More gashes tore through her chest. Her blouse absorbed a lot of blood, but it kept gushing.

  “Okay, hold it tight,” I said.

  She applied pressure to her face with one hand and to her chest with the other, but it wasn't enough.

  I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a hand towel from the handle of the refrigerator. I rushed back to her and pressed the towel to her chest.

  “It's going to be all right,” I said.

  I yanked off my shirt and pressed it against her face, feeling it grow wet beneath my hands. As I held it in place, blood filled it and overflowed. I applied more pressure, trying to keep her blood inside her. I dug my cell phone from my pocket and dialed 911.

  Isabel moaned and her hands stiffened.

  “I've got you,” I said.

  “Nine-one-one,” a voice said. “What is your emergency?”

  I tried to staunch the blood flow while I gave the address to the dispatcher.

  Sirens wailed in the distance. I kept pressure on the wounds. Isabel breathed in ragged gasps, eyes wide. I knew she was in shock. I told her she was going to be fine over and over, but she was losing too much blood.

  I didn't have time to think. “Stay with me,” I said. “Keep your eyes open.”

  She obeyed but I could tell she was fading.

  “Don't you die on me!”

  She passed out.

  The paramedics arrived.

  I let them take over. As I stepped out of their way, I stared at my hands. My palms were bloody.

  “Please stand farther back, sir,” one of the paramedics said.

  I backed up all the way to the broken door. Glass crunched under my shoes.

  They worked efficiently, and before I knew it, they'd cut off her shirt and bra, wrapped her chest wounds, bandaged her face, and strapped her to a gurney. They carri
ed her out of the apartment to race her to the hospital.

  “She's still bleeding,” a paramedic said. “Get her stable. Hold here.”

  I stood there in stunned silence.

  I should have been on guard.

  I should have been ready.

  I turned, felt something drip, and realized my arm had been cut, probably by the glass from the table. I held the cut and stared out at the night.

  Was the darkness there?

  Waiting?

  “Sir?” the paramedic said. “We need to get her to the hospital right away.”

  “Can I ride with you?” I asked and knew I needed a lie to make it work. “I'm her fiancé.”

  “Follow us down,” he said.

  I looked one more time out into the night, but if the darkness was there, it remained hidden.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I sat in the waiting room at the hospital, wearing a borrowed scrub shirt. One of the paramedics had bandaged my arm and plucked a few shards of glass from my back. They were minor cuts. A small scratch on my shoulder stung more than the rest.

  Isabel fought for her life just down the hall, and there was nothing I could do but wait. I expected the police to show up any minute. I didn't want to deal with them. I didn't know anyone on the force here, and I couldn't have anyone vouch for me from Denver since so far as O'Malley and the others in Colorado knew, I was dead.

  In the far corner of the waiting room, a father and his young daughter huddled together, praying for their loved one. I gave them as much privacy as I could. At the back of the room, a middle-aged woman poured herself a cup of coffee, leaned against the counter, and cradled the cup close to her lips. She blew on it and looked over at me. Her mascara drew tracks down her cheeks. I didn't know if her husband or one of her children was in surgery, but from the look on her face, she was not hopeful. My heart went out to her.

  One of the doctors pushed through the heavy doors into the waiting room. All eyes fastened on him, a mixture of hope and fear permeating the room. He looked around for a moment and approached me. “Are you Isabel Sanchez's fiancé?” he asked.

  I had lied on the ride in so they'd keep me updated on her condition. “Yes, how is she?”

  “Not good. We can't stop the bleeding. Is she taking warfarin? You may know it as Coumadin.”

  “Not that I know of,” I said.

  An alarm sounded.

  The doctor didn't say another word to me. He rushed back to Isabel's room. I started to follow him, but a nurse pointed at me.

  “No visitors!” she said, and as she opened the door, I heard the steady drone of a cardiac monitor. No beeps. Just the long, lonely tone.

  That could have been from any room down that hall.

  I paced the floor. Any room.

  It wasn't Isabel.

  It couldn't be from her room.

  I tensed my muscles, wanting to push through those doors to go check on her. Self-restraint, I told myself. I drew a deep, calming breath. She's going to be all right.

  But the longer I waited for the doctor to return, the more my thoughts clouded.

  I drew one more breath then looked at the other three people in the waiting room. All of them felt the same fear and worry I did, but for them that tone signified the potential death of a family member. I realized how selfish I'd been. Nobody should have to go through the pain of not knowing. I looked at each of them in turn, but none of them met my gaze. They all stared at the doors.

  “Is Mama going to be all right?” the little girl asked her father.

  I had to turn away. Her voice tore at my soul.

  After a time, I had to sit down. I stared at the clock mounted over the doors—an old-fashioned white circular face with the short black hour hand, long black minute hand, and a thin red second hand that seemed to move in slow motion, ticking away the moments like imagined heartbeats. Each second was an eternity where the people in the room hung suspended in agony, waiting for news of their loved ones.

  The same doctor I'd seen shouldered his way through the doors, pulling down his surgical mask. His uniform had traces of fresh blood on it. He caught my eye, gave me a quick head shake.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “She didn't make it.”

  I sat in stunned silence.

  “The police are on the way,” the doctor said. “They'll need you to answer some questions.”

  I searched for my voice. “Of course,” I said.

  I stared at the floor. I told myself this wasn't possible. This wasn't even a real case.

  There wasn't supposed to be any real danger.

  The darkness had no real power.

  I was just going through the motions.

  And my bullshit little ploy to try to keep Kelly here had not only pushed Kelly and Rayna both away, but now it had cost two people their lives.

  The doctor said something else, but I didn't pay attention. I nodded as if I'd heard and understood. I stared at the blood. Isabel's blood. I thought of her smile. No one would ever see it again. No one would ever hear her laugh.

  The doctor turned and left.

  I sat there another moment, felt the relief from the others in the waiting room that it wasn't their loved one being wheeled down to the morgue. I swept my gaze around the room to catch them all. Father holding daughter. Woman setting the coffee cup down and placing a hand on her heart as she stared at the ceiling. I hoped they'd receive better news. I slipped out the exit before the police arrived.

  The hallways felt cold as I strode toward the nearest exit.

  Outside, the warm air settled on me, and I sat down on a planter filled with flowers. I pulled out my cell phone and clicked on recent calls. I planned to call Kelly, but the first name on my call history was Isabel Sanchez. She'd typed her name and number into my phone herself. I clicked the phone off.

  Isabel was dead.

  And it was my fault.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Esther woke me up the next morning.

  “Don't make me punch you in the kisser,” she said. “Not that I could, but if you don't get out of bed, I'll find a way.”

  I rolled over and stared at her. She floated over my bed. Normally she walked on the floor like anyone else, so at first I thought I was dreaming. She glared at me.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Go away,” I said.

  “Rayna up and scrammed this morning, and Kelly is packing her bags. She may be gone this afternoon!”

  “I know.”

  “Stop them!”

  “Let me sleep, Esther.”

  “You can't let Kelly go!”

  “It's not my choice,” I said.

  Esther drifted over and settled on the floor. She knelt beside the bed and put her face right up to mine. “Are you drunk?” she asked.

  “No,” I said and rolled over to face the other way. My shoulder still stung, but my other cuts and bruises didn't bother me much.

  Esther phased through me and turned in the center of the bed to meet me nose to nose. “Something else is eating you,” she said. “And it's not Kelly and Rayna.”

  “Go away, Esther. I need to be alone.”

  “That's not happening. Spit it out. What's wrong?”

  I sighed. “Isabel was murdered last night,” I said. “Smoke demon.”

  “What?”

  “Don't make me repeat it.”

  “But how? It wasn't that strong. You wanted weird but not too dangerous.”

  “It really can manifest physically. Claws and all.”

  “But it shouldn't have been able to do that,” Esther said.

  “It's not your fault,” I said. “You did a great job. I underestimated the danger. This is on me.”

  “So get out of bed. Let's go kill it.”

  “I just want to sleep.”

  “Get out of that bed!” she yelled.

  “I'm tired,” I said.

  “I don't care! Get up or I'll start singing 'It's a Small World' over and over.”

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sp; All I wanted to do was go back to sleep, but I knew she'd make good on her threat, so I pushed myself up. Nobody should have to suffer through that song. When I moved, my shoulder stung even more, and I felt something roll down my arm.

  “You're bleeding,” Esther said.

  I glanced at the stream of blood trailing down my bicep. “That's odd,” I said and peeled my sleeve back to check the bandage on my shoulder. The small bandage was soaked in blood and hung from one sticky part above the scratch. “Hmm,” I said staring at it. “I must have reopened it while I was sleeping.”

  I rose and wandered into the bathroom. I pulled off my bloody shirt and tossed it into the trash can. That stain wasn't going to come out.

  Esther followed me into the restroom. “All that blood came from one little scratch?” she asked.

  I grabbed a washcloth, wetted it, and cleaned the blood from my shoulder. The scratch wasn't bad. It still hurt, though. I pressed the cloth against it.

  “You might want to take a shower,” Esther said.

  “I took a shower when I got in last night.”

  “Then you need someone to scrub your back. You have two big smudges there.”

  I turned and twisted, trying to see them in the mirror. They looked like someone had smudged charcoal on my back in two spots about the size of balled fists. I reached back and managed to touch one of them with my fingertips. I pressed and felt a bit of pain. They were strange-looking bruises right where the darkness had slammed into me.

  I looked at the scratch on my shoulder. It wasn't bleeding much, but the blood should have coagulated by now. I grabbed a tissue and applied pressure.

  Had the smoke demon scratched me?

  The doctor asked about warfarin, which was a blood thinner. They hadn't been able to stop Isabel's bleeding. I pulled the tissue away from my scratch. The tissue had a small bloodstain. I dabbed at the scratch. More blood. I folded the paper and held it to the wound.

  “You all right?” Esther asked.

  “I'll be fine,” I said.

  I looked at the scratch again. It didn't seem any better, but it didn't seem any worse. I put on a small bandage then grabbed my toothbrush.

  “What time did you get in?” she asked.

  “After one. I had to go back to Isabel's apartment building.”