by S. L. Wright
Jamie didn’t like me, not one bit. Her scorn was palatable. She thought I was a two-bit hustler who was too naive to make it in Peoria much less New York City. She was barely civil, joking with her cohost about “this bullshit” right before someone called out of the darkness offstage, “Rolling!”
I knew millions of eyes were watching me right now, and if I made a mistake, I could ruin everything. Adrenaline spiked, and I tried to control it as Jamie switched on her perky All-American persona, and was off and running. I couldn’t keep up. Looking in her eyes, I saw her contempt. Surely everyone else did, too. She kept mentioning that this must be good publicity for my bar.
“How much did you make last night with your Q-and-A sessions?” she asked brightly. “Was it twice the usual Saturday night take? Maybe three times as good? These little stunts make for good television, don’t they? We’ve seen it all here, haven’t we, Bob?”
I was so self-conscious that I froze, groping for words that had flowed off my tongue so easily at the bar. The only time Jamie mentioned “demon” was to put air quotes around the word, with a smirk in her voice and a knowing look at her cohost. Mostly she wanted to make snide comments about my seamy love affair with the prophet, including the fact that I must have some kind of daddy complex.
Having had hours of practice overnight, with Marissa’s handy advice, I didn’t suck as badly as I would have. But that wasn’t saying much.
As soon as the segment was over and the lights were killed, Jamie unclipped her mic and clicked away without even a good-bye. A techie wearing a headset waited impatiently as the wire of my microphone got caught in my necklaces. I stilled my shaking fingers and dragged it out from under my shirt. A girl with a clipboard was waiting to show us through the long industrial corridors to a black car waiting outside.
I felt as though I were being put out with the garbage.
After that, I was whisked from one studio to another tucked into various cavernous buildings throughout the city. I had no idea there were so many. I didn’t watch morning shows myself, but had always considered them to be fluff. If this was bad, what would the news interviews be like? I’d be going to CNN and MSNBC later. Even Fox wanted a piece of me.
I had to keep my panic under control. I didn’t have much time between each show, waiting in tiny rooms with television screens displaying the guest before me. Sometimes another guest was waiting there too, watching me as if I were a pregnant panda about to pop. I felt like there should be bars around me keeping the visitors back.
Everyone was much more interested in my relationship with Prophet Anderson and the fact that he bought me the bar. I kept having to repeat that I couldn’t comment on that because of pending litigation, just as Kosciusko had insisted. I was glad because I didn’t want to speculate about what Dread would do now that he was considered a “person of interest” in my shooting. My lawyer also told me to not speak about Phil Anchor, which was a relief. I didn’t mind doing as Kosciusko said, whereas if Ms. Perone had asked me, I would have refused. Marissa was concerned with appearances, whereas my lawyer was trying to protect me.
But I did talk about Cherie. In fact, I told people I had come out, in part, because of the things Cherie had said about herself. She was the only one I pointed to and said, “That’s a demon.” She had set this in motion, using her demon nature to misrepresent herself as a religious miracle, whether intentionally or because of Dread’s con game. So I said it: Cherie hadn’t become immortal through faith. She was possessed like me.
I denied any knowledge about her motives, or that anyone else in the Fellowship knew that Cherie was a demon. But I explained the mechanics of how we both became possessed, the only two alive. They asked where she was, but I took them at their most literal meaning and replied, “I don’t know.”
Then one interviewer asked, “So, if you’re a demon, how many of you are there?”
“Over two hundred.”
That was the first time that I got a real reaction. Not just the interviewers, but there was a slight intake of collective breath from the crew behind the equipment. They didn’t believe I was a demon. But just the notion that a couple hundred parasitic creatures were out there, living among them, feeding off them . . . it sparked a deep-seated evolutionary fear. Demons had always preyed on people. And they knew it, though they didn’t want to admit it.
“Not all demons are bad,” I hastened to explain. “We have strong desires, usually based in our emotional signature. For me that’s relief; for others it’s sadness or pain. But that doesn’t mean a demon will cause pain—a demon doctor could soak up pain from people, lessening their suffering and helping them. We all have our flaws, but we aren’t all bad.”
“What are your flaws?” the interviewer asked.
It wasn’t the usual question, so I had to think about it a bit. “I doubt myself. I avoid problems. I’ve done things I regret for selfish reasons. I . . . think I have a hero complex. I’m not sure how else to explain why I want to ruin my own life in order to tell everyone the truth.”
They always wanted more, but Marissa kept me moving. As the day wore on, the shows picked up on what I’d said in previous interviews, and clarified things or asked me to expand on my own comments. By then I’d found out that my distributor couldn’t deliver until Monday morning, so I had to keep the bar closed. I let everyone know, and the guards reported that Bliss had returned and gone out again.
With nothing else to do that evening, I agreed to a round of tests at NYU Medical Center, the same hospital where Cherie had gone. I had an eerie sensation of déjà vu, even though I had a different perspective lying on the table where Cherie had lain, looking up at the mirrored slanting windows. I knew there were dozens of people watching me from up there.
The surgeon cut me with a knife again and again, his fascination oozing from his aura. He didn’t seem to care how much he touched me, holding my skin taut, so I shamelessly fed from him, and any of the other hospital staff that touched me. I was nearing my peak capacity.
It felt good.
Along with Marissa Perone, Kosciusko came with me to the hospital, along with a couple of his lawyers. I liked the show of strength. I knew that one false step could land me in a “secured facility.” I wasn’t going to let myself disappear.
I got a much more thorough grilling from the doctors than the media. They were taping me, and I wondered if these clips were also going to end up in the blogosphere. I almost hoped so. At least some of the truth would be out there.
One of the questions the doctors asked that I couldn’t answer was: How did demons come to exist? The fact that I had a distinct DNA and blood type was understandable because I had started out human. But every demon was different, with a unique physiology. Where did that imprint come from? Was there a human out there with the exact same biology that a demon’s body mimicked? Or were demons as truly unique as humans, who relied on the joining of two strands to make a whole gene? What made demons the way we are?
I wished I could refer them to Revel. He could probably have a serious discussion with them and get somewhere. “I am only an egg!” I wanted to cry.
I didn’t get home until nearly midnight. There were just as many people passing by as last night, but this time I had a chauffeur, my publicist, and security staff to clear my way to the door. The first thing I saw was my shutter, transformed. It looked like a giant aquarium with underwater plants and colorful fish swimming in the midst of a light-filled, Mediterranean blue.
I could sense that Bliss wasn’t home, and Mystify wasn’t among the stream of people filing by my beautiful shuttered bar. Marissa was still by my side. She had worked out a deal with Michael for a five-thousand-dollar retainer and a one-month commitment. I wasn’t sure how I was going to pay it, but she had certainly earned it. She left me with a list of more interviews I was supposed to do overnight, and planned to join me again at five a.m. so I could go to some different morning shows. There was a whole new lineup on Monday mornings.
All I cared about was making sure I was home by ten a.m. for the beer delivery. I needed to open up the bar and get some cash to pay for all of this.
Marissa had asked the car to wait, and I headed outside with her to tell the security guard to make sure nobody bothered her. She stopped me at the door. “Allay, I’ve been with you since five this morning. You didn’t sleep last night because I checked all of your online interviews. You haven’t eaten a bite, while I’ve been pigging out on the greenroom buffets. You haven’t had to so much as blot your face or blow your nose or go to the bathroom. You look exactly the same as you did this morning. You’re inhuman!”
“I know you’re making a joke, but I can tell it bothers you. That I’m different.”
“I admit I’m a bit squicked about the whole thing. But as long as you don’t touch me, we’ll be able to work together. I make it a point not to discriminate against anyone.” She sniffed, a honed skepticism still warring with what she had seen with her own eyes. “Demon, huh? Who would have figured it?”
She had been listening to me all day, and was possibly the foremost expert on demons other than demons. But most of the time she had appeared to be paying no attention, concentrating on her BlackBerry during my interviews. I wasn’t sure how much she had heard.
Apparently it wasn’t my words but my deeds that were convincing. That was the problem—how could I convince millions of people one at a time that I was telling the truth?
A few hours later, I got a call on the cell that Marissa had given me to do my interviews. It was an AP reporter. “Ms. Meyers, would you like to comment on the fire burning in the Fellowship complex?”
“It’s burning?” I blurted out.
“Yes, it appears to have been started by rioters on the street.”
I turned on the television so I could see for myself. The Prophet’s Center was on fire, and it wasn’t just one corner of the building. The windows were broken and spewing flames. The whole middle was going up in smoke. The fire trucks were jammed in at odd angles to get close enough with their ladders, and people were hanging out of the upper windows. Hoses were run out and spewing water.
“No comment,” I said, hanging up on the reporter.
Sickened, I hoped that nobody had been killed. I felt like I had to take some responsibility for this. I’d been denouncing Cherie as a demon all day.
According to the news, Prophet Anderson had been asked to a meeting at the DA’s office and had been unavailable for comment ever since.
I knew Dread was busy determining what to do to counter my multipronged attack. Even if he killed me now, the power base he had built for half a century was falling apart around him.
Not long after that, I felt Shock approaching. I jumped to my feet. I had never been so glad to feel her buzzing sensation. I knew Shock, and she wouldn’t be coming unless she had something to say. Maybe she had heard me.
Maybe she understood what I was trying to do.
I strained to tell the direction of her approach. I should have guessed it would be from the rear, and when it became clear she was making her way through the backyards, I went downstairs. After waiting a few minutes, I realized she had stopped moving. She must have seen the security guard and didn’t want to approach.
I hurried outside and told him to step into the bar for a few minutes. He didn’t ask questions. He was being paid too well for that.
“Shock!” I called softly. “You can come out now.”
Rustling in the weeds next door alerted me, and then Shock appeared at the top of the fence. “Where did that guy go?”
“Inside,” I whispered.
“Watching us,” she murmured, hesitating on her perch. This time she wasn’t blazing red with anger. She glowed almost a pure white, as controlled as a demon could get. Revealing nothing.
“He can’t hear us,” I said barely above my breath. “Come down, Shock. I don’t want the neighbors to see you.” It was three in the morning, but someone could be watching.
She dropped down and we stood close together in the shadow of the fence. Her eyes were dead. A shiver of fear ran over my skin, rusting my aura.
Scared of Shock. It blew my mind.
“I almost didn’t come,” Shock said quietly. “But Revel insisted that I try one last time. He said I’m the only one who can stop you from going off the rails. But I told him you wouldn’t listen to me. You stopped listening to me a while ago.”
My heart sank. Cold and mechanical was almost worse than blazing with fury. She couldn’t be further away, even standing right next to me. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Shock. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”
She shrugged as if that meant nothing.
“I’m trying to change things, so we don’t have to hide anymore,” I said. “We won’t be able to much longer, and if we don’t deal with this now, in the right way, people like Dread will use it to their advantage.”
“Like you’re doing.”
“You think this is helping me?” It was the same accusation I’d been hearing all day, but I couldn’t believe Shock was saying it. I was so taken aback that I couldn’t speak for a moment. “Shock, you have no idea what I’ve been going through.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve seen it before, Allay. I tried to tell you. Everyone’s tried to tell you. Whenever demons are discovered, it causes a panic until half of us are killed and everyone else goes so deep underground that we don’t dare make a peep for another century. Do I have to actually say ‘Salem witch trials’ for you to get it?”
“That was a different time, more superstitious. People believe in science now. I can prove what I am.”
“Maybe a few will believe you, but that just fuels the hysteria against us.”
I was frustrated, not just with her but with everyone who wouldn’t listen. “If you think it’s so dangerous, I guess you better keep away from me.”
“I’m going to Africa.” She stared at me blankly. “You’re a demon now. I can’t trust you.”
“Shock . . . you’re the one who keeps telling me I’m a demon.”
“I was wrong. You were human, and that was why I trusted you. Now that you’re a demon, I can’t. You’ll hurt every one of us if it suits your purpose. You’ve already destroyed my life.”
It seemed useless to protest that that hadn’t been my intention. “I told you I would change if I killed Pique. I told you, but you wouldn’t believe me.”
“I won’t make that mistake again.”
She was so far away already. I could easily imagine her joining Doctors Without Borders and helping victims of famine and civil war. But the fact that she was going now, because of me, made it hard to accept.
“But I need you, Shock. Now more than ever.”
“Someday—maybe not soon—but someday you might try to kill me.” She shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I can’t guard my back for that long.”
I felt like I was tearing off my own arm. Last week I would have died for her. This week she looked at me like I was a stranger.
I waited in vain for some kind word, some hint of concern, some consolation I could use. Some sign of interest in me. But she had been ordered to come say good-bye by her progenitor, and that was what she did.
Without another word, she jumped up on the fence and swung her legs over. She gave me one last look, indecipherable, then disappeared on the other side.
It was my own doing. I had destroyed our friendship with my own hands. But then again, if Shock couldn’t remain my friend as I grew and changed, then what could I do? She was the one person who had known me the best for the past decade, yet she had just walked away as if I was nothing.
I had been convinced that in the end, Shock would come back to me. I couldn’t believe how wrong I was.
23
I had to admit I went about my interviews over the next few days in a stunned state. It felt like I was repeating myself, facing the same disbelief, the same mocking tones, the same dismissive attitude as if I was just anot
her pawn in the big media game of one-upmanship. The more I talked, it seemed, the less headway I made.
Losing Shock had been a real blow. As the days passed, I was also becoming certain that Ram would not return. Now that I knew his past, I could see that my coming out couldn’t have been timed worse for the start of our relationship together. I was grasping for power because I had to protect myself, and if that meant he couldn’t love me, then I had to accept it. I had no other choice. It was either take care of myself or become somebody’s chattel again.
I settled uneasily into a new routine. I opened the bar from two to ten p.m., and then out of respect for the neighbors, closed down for the night. I sold twice as much liquor in nearly half the time, and the tips were incredible. Who wants to stiff a demon?
Every day Bliss showed up in time to help open the bar and work a full shift, raking in the cash. I think it financed her after-hours activities. She mentioned seeing Savor once—they went to a sex party together and Bliss could hardly stop giggling as she described some of what she had seen. I asked her if she ever saw Crave, but she said no. According to Savor, he had disappeared. Perhaps he had gone to Dubai after Glory. It didn’t seem to bother Bliss.
Mystify came by every day to join the curious crowds around the bar. He fed for hours but it never seemed like he came close to being fully charged up. Maybe because he was Ram’s offspring. He cruised along letting the curiosity and amazement wash over him, getting high on his favorite emotion. Whenever he came inside to talk to me, he was giddy and babbled nonsense. I was grateful; I didn’t want to fight off his advances. Or be tempted into giving in.
The only time he got serious was when he reported on Cherie’s activities—always without saying her name. She roamed the caverns under Grand Central Terminal, staying with various groups. Rumors were spreading among the homeless that an angel had come down from heaven to live underground. Mystify said she sometimes referred to herself by her demon name—Elude. But I had a sinking feeling that Cherie would emerge soon, and then I would have to deal with her. Would she align with Dread? If that tender scene with Mystify was an indication, then yes, absolutely she would.