Dark Demon Rising: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery book seven

by Linda Welch

  And the lights . . . sulfurous orange or red street lamps, and every building at street level and on most floors sported neon in white or varying colors. They blazed and glared, making me want to squint.

  I looked at the flat, unnatural color overhead and as I stared, in seconds, it darkened to puce and tiny wet missiles pelted from above.

  Rain, coming down like bullets.

  I squeaked and ducked my head, but felt nothing. Tiff, you idiot. Seeing huge raindrops smack through me and hit Maggie was disconcerting.

  We scuttled under The Station’s narrow porch.

  My gaze dropped to the street. The red from above tinted the shadows where the lights did not penetrate.

  “Did you see?” Maggie gasped. “The color changed and poof, down came the rain.”

  People surged along the sidewalks in an endless tide and thronged the street. Some pedestrians moved nearer the buildings to escape the rain or took shelter beneath awnings. Others went on their way as if they didn’t notice the downpour. Stalls dotted the sidewalks, forcing people to skirt them and step into the street. A small car drove toward us and a path opened as everyone moved aside, then closed in again behind it.

  “Does the rain feel as nasty as it looks?” I asked Maggie.

  “Yeah.” She wiped her wet face with one sleeve. “Like being pelted with gravel.”

  A man in a black business suit under a gray overcoat hurried toward us. He glanced at us and his vertical iris shimmered an unearthly green.

  I studied the people who crowded the street and sidewalks and knew I did not gaze upon your everyday Clarion citizens.

  Stunned, my eyes picked out human beings but they were in the minority. I saw feathers and fur, hooves and claws, pointed ears, elongated limbs. Some looked like animals wearing clothes and walking upright. A towering hairy biped waded through the crowd. With a buzz and bell-like tinkle, something small and blazing color zipped past my face too fast to get a fix on. A slim woman studied produce on a stall; pale, semi-translucent wings flared from her back then as quickly folded out of sight.

  “Guys?” Maggie hissed.

  “I cannot believe my eyes,” Royal said in a hushed a voice.

  Maggie whispered, “You said your parents talked about ‘people’ who fled to a sanctuary long ago.”

  “This is not real,” Chris murmured. “I’m in my penthouse in Rome, or my manor house in England, or my palazzo in Venice . . . wherever I am, I’m tucked up in bed sound asleep. But I can’t decide if this is a dream or a nightmare.”

  As for me, I couldn’t speak.

  “Walk with confidence, as if you know your destination,” Royal murmured. “Do not stop, do not pause, eyes ahead and do not gape.”

  “Where are we going?” Chris asked.

  “No idea.” Royal thrust his hands straight at his sides and walked down the steps to the street. “And I hesitate to ask any of these about Shan. Perhaps a merchant, or is there an office of public records?”

  Royal led, with Maggie sandwiched between him and Chris. I once saw Royal stride through Clarion wearing this expression and other pedestrians got out of his way, as far from him as possible. He didn’t daunt these folk. They drifted aside at the last second or turned a shoulder to avoid being rammed, and continued.

  The rain stopped as abruptly as it started.

  The hurrying people fascinated me, not only because my brain struggled to analyze what it saw. I’d quickly become used to auras to the degree I barely noticed them, but black tinged many of these aurae and I knew they should be avoided.

  I felt as if I watched a fantasy movie. I couldn’t get a sense of this place. “Maggie, tell me what you feel.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How does the air feel? What do you smell?”

  “Oh.” She frowned in concentration. “It’s warm and humid. The air is heavy, as if a thunderstorm is brewing. It feels kind of threatening, actually.” She inhaled. “Strong smell of . . . sweat. Do they use deodorant? And, lemme see, onions. Yeah, fried onions, and peppers? And coffee. I think there’s a bakery nearby, I smell pastries. And,” she pinched her nose, “garbage.”

  A thin voice behind us said, “Hungry,” and Maggie sidestepped to avoid one of three tiny creatures squatting against the wall. Enormous elephantine ears of thin translucent membrane, noses long and sharply pointed, they held out arms thin as sticks. “Hungry. Give?”

  I couldn’t give, Maggie made apologetic noises and Royal didn’t linger. He dragged Maggie onward by her arm.

  A pearl-grey sedan pulled to the curb beside us not far from The Station and the driver’s door opened. A thin gangling figure in an ankle-long hooded coat unwound itself from the driver’s seat, slithered out and opened the passenger door.

  Curious, I tried to see under the hood but the driver kept his . . . her? . . . its? . . . head bowed. Silent, he stood there holding the door.

  Royal and Chris stepped away as if joined at the hip. Chris pushed Maggie behind him. Royal’s hand went inside his jacket for his gun.

  The driver’s voice made the word a sigh. “Shan.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Royal didn’t pull his pistol but he and Chris hesitated. Could we trust anyone in this bizarre place?

  “Shan says come,” the driver said.

  “I think we’ll have to risk it,” Chris said in a low voice.

  Royal gave a sharp nod. Chris got in first, Maggie and I next, followed by Royal. The driver shut the door and slipped in the front seat. And away we went.

  Chris’ hair straggled in sopping tendrils. Maggie lowered her hood to reveal teal hair plastered in a cap. Water drizzled over Royal’s face. All three dripped on the seats until small puddles surrounded them.

  Rain battered Gettaholt again. It pummeled the car’s roof and the windshield wipers came on full speed. Maggie, crushed between Royal and Chris, still hadn’t found her voice after being accosted by tiny creatures belonging in the imagination, not on a sidewalk in a busy city. Royal looked out one side of the car, Chris out the other. Maggie leaned forward and tried to see past Royal.

  Nobody said a word, either because they didn’t want to speak with the driver listening or were speechless, given what we saw outside. The rain blurred everything but I glimpsed strange architecture and odder people. All the time, I wanted to pinch myself so I’d wake up.

  We swerved down a street with other vehicles and fewer people who sensibly kept to the sidewalks. The rain stopped falling as if someone turned off a faucet. I looked past the driver’s narrow shoulders at the road winding ahead and looming buildings. The street was darker than those we’d left and the irregularly placed streetlights fought a hazy red gloom cast by the red sky. We passed slits between walls too narrow to be called alleys; I don’t think two people could have walked abreast.

  Our driver was a maniac. Speed limits didn’t exist or were not posted, nor stoplights or stop signs. However, other vehicles drove at a reasonable speed and with due caution, but not our guy. He shot through intersections with no regard for other autos and pedestrians and didn’t decelerate when anyone attempted to cross the road; I held my breath on their behalf as they leaped or scurried out of the way. We came behind a panel truck and he veered to pass, barely avoiding a collision with a small pickup coming from the other direction. I forgot I couldn’t be hurt and released Maggie’s aura to reach for something of substance. I ended up halfway through the driver’s seat.

  The car whipped left along a side street and decelerated. Large domiciles stretched to the curb and the street dead-ended not far ahead.

  The car stopped outside one of the houses, the driver slid out, opened the rear door and everyone piled out. Chris smoothed his jacket and tugged the ends of his cuffs. “I think we’ve arrived.”

  Royal’s gaze tracked up an imposing house in the Romanesque style built of rough-faced stone with arches, parapets, a round tower and cone-shaped roofs. Carved panels decorated the face around the door and below
the windows on the third floor. My sight couldn’t penetrate the dark depths of the porch to the left of the front door.

  Eyes on the house, Royal announced, “Maggie, you will wait for us.”

  She got in front of him and looked in his face. “What? What about Tiff? You wanted me to come so you can communicate.”

  “Were she here in the flesh, I would not allow her inside.”

  “Would not allow!” I scoffed. “I’d like to see him stop me.”

  “Do you want to hear what she said to that?” Maggie asked.

  “I can imagine.” He still hadn’t looked at her. He didn’t look at Chris, either. “Chris, she cannot remain in this place alone. You must stay with her.”

  Chris frowned. “You sneaky devil. You had this in mind from the beginning, didn’t you, old man.”

  Royal didn’t respond. He never intended to let Maggie near Dagka Shan and successfully foiled Chris as well. I was glad he cared about Maggie’s safety.

  “I’m going with him,” I said.

  Maggie frowned.

  “I’ll hang on tight,” I reassured her. Happily, she didn’t comment on my decision. If Royal knew, he’d say I couldn’t go and I’d say I was, and he’d be mad he couldn’t stop me.

  Royal drew his Glock and handed it to Chris. “Keep this for me.”

  Chris took the heavy pistol. “Why?”

  “I do not want him to take it away from me.”

  This was too much. “You can’t go to Shan unarmed?” I quavered, and Maggie spoke for me.

  “Think, Tiff. Everything Shan did was to bring me here. To kill me? He was in Clarion. If he wanted me dead, he could have easier found and killed me than terrorize Magnusen into shooting you. I am safe because he wants something from me.”

  Royal lifted the heavy, ornate door knocker and rammed it on the wood.

  “How long should we wait before I come to your rescue?” from Chris.

  “You do nothing,” Royal said. “If I am not out within the hour, take Maggie home.”

  “And leave you? I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  Before they got into a macho match, the door opened. The woman who stood there wore a long, filmy, pale-yellow robe down to her ankles, the sleeves covered her hands and a hood enveloped her head. Wisps of white hair escaped the hood, framing a long pale face with a short pointed nose and wide mouth, catlike eyes, the yellow pupils big and round, the vertical irises a greenish color. Deep indents beneath pronounced cheekbones and colorless lips made her look skeletal.

  She backed into the house and made flourishing motions with both hands. Her voice was surprisingly deep. “Come.”

  I quickly stretched to twine my fingers in Royal’s aura, and released Maggie’s. “See you later, Maggie. Stay with Chris and make sure he stays with you.”

  Royal strode inside the house. The door shut behind us.

  The woman flowed more than walked. Terrified I’d lose my grip, I concentrated on holding Royal’s aura and saw little of the house. A grand staircase. High ceilings. Threadbare carpeting. Doors open to empty rooms.

  We stopped in a square chamber about forty feet on each side. “Wait,” the woman said. She backed through the door and shut it.

  Clinging to Royal, I took in our surroundings. Gray plaster coated the walls and ceiling, the floor smooth gray, as if painted. A big fireplace with a wide mantelpiece faced us; partly burned logs filled the basket and ash had drifted on the floor. Metal bars covered small windows in the wall to our right. The red light seeping through did little to disperse the shadows, and lamps glowing pale yellow on the other three walls made small oases of light. As well as the door behind us, shadows filled an arched opening left of the fireplace. Two long waist high tables each made of four roughly cut stone legs with thick slate slabs for tops sat at this end of the room.

  I noticed a design on the floor in front of the fireplace, a big, black unbroken circle with a frieze of lines, stars and circles following the inside circumference.

  A shadow near the fireplace stirred. With the swish of fabric on stone, a man stepped into the pallid light. He walked toward us, following the wall on the left as if avoiding the circle. Although a young man no more than thirty, his short hair and neatly clipped beard matched the dead gray of a man in his latter years. His nose hooked above thin lips and small round spectacles framed pale eyes. The corners of his mouth turned down, as if with contempt.

  The slight swish came from his long over-tunic trailing on the floor. Dark blue with long sleeves, it draped a round-necked gown covered with so much glittering embroidery it hid the material beneath.

  He stopped a good fifteen feet from us and inclined his head. “My name is Arthemy. Welcome to my home.”

  Instead of gently suffusing at the edges, the unrelieved black of Arthemy’s aura writhed like reaching fingers. I cringed closer to Royal.

  “Where is Dagka Shan?” Royal asked.

  “I am here,” Shan said as, suddenly, he was.

  If I’d had skin, I would have jumped right out of it. Royal flinched then held himself still.

  I automatically fumbled inside my coat until I found my holster. My hands shook, but I managed to draw the Ruger. Then I remembered trying to fire it in Clarion. It was an extension of my new body, not a real gun.

  I dearly wanted to put a bullet through Shan’s head.

  Gore coated Shan’s face and crusted his long hair when last I saw him. Now, wearing a midnight-blue jacket and trousers, a cream and powder-blue striped shirt and black suede loafers, he looked sophisticated, the epitome of style. Shining blue-black hair fell in sleek, glossy tendrils. Long-lashed black eyes, broad cheekbones and brown skin made me place him as South American but I knew his heritage was different. The Dark Cousins fashioned their forms to mimic the peoples of Earth.

  As all the Otherworldy, he was beautiful, but acknowledging beauty does not mean it beguiles me. On the contrary, I found Shan repulsive. My pulse hammered and the back of my throat burned as if coated with bile.

  Members of a band of Cousins who came to Bel-Athaer, the original Mothers, Shan, Gia and their brethren created the Gelpha race by abducting and breeding with human beings. It’s said Gia is old, though not how old, and compared to Dagka Shan is a fledgling. Both Gelpha and Cousins called him an Ancient. Yet Shan seemed a young man, for Dark Cousins don’t physically age as do Gelpha and humans. No imperfections marred his dark complexion, pliant skin molded pleasingly to his bones.

  Shan did not have an aura.

  He regarded us dispassionately yet a glint in his eyes belied his bland expression and soft, level tone. “Ryel, welcome to Gettaholt.”

  Royal said nothing. The muscles and sinews in his neck stood out from his skin.

  Shan smoothed his chin with long dexterous fingers. “What, no ‘so nice to see you again,’ or ‘how have you been?’ Have you forgotten your manners, Ryel?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “What do you think of Downside?” Shan held his arms as if in a wide embrace. “Is it not astonishing? Living here is an education, I have learned so much.” He dipped his head. “‘He said the dead had souls, but when I asked him how could that be—I thought the dead were souls. . . .’”

  I knew the quotation, from Robert Frost’s Two Witches.

  “Death, Ryel, is not final, for we are more than the fleshy bag which contains us. The body dies, yet we are eternal. The soul is everything we are, our actual selves. Did you know a foreign object inserted in a specific area of the brain will oust the soul, yet it remains connected by a thread, and while body and soul are tethered, the soul feeds essence to the living brain?”

  Despite my loathing, his voice fascinated me. I heard it once before, when he pinned me to the floor in the old factory beneath the High House. Then, he hissed a few words. Now, his voice rolled over me, deep, smooth, powerful.

  “You have met Arthemy. He is a blood mage and soul shaper. It was he who told me how to oust a soul from a still li
ving body.” He lifted his head and turned to the mage. “It worked, else Ryel would not be here. Well done, Arthemy.”

  “Thank you, my Lord.” Arthemy smiled, revealing black teeth.

  “In this place a stiletto or other suitably sharp object does the trick, but the weapon I found in the human world was as accurate and used from a distance.”

  “Avery Magnusen,” Royal said.

  Shan nodded. “Arthemy can restore your woman to her body, Ryel.”

  The bullet in my head forced me out of my body, it didn’t happen as a natural consequence of being shot. All so Shan could use me as leverage for whatever he wanted from Royal. He surely wanted something.

  “I think of her, hair like snow, those glacial eyes. Such hate, such loathing as she lay pinned beneath me. I recall every angle of her body pressed to mine.”

  Royal’s hands fisted, he took a step.

  Shan laughed. “Don’t be a fool, Ryel. Do not end this before it has begun.” To show how little he feared Royal, he turned his back on us.

  He said musingly, “Blood and magic. A sacrifice. What are you prepared to do, to bring her back?”

  Royal did not hesitate. “Anything.”

  Shan chuckled unpleasantly. “Don’t worry, Ryel. You need not lay your head on an altar. I will supply the blood, Arthemy the magic.”

  This is getting too freaking scary. Blood mage, soul shaper, sacrifice, magic! I didn’t believe in magic.

  “Then what is the price? There must be a price,” Royal said.

  Shan spun on one heel. “I will open a Gate so you can enter Bel-Athaer. You will bring the High Lord to me.”

  “Oh, no. Not gonna happen,” I said.

  Royal took in a deep breath. “I will not bring Lawrence here to die.”

  “Die? No. To talk. To come to an arrangement. You see, Ryel, the Gates will open before another decade passes. The Gates to my world. Perhaps a year, or five . . . exactly when is unknown but they will open. Naturally I, with my brethren, want to be there when they do. Our treaty with Gelpha is nothing more than words; if need be, we will forge through Bel-Athaer, we will fight, and many Gelpha will die. But with the High Lord’s blessing we will go peaceably.”