Demon's Doorway

by Glenn Bullion

  She said nothing. She looked back and forth at the retreating Josh and the coat on the table. Finally, she met Kevin's gaze, and he recognized the anger.

  "Are you forgetting that a year ago, one of the most influential vampires tried to have you killed for simply existing? Witch-hunters, attacks on your family, nearly dying. Does any of this jog your memory?"

  He was genuinely confused. "Uh…it's a memory potion. It's not the Black Death."

  "Part of the deal for you to be left alone is to keep a low profile. Selling magic is not a low profile."

  "Okay. So, when you need magic, it's okay. But making a little money for myself? Nope, not allowed."

  "Now you're comparing saving millions of lives with helping a student cheat."

  "Millions? Millions of lives? Really?" He shook the statement from his mind. "Victoria, look, again, it's just a memory potion. They don't even know it's magic. They probably think it's some kind of crazy energy drink."

  "And if he tells his friends? And they tell theirs?"

  "Hmm. Then maybe I can actually make some real money."

  She leaned back and crossed her arms, shaking her head. "I see now why your sister called me."

  "Kristin…did what?"

  "She's worried about you. Says you don't do anything. You just work, and stay in the basement. You don't talk on the phone—"

  "Guys don't talk on the phone."

  "You don't go out with friends—"

  "I don't have any friends."

  "You don't do anything a normal nineteen-year-old should."

  Kevin laughed sarcastically. "And what does a nineteen-year-old witch do?"

  His voice was getting louder, drawing a few odd stares from couples strolling by. Victoria calmly gestured for him to quiet down.

  "Victoria, this is me," he said, holding his hands outward. "What's Kristin worrying about? I've always been a loner."

  "You had friends."

  "No, Rachel had friends. I visited her at college, went out with her new crew a few times. But they were never my friends."

  "Ah, finally. So, that's what this is about? Rachel?"

  He rolled his eyes. "God, now you sound just like Kristin. I'm over Rachel, I promise. There's no bitterness or anything. She didn't cheat on me. She wasn't freaked out about what I am. She just didn't want to be with me anymore. It happens, you know? Us young, stupid kids go to college, and lives change. I know it's not the end of the world. I've actually went on a few dates since we broke up."

  "And how did they turn out?"

  He said nothing, and that told Victoria all she needed to know.

  "You asked me why I came here. I want to take you back to Baltimore."

  "What?"

  "You need a vacation. And looking around, it doesn't look like you'll miss much. Come to Alex's wedding. There's gonna be people, food, dancing, just a really good time. And there's plenty to do in Baltimore."

  "You're serious."

  "Of course. Why wouldn't I be? Do you have any pressing appointments coming up? More potions to sell?"

  He smiled slightly and arched an eyebrow. "There's more to it, isn't there?"

  She laughed and put a hand on his. "There is someone I'd like you to meet, who could use your help. But, to be honest, I haven't even talked to him yet. He might not even show up. You are my main concern here. Let me take you out of Mayberry here for a little while."

  "What the hell is Mayberry?"

  "Thanks, Kevin. You know how to make a woman feel old."

  "You are old."

  "Hush. So, what do you say?"

  Kevin had never been to Baltimore. He'd never been to a wedding. He wasn't sure if he liked the idea of dressing in uncomfortable clothes to go to a wedding for someone he barely knew.

  "You'll help me not look like a fool, right? Like with clothes and everything?"

  "You know I'll help."

  "Well, I guess Baltimore, here I come."

  CHAPTER 3

  Stan fought panic as his familiar hometown receded in the rear-view mirror, and the deserted road loomed before him. His hands shook as he tightly gripped the steering wheel. The morning sun blinded him, and he flipped the visor down to relieve his vision. It was eight o'clock in the morning. Stan thought he'd be sitting in his living room, eating a bowl of cereal, watching the latest update on TV about the kidnapping.

  If it weren't for the well-dressed man in his trunk, he'd be doing just that.

  "Look!" the man shouted. "You don't have to do this! We can talk this out. Please, let me out of here."

  Stan turned the radio up full blast, drowning out the man's cries. Stan found him snooping near his shed not an hour ago, poking and prodding. A shot with a crowbar to the back of the head was all it took to bring him down.

  He forced himself to take deep breaths. The walls weren't closing in. He searched the man, took his phone. Whoever the man was, he didn't have any identification on him, nor was he wearing a wire. But there was only one reason why he'd be snooping around Stan's shed.

  The well-dressed man knew.

  Stan tried to think of where he went wrong. Nothing went wrong. He was a professional, who had done the same type of work over the years. He was seasoned, experienced. He didn't make mistakes. Everything went exactly as it was supposed to.

  Could he have been double-crossed?

  No. His contact had just as much to lose, if not more. There had to be another answer, and he would beat it out of the well-dressed man. It was the way of the world. The strong took from the weak.

  No cops pursued him. No helicopters flew overhead. Slowly, his heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. He wiped his sweaty palms on his dirty jeans. It was only him and the open road now. Thick woods were on one side, open grassy fields on the other. It was actually shaping up to be a beautiful day. He would do what needed to be done, maybe clean the basement, work on the slow hoard of junk that had been growing on the back porch. By the end of the day, he'd forget the detour he was currently on.

  He jumped when the well-dressed man managed to shout over the radio, terror in his voice.

  "I can't breathe in here!"

  Stan laughed at himself, like he was watching a late-night horror movie. Reaching behind him, he grabbed the crowbar and beat on the back seat.

  "Shut the fuck up in there! Or I'll cut off your dick!"

  He smiled at the silence. Threaten a man's equipment, and he wouldn't make another sound.

  After another ten minutes on the road he finally turned off onto a small dirt path he'd used many times. He drove another five minutes, deep into the woods, until he found a small clearing.

  Stan killed the engine. The sounds of rustling leaves and squirrels leaping from tree to tree rushed in to replace the dying music. As he climbed out of the car he thought he heard quiet whimpering coming from the trunk.

  "Jesus, would you shut up? Try to have a little dignity."

  The whimpering grew louder. Stan rolled his eyes. Whatever the well-dressed man knew, he'd spill it in five minutes.

  He looked over his gear in the back seat. His crowbar, shovel, and pistol. That was all he needed. He'd developed much efficiency over the years.

  He shoved the pistol in the front of his waistband, making sure it could be seen. There was something about a gun that could make even the hardest men cry. Simply looking down the barrel of an unloaded weapon was humbling. He remembered the utter fear he felt growing up, when his father would point an unloaded shotgun at him across the dinner table. His mother would weakly protest, and his father would insist it was for his own good. Every single thing Stan's father did to him was for his own good.

  He dragged the shovel behind him, making sure the well-dressed man heard. Stan had learned about intimidation, starting with his father. The anticipation of pain was sometimes worse than pain itself. Even cleverly placed sounds could make a grown man piss his pants.

  The well-dressed man covered his face as Stan popped the trunk. He was curled in the f
etal position, and let out a girlish scream. Stan laughed. He'd seen men like him before. He'd killed men like him before. The apprehension he felt on the drive was long gone. The man was probably a nosy neighbor who heard sounds coming from the shed. He was too timid to involve the police, and the end result was a ride in Stan's trunk.

  Stan didn't have time to really look at him before shoving him in the trunk. Neatly pressed black slacks, matching socks, wing-tipped shoes, a white dress shirt. He looked like he should have been on the cover of GQ.

  "Please," he begged. "Please don't hurt me."

  "Shut your mouth, GQ, and get out of there."

  GQ timidly climbed out, holding his hands up the entire time.

  "Move," Stan said.

  "Move? Move…where?"

  "Move!"

  He grabbed GQ's shoulder and pushed him forward. GQ walked slowly ahead, his knees shaking.

  "Listen, let's talk."

  "That's not a bad idea. I'll start. You want to tell me what you were doing in my shed?"

  "Last night, I thought I heard a raccoon. I figured in the morning, I'd see if I was right. They go through our trash, you know."

  "Stop bullshitting me!" Stan poked him in the back of the knee with the shovel, making him buckle. "You know about the boy. Turn around."

  "Okay, okay," GQ said. He spun, his eyes clenched shut. "Yes, I know about the kidnapping. I'm a private investigator. It's what I do, find missing people. I figured a high profile thing like this, I could make a lot of money."

  "Son-of-a-bitch—"

  "But," GQ continued. "I'm not dangerous. I don't have a gun. I'm not a cop. I just want to live."

  "Bad day for that." Stan tossed the shovel. GQ caught it in both hands. "Dig."

  "Dig? Why?"

  "Because we're hunting for oil."

  GQ looked around nervously. "Is this where you brought the boy? Where is he?"

  Stan grabbed his gun and held it at his side. The motion was enough to make GQ squeeze the shovel and pull it to his chest, going weak in the knees.

  "Think this through. We could be heroes!" GQ wouldn't give up. "Just take me to the boy. We could say we found him together. We'll be rich. Famous!"

  Stan aimed the gun at GQ's head. He twitched and shut his eyes.

  "You have ten seconds to start digging, or I'll put a bullet in your skull."

  GQ raised the shovel, as if he were following directions, but then slammed it angrily into the ground. He leaned casually on the end, his other hand on his hip.

  Stan watched in amazement as he changed.

  GQ stood upright, his posture no longer terrified or afraid. An irritated smile, almost a sneer, touched his face. He undid the top button on his shirt, like he was coming home from a long day at the office.

  "I thought you'd take me right to him. But nope. Nothing can ever be that easy."

  His voice wasn't shaky. It was confident, arrogant, even annoyed.

  Stan aimed the gun once again. The first cracks of doubt formed, telling him he wasn't dealing with a private investigator.

  "I swear to God, if you don't start digging—"

  "Look at these clothes." GQ spun around. "Do you honestly think I'm going to get dirty digging a damn hole? Are you out of your mind?"

  Stan's hand twitched. Something wasn't right. Everything happening around him was wrong. He was in control. He was strong. The kidnapping was all him. He wouldn't be outdone by a maniac in nice clothes who escaped from the local asylum.

  He lowered his aim and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck home, right where he intended, above GQ's knee.

  "Now, dig the fucking—!"

  GQ didn't flinch. He didn't cry out in pain, didn't make a sound. Stan could see the blood on his leg from where his slacks ripped away. But he simply stood there, leaning on the shovel, like a gunshot didn't hurt.

  "Beautiful. You've ruined my pants. Did you get that out of your system?"

  Stan raised his aim once again, aiming for GQ's forehead. He'd dig the damn hole himself.

  He fired once more, but there was no gore, no splaying of blood. The bullet struck GQ above the eyebrow, and fell to the ground at his feet.

  Stan emptied the gun, shouting as he did so. GQ wouldn't fall. Only little lines of blood trailed his skin where the bullets struck.

  Terror took over as GQ pulled the shovel from the ground. Stan fired twice more, only hearing an empty chamber. GQ swung the shovel, connecting with Stan's elbow. He swung once more and caught Stan in the knee. He crumpled to the ground in agony.

  GQ squatted next to him, eerily calm.

  "What's your name?"

  "W-What?"

  "Your name? It's that thing people call you. It's what your father was shouting when he whipped you with his belt."

  Stan cried as memories flooded back to him. "How do you know—?"

  "I've got bad news for you. You're not that special. You're no different than any other thug I've killed in my life. Kidnapping a little kid, I imagine you're not capable of much more than that. Now, name?"

  "S-Stan."

  "Hello, Stan. I have to admit, I wasn't completely honest with you. I'm the most dangerous person you've ever met. My name's Jack."

  *****

  Jack Kursed thought he was doing an admirable job of keeping his rage contained. Nearly twelve hours of driving, an interruption to the routine he'd grown so fond of, time away from his daughter and girlfriend, ruined clothes.

  His daughter's tears.

  Part of the source of his recent bad mood lay at his feet. Yet, he hadn't snapped. Typically, by now, bones would have been broken, blood, gore, pain, anger. None of that had happened. All he did was damage Stan's fragile ego, shattered his tiny world, showed him that while it was fun to prey on the weak, you always had to keep one eye open for someone that was stronger. Despite his mood, Stan was unharmed.

  Jack's adopted daughter, Tiffany, and his girlfriend, Erica, had changed him. He cooked dinner for someone besides himself. Went to school plays. Enrolled Tiffany in a violin class.

  Just last week, he didn't attack the parent in the next row who called Tiffany's singing lousy.

  Two hundred years of suffering was finally behind him. He was a new man. A loving man.

  "Jack—"

  "Hush, or I'll cut out your eye."

  Or maybe not.

  The idea was a good one. Play the part of a useless mortal, and let the imbecile take him right to the boy. That wasn't in the cards, so Jack could stretch his arms, breathe in the air, enjoy the morning. No more acting. No more pretending.

  He could be himself.

  He slung the shovel over his shoulder and took a step back. Squatting down, he picked up one of several bullets scattered in the grass. The bullets were mushrooms after having struck Jack's flesh. His curse made him immortal. Truly immortal. Guns were nothing. Just a little dimple in the flesh, some blood, and then some quick healing.

  His clothes were another story.

  He shook his head and growled as he looked at the holes in his shirt and slacks. It was his own fault. He could have disarmed Stan at any time. He kept hoping Stan would spill the location of the boy, the typical villain victory speech.

  Jack would have to get the information another way.

  "You'll have to forgive my mood. I haven't slept in two hundred years. It always keeps me on edge. And I'm in an especially bad mood. You see…yesterday I got this phone call from my daughter's school, telling me I have to drive to D.C., to the Smithsonian. Apparently, something terrible happened on a school field trip she was on."

  Stan's eyes lit up. "Oh, shit—"

  "That's what I said. So, I drove down there, and women are crying everywhere. I swear, it was like I was at the premiere of Gone With The Wind all over again. I pushed through these—" Jack cringed at the fresh memory. "Wet women, and found my daughter. She was crying her eyes out, but not for herself. No, that's not the kind of person she is. She's crying over her boyfriend. Can you believe
that shit? A nine-year-old with a boyfriend? Anyway, it turns out her boyfriend was the boy who was kidnapped."

  "Listen—"

  "I did what any good father would do. I kissed her on the forehead, and told her I'd take care of it. I told myself I'd find every single person responsible for making my daughter cry, and kill them." He paused, letting his words sink in. "You made my daughter cry."

  "There's more going on here than just a kidnapping."

  "Oh? Do tell?"

  "I work for Reigns, the kid's father. He's the one in charge. He hired me to kidnap his own kid. It's a scam, you see. All he's trying to do is make his wife look bad. They're getting a divorce, and she's taking everything. She was at that field trip yesterday. It's all designed just to hurt her."

  "Ah, see, now I know you can be honest when you want to." Jack leaned down. "I already know."

  "What?"

  "How do you think I found you? Did you see him at the press conference last night? I've seen better acting from the mouth-breathers in my daughter's class. So, we had a little talk."

  Stan let out a quiet laugh. "There's no way you got near Reigns. He has fifteen bodyguards."

  "Eighteen, but there were a few you could count twice. I decapitated the last one in front of him, to show him the extent of my bad mood. He actually didn't know where his son was, but told me the man who worked for him did. Now, here we are, on this beautiful, fine day."

  Stan couldn't speak. The horror was evident in his eyes. All his carefully laid plans, gone.

  Jack twirled the shovel in his hand.

  "Have the victim dig his own grave. From now on, Stan, I'm gonna call you Captain Cliche. But you can't deny the imagery, the state of mind it puts the victim in. So—" He pushed the shovel into the ground and gestured for Stan to approach. "Have at it. But I'm gonna need a big grave. Lots of bodies to bury."

  Stan tentatively grabbed the shovel and started digging. Jack could see the mortal thinking, searching around him, looking for any possible way to escape. A large tree branch, a handful of leaves, the crowbar sitting not far away. Mortals were so predictable.

  "How much did he pay you?"

  Stan looked up. "What?"