by P. N. Elrod
I stepped into the room and heard Patsy follow behind me. She gasped when she saw the bed.
I picked up the paper, read the note, and handed it to Patsy.
FYI, the note read. Whatever you put in my cocoa tasted like shit.
Patsy crumpled the note and hurled it at the wall with a furious snarl. Belatedly, I noticed that the open drawers of the bureau were empty. I pushed open what I correctly guessed was a closet door. The hangers were empty, except for a suit, a conservative navy blue skirt, and a couple of prissy white blouses. On the floor were two pairs of sensible pumps, one black, one blue. I suspected this was what Patsy considered acceptable attire for a teenage girl.
Behind me, Patsy kicked the bureau, her face an unappealing shade of red, the Taser clutched in a white-knuckled fist. Call me crazy, but I got the feeling she was a little annoyed her daughter had chosen to fly the coop instead of drinking the proverbial Kool-Aid. I suspected anything I said would just piss her off more, so I kept my mouth shut, half expecting smoke to come out of her ears.
Little by little, she regained control of herself. I had to wonder what she did with all that rage when she wasn’t in the company of strangers. Maybe Melanie had more than one reason to run away from home.
“It appears your services won’t be needed after all,” she said eventually. “Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time.”
At least the trip wouldn’t turn out to be a total waste, I consoled myself. “If Melanie comes home and you’d like to reschedule, give me a call,” I told her, my feet already itching to be out the door. I handed her my card, and she took it by reflex.
“Of course,” she replied in a flat tone that told me I wouldn’t be hearing from her again.
* * *
That might have been the last of my involvement with the Sherwoods, if I hadn’t received a disturbing phone call the following day.
I went into my office and was balancing my books—fun, fun, fun—when my phone rang. I checked the caller ID, and saw the name Elizabeth Sherwood. I stared at the name for a moment before I picked up the phone and uttered a cautious greeting.
“Um, hi,” said a girl’s voice from the other end of the line. I had never asked Patsy about her other daughter, but I guessed this was the smiling child from the family portrait. “Are you an exorcist?”
“Yes,” I confirmed, trying to keep myself from speculating about why she was calling. My Spidey-senses were telling me I was about to get dragged into something I’d be better off staying out of. “Can I help you?” I tried to keep my voice gentle.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe. My name’s Beth Sherwood, and I think my parents hired you to examine my sister’s aura last night. Is that right?”
Her voice was kind of quavery, like she was on the verge of tears. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have answered a question like that, figuring it would be some kind of violation of client confidentiality. But too many aspects of this case had given me the willies, and I couldn’t in good conscience put the girl off.
“Yeah, that’s right. I was supposed to examine Melanie’s aura last night, but she was gone by the time I got there. Has she come home?”
“No,” Beth said. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “I think my mom is hiring a private investigator to look for her.”
There was an awkward silence on the other end of the line. I got a feeling Beth wasn’t used to reaching out for help.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound impatient. I’ve never been the nurturing sort, and I have a tendency to be abrasive, even when I don’t mean to be.
Beth took a deep breath, then let it out with a whoosh. “I think Melanie’s in danger,” she said, her voice even softer now. “My mom is convinced she’s possessed, and she … doesn’t like demons much.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Is your mom a member of God’s Wrath?”
She seemed taken aback by my question, but she rallied quickly. “There’s no law against that.”
I smiled, glad she couldn’t see me. The kid might not like her mother’s fanatical leanings, but she was quick to leap to her defense. “Of course there isn’t,” I replied. “But you said Melanie might be in danger.”
Beth hesitated for a long time, then decided to level with me. “Mom hired you as kind of a concession to my dad. He’s God’s Wrath, too, but he’s not as into it as my mom is. I think if she finds Melanie, she’s going to get one of her cronies to do the exam, and I…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t trust the guy.”
I thought about this for a moment, rolling the implications around in my head. “So what you’re telling me is you think this guy is going to declare her possessed whether she is or not?” There was no answer from the other end of the line, but I took that silence as a yes. “And you think they’re going to burn her?”
Beth let out a choked sob, and I felt like a heel. My bedside manner could use some serious work. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have been so … blunt.”
She sniffled. “No, it’s okay. I’m worried about what will happen if they find Melanie.”
“Do you think she’s possessed?” I asked. If Melanie really was possessed, then she’d be harder to find. A sheltered teenager might not have the means or the smarts to remain hidden, but a demon …
“She’s not possessed!” Beth said sharply, then sighed. “Mom would just rather blame a demon for everything than admit Melanie’s got … a problem.”
“You mean a drug problem?” I prodded gently.
“Yeah. She started going out with this guy last year.” I could hear the distaste in Beth’s voice. “I don’t know where she met him. He’s too old to be in school. Anyway, that’s when she started to change.”
I remembered Scott Sherwood mentioning that Melanie had been acting strange for about a year. I also remembered how Patsy had shot him down when he mentioned it. My guess was she hadn’t appreciated the reminder that her daughter’s “possession” had coincided with her new relationship with a human man.
“The madder Mom got about stuff, the more Melanie changed. She was doing it just to make Mom mad, but Mom saw everything she did as proof that she was possessed. But it’s not a demon that’s making her act like that! It’s her sleazebag boyfriend!”
I sat back in my chair and wondered what I was supposed to do with this information. Technically, it was none of my business.
Yeah, and that was going to make me feel much better when Melanie Sherwood’s “purification” by fire made the evening news. I wasn’t sure what I could do to help. But at least I could try.
“Do you have any idea who Melanie might have gone to for help?”
“The only one I can think of is Rick the Prick.” She coughed. “Um, I mean her boyfriend.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Shall I look him up in the phone book under ‘the Prick,’ or do you have a last name for him?”
Beth gave a little snort of laughter, quickly cut off. “You have to swear on your life you won’t tell my parents. I told them I didn’t know his name, because I don’t want them to find Mel.”
“I swear on my life I won’t tell them,” I promised.
Beth took a deep breath—for courage, I supposed. “He says his last name is Bull, but that could be, you know, bull .”
“It’s a start, at least,” I said. “I have a friend who’s a PI. We’ll see if we can locate Melanie.” Before Patsy and friends did.
“And can you help her? If you find her, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” I told her with complete honesty. “But I promise I’ll do everything I can.”
* * *
Barbara Paget was the kind of woman I usually disliked on sight. Petite, blond, curvy, and stunningly pretty, she looked like an adult version of the cliché vapid cheerleader from every teen flick I’d ever seen. I’d started calling her Barbie when we’d first met, and I’d been unable to break myself of the habit even now that I saw through the pretty packaging to
the sharp, driven woman beneath. (Not that I’d tried very hard.)
She was a private investigator, and she’d been drafted to be a member of Lugh’s royal council when her investigations had led her to uncover forbidden knowledge. She’d turned out to be quite the valuable asset—and a decent human being, to boot. I was counting on her good nature to convince her to help me find Melanie Sherwood.
Barbie did not disappoint. After I told her about my meetings with the Sherwoods and Beth’s phone call, she volunteered to do a little digging—I didn’t even have to ask. Within twenty-four hours, she had unearthed an address for Richard Bull, aka Rick the Prick, and had put together a dossier that proved Beth was an excellent judge of character. I read through that dossier when Barbie brought it over to my apartment early Friday evening.
Richard Bull had been arrested five times since he’d turned eighteen—which was six years ago. The charges were all drug-related, but apparently nothing that would keep him off the streets for any extended period of time. The mug shots showed a scrawny, hollow-cheeked thug with greasy hair, bad skin, and soulless eyes. I couldn’t imagine what Melanie saw in him.
“Do you think Melanie is staying with him?” I asked Barbie doubtfully as I looked at the address. Bull’s apartment was in one of the city’s less attractive neighborhoods. “I have the feeling a white goth girl would stick out like a sore thumb around there.”
Barbie nodded. “I’m sure she would if she showed her face, which she’s probably not doing if she thinks her family’s going to burn her if they find her.”
I grimaced. Too true. “Of course, we’re not going to blend into the crowd, either.”
Barbie shrugged. “I’ve gone into worse neighborhoods and lived to tell about it. And our friend the Boy Scout is our best shot at locating Melanie.”
I had to concede the point, which explains how Barbie and I found ourselves standing in the dingy hallway of a seriously nasty apartment building, knocking on Rick the Prick’s door while the floor beneath our feet rattled from the rap music blasting from the next-door apartment. The hall had the vomit-and-piss stink of a subway station, and I wondered how a girl brought up on the Main Line could stand the place.
Repeated knocking was getting us no results, and the longer we loitered in the hallway, the more apt we were to draw unwanted attention. We’d been stared at and propositioned a number of times as we’d made our way into the building and up the stairs, but so far that was it. I wanted to keep it that way.
I reached out and gave the doorknob a good rattle, testing the strength of the lock. It felt pretty flimsy—I could probably bust it even without having to let Lugh take over my body and use his superior demon strength, something I would allow him to do only under the most dire circumstances. I was never going to get used to the utter lack of control that went with having a demon driving my body, or the sickness I often experienced when he once more receded into the background.
Barbie must have seen the direction of my thoughts. She put a restraining hand on my arm, then reached into the pocket of her black cargos—part of what I liked to call her “Stealth Barbie” outfit—and pulled out a set of lock picks. Some of her methods as a private investigator were somewhat less than ethical, but I wasn’t about to complain.
Barbie knocked on the door once more. “Come on, Rick,” she said loudly. “I’m not in the mood to pick this lock, but I will if I have to. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
When there was still no answer, Barbie shrugged and inserted her tools into the lock. I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of us bursting in on the guy—the chances were good he’d be armed, and he might shoot first and ask questions later if he felt threatened. I was about to mention the possibility to Barbie, but was interrupted by a voice from behind the door.
“Who the fuck are you, and what do you want?”
Rick the Prick, I presumed.
Barbie and I had agreed in advance that she would do the bulk of the talking, seeing as she had the tact and patience I so obviously lacked. So I bit my tongue and let her answer.
Barbie removed her tools from the door and smiled up at the peephole. Her looks and that smile were enough to stop traffic, and I bet Rick was thinking impure thoughts about her the moment he got a good look at her. Myself, I stood a little off to the side, where he couldn’t see me. I have a tendency to intimidate people—a tendency I’d honed and perfected over years of being the queen of attitude—so it was best to have Rick’s attention focused on the harmless-looking Barbie instead. Never mind that she wasn’t nearly as harmless as she looked.
“We’re looking for Melanie Sherwood,” Barbie said, still smiling. “We thought you might have some idea where she is.”
“Don’t know her. Get the fuck out of here.”
Barbie was unperturbed by his response. “Of course you know her, Rick. You’ve been dating her for about a year. My friend and I really have to talk to her. It’s very important. Like, life-or-death important.”
“Fuck. Off.”
“You think tossing off an f-bomb every sentence makes you into a tough guy?” I asked, unable to resist. Barbie gave me a reproachful look, and I tried to look innocent.
“I guess I’ll have to pick the lock after all,” Barbie said with an exaggerated sigh.
“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’, bitch,” he growled. “Don’t matter if you’re inside or out.”
In went the lock picks again.
“You come through this door, I’m gonna bust you up!” he warned, but there was a hint of fear in his voice.
“You can try,” I told him as I reached into my purse and withdrew my Taser, arming it. Usually, I’d only use it on demons, but I’d be happy to make an exception for Rick.
A woman’s voice, too soft to make out beneath the echoes of rap music, spoke from the other side of the door. Rick snarled something indistinct at her, but moments later, the door swung open, Barbie’s picks still stuck in the lock.
Whatever goth phase Melanie Sherwood had been going through, it seemed to be in the process of passing. Her hair was dyed black with purple streaks, and if you looked closely, you could see the holes around her eyebrows, nose, and lower lip where various jewelry had once pierced her face. But she was dressed in a perfectly ordinary pair of blue jeans and a faded baby blue T-shirt, which was a serious violation of goth uniform.
Rick the Prick hovered behind her, his face set in a sneer that I suspect was supposed to be menacing. I was more threatened by the persistent twitch in the corner of his eye and by the size of his pupils.
Melanie looked grim and maybe even frightened as she opened the door wider and invited us in. I wasn’t sure accepting the invitation was wise, but Barbie waltzed right in as if she didn’t have a care in the world. I followed more slowly behind her.
I’d been too busy indulging my paranoia to remember that I was still holding the Taser down by my side—until I stepped through the doorway and heard Melanie’s gasp. Not the best way to set the tone for a friendly interview, I must admit. I started to put the Taser away, but I guess Rick the Prick didn’t like seeing the weapon move.
“Rick, don’t!” Melanie cried, too late to stop his fist from slamming into my jaw.
Even though I saw the punch coming, I didn’t move fast enough to avoid it. Pain exploded through my brain, my head snapped back hard enough to cause whiplash, and I went down hard. There was some scuffling and some shouting around me, but I hurt too much to pay attention to it. I sure hoped Rick hadn’t just broken my jaw.
He didn’t, Lugh’s voice said soothingly as I put my hand to my aching face. You’ll have a nasty bruise, but I can fix it next time you go to sleep.
My own internal medic, that was Lugh. He couldn’t use his supernatural healing powers unless he took control of my body. Luckily, he could take over control easily while I slept, and I didn’t suffer the nauseating side effects that way.
I blinked to clear my vision and saw that my situation had not improved. Rick loomed
over me, pointing a gun straight at my head. A few feet to the side, Barbie had her own gun out, pointed at Rick. He was wide-eyed and panting, his hands shaking ever so slightly—I wondered if he’d ever actually pointed that gun at anyone before. Too bad he was so close he couldn’t miss if he tried. Lugh could fix a lot of injuries that might kill a normal human, but he couldn’t fix a bullet to the brain.
“Put the gun down,” Barbie ordered, her voice cool and full of authority, her aim completely steady. I knew it was a front—despite what you see on TV, PIs don’t as a general rule go around getting into gun battles with the bad guys—but it was a good front.
I lay as still as possible, not wanting to make even the tiniest motion for fear it would startle Rick into shooting me. Hell, if I could have kept from breathing entirely, I would have.
“Everyone just stay calm,” Melanie said, and her voice was even cooler than Barbie’s.
I blinked and focused on her. She was standing just a couple steps to Rick’s left, her hands up as if to prove she was unarmed. There was no fear in her eyes, and her breathing was slow and steady as she eased a little closer to Rick.
“Put the gun down, Richard,” she said in that same calming tone.
“They’re working for your fucking parents!” he said, hands now shaking even more.
Melanie took another step closer. “Even if they are, shooting them isn’t going to help anything.”
I was frozen in place by Rick’s gun, my head throbbing in pain, but I had enough functioning brain cells to come to the obvious conclusion that Melanie Sherwood wasn’t alone in that body after all. There was no way a teenage girl—especially one with her upbringing—would stay this calm under fire. I guessed I should be happy she wasn’t encouraging Rick to shoot me. Illegal demons aren’t known for their great humanitarianism.
Melanie’s hand came to rest on Rick’s arm, and he flinched. Luckily, the gun didn’t go off. At her urging, he lowered the gun slowly, still looking way too twitchy for my taste.
“Now put it away,” she said, and with a shuddering sigh, he tucked it into the back of his pants and took a step backward.