Stalked by Demons

by Trudi Jaye

  Arrogant ass.

  Replacing the phone on the nightstand, I stare down at Blade, chewing on my bottom lip. Should I really take it all off? Should I trust this Damien Walker guy?

  Blade moans and shifts restlessly on the bed like he’s in agony. The wound looks ugly and painful. I have to do something for him; I can’t just wait around for him to die.

  The thought spurs me into action. It’s not like Blade is responding to what I’ve done for him so far.

  I remove the bandages carefully, trying not to let the dried blood and pus pull off his skin. His hand lifts near his wound, like he’s trying to brush away the pain. I push his hand back down and take a breath as I pull off the gauze.

  The gash underneath looks terrible. Blood and pus are bubbling around the edges of the open wound, and the skin itself is a patchy, angry red. Blue lines are pulsing out from the center under the skin, and the heat is almost too much for me to handle. The stitches are completely hidden underneath the ooze and gore.

  The smell is like something out of a three-week-old garbage bin, rotten and fetid. My hand covers my mouth, trying to hold in the vomit. I rush out of the room and into the bathroom to find some rubber gloves.

  I grab some nail scissors out of the first aid kit, spray them with antibacterial spray, and then hover over the wound. My fingers are shaking. I put one hand in and try to pull the swollen skin away from the stitches so I can cut them. Blade screams and yanks his body away, making me stumble back.

  Shit. This is going to be harder than I thought.

  I move back in, this time ready for Blade’s reaction. I have to do it fast, in and out before he has a chance to react. I get the first stitch cut before he moves again, and then a second one. But the third one, he opens his eyes and stares at me.

  “Wha’ you doing?” he asks with only a slight slur.

  “Your boss said to cut the stitches.”

  “Oh,” he says, and his eyes roll back in his head. He’s out again.

  I let out a huge breath, not sure I can deal with much more of this. I’ve only got five more stitches to go, and I’m determined to do them fast, before he wakes again.

  In my determination to be fast, I forget to be nervous, and the next three are out before I can overthink it.

  Only two to go.

  But they’re covered in pus, and some of it has hardened. There’s only one way to do this, and it’s fast and furious.

  Biting my lip, I push away the gore, and press the scissors against the surgical stitches. One, two, I cut them, holding my breath the whole time.

  Blood leaks out of the wound on the side, except it’s a weird kind of shiny metallic blood, with yellowish pus mixed in. What the hell?

  It’s leaking out of the wound and down his body. When it hits my towels, it turns black, before soaking into the blankets underneath.

  I step back, ripping off the gloves and picking up the phone again. I press the button for his boss, and don’t even wait for him to say hello. “What the hell is happening? What is that stuff?”

  “It’s demon juice. There will be a demon thorn or two stuck inside his body. You have to get them out.”

  “You want me to dig around inside his body for some thorns?”

  “They won’t be hard to find. They’ll be eating away at his body.”

  My whole body stiffens. “What?”

  “The thorns will be eating at him like acid.”

  “And I’m supposed to touch them?”

  “Only if you want to look like him.”

  I rub one hand into my forehead. “What do I do with them once they’re out?” I can feel my blood pressure going up just talking to this guy.

  “The only way to dispose of a demon thorn is to burn it in phoenix fire.”

  It’s like I’m in some alternate universe. I put two fingers to the bridge of my nose. “What the hell is phoenix fire?”

  “A particular type of fire that burns really hot.”

  “Where am I supposed to get phoenix fire?” I try to keep my voice reasonable, but it comes out high-pitched and squeaky.

  “I’ve had some sent to you. I did it as soon as you called. The delivery will be with you shortly.”

  “Do I wait for it?”

  “No. You have to get the thorns out straight away. It might even be too late.”

  My stomach leaps into my throat, and I choke a little. “Tell me what to do,” I say grimly. “Right now.”

  “You need to put gloves on your hands and then open up the wound. Search for the source of the pus that’s coming out of Blade’s body. Don’t touch them with your skin. Use tweezers to pick them out and put them in a stainless-steel container. That’s important. Plastic, other metals, they’ll melt. Only steel.”

  “Okay. What about the black stuff that’s on my bed?”

  “You’ll need to destroy that as well. Use the phoenix fire to burn it too.”

  “I live in an apartment. I can’t have open fires in here.”

  “Phoenix fire is different. You won’t even know it’s burning in there. But you can’t touch the flames with your bare hands either.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Get those thorns out, Hazel. Right now.”

  “I don’t— Wait. How do you know my name?” Another thought occurs to me. “How do you know where I live?”

  “There’s no time. Just get the thorns out. Then call me back.”

  This time I’m certain he’s trying to be an asshole when he hangs up on me just as I open my mouth to ask him more questions. I throw the phone to the other side of the queen-sized bed, wishing I could throw it against the wall. I love this bed. It’s comfortable. I don’t want to have to destroy it with effing phoenix fire.

  But what I really don’t like is the fact that this guy from some smoky government agency knows my name and where I live. For a second, I consider running. Right now. Grabbing a bag and disappearing before it’s too late. I take a step backwards, away from my bed.

  But I look down at Blade and know I can’t leave him. He was trying to save me, and now he’s going to die if I don’t help him.

  I go back to the bathroom for another pair of disposable gloves and search through the first aid kit for tweezers.

  Standing over Blade, I look down at the festering wound in his side and wonder how I’ve gotten myself into this situation. I’m not a doctor, or even a nurse. I have no clue what I’m doing.

  Despite all that, I’m going to go back into Blade’s insides based on what some faceless guy on the other end of the phone line is telling me.

  It’s insane. But I have no choice.

  I reach in and push my gloved fingers through the gash and into the gore underneath. Blade moans but doesn’t move. He seems to be getting worse, his face is almost translucent, and his skin over the whole of his torso is purplish-red and puffy.

  At first, there’s too much grossness inside the wound, and I can’t figure out where it’s all coming from. But then I see it. A pulsating section with a tiny barb that looks like it’s made of glow-in-the-dark bone.

  17

  I reach one shaking hand toward the thorn, and then stop.

  He said to use tweezers. On pain of death.

  I pick them up off the nightstand and poke them into the wound, aiming for the small white barb. It comes out easily, looking remarkably benign.

  The stainless-steel bowl is sitting on the bed next to me, and I drop the tiny thorn into the bowl. Instead of making a tiny tinkling sound, there’s a loud rumbling boom as it hits the side. The whole apartment shudders like there’s an earthquake happening, and I stumble forward, half crashing into Blade before I can stop myself.

  He moans in pain.

  I manage to stand back up again and peer anxiously at the wound. Is there another one in there? I have to look. Pulling open the wound, I poke around with the tweezers, trying to find another thorn. At first, it doesn’t seem like there will be, and I’m relieved. They’re not something I want to
deal with more than I have to.

  Then I see it. Another thorn, even bigger than the last, lying in a pool of blood and pus. It’s pulsating, pumping in time with its own heat. I swallow over my suddenly dry throat and reach in with the tweezers. My fingers are shaking so hard, I can’t latch onto the tiny thorn.

  Taking a deep breath, then another, I try to calm myself down. I have to focus, or I won’t get through this. I owe it to Blade to do the best I can.

  I reach in again and nab the thorn between the tips of the tweezers. I pull it out, and then gently place the demon thorn into the metal bowl. This time, the boom is quieter.

  Almost immediately, his wound seems to ease. The pus withdraws a little, and the sheen of sweat across his body disappears.

  They’re out. I give a relieved breath. Peeling off one glove, I dial Blade’s boss again.

  “It’s done.”

  “Probably not. You need to go in again, do another search.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s really obvious. I can tell.”

  “Go back inside and check. Don’t call me back until you’ve done it.” He hangs up again.

  I stare down at my phone. I really don’t like this guy.

  But now he’s put the idea into my head, I have to check inside the wound again. I use the hand that still has the glove on to hold back the side of the gash.

  Poking one finger into the open wound, I try to use it to pull back the skin, to get a clear view of the inside of the wound.

  Something snags on my finger, and I feel a burst of pain up my arm. I pull my hand out, and there, attached to my finger, is another barb. This one is tiny in comparison to the others. And it’s attached to me.

  That can’t be good.

  My finger throbs where the thorn is sticking out, and a blue glow starts working its way up my finger and onto my hand, like it did when I was fighting the demon at the campus. Numbness is crawling up my arm, and my heart starts beating faster. I have a feeling this is really, really bad.

  I flick my hand in the air, not sure whether I’m trying to get the thorn out or make my hand stop glowing blue. It doesn’t do anything, but I spot the tweezers on the bedside table. I need to use them to get the thorn out.

  I pull it out with the tweezers and flick it into the steel bowl. Again, a thundering boom reverberates around the room and everything shudders.

  Underneath the blue glow, my finger is red and swollen. Panicking, I hit the speed dial on Blade’s phone.

  “You find it?” he says.

  “It stuck into my finger. Is that bad? It feels bad.” I say the words quickly, as if that will make it less severe.

  “Shit.” There’s a long pause. “I won’t lie to you, it’s not great.”

  “What’s going to happen?” I look wildly around the room, like there’s some way I can escape without having to deal with whatever he’s about to say.

  “The thorn could infect you. Worse than Blade. Probably kill you.”

  My breath catches on the panic rising up my body. “But they were inside him. Stuck in him. I just had a little bit on a finger.” How could this have happened?

  “But he’s a super. You’re not.”

  Blade thinks I’m a super too. The possibility holds me together, even though I mostly know it’s not true. “He’s a super because he turned into a black jaguar, right?”

  There’s silence on the end of the line. “You saw that?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “You saw the demon as well, didn’t you?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “I guess I wasn’t paying attention. That means you might be fine.”

  I let out a relieved breath. “Really?”

  “There’s a chance.”

  I can almost hear his careless shrug and I want to beat him over the head with my microscope for being so offhand about my life.

  “What does that mean? What kind of chance?”

  “Someone in your ancestry might have been some form of supernatural. Like your buddy Blade. You might have some protection against the demon thorn.”

  He’s agreeing with Blade. I might be a supernatural. I might not die. “So I’m going to be okay?”

  “Maybe. I’m going to jump on a plane. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Wait! What do I do with the thorns? What happens to Blade?”

  “The phoenix fire will be there soon. Burn the thorns. Sew Blade back up. Bandage him however you like. Now the thorns are out, he’ll be fine.” He hangs up.

  “Wait! I need to know—” But it’s no use. He’s gone.

  I frown down at the blank screen. It’s not a coincidence. Damien Walker officially has the world’s worst phone manners.

  I put the phone on my nightstand and look at my finger. The whole area is still glowing blue. It’s really sore. I squeeze it with my other hand, and a burning wash of pain goes up my arm. What if he’s wrong? What if it’s going to kill me?

  I’m not supernatural; I can’t turn into an animal like Blade.

  I’m not a demon.

  Am I about to die?

  18

  Blade moans from the bed, reminding me that my patient still needs my help.

  Using water, I clean around the wound with my good hand, and slather on some more antibacterial cream. Then I pull out another sterilized needle from my first aid kit and stitch him up. Again. It takes longer this time, and there’s still some swollen and pus-filled areas of the wound, but it’s already looking much better. Soon I’m wrapping the bandage around his middle again. He moans and flaps his hand around, but I get it done.

  Then I sit back and look at my finger. The stinging has stopped, and I can move it easily again. But the blue glow around my hand is getting stronger, moving up my arm. Am I somehow being affected by the demon possessing me? Am I going to turn entirely blue?

  Something inside me is amused by my thoughts and I know instinctively that it’s the demon inside me. It’s a strange sensation, like there’s another layer underneath my own, pushing to get out, trying to influence me.

  In all the confusion of capturing the other demon, and then looking after Blade I’d completely forgotten about having it inside me, but now the panic and doubt are coming back.

  Suddenly, it’s too much. I collapse into the chair in the corner of my room. My thoughts buzz chaotically, and the room blurs in front of me. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I just stitched up some guy—maybe a jaguar—twice. I might be dying, but also maybe not. If I’m not dying, I might be a supernatural monster.

  And I’ve been possessed by a fucking demon.

  None of this is good. None of this makes sense. None of this—

  The sing-song tones of the doorbell echo through the apartment.

  I jerk up. The phoenix fire. As much as I don’t want to answer the door, or talk to anyone right now, I also don’t want demon thorns hanging around my house.

  I have to get it.

  When I open the door, I’m surprised to see three men; all bearded and dressed in UPS delivery uniforms. None of them make it up to my waist in height. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were from a Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs movie.

  “You order the phoenix fire?” one says, his expression bored. He flicks his gaze to the left as if he’s thinking about something else.

  “Uh… yes.”

  “Sign here, here, and here,” says the second man, handing me a clipboard with an official sheet attached to it. His eyes are a rheumatic white-blue, and he looks past me as if he’s blind.

  I take the form he’s offering and try to read it, but it’s not actually written in English. The first man is now staring at my glowing hand, his eyes wide.

  “What does this say?” I ask, pointing with my pen to the form.

  “Do you want the phoenix fire?” asks the first man, switching his gaze from my hand to my face.

  “Uh… I think so.”

  “Then sign it.”

  After a mo
ment’s hesitation, I sign in the three places. What the hell else am I going to do? And Damien was the one who sent it to me. It must be okay.

  The third man hands me a small metal box tied up in strange knots with a thick leather cord. “Don’t open it for at least half an hour,” he says. He flicks his long gray hair over his shoulder.

  “Why not?” I turn it over in my hands. It’s cool to the touch, not at all hot like a fire.

  “Gives us a chance to get the hell out of the area.”

  I stare at the man who spoke. I don’t think he’s joking. “How do I use it?”

  “We’re just the delivery guys. Ask your boss.”

  As one, they turn to leave, without so much as a goodbye.

  “Wait, I have some questions. What do you know about him?” I say. My hand is stretched out as if I can force them to stay. It’s too late anyway; they’re already halfway down the hall, toward the stairs. They’re running, I think, although it’s hard to tell.

  Holding the box in front of me like it’s going to burn off my hands, I head back to the bedroom. The metal bowl is still next to Blade, the three thorns sitting innocently at the bottom of the bowl.

  This is all way weirder than I’m used to in a single day. And that’s saying something.

  There are no instructions, nothing to tell me how to even open the metal box once I’ve undone the leather straps, let alone use the phoenix fire. I pick up the phone again and dial Blade’s boss, but he doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s easy? Perhaps there are no instructions because using phoenix fire isn’t as scary and demanding as it sounds.

  The thorns are sitting in the bottom of the stainless-steel bowl, looking innocent and small. I can’t even imagine how they could have caused all that pain and hurt inside Blade. Or even the thunderclap as I put them inside the bowl. Maybe it wasn’t them?

  Maybe it’s just a strange coincidence that Blade is suddenly doing okay?

  Sure. Right.

  Going to work on the leather straps that hold the metal box in place, I notice a strange vibration around the box for the first time. It’s like there’s something inside pushing to get out, buzzing with anticipation.