Demon Dreams

by Nikki Sex

  Stafford’s pack would’ve rather stabbed their own eyes out with red-hot pokers, than accept me.

  Today, I stride confidently through the halls of the Spukani Lodge, warmly greeted by one and all. They can’t seem to do enough for me. True, after being pack Alpha in Faery for two years, my inner beast growls when not greeted properly. She’s a scary, commanding bitch. I love her snarly bad temper.

  Yet the altered attitude is not due to my beast. The pack’s 180-degree about turn is unnatural and out of character. Has Stafford noticed?

  I feel uncomfortable as hell.

  I’d like to say I’ve earned this improved treatment because I took the “bullying” by the horns, so to speak, but that’s not why everyone suddenly adores me.

  Metaphysically connected, the Spukani pack members have felt the result of their Alpha taking his mate. They sense my wolf, taste our power—particularly my demon’s, at any rate.

  Would they be as happy with me if they each knew they had invisible wings? How will they react when I don’t shift at the next full moon?

  Not unlike Leonidas and Stafford, I’ve collared these people, taking away their will. Everyone with raven wings is enthralled. Unknowingly enslaved by little ‘ol me—unassuming Janice St. John.

  Or are they my demon’s slaves?

  My pulse pounds in my throat, the bittersweet taste of fear settles on my tongue.

  People prefer to believe they are good. That’s why it’s hard to face when they’ve done something wrong. Using a common defense mechanism, I avoid knowing the truth of Stafford’s pack’s enslavement by denying its existence. I push this unwelcome reality from my mind before I’m forced to fully view it.

  The sleeting rain is torrential by the time I leave the Magic Lands, but that’s nothing new for Vancouver, B.C. At least the bacon, huge stack of pancakes, syrup, and blueberries I downed keeps my insides warm.

  Leaving my car in the undercover parking garage, I wait outside the lobby of my apartment building. At 9 o’clock on the dot, Detective John Joseph picks me up. We’re going to check out the scene of a missing person. If she’s dead, hopefully, I’ll be able to talk to her ghost.

  John has a 1967, sky blue and white Chevy pickup truck. One front fender is a mismatch paint-wise. It’s a little beat up, but reliable. He's installed a police-band and CB radio, as the truck came with an AM-only radio.

  It’s so John!

  Grinning, pleased as punch to see him, I hop in—glad the icy shower stopped for the moment. “How’s it going, stranger?” I ask as I fasten my seatbelt. “Did you miss me?”

  “Yes.”

  Surprised, I turn toward him. “Really?”

  The detective—never a frivolous talker, nods.

  “Hmm, now that I see you, I realize how much I missed you, too,” I observe with a laugh. “Mostly, I didn’t give you a thought.” I giggle. “In my defense, I was pretty well occupied. This being mated thing is rather, um… all-consuming.” I snicker.

  While with the Beast Lord, how could I think of anyone or anything else?

  John’s lips curve into a knowing smile, but he says nothing.

  “How’s it going with Leonidas? You still okay with the whole vampire blood-bond thing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you noticed any new psychic abilities?”

  “It is difficult to tell.”

  “Ah well, it’s still early. Things might change more over time.” I pause, see he isn’t going to say anything more on the topic. “So, tell me about this case.”

  He hands me a file on Annabelle Jean Symmes, I open it to see a picture of our missing person. The young woman has a sweet, youthful appearance. Dark brown eyes, brown hair, twenty-three-years-old, wearing little makeup and conservatively dressed. A receptionist in a large IT Management company, Miss Symmes was reported missing by her mother three days ago.

  The Symmes family lives in Murrayville, an hour’s drive from Vancouver. Four months ago, Annabelle moved away from home to a studio apartment near work. When she didn’t answer her phone or messages, her mother became concerned and asked the caretaker to let her into her daughter’s home. Upon entering, her mom found her coffee table overturned. Its items were strewn about, as though she’d tripped over it, or perhaps there had been an altercation.

  Annabelle’s mother insisted that her daughter would never leave before cleaning up the mess. Annabelle left no message, and was nowhere to be found.

  John personally interviewed her ex, her boss, best friend, mother, and younger sister. Since breaking up with her boyfriend nine weeks previously, Annabelle hasn’t dated anyone.

  Skimming through the file, I understand why he called me. Detective Joseph has done extensive groundwork, but he has no leads.

  “Maybe she’s impulsive and went away with some new friend for a couple of days. According to forensics, a small amount of Annabelle’s hair and blood found was consistent with a fall and was not life-threatening. Maybe she simply tripped, hit her head, and stormed off in a bad mood. Why go right to assuming she’s been murdered?”

  “Intuition.”

  “Ah.” I close the file. Good enough. John’s ancient vampire-blood-fueled-intuition speaks louder than any forensic detail.

  Using his security pass, the detective parks in an underground lot. We climb the stairs to her first-floor apartment, John’s been here before. Using the key, he lets us in.

  Demonic super-powers aside, my own psychic gift is with the spirits of the dead. I’m conscious of them. I see and speak with them. When I talk to a ghost, generally they’re happy to respond. They rarely start a conversation as I pretend to be unaware, like countless other people who have no clue they are surrounded by disembodied souls.

  Like my other hidden abilities, it’s probably something in the DNA inherited from my fae father. I shudder to imagine random ghosts demanding my attention.

  Senses on high alert, I slowly walk inside.

  Furnished on the cheap, Annabelle Symmes might very well be a tidy young woman—except forensic staff have traipsed through and left a mess in their wake. Like most studio apartments, her living room couch opens into a bed. The bed is out, the sheets taken. Fingerprint powder residue, open dresser drawers, it’s clearly a processed crime scene.

  “Only missing three days? How’d you get forensic involved so soon?”

  “Called in a favor.”

  Nodding, I step into the bathroom, search the closet, look around the kitchen which is part of the living area. No hiding ghosts. Nothing, really. I doubt anyone’s ever died here.

  Murdered spirits tend to linger where they died, or where their bodies are buried. Sometimes, they visit loved ones. More commonly, ghosts haunt their killers.

  Next stop, her ex-boyfriend, a young man who admits to once having an intimate relationship with the missing girl.

  Teddy Pawlik is a mechanic at Fred and Hettie Motors, north of Burnaby. I hold back a laugh as my silly mind automatically chants, Teddy, Freddy, Hettie—hope they’re ready!

  As John called ahead, Teddy has been waiting for us. He comes out with an umbrella the moment we pull up in the detective’s Chevy.

  Blonde hair tied back in a barely there, short pony tail, Teddy Pawlik seems much younger than his twenty-five years. Wearing mechanic’s overalls, his eyes, the color of faded blue jeans, are dark with worry.

  “Detective Joseph, do you have any news?” he asks anxiously as John opens his car door. Pawlik holds an umbrella above John’s head. There’s grease under his fingernails, which are bitten to the quick.

  “Not yet.”

  “Please, come inside,” Pawlik says. “My boss knows you’re coming, he’s OK’d time off for me to talk to you.”

  The morning shower has slowed to a drizzle. Happy for the reprieve, I hop out of John’s truck.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t notice someone was with you!” He brings his unnecessary umbrella my way. “How do you do? Are you helping Detective Joseph find Annabelle
?”

  “Yes.” I offer my hand, grip his. “Pleased to meet you, I’m Janice St. John.”

  We hurry inside, out of the cold, into a small staff area that smells of fresh brewed coffee, grease, and oil. Offered wooden chairs, we sit around a trestle table adorned with motoring magazines.

  We pass on his offer of coffee, spend ten minutes politely listening to everything Teddy Pawlik has to say.

  Much to his dismay, Annabelle broke up with him shortly after moving to the city. She told Teddy she needed to concentrate on her job, claiming she loved it, hoping for a promotion.

  I shake my head slightly to let John know this is a bust. The only ghost hanging around is physically ancient. By the lack of shine, it was a decades old death—most likely in his sleep.

  The spirit is happily occupied looking through a garbage bin.

  Unfortunately, there’s no sign of our missing twenty-three-year-old.

  “I’m worried about her.” Teddy averts his gaze, as people do when their composure wavers.

  “We’re doing everything possible,” I say soothingly. “Tell me some of the things you did together, the places you went. Did Annabelle have any favorite places she liked to visit? You know, museums, coffee shops, and so on?”

  He goes into enormous detail, describing every telephone pole and fire hydrant they drove past. Yeah, yeah, I’m exaggerating, a bit. The poor guy’s still crazy about her. I make a mental note of places her restless spirit may gravitate toward.

  I’m confident we’ll find Annabelle.

  When I was a girl, the blacksmith’s wife used to say, “Have more than one iron in the fire.” I’ve never forgotten her wise advice.

  After repeatedly reassuring Pawlik that we’re doing everything possible, John and I leave.

  Chapter 9.

  Our next stop is the IT Management company where Annabelle worked 9-to-5, and occasional overtime, according to her pay slips.

  Security lets us through when John shows his police badge. He takes me up to the front desk where Annabelle worked, shows the new receptionist his badge. She calls the powers that be, who give us free run of the place.

  Together, we wander through staff areas, speak to her colleagues. Even though this is a modern building, it’s not uncommon to see ghosts. Typically, they’re haunting a person—not a place. As expected, I do see a ghost or two hanging around, but none of them are Annabelle.

  Eventually, we set out to meet her boss, Maxwell M. Samson. His admin ushers us in.

  Samson rises briefly from behind his mahogany desk, gestures for us to sit. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon, Detective Joseph. Has the wayward Miss Symmes been found?”

  John ignores the question, feeling no need to respond. I just love his natural reserve and taciturnity.

  I drop down into a plush leather chair, the detective does the same.

  Mr. Samson is the forty-year-old son-in-law of the CEO. Married with two children, he looks the part of a commanding executive. Tall, broad shouldered, he’s good-looking despite thinning brown hair. His hazel eyes settle on me with the assured superiority the ultra-wealthy wear as casually as Armani.

  I dislike him instantly.

  “How may I help you?” Way too comfortable in the role he acquired through marriage, his voice drips of old money—the tone cool, condescendingly helpful. Phony as a three-dollar bill, he’s impersonating the “nothing to hide here,” senior exec.

  Yeah, right. What a dickhead.

  His false attitude won’t work with me, especially when I recognize our missing person. Annabelle’s dead, alright. On the floor beside the dickhead’s desk, weeping a river, she’s literally at my feet.

  I subtly nod twice to John when formally introduced to our victim’s direct superior, a signal to keep our suspect busy. I need a moment to deal with this distraught, newly deceased spirit.

  Telepathic communication between myself and the dead is like talking to any living person. However, time passes differently. A forty-minute conversation with a spirit, is barely a sneeze in the “real” world. Lucky for me. I suspect getting useful information out of this tearful watering pot will take me at least forty ghostly minutes, and a ton of patience.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m sympathetic as hell. I want to help, but for-fuck’s-sake-please-stop-weeping-and-talk-to-me criers can be a real pain in the ass. I understand why calm people find themselves impulsively slapping the hysterical.

  I envision my hand going right through Annabelle’s transparent face. Nope, the shock technique wouldn’t work on ghosts.

  Curled into a ball, Annabelle smells of death and freshly turned soil. Almost certainly, her body’s been buried.

  I see how she died. Judging by the amount of blood covering her ghostly blouse, her throat was slit. She wasn’t murdered in her apartment, more likely she was taken from there by force. Where did he commit the coup de grâce? How did he dispose of her body?

  Anticipation curls within me. This is my chance to right a wrong and to reap an instant reward. When a ghost crosses over, my demon and I feed on the pure and perfect energy I’ve named “Heaven’s Mana.”

  It’s always great to feed on power without negative karmic repercussions.

  “Hello? Annabelle?” I send.

  Ghosts hear when I psychically speak to them, unlike my demon, who I must address out loud.

  This unhappy spirit doesn’t stop crying, doesn’t even pause.

  “Annabelle, I can help you.”

  I try everything—repeatedly. I reassure her that I understand. I ask if there is something she doesn’t feel comfortable talking about. I assure her I’m on her side. I question her about Mr. Samson, ask if he was a good boss.

  Nope. Nothing. Only more tears.

  Ever try getting blood from a stone? It’s fun, easy, and utter satisfying compared to this. Talk about grueling—I get nowhere, slowly. If I’m going to get nowhere, at least, let it be fast! Egad, I wish I had an otherworldly bucket of ice water. Anything to get the poor woman to snap out of it.

  Eventually, I give up trying to get information from her. Instead, I spin a story about how beautiful it is to cross over to the “other side.” I wax lyrical about rainbows, cuddly kittens, and angels. I describe euphoric happiness, and smiling, happy babies.

  A-fucking-men! This is what finally gets her attention? Good thing. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take.

  Eyes swimming, Annabelle Symmes still won’t speak, but she sends me numerous pictures, emotions, and impressions to get her point across.

  I finally know exactly what happened. From an immortal perspective, could anything be more wasteful, tragic, and pitiable?

  I ask Annabelle for any last words to tell her mom, sister, ex-boyfriend, or friends. I assure her I’ll take care of everything.

  “Hey, want to have some fun before you go?” I ask her.

  Dumbfounded, she stares at me blankly.

  “C’mon. I’ll be the cat, he can be the mouse. Watch me make this douchebag squirm.”

  The tears running down Annabelle’s face slow, then stop. Her ghostly breath hitches from habit. Wide-eyed, she nods.

  “Mr. Samson,” I break into his conversation with John. “Did you know Detective Joseph has evidence that Annabelle Symmes was murdered?”

  The color leaves the bastard’s face. “It can’t be.”

  “Afraid so.” I turn toward John. “Right, detective?”

  Harsh featured, thin lipped, he nods in stern agreement. He rests his hand on his gun, as though he may need it. Never slow on the uptake, the detective’s caught the ball and runs with it—bless his observant heart.

  I try not to grin.

  “Her murderer works in this company,” I blithely carry on, winking at Annabelle’s ghost. “Every lead points to a senior executive right here in this very building.”

  The asshole visibly swallows, chokes out, “I don’t believe it.”

  “Oh, it’s an age-old story of desire, manipulatio
n, and murder. The newspapers will have a field day! Older married man seduces a naive young lady in his employ.”

  His face—dare I say?—a murderous-red, he spurts out, “That’s a damned lie! This happens every time a wealthy man hires a woman! Bitches go after his money. Gold-digging sluts can’t keep their legs together! Hoping to bed and wed, they throw themselves at every senior executive. Either that or they try to fuck their way to a promotion.”

  Ignoring this misogynistic outburst, I continue, “To the innocent girl, he paints his wife as a cold-hearted woman who married him for his money. He claims he wants a divorce. Too bad there’s a prenuptial.”

  Too close for comfort, or perhaps ringing a familiar bell, my last comment sobers him. Silences him.

  “When the young woman meets his spouse, finds she’s being taken for a ride, the murderer fears losing his position, his wife, his kids. Everything rests on keeping his secret. His wife is rich—he isn’t. Her father owns the company where he works. But this kind of thing always gets out, you know?”

  Face tight, Samson says nothing.

  “We know where Annabelle’s body lies buried in a shallow grave. We also found the murder weapon.” I turn toward John. “How do you want to proceed?”

  Samson suddenly jumps to his feet, looking guilty as hell. “I want my lawyer!”

  The detective stands slowly, a formidable presence. “Maxwell Samson,” he says, “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say—”

  I tune him out.

  That was far too easy, but my restless spirit seemed to enjoy it. Annabelle Jean Symmes’s ghost smiles a somewhat wicked grin while the detective cuffs her murderer. I suggest to her that now is a good time for her to depart to a better place.

  Light only I can see, magically appears.

  The door to another world opens.

  Power whispers over my skin carrying with it soft music and familiar scents. In a breath-stealing rush, ecstasy races through my bloodstream. I shut my eyes, curb my impulse to moan and writhe with pleasure.