Demon Road

by Derek Landy

  Bill turned to them. “We can explain.”

  Kirsty rushed forward. “That’s my coat! What the hell, Betty?”

  Amber’s knees went weak.

  “Can we talk about your coat later?” said Grant. “Right now can we talk about the two dead cops on the carpet?”

  “I’ll call Gilmore,” said Bill. “We’ll get it all smoothed over. This is not a big deal.”

  “They’re cops!”

  Bill-the-demon waved a hand. “We got a bit carried away. We shouldn’t have done it. Happy? It’s low key for Betty and me for the rest of the night, we promise. We kill Amber, and that’s it. No more killing for the week.”

  Amber’s stomach lurched and suddenly she was cold, colder than she’d ever been.

  “I really am sorry about your coat,” Betty said to Kirsty. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

  Kirsty shook her head. “It was limited edition. You can’t get them anymore.”

  Amber slid sideways, forgetting how to walk, forgetting how to breathe. Her feet were heavy, made of stone, dragging themselves across the floor towards her bedroom while the rest of her body did its best to stay upright. She fell through her doorway, down to her knees, turned and reached out, numb fingers tipping the door closed. Her mouth was dry and her tongue was thick. Something was happening in her belly and she fell forward on to her hands and knees, throwing up on the rug she’d had for years. She didn’t make a sound, though. She heaved and retched, but didn’t make a sound.

  Her parents were monsters. They had grown horns. They’d killed cops. Her parents – and their friends – were going to kill her.

  Betty had drugged her. That’s what she’d done. A sedative or something, served up in the food. No, the Coke. Amber looked at the mess on her rug and wondered how much of the drug was congealing down there.

  She reached out, hand closing round the bedpost, using it to pull herself up, steady herself, stop herself from toppling sideways. She had to get out. She had to run. She started for the window and the room tilted crazily and she was stumbling towards it. She threw herself to one side before she smashed through the glass, instead banging her elbow against the wall. It hurt, but it didn’t bring her parents running. She was so thirsty. There was a bottle of water on her nightstand, but it was all the way across the room.

  Dumb, numb fingers fumbled at the window. Stupid, dumb thumb jammed against the latch. Dull teeth bit down, drawing blood from her lip. The pain was sharp, sharpened her for a moment, and her thick, stupid, unresponsive fingers did what they were supposed to do. The latch squeaked, moved, and she braced her forearm against the sash of the window and pressed in and up, using her whole body to slide the window open. Then her legs gave out and she fell, cracked her head against the sill on the way down.

  Amber lay with her eyes closed, blood pounding in her ears like drumbeats, like footsteps, like knuckles on a door.

  “Amber?”

  Eyes opened.

  “Amber?” Betty said from the hall. “Are you okay?”

  No answer would mean the door opening, Betty looking in.

  An answer, then. An answer.

  “Yeah,” came the word, awkwardly, from Amber’s mouth. More followed. “Tired. Sleeping.” Each one clumsy on her tongue.

  The door. The handle. The handle turning, the door opening. Bill’s voice from somewhere else. “Where do we keep the stain remover?”

  The door, closing, and then Betty’s footsteps, walking away.

  Amber turned on to her side, then got on her hands and knees. Stayed there, breathing, gathering her strength. Without raising her head, she reached for the sill. Grabbed it. Hauled herself up until she got an arm out. Grabbed the sill on the other side. Pulled herself up off her knees, got her head out of the window, into the heat and the air and the rain.

  Amber fell to the grass, her legs banging off the window frame. They’d find her like this. She hadn’t escaped. She couldn’t rest, not like this. She had to get away. Had to keep moving.

  Amber was crawling now, along the wet grass, through the dappled shadows of the trees. She had to get away. She had to crawl faster. Had to get to the road. Get to the road, get into a car, drive away. Escape.

  The ground beneath her changed, got harder. Not grass. Not anymore. Darker. Harder. Smoother. The road.

  Approaching footsteps, hurrying through the rain. They’d found her. They’d found her already. Her arms were weak, no strength left. Her body lay down. Her mind … her mind … where was her mind?

  Shoes. High-heeled shoes on a wet road, right in front of her. A voice. A woman’s voice. She knew that woman’s voice.

  “Hello, Amber,” said Imelda.

  AMBER AWOKE IN A room that was not her own. Clean lines and no clutter. Heavy curtains kept the dark from escaping into the morning light. Moving slowly, she pulled the covers off and stood. She was in her underwear. Her clothes were neatly folded on the dresser. Clean and dry. She crept to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out over Lake Eola. She frowned. An apartment in the city overlooking Lake Eola. She didn’t know where the hell she was.

  But she was alive. That was something, at least.

  Amber grabbed her clothes, put them on. Her phone was gone. She started to reach for the glass of water by her bed, but stopped, remembering the Coke. There was a bathroom, clean and polished, looking like it had never been used, and she drank from the faucet and wiped her mouth. Then she went to the door, put her ear against it, heard nothing.

  She opened it, hesitated, and stepped out.

  The apartment was vast, impressive, and utterly devoid of personality. It looked like the penthouse suite of a hotel. Everything was clean and in place. Every colour matched, every curve and line complemented the curves and lines around it. It had all been designed to cohere, to fit, to belong. There was a designer kitchen to her left, all gleaming metal with a huge breakfast island, and a balcony to her right, a view of the city beyond, all glass and palm trees, and ahead of her was the way out.

  She was halfway to the door when she noticed Imelda standing in the living room, her back to her. She was on the phone, listening while someone spoke.

  Amber reached the apartment door, opened it silently, and stepped out into the corridor. White walls. She moved up to the corner, and peered round.

  At the end of the corridor was the elevator, the door to the stairwell, and a window. Standing at that window, looking out over the skyline, was a tall man in blue jeans, black T-shirt and battered cowboy boots. On the side table behind him there was a mirror, a bowl of potpourri and a shotgun.

  Amber stared at the shotgun.

  She pressed herself back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was breathing too loud. She was breathing too loud and he’d hear her, she knew he would. She peeked out again. He was still looking out of the window. The shotgun was still there.

  She had no choice. She couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t stay where she was. She had to do something. She had to move forward.

  Fighting the urge to break into a sprint, Amber took small, slow steps. She got to the side table without making a sound, then picked up the shotgun. It clinked slightly on the table and the man turned from the window. He was good-looking, somewhere in his mid-forties. His black hair had hints of grey. His narrow eyes were calm.

  “You should put that down before it goes off,” he said.

  “Get out of my way. Get out of my way or I’ll … I’ll shoot you.”

  “Your hands are trembling,” he said. “Give it to me.” He reached his left hand forward slowly and Amber took a single step back and then there was somehow a pistol in his other hand, and he was aiming it right at her head. “Now you’re really scared,” he said. “Now you want to run screaming. That’s perfectly understandable. But I’m not going to move. You’re not getting past me.”

  “Please,” she said, the shotgun shaking badly in her grip now. “They’re trying to kill me.”

  “Then why aren’t you
dead?” he asked. “Put the shotgun back on the table and go back inside the apartment.”

  Tears ran down her face. “Please don’t make me.”

  “Put down the shotgun.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “I’m not the one who’s going to explain it to you. Either shoot me or put down the shotgun.”

  Amber shook her head, but found herself putting the weapon on the side table, anyway. The man slid his pistol into a holster on his belt before picking up the shotgun.

  “Probably wasn’t even loaded,” she said quietly.

  “No, it was,” the man responded. “You would have cut me in two if you’d pulled that trigger. Go back inside, Amber. Talk to Imelda.”

  She didn’t have much of a choice. Amber walked back the way she’d come, hesitated at the apartment door, and then walked in.

  Imelda saw her, held up a finger for Amber to wait.

  “We’re keeping tabs on all of her friends, aren’t we?” she said into the phone pressed to her ear. “Exactly. I wouldn’t worry about this, Kirsty. We’ll find her. It’s only a matter of time. Okay, I’ve got to go. I want to check out the principal of her school.” She listened. “Because after that wonderful display yesterday, she knows for certain that the principal isn’t in league with us. Yes, I am clever. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Bye now.”

  Imelda hung up. “Want some breakfast?” she asked, walking to the kitchen. She poured orange juice into a tall glass and placed it beside an assortment of croissants and pastries. Then she looked back at Amber and waited.

  “What’s happening?” Amber said.

  “It really is a long story,” Imelda said.

  “There’s a man outside with a gun.”

  “That’s a friend of mine, Milo Sebastian. You don’t have to worry about him. You have to worry about your parents.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  Imelda managed a smile. “You think they’re behaving oddly? That’s just because you don’t know them very well.”

  “They’re demons. Monsters.”

  “Oh, Amber … We’re all monsters. Metaphorically, I mean. The whole human race. We hate, we kill, we do terrible things to each other and to the planet. But we are also, in our case, actual monsters. With horns.”

  “I really don’t understand any of this,” said Amber. “Please just tell me what’s happening.”

  “I’m going to explain everything. But to start with I’ll have to show you. I’m going to change now, all right? I’m going to turn into … well, into a monster, just like your parents. And I want you to remain calm. Can you do that?”

  Amber swallowed, and nodded.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Once again, I want you to remain calm. You’re perfectly safe.”

  Imelda’s skin turned red and her teeth grew sharp and she had black horns and it all took less than a heartbeat.

  Amber screamed, picked up a potted plant and threw it, but it fell short and smashed to the floor.

  “You killed Henry,” Imelda said, dismayed.

  “Help me!” Amber screamed.

  “You’re panicking,” said Imelda.

  “You’re a monster!” Amber screeched.

  “This is not news to me.”

  Amber sprinted for the door.

  “You tried that, remember?”

  A wave of pain swept through Amber, making her stagger but not fall. She pushed herself away from the door and ran for the window.

  “What, you’re going to jump?” Imelda asked. “Really? We’re on the thirty-fifth floor.”

  Amber grabbed a cushion off the couch and held it out with both hands.

  “I’m not entirely sure what you mean to do with that,” Imelda admitted.

  “You’re a monster,” Amber said, her voice cracking.

  “Yes,” said Imelda. “And I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but so are you.”

  Amber looked at her hands. Looked at how red they were. Looked at the black nails that had pierced the cushion she held.

  “Oh my God,” she said, feeling how her tongue brushed against teeth that were somehow longer than they had been a moment earlier. Her head swam. She raised her hands, felt horns. “Oh God. Help me. Please …”

  Imelda the Monster walked forward slowly. “Amber, I need you to calm down …”

  Amber backed away unsteadily, leaving a trail of floating feathers in her wake. She began to cry.

  “Stay away from me.”

  “You asked me to help you. I’m helping you.”

  “Stay back,” said Amber, voice breaking.

  “Okay.”

  “Help me.”

  “Make up your mind,” said Imelda with a faint smile.

  “Please, just … why do I have horns?”

  “Because you’re like me,” said Imelda. “You’re like your parents, and Grant and Kirsty and Alastair. You’re a demon, sweetie.”

  The word stuck in Amber’s mind like a bone in her throat, so that she barely registered Imelda darting towards her until it was too late to do anything about it.

  “Sorry about this,” Imelda said, and punched her into unconsciousness.

  AMBER STIRRED FROM HER dreamless sleep, waking without opening her eyes. She snuggled down deeper into the pillow, slowly drifting off again, and then she remembered where she was and what had happened and she sat up so fast she almost fell out of bed.

  Back in the bedroom in Imelda’s apartment. The curtains were open now. The day was bright and warm. She examined her reflection in the mirror on the wall. She looked normal. Her hair was a mess, but that was the full extent of the damage.

  It had been real. She knew it had been real. She’d had horns. She’d grown them as her skin had turned red and her nails had turned black – just like she had before she’d pulverised Brandon’s jaw with a single punch. She’d grown them just like Imelda had grown them. Just like her parents had grown them.

  But no. No, that couldn’t be right. There had to be an explanation. A reasonable, logical, real-world explanation.

  She stood. She was fully dressed, in T-shirt and shorts and sneakers. That was good. She left the bedroom. The man with the guns sat on the couch, his long legs crossed, reading a tattered paperback. Milo Sebastian, she remembered. He looked up at her, then went back to reading.

  “Where’s Imelda?” Amber asked.

  “Out,” he said.

  She waited for him to furnish her with more information, but apparently he wasn’t much of a talker.

  “Out where?” she pressed.

  “Out with the others.”

  A wave of alarm rushed through Amber’s veins. “My parents? What’s she doing with them?”

  “Pretending to look for you.” Keeping a finger on the page he’d been reading, he folded the book closed and raised his eyes. “You can wait for her here. She shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  Amber hesitated, then took a few steps further into the room. “Don’t suppose you’d let me go, would you?”

  “You’ve got nowhere to go to,” Milo replied. “The cops can’t help you. Chief Gilmore can only afford his luxury condo with the money they pay him. Your parents, and their friends, are very powerful people. You must know this.”

  Amber didn’t reply. She didn’t mention the ease with which they’d had her principal fired.

  She went to the couch across from where Milo was sitting, and sat on the edge, knees together and hands in her lap. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “I’m not the one to talk to about this.”

  “So you do know. You know they’re monsters, right? You know Imelda is a monster? And it doesn’t bother you?”

  “Does it bother you that you’re just like her?”

  Amber shook her head. “I’m not. I’m … I don’t know what happened or what drug
she gave me, but I’m not like her. I’m not like them. They’re monsters. I’m normal. I mean, I think I’d know if I were a monster, right?”

  He looked at her, didn’t say anything.

  “Why do you have all those guns?” she asked.

  “Your parents might start suspecting that Imelda isn’t being honest with them. She asked me to make sure no harm comes to you.”

  “You’re here to protect me?” Amber stood up suddenly. “So I could walk out of here and you couldn’t stop me?”

  Milo opened the paperback again, without fuss, and resumed reading. “Try it and see.”

  Whatever rebellious fire had flared inside her sputtered and died at his tone, and Amber sat back down. “Do you know where my phone is?”

  “Destroyed.”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”

  He kept reading. “It’s the easiest way to track you.”

  “But that was my phone.”

  “Best not to make calls. Or send emails. Those are the kind of things that would lead your parents straight to you.”

  “And how do you expect me to … to … to do anything? I need my phone, for God’s sake. I need …” She faltered. She needed her phone to go online, to talk to her friends. She needed that now more than ever.

  Milo didn’t seem to care. He had gone back to reading his book. A western, judging by the cover. Amber had never read a western. She couldn’t imagine they were any good. There were surely only so many stories you could tell about cowboys and shooting and horses before it all got boring, even for those who liked such things. How many times could you describe a saddle, or a saloon, or a desert plain?

  Still, it was something. He liked books and she liked books. There was common ground there.

  “Ever read In The Dark Places?” she asked.

  Milo didn’t look up. “No.”

  “It’s a really good series. It’s been adapted into a TV show. They’re on Season Three right now. You should read them. They’re all about these star-crossed lovers, Balthazar and Tempest. She’s a Dark Faerie and he’s an Eternal. That’s, uh, that’s what they’re called. He’s got an evil brother and her parents are nuts and she’s just been possessed by the ghost of her ex-boyfriend. It’s set in Montana. They sometimes have horses on the show.”