Demon Master 2 (The Demon Master Series)

by Daniel Pierce

  “Another point,” Kevin began, holding up a finger and slipping into the voice of a teacher, “I don’t see any clear career activities in this house, and none of you strike me as particularly lazy except for that beast.” Gyro perked his ears at the term, which had been used to describe him since he attained full size at the age of one year.

  Wally’s dam broke, and she began to speak in a rush. “I am sorry that we lied to you, Father. I do not know what to say. I am truly sorry. We all are. I—we, we are all—well, we have a job, if you can call it that, but we are not corrupt or bad. I do not know how to explain this to you. I think maybe Risa should talk now because I am feeling much like I will not be clear enough to make you understand our home.”

  Kevin regarded her evenly, then his expression softened and he said, “I accept your apology, Waleska, and I know that you’re not a malicious person at all.” He sighed gustily and slumped further into the couch. “My first mentor once told me not to try correcting everything I saw as wrong because I would soon find myself ignoring the things that really needed doing. Sitting here, I see that he was most certainly right, although I can’t imagine he would have envisioned such colorful circumstances.” Wally was truly relieved. I know that she takes the status of her soul very seriously, despite her outwardly carefree aura. He shifted his attention to Risa and held a palm up to her in the universal symbol for wait. “Before you say anything at all, Risa, let’s set some guidelines. One issue we must clear up before we discuss anything important is where we’re going to stop talking tonight, okay?”

  Risa agreed as did I. Wally was still flustered; she remained silent.

  “There’s only one topic I want to explore. Elizabeth. She is the star of our little inquiry.” He looked to Risa, who nodded tersely, once. “Okay, since we’re in accord, begin. Who do you think this woman really is? Or better still, do you think that she is a sociopath?”

  “Oh, very much so,” Risa answered instantly. “She’s a textbook case. She uses people without concern for their well-being. She has no conscience whatsoever. We have evidence that she is a mass murderer and considers her orchestration of death to be an asset worthy of boasting about.” Kevin raised his eyebrows at that, but she continued, “Unfortunately, she is also frigidly beautiful. She exists in a complex, vicious, interlocking puzzle of a life that is assured of further victims because of her confidence, her exterior appearance, and her ability to prey upon the weak.”

  “She’s a ruthless twat,” Wally added for emphasis, and then covered her mouth in shame. “Sorry.”

  Kevin smiled in forgiveness.

  I had to explore just what the limits of our conversation were going to be, so I asked Kevin, “Instead of asking us questions, let me clarify something. Why did you ask me if I thought Elizabeth was a demon?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just felt it needed asking. You walked up to me and started a conversation that was a bit different from my usual fare. I’m not unfamiliar with spiritual problems, but the majority of my parishioners have very . . . standard issues to be dealt with. Divorce. Alcoholism. Abusive family histories rearing up decades later to poison their homes, things like that. Those are my bread and butter, so to speak, but I am not unprepared by the Church for topics that may seem more exotic to persons outside the faith.”

  I decided that it was time to see just how much Kevin wanted to know, so I asked him, “Aren’t you wondering why she survived being stabbed? Do I look like I’m incapable of breaking the skin of a person with a knife, no matter how dull?” I leaned forward, hands on knees, watching his face as he processed what he wanted to say, what he thought he might say, and then, what he permitted himself to say.

  “Well, Ring? If you’re capable, why did she get up?” He folded his hands and sat back to wait. My eyes flicked to Risa, then Wally, who both nodded imperceptibly, and I made my decision to spill some of the beans, if not the whole pot.

  “She wanted me to stab her. She designed the entire encounter beginning as long as thirty years ago or more, in a dense, complicated series of actions that compelled the three of us to confront her, attack her, seemingly win due to my skill with a knife, and then be crushed afterward by the belief that we had committed murder.”

  Kevin regarded me evenly and never blinked. “And despite your act of violence toward this woman, this—puppeteer, she survived because you were meant to be burdened by guilt?” Kevin gave each of us a long, searching look.

  Risa asked, “Kevin, what is a demon? The definition of a demon and the practical explanation of a demon, if the two terms are different?” Wally had been thinking the same thing because she patted Risa’s leg in solidarity. Our own assessment of evil might vary greatly from the official Church position, and Kevin might veer even further still given his obvious passion for analytical thought.

  “From my perspective, there are three possible definitions. The original term, daimonium, is Greek, and it doesn’t necessarily connote a being of evil. It used to mean something that is of a divine nature. Only later, through the influence of Jewish and Christian scholars did the term come to mean something repellent,” Kevin said.

  Wally looked perplexed, but of course, beautifully so. “Is a demon not bad? Always? I thought that divine things were angels, or God.”

  Kevin addressed her confusion by saying, “They are. But some demons were angels, and one demon in particular wanted to be God, or at the very least rule the universe as we know it. So the idea that a demon could be defined as something evil depends on your personal definition of what composes an evil being. If a creature exists for the sole purpose of doing harm to others, then that, to me, is a demon. In the case of Elizabeth, when I asked Ring about her nature, I had no inkling that this sort of discussion was in my near future. I ask you, then, since you’ve been quite clear about what Elizabeth does to innocents, the answer is very clear. She is, by both of the definitions I know, a demon. She is supernatural or divine in some way because the human body is not capable of shrugging off a knife wound to the heart. Another consideration being that someone who has this physical . . . gift, yet chooses to kill, often it would seem, and in an endless pattern that I presume stretches beyond that of a normal human lifetime?” He ended with a question, inviting further explanation about the woman whom he had now branded by his own words, inhuman.

  Risa stood and handed Kevin a printed sheet taken from the cache of letters Elizabeth had written over the millennia. “Why don’t we let her tell you in her own words?”

  19

  Florida: Ring

  Kevin carefully set the letters down and scanned the room, looking at our expressions with great interest.

  “This. . .person... has been everywhere. She’s been in every war, every upheaval, plague, even some natural disasters.” He shook his head in amazement. “I’ve never—I mean, I believe this, but it’s a lot to take in, even for me.”

  “They’re all true. Even the oldest ones,” I said.

  “How far do the letters go back?” He asked Risa.

  “At least twenty-three hundred years. That we know of, that is,” Risa answered.

  Kevin glanced at the paper again as if he expected it to grow tentacles. “And who, or perhaps I should say what, is the source of these documents? Have you seen them in their original form?”

  I shook my head, and Wally said, “They are all from the woman whom Elizabeth addresses as daughter, but she is not a blood relative, just a—just a woman who knew Elizabeth a long time ago.”

  “Very long ago,” I added.

  “Why does she address her as a daughter then? There must be a reason that is slightly more . . . significant than just knowing someone, no matter how far in the past. And as long as I’m asking for clarification, tell me about this so-called daughter as well.”

  I looked around in discomfort, knowing that no matter how I described Delphine, Risa and Wally would feel the need to clarify my remarks, so I just waved meekly at Risa, who gleefully took the
lead.

  “First, the woman being addressed in all of these letters is currently named Delphine. And not to be too blunt, she’s a prostitute, of sorts, and has been for some time, perhaps two centuries. The letters were translated by her servant, Joseph, who appears to be a linguist and scholar of some skill.”

  Kevin blinked once in surprise and then regained his composure. “Two centuries. Well, this Delphine is certainly redeemable, if you even think she’s a sinner. You used the term servant when identifying this Joseph. Did you mean exactly that? That term implies more than an employee, but perhaps something less than a slave.”

  “No, just a servant, but yes, it is more than the simple task of an employee. Joseph is quite dedicated to Delphine,” I added in as bland a tone as possible.

  Kevin asked us all, “Please, elaborate on how Delphine could be a daughter to Elizabeth. I suspect the answer is something a bit less traditional than a simple family tie.”

  Wally snorted, elegant as ever. “Nothing about these women is traditional. Elizabeth makes her daughters; she does not give birth to them.”

  I agreed, and then Risa picked up the explanation. “Elizabeth creates her daughters by saving them.” When she saw Kevin’s dubious look, she went on. “She intervenes when these women need her the most. Dire circumstances attract Elizabeth like a fly to carrion. She finds victims of some of the most calamitous violations imaginable and steps in at the most opportune moment, seemingly saving them from death, enslavement, or worse. They are naturally only too happy to give themselves over to her, body and soul, and from that connection, that moment of communing, she begins to shape them, twist them, and forge a broken, terrified victim into something that is predatory, evil, and—here is the part that will challenge what you know—virtually immortal. It is a side effect of . . . sharing in Elizabeth’s bounty, so to speak.”

  “But it doesn’t translate perfectly. In fact, there is an example of a failed transformation very close to Delphine—Joseph,” I said.

  Kevin looked shocked at the notion that some creature could pass on immortality. “And this Joseph, what is happening to him? What’s this failure look like?”

  Risa chimed in, “We don’t know in every case, but we have an idea based on what we’ve learned from other failures to transmit, as you say. Joseph is dying, but he isn’t doing it in a manner that you would recognize. He is changing, transforming, slowly but surely, and he will most likely resemble the creature you would call a ghoul within a year or so, I would think. He already has the smell of rot around him, and I can’t imagine that he will hang on for long once he begins to demonstrate more unusual appetites. It reflects poorly on Delphine, who, for all her faults, takes a perverse sense in being mannerly.”

  Wally added, “She isn’t so bad when you compare her to the others.”

  That was true, and I nodded emphatically in agreement. “Ghouls are a problem for the immortals, and believe me, Kevin, there are far more immortals out there than you would care to know about. They permeate certain places, occupations, moving on the periphery, for the most part, and they don’t like ghouls because above all else, they’re messy and visible. They’re bad for business, they stink, and they go on killing sprees fairly often, which are really hard to cover up, even with their human collaborators.”

  Kevin grimaced. “Collaborators. That’s a word that almost never brings good news with it. How does this change get passed on to us? Is it something supernatural or viral? Disease? What do you know about it?”

  “What if it’s all of that and more?” Risa asked. Kevin stopped chewing over the implications of that, so she went on. “The truth is, we’re not sure, but it seems likely that there is a virus passed by intimate contact, or even constant, close contact. But that doesn’t fill in all the holes because there isn’t anything like this in our history, so what if it’s a combination of two things—a virus that is supernatural in origin and has been around for all of our history, and the effects? Look at it this way, every single person who comes in contact with an immortal ends up dead, changed, or wounded.”

  “Except you,” Kevin said evenly. “What’s stopping you from this descent?”

  I stalled for a second and then said, “We don’t know. All we know is that we three have never really experienced fear, and our lives, we suspect, may have been directed from afar by Elizabeth or something like her in order to bring us together so that we can do what we’re really good at.” I shrugged. It wasn’t my best explanation, but it was honest, and it would have to do for now.

  Kevin smiled slyly and asked us, “Have you considered the opposite?”

  “Which is?” Risa demanded, curious.

  Kevin’s smile widened. “You assume that you were brought together, as you describe it, by someone who is evil. What if your life here is the product of a design drawn by a being of supreme good instead?”

  20

  The Archangel Enoch

  “Dr. Mpemba, this arrived for you.” A mousey student worker placed the heavy box on the professor’s desk as he dismissed her with a wave.

  He inspected the package and saw the description as air mail, originating in Ireland according to the label. Ahead of schedule, as always. I am an excellent customer, and it is good of her to show me proper respect. His eyes glittered with greed and something more primal as he closed his office door, locked it, and sat for a moment, savoring the innocent brown box. It was a Friday, which meant that he would not have to wait to use his newest acquisition as the club would be crowded with veterans and newcomers and the undecided who had not yet played with him.

  Enoch Mpemba had arrived in South Florida two decades earlier, leaving the killing grounds of his native Liberia behind without a second thought. A naturally industrious student, he had quickly demonstrated superior math skills as well as an uncompromising need to explore the relationships between religion, economics, and all the warfare that those forces could cause. Less than a decade later, he possessed degrees in all three fields, earning his doctorate in economics with surprising ease, a discipline that would prove a boon to someone who had a rare combination of intellect, will, and the depravity to use all of his gifts for purposes known only to him.

  A handsome man with the deep brown and even coloring of his ancestors, Enoch had striking cheekbones and eyes of impenetrable depth that women found compelling, and later commanding. He quickly realized upon becoming a professor that women were, for him, a wholly renewable resource, limited only by his finances, which were meager even for someone of his title. Money was tight. Women were not.

  Enoch changed all of that in one single evening when he discreetly taped a young student doing unspeakable acts in his living room, her flawless, youthful body on display as he defiled her in every possible way, even finishing his performance with a hard slap to her mouth, felling her, and laughing at her shock. He had not even disguised the act of turning off the camera that had filmed the entire sporting affair, and two weeks later, he had arranged to see her at a local coffee shop. He cheerfully informed her that he would be showing the footage of her enthusiastic participation to her bigoted parents, who he had discovered showered her with regular checks as their only, precious child finished what was, in his eyes, a meaningless degree in nursing.

  During the encounter, each wiggle of her youthful hips were punctuated with animal groans that were at odds with her exterior, a fact that he valued in the amount of $500 per month, until she left school. After that Enoch had serenely informed her she could be assured that he would destroy the digital film. He was, after all, an honorable man, he said, as he’d watched her sob again and again.

  The memory of her submission was as erotic as any of her orifices had been during their play, and he had pleasured himself often at the recollection of her tears. Until the next victim, and the next. Eventually, the professor who had lived in a small apartment had purchased a townhome on a lake in a gated community. Still, his appetite for the flesh had not dimmed, so he began to expa
nd his search. Finally, emboldened by his exploits, Enoch forayed into the fringes of society, where he found that the sexual appetites of others could be safely expressed, even augmented within the subculture known simply as The Lifestyle.

  What an inadequate word, he mused, thinking of the blossoming that he had witnessed within his own libido. Moving quickly within the accepted participants of the clubs and private parties, Enoch began to find simple promiscuity lacking, even with married women whose husbands watched, craven, impotent in the face of his sexuality, but still titillated by their very weakness. It was a feeling that catered to his needs at once, and he began an immediate exploration of that new and welcome addition to his encounters. The final piece of his sexual puzzle arrived in the form of a dominatrix visiting from Ireland, or Denmark—he was never truly certain, but he did recognize the moment she began to unpack her beautifully constructed leather goods, all custom-made, purpose-built, and designed to inflict shame and heighten his orgasms in ways he had not dreamed possible.

  After an evening of enthusiastic fucking with her, he confirmed two facts that would shape his actions from that moment forth. He had not one ounce of submission within his body and spirit, and the surest means to physical pleasure of the highest order, for Enoch, was to visit shame and degradation upon others until even their safe words could not grant them respite from his lust.

  So before him sat a package, unopened for the moment, with a new device of his own design, crafted by the Irish or Danish worker who was virtually enslaved to the woman who had taught him that pain and pleasure are fruit of the same tree. A careful knife cut along the edge of the parcel, and he spilled the paper-wrapped item onto his desk. He then discarded the box onto the floor with the same disdain that he showed his special students, and swallowing once in anticipation, feathered the heavy paper apart.