You Slay Me

by Katie MacAlister

  "What is your name, demon?" I asked.

  It smiled. The monitor nearest it went snowy. "You know the rules, Guardian. You didn't summon me, so I don't have to answer any of your questions."

  I looked back through the open doorway to where Jim sat in the hallway. "Do you know who this is?" I asked.

  "Yep. But if you are expecting me to tell you, I can't. That's another one of the rules—no narcing on fellow demons."

  "I could command you to tell me its name," I said.

  Jim shook its head. "Still wouldn't be able to tell you. You really do need to read the rule book."

  I made an exasperated noise. Jim cleared its throat. "However, nothing says I can't give you a hint.... Think about the demon you've been chasing."

  "Bafamal?" I asked, turning to look at the demon-man. "You're Bafamal?"

  The demon snarled something as it stood up. Jim flinched. Two monitors flickered, then died.

  Bafamal? What was it doing here in Drake's house... ? The penny dropped. I stared in horror at the blond demon as all the pieces came together in my mind with one solid whomp. Drake had lied to me: he had been lying to me all the time. He said dragons couldn't summon a demon, and yet here was Bafamal looking quite comfy and at home in his communications room. He said he didn't kill Mme. Deauxville and the Venediger, and yet here was the in­strument of their deaths. The only thing I couldn't figure out was why Drake hadn't hidden the signs that he had used a demon to commit murder, but I was sure I'd fig­ure out that last puzzle. Right now I had to get out of Drake's house before he found out I'd seen his demon.

  I turned back to Jim. "Is there any way I can get rid of a demon I haven't summoned?"

  "Sure. You draw a circle, say the words, and poof! He goes up in smoke."

  "Words, what words?" I asked, wringing my hands. It was becoming a bad habit, but I didn't have time to take myself to task about it. I had a demon to send back to Hell. "I don't have my notes or the book I need."

  'To send the demon back, you need its twelve words, the ones ruling it."

  "If you think I'm going to stand here and allow this Guardian to send me back without breaking her neck, you're as crazy as she is," Bafamal said to Jim.

  I didn't need Jim's warning to guess the demon was about to attack me. Without thinking, I opened the door in my mind, summoned Drake's fire, shaped it, and sent it to my attacker just as Bafamal lunged toward me, its hands outstretched claws.

  "That shiny material sure does burn," Jim commented from the hallway as inside the room the demon shrieked, spinning in a circle, frantically trying to beat out the fire that erupted all over its body.

  "Quickly," I said, running to Jim. "Where do I find the twelve words?"

  "Each demon has twelve words binding it: six that identify it, six that define it. Usually the only way to get them is to capture the demon and torment it until it tells you."

  "Usually?" I asked, glancing back over my shoulder at Bafamal. It had put out almost all the flames on its suit.

  Jim smiled. "Yeah, usually. The exception is when you have an extraordinarily handsome and intelligent demon of your own who doesn't mind telling you the other demon's words."

  "You just said you couldn't help me!" I yelled.

  "I said I couldn't name him. That doesn't mean I can't give you other information about him."

  I grabbed Jim's furry head and kissed its muzzle, jumping back into the room to search for a felt pen I could use to draw a circle on the cream-colored rug that graced the middle of a highly polished wooden floor.

  Five minutes later I opened the windows to let out the last whiffs of demon smoke. "That was close," I croaked, rubbing my throat.

  'Too close. You really do need to find yourself a men­tor, someone to show you the Guardian ropes. There are binding wards you can use to keep from being throttled while you're conducting the ritual."

  Jim followed as I ran back to my room. "I don't have time to think about that now. I have lo get the proof that Drake murdered Mme. Deauxville and the Venediger. Where did I put that extra plastic bag? There it is." I shoved all my new clothes and my soiled pantsuit into the bags, including the sandals. I opened the window, check­ing for anyone who might be loitering along the side of the house, then tossed the bag of my clothes out. "Come on. Drake will get suspicious if we don't show up for breakfast. As soon as we're done, I'll tell him I need to take you walkies again, and we'll hightail it out of here."

  I fished a card out of my purse, stopping by the phone that sat on the nightstand.

  "Where are we going to go? The police are going to be looking for you."

  "I'm aware of that," I answered as I punched the but­tons on the phone. "Rene? Hi, it's Aisling. Are you free in about half an hour? Jim and I are going to need a ride. We're making an escape."

  "An escape? Yes, yes, I can pick you up." Rene prom­ised to be outside Drake's house at the appointed time. "Has he hurt you? Should I bring my revolver?"

  "No, he hasn't hurt me, and no, definitely do not bring any guns. I have a feeling Drake is a hard guy to hurt, and he can zap you. . . . Well, just don't bring it. See you in thirty minutes."

  "That takes care of being seen on the streets by the cops, but where are we going?" Jim asked.

  I opened the bedroom door and peered down the hall­way. It was clear. "The only place we can go— Amelie's."

  "OK, but don't kiss me again in front of Cecile. She's the jealous sort."

  We trotted down the stairs only to meet Drake coming in the front door.

  "Good morning. You look lovely. Paul has a good eye,"

  he said, looking me over, flashing me a sexy smile. My fingernails bit into my palms as I tried to keep from throwing myself on him. Honestly, what was I thinking? How could my body know the truth about him and still not care? I was thoroughly ashamed of myself—he was a murderer! He had lied to me! He had stolen from me! He was amusing himself with me at my expense, and still I wanted him.

  I didn't have to let him know that, though. I raised my chin and gave him a cool look. "Yes, he does. You were out?"

  His eyes—lying, traitorous eyes—flashed puzzle­ment. "I had to get something. For you, as a matter of fact."

  "Oh really?" I turned and walked with him toward the kitchen, Jim trailing behind us. "What would that be? Cyanide? Strychnine? Hemlock?"

  "Nothing so exotic," he said, holding the door open for me. I stepped into the sunny, cheerful kitchen and mused on how a man could have such a black heart and yet ap­pear so utterly droolworthy at the same time. But then, he wasn't really a man, was he? He was a dragon, and drag­ons loved treasure above all else.

  With a flourish, Drake pulled a small container out of a paper bag. I blinked in surprise at the sight of it. "Lemon yogurt. I had an idea you might like it."

  My cheeks burned with a blush at the flames of desire visible in his eyes. He had invaded my dream, the erotic dream I was having about him just an hour ago. The beastly man! "Thank you," I said thickly, taking the yo­gurt and claiming a seat.

  Breakfast was difficult to get through. Drake clearly was puzzled by my reaction to him, but he didn't say anything beyond asking me what steps I thought we should take to find the killer or killers.

  I looked him straight in the eye. "I think the best thing to do would be to talk to the witness."

  "Witness?" His brows pulled together in a frown. "What witnesses?"

  "The demon that was summoned by the person behind the murders."

  "Person? You think it is just one person?"

  "Oh, yes," I answered, my gaze steady on his.

  "I suppose that makes sense. The two murders are ob­viously related." His brows smoothed. 'Talking with the demon is one idea, yes, but I believe a more practical one would be to speak with Therese, the Venediger's mistress. She would be able to tell us who visited him yesterday."

  Hmm, what was wrong with that picture? Let's start with Drake had already admitted he was at the Venedi­ger's yesterday, not to m
ention his plan drew my atten­tion away from questioning the demon he had used. Still, it wasn't wise to let him see I had figured him out. This was obviously a time when it wouldn't hurt to play stu­pid. "Good point. Very well, just as soon as I've taken Jim for his walkies, we'll go question the mistress."

  I hurried through the rest of the meal, wanting nothing so much as to get out of there before my resolve cracked. Drake was using me, nothing more. He didn't really care about me. He didn't like me. He only wanted the lode-stone; that's why he was protecting me from the ponce.

  "Go out to the side of the house and get my bag of clothes," I instructed Jim quietly at the bottom of the staircase. "Take it around front, to the street. I'll meet you there." I glanced at my watch. "Rene should be there in a couple of minutes."

  "Where are you going?" Jim asked. "You're not going to let loose that dragon fire all over Drake's house, are you?"

  "What do you take me for, an arsonist?"

  "Well, you did burn the Venediger to a crisp—"

  "We don't know that. I'm sure the fire department put the gazebo out before his body was torched. Besides, that was an accident. Now, go do what I told you to do. I'm just going to leave Drake a note that will hopefully buy us a little time."

  I ran up the stairs to my room. I left a note on my pil­low that simply said I was going to pursue another av­enue of investigation on my own, one that Jim and I were better qualified to do than him. I ended with a request that he question Therese while I was doing my thing. I doubted if it would convince Drake to leave me alone permanently, but hoped it would give me a few hours' head start.

  Rene was waiting by the time I made it, breathless, to the rendezvous point. I pushed Jim into the taxi, jumping in after it as I gave Rene the order to leave.

  "Where do you wish to go? Why are you in the hurry so great? What has happened?"

  I told him to take us to Amelie's. "Nothing has hap­pened, except I found out that Drake is the one who mur­dered both Mme. Deauxville and the Venediger."

  "Drake? He is a thief, yes, but a murderer, too? And who is this Venediger?" Rene asked, peering over his shoulder at me.

  "Eeek!" I screamed, pointing at the parked car he was about to plow us into. "Eyes forward and I'll tell you."

  It took the length of the trip through a morning rush-hour Paris to tell the tale of my experiences during the last twenty-four hours, but by the time Rene pulled up to Amelie's shop he had the bulk of it, everything except the fact that Drake was a dragon.

  "I would ask you to stay with me until it is safe for you," he said apologetically as I got out of the taxi, "but with five small ones running around, my apartment is filled to the overflow."

  "That's OK, I totally understand. I didn't know you had five kids, though!"

  He made a wry face. "Why is it you think I work so many hours, eh? Now, before you go, you repeat for me what it is you will say if that murdering thief comes to se­duce you with his so-handsome face."

  "Rene, Drake isn't going to—"

  "Repeat it!"

  "Chat echaude craint I'eau froide," I dutifully re­peated. (It meant "A cat washed with hot water fears cold water," which evidently was the French way of saying once burned, twice shy.)

  "You forgot to add the sneer to tell him you are so high above him. That is very important. Ah, well, you are im­proving. Bonne chance, Aisling. If you need me, call. I will come."

  "Thanks." I gave in to impulse and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "You're a doll."

  Rene looked embarrassed by the gesture.

  "She's not gettin' any from Drake," Jim explained in an annoyingly confidential tone. "She's kissing everyone. You should have seen her this morning, she was all over me—awk!"

  "See you later," I said with a wave to Rene, ignoring the squirming demon struggling to free itself from the twisted hold I had on its collar. After it made a few pa­thetic gasps for air around its tightened collar, I let go of it and headed for Amelie's shop. "Behave yourself and I won't command you to silence."

  "You're assuming I can talk after you brutally crushed my windpipe."

  "Jim, you haven't even begun to see brutal," I warned as I walked toward Amelie's shop.

  "That's what you think," it muttered behind me.

  I was careful first to make sure there were no lounging policeman on surveillance. My Uncle Damian's warning rang in my head: Security every place, everywhere, all the time.

  Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a sudden sense of homesickness. What was I doing skulking around the streets of Paris at eight in the morning when I should be home getting chewed out by my uncle for allowing the aquamanile to be stolen from me? Why hadn't I taken Drake up on his offer to take my passport and run? Why was I putting my very life at risk by staying in a city that the police were probably scouring for me? And why did I feel like my heart was crushed in a vise whenever I thought about Drake betraying me?

  "Because I'm fool, that's why. But I'm a fool who's got to clear her name, and by heaven, I'm going to do it." I marched forward to the shop, only to stop and stare first at the closed door, then down at my watch. "Rats. She doesn't open up for another hour. I forgot how early it is. Now what am I going to do? I can't stay lounging around here—Inspector Proust might send someone to watch the shop."

  Jim peed on a lightpost. "Why don't we go to her apartment? You can talk to her there, and be off the street so the cops don't grab you."

  "Brilliant idea, only I have no idea where her apart­ment is."

  Jim nodded upward. "It's above the shop."

  I looked up. The second floor of the long building that ran the length of the block held what looked like apart­ments—at least they had the same black wrought-iron railings at the bottoms of the windows that I had seen on every apartment building thus far. "How do you know she rives up there?"

  Jim started off down the street. I followed. "Because, Einstein, I'm courting Cecile. You think I'm not going to find out where she lives? How can I serenade her at night if I don't know where she lives?"

  "Jim," I said as we turned down an alley that ran be­hind the building, "you do realize that it's not quite nor­mal for a demon to be courting a dog, right?"

  Jim shot me one of its disgusted looks. "Of course I know, but I'm not just any demon. I'm a demon plus. I'm superior to your average run-of-the-mill demon. Think of me as Demon: The Next Generation."

  I didn't make a face at that thought, but it was near thing. Instead I climbed the rickety wooden stairs that led up to a small landing, pressing on the bell beneath the neatly written merllain.

  "Oui?"

  "Hi Amelie, it's Aisling. If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to talk to you."

  "Aisling? Nom de Dieu! Stay right there. Do not allow anyone to see you!"

  Twenty seconds later I could see a figure approaching through the wavery glass that filled the upper half of the door. Amelie hustled me into a dank, dark hallway. "Quickly, I do not want my neighbors to see you."

  She gave Jim a sour look, but allowed it to follow me. I trotted down the hall to the open door I could see at the end.

  "What a lovely apartment," I said, looking around. It was lovely, although surprisingly modern. I don't know why, but I didn't expect her apartment to be filled with pop-art, fiber-optic lights, neo-Baroque furniture in pri­mary colors, and very pricey designer chairs that looked extremely uncomfortable.

  "Baby!" Jim crooned, heading for a dog bed that was filled to overflowing with Cecile. "Daddy's home!"

  Amelie waved my compliments away. "What are you doing here? No, you do not need to answer that—I can guess. You are seeking shelter, yes?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "You cannot stay here," she interrupted. "You must leave immediately. I cannot have you here!"

  My shoulders sagged in disappointment. This wasn't quite the welcome I had expected.

  13

  It is not that I would not allow you to stay here if I could," Amelie said as she closed the door
behind me. "But the police, they visited me three times last night, searching both my shop and this apartment."

  "Oy," I said, slumping down into a scarlet chair. "I'm sorry about that. I thought they might watch your shop, but I never in a million years thought they'd disturb you."

  "They said you murdered the Venediger." Amelie stood before me, her hands held tightly, her expression strained.

  "I didn't. I swear to you, Amelie, when I arrived at his house, he was already dead. His body was cooling."

  She stared at me for a moment, then put both hands on my head. I didn't know what she was reading—my thoughts or my emotions—but I fervently hoped she would realize I was innocent. "It is difficult for me to sense your thoughts, but I do not believe you are a mur­derer." She whooshed out a sigh as she collapsed onto one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs. "I had hoped you hadn't done it. I know you were frightened when you left, and the Venediger can be very . .."

  "Scary?"

  "Ruthless. You would not have been at fault if you were simply defending yourself against his attack. That could not really be considered murder." She said the words with just a hint of implied question that I felt com­pelled to answer.

  "I didn't kill him. But I know who did. I just have to find somewhere safe where I can get the proof."

  "Who would kill the Venediger?" she asked, leaning her elbows on her knees. "Who would have the power to kill him?"

  I looked away. "I think it's better if I don't tell you. That way, if the police question you again, you can hon­estly tell them that I didn't give you any information." That was only part of the truth, of course. I felt so be­trayed by Drake that I didn't quite trust anyone anymore. If Drake could prove to be false, anyone could.

  She was silent for a moment, the only sound in her apartment that of Jim sucking Cecile's ears. "You are right. It is better if I do not know. As for a safe place for you to go—" She spread her hands wide. "—I cannot think of one. Most of the members of the / 'au-dela have heard what has happened by now. They know the police suspect you of murder, and they will do nothing to pro­tect you. It would not even be safe for you to go to G & T now."