Demon Dance

by Brian Freyermuth

  “Yeah, but not like that. An old friend.” I stared at the cream as it twirled and danced in the dark liquid.

  “There are things we should run from and things we should face. The problem comes from knowing the difference.”

  “Your grandmother likes her platitudes.”

  Thelma shrugged her thin shoulders. “It’s common sense. I had a girlfriend once who called me for days after we broke up, but I couldn’t stay. We would’ve killed each other.”

  “It wasn’t like that. If I stayed…” I paused and then the words came. “If I stayed she would’ve gotten hurt. My life wasn’t so peaceful back then.”

  “We all do things that need to be done,” Thelma said. “Still doesn’t stop it from hurting, does it?”

  “Amen to that.” I sipped the coffee again. I glimpsed a bit of movement out of the corner of my eye.

  The vagrant sat up and faced me, his eyes hidden under his dirty cowboy hat. His greasy hair hung in strings and a small grin played on his chapped and broken lips.

  “So what are you going to do about her?” Thelma asked.

  “About Cate?” I said. “Neither of us can change, so I guess there’s nothing I can do.”

  “Except drink more coffee,” Thelma said.

  “You read my mind,” I said as I handed her back the empty cup. She took it and went back to make another.

  More movement at the corner of my vision. The vagrant stood up and slowly ambled toward me, and a warning tickle crawled across my neck.

  Don’t be so paranoid, I told myself. Since Coyote’s visit I was seeing menace in every odd behavior.

  The man was tall and thin as a telephone pole, and as he came closer to the bar, the stench of rotting fish came from him. There was also an underlying scent that rose from under the rot. A faint smell that roused an old memory.

  The man took off his hat, and I suddenly remembered what the stench was.

  Sulfur.

  “Get down!” I yelled to Thelma as the man’s emaciated frame cocked like a praying mantis. I was on my feet even as the man swung his head toward me and sniffed the air. I cursed. He had no eyes, just two deflated pits of skin above his scabby, pointed nose.

  Damn, I hate demons.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The demon grinned in my direction. Raising a thin, dirty arm, it opened its palm in a mocking gesture of peace. Then the thing’s hand bent backward at the wrist, and with a ripping sound, the skin of the palm split, producing a wicked-looking bone spur that slid out of the arm. The beast saluted and then leaped at me.

  The demon swung the bone spur, and it was only my enhanced reflexes that stopped me from being decapitated. Silently I thanked Coyote for warming me up yesterday as I rolled backward. The demon didn’t hiss or scream, but attacked in eerie silence. I landed on my feet after rolling over the table. At least my reflexes seemed to work even as my brain faltered.

  The thing rushed at me, but I managed to grab a chair and block the spur. I trapped the blade with a twist, but it pushed me back against a counter. Creamer and packets of sugar exploded in a saccharin cloud.

  Pain flared in my back, but I still managed to lash out with a foot. It connected with flesh, and the demon staggered back. I looked for a weapon before grabbing one of the stainless steel creamer jugs. It bent inward as I slammed it into the thing’s head.

  The demon jumped back and hissed. The tan long-coat covering its frame fluttered with a vague sense of something alive and obscene.

  I didn’t have time to breathe as the creature leaped again. I managed to sidestep again, but a blaze of fire slashed across my upper arm. Glass shattered, along with the sharp crack of broken wood. I scrambled, holding my limp arm, as the demon landed in the shattered remains of a table.

  A loud buzzing filled the air, but I ignored it. Turning, I grabbed a broken table leg and prepared to block, but an attack never came. I didn’t question, but turned and grabbed another carafe. With a table leg for a sword and a container of low-fat creamer for a shield, I faced my enemy like the patron knight of baristas.

  The demon stood frozen, its right arm raised with the spur held high for the killing blow. Its human disguise faded as the thing’s face dripped like hot wax, showing blackened scales underneath.

  My brain couldn’t process why I wasn’t under attack. The buzzing became louder. No, it wasn’t buzzing, I thought carefully. It was grinding.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Thelma yelled from behind the counter. She stood in front of a handheld coffee grinder that churned away. “I’m running out of beans!”

  I didn’t know what she meant, but I knew the results. I only had one chance, but oh man, I hated this part.

  I stepped up to the creature and took a single deep breath. The demon’s eyeless face sniffed toward me. I went into a judo stance and shot my hand out, hard and fast, plunging it deep into the thing’s chest. Skin split, bones splintered, and foul-smelling blood splattered my shirt. The demon finally broke its silence, unleashing a screech that made my eardrums wince. The windows shattered, raining glass down on our killing dance.

  With a yell of my own, I yanked the thing’s heart from its chest. The demon’s scream cut off like a cork stopping a bottle. The body crumpled inward and began to decay before it even hit the floor. Within minutes nothing remained but bloody goo and a repulsive stench that threatened to have my morning coffee stage a revolution in my stomach.

  The grinding stopped as I stood trying to get air into my lungs. My shoulder burned. My muscles, long since dulled in my exile, screamed at me in indignation.

  “My God, it actually worked,” Thelma said. I looked over and saw her lean heavily on the counter. Her wide eyes didn't blink, and she absently scrubbed her hands over and over again on the same dirty towel.

  There were so many questions to ask. What the hell did Thelma do? Why did the demon attack? Why here, why now? But there was one question that was more important than any of them.

  “You have a garbage bag?” I lifted my hand, and the smell of rotting flesh came from the bloody heart clenched in my fist.

  Thelma turned and ran into the back of the shop. I heard the sound of retching, and I had to concentrate to keep my own gorge down. Like I said, man I hated that part.

  The battle had taken less than five minutes. I began to shake as I sat down. I didn't look at the meaty trophy that dripped from my hand.

  Thelma came back a few minutes later, looking even worse. I dumped the heart into the black bag she handed me and closed up the top. It locked away the gore, but unfortunately not the stench. Poor Thelma covered her mouth with her hand and gagged.

  “How did you do that?” I asked as she handed me a dish towel.

  Thelma took a deep breath but decided against it mid in-hale. Finally she was able to speak. “It was…something my grandmother made me. She said if you use magic and mix it with the right frequency it'll stop a demon in its tracks. I didn't think it would work. Hell, I didn't think I'd ever need to use it!”

  I raised an eyebrow as I wiped my hand on the towel. “And who are you again?”

  Thelma's smile was strained. She did have more color as she talked, though. “I see a lot in this business. The whole family is into magic, although I never thought I'd ever see anything like that. And what about you, Mr. jump-ten-feet-in-the-air-and-kill-demons-with-my-bare-hands? Wait, you aren’t a vampire, are you?” Her eyes squinted.

  I grimaced. “No unless I’ve invented a new vampire sunscreen.”

  “So how did you do that?”

  I looked back at the mess on the floor. “Adrenaline is a wondrous thing.”

  Thelma sighed. “Well, I can see when people want to keep their secrets. That was just…I need to sit down.” She sat down next to me, although she still kept her eyes averted from the black bag. “Nick, you’re bleeding.”

  I glanced over and noticed the blood seeping from the torn shoulder of my jean jacket. And of course the pain started as soon as I noticed it.
And oh boy, was it a nasty, fiery pain. My jaw clenched. “And I’ve lost my hat. Hand me some napkins?”

  Thelma did so, and I pressed them down over the wound. I looked around for my baseball cap, but it was probably buried under the rubble of one of the tables. I was intent on the search when Thelma cursed again. I looked up, half expecting to see another demon once again rampaging through the coffee shop.

  Instead I saw a lone figure in a long scarlet cloak stepping through the broken door. Crimson cloth covered every inch of his figure, except the face. Two dark eyes peered out from behind a featureless black mask.

  “This is all I need,” I muttered. “The Watchers are here.”

  The figure (man, woman, who knew?) turned toward Thelma, and she paled at the sight of the featureless mask. The Watcher seemed to come to the conclusion that Thelma didn’t constitute a threat and so the gaze swept back to me.

  “It’s been a long time, Nicholas St. James.” The voice was flat, monotone, and definitely male. Nothing about it betrayed race or personality or even emotion. As the figure spoke, others like him suddenly appeared in the street beyond the shop door with a sound like popping corn kernels.

  “Don’t blame me,” I said. “I tried sending Christmas cards, but you guys never gave me your address.”

  “This was your doing?”

  I shrugged. I knew I shouldn’t speak, but my mouth always seemed to have other ideas. Besides, I wasn’t in the mood for these condescending bastards. “You guys are all powerful. You tell me.”

  I could almost feel the anger starting to build in the Watcher. It’s funny, because some say the Watchers aren’t even human, but I know better. Only humans get so infuriated over words.

  But instead of lashing out, the Watcher turned on his heel and strode out of the shop. He joined the others and they began to walk among the crowd. They would touch some people on the lips and some on the forehead. Each person they touched would close their eyes and simply walk off. Power built like a sonic wave, rattling my fillings.

  “What are they doing?” Thelma whispered.

  I turned to find her at my side.

  “First time?” I asked. She nodded. “They’re wiping the memories of any witnesses.”

  “But who are they? I mean, I’ve heard stories, but I always thought they were like the boogeyman.”

  “Go to bed on time or the Watchers will get you?” I chuckled. “No, they’re real. They show up after a big mess like this and proceed to clean it all up.”

  “Like a supernatural Men in Black?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “But they didn’t wipe me,” she said. “I’ve heard stories…”

  “You already know too much. Watchers are like cosmic policemen. They keep the ignorant people ignorant and the clueless even more clueless.” As well as judges and executioners, but I didn’t add that part. She didn’t need any more stress.

  “Some say they’re Illuminati, some say Masons,” I explained to her, “but no one knows. They constantly work to keep normal people innocent of the whole supernatural world, and they have the power to do it.”

  “So they’re the good guys?”

  I laughed without humor. “It depends on your definition. They’re only interested in keeping the status quo. They don’t care about fairness or who’s in the wrong.”

  “You’ve dealt with them before.” It wasn’t a question.

  I nodded. “A few times. They only come out for the big things. They don’t care about one or two witnesses, but a big mess like this,” I nodded to the windows, “gets them crawling out of the woodwork like roaches.”

  “Who are you again?” She echoed my words back to me.

  “I’m a writer,” I said. “Now point me to a broom so we can get this mess cleaned up.”

  I held the bloody napkins to my wound as she went to get more cleaning supplies. My brain spun as the adrenaline wore off. The only time Heaven or Hell can interfere in human affairs is when they’re summoned, and that put a big old knot of fear in my stomach.

  This wasn’t some foot soldier. If Thelma hadn’t surprised it, it would’ve taken me apart. Someone had summoned the damn thing and sent it here, and while I wasn’t one to toot my own horn, I didn’t think the demon was after Thelma. Which meant that, like Coyote and Cate, a third party knew my location, and they obviously weren’t here to talk.

  I needed to see my friend Jake, if only to get a refund on those damn wards. It seemed like everyone and his mother could find me up here.

  “Are you going to help me clean?” Thelma asked as she threw me the broom.

  I grabbed the broom out of midair without looking. Outside, the Watchers continued to walk to each man, woman, and child, uprooting the old memories and planting new ones in their places. No grand spectacle, no magical lights.

  The figures in red simply stared into people’s eyes and made them forget.

  <><><>

  The Watchers finished up the last few stragglers as I left the coffee shop, and I gave the supernatural Gestapo a wide berth. A quick glance showed me nothing out of the ordinary. People walked with umbrellas, chatted under café signs, and laughed with their friends, completely oblivious to the supernatural butt kicking a block away.

  A young couple snuggled on a bench under the awning of another coffee shop, their various tattoos blending together into a mishmash of mermaids, hearts, and skulls.

  I huddled in my jacket as I walked on.

  My goal was three buildings down, between an over-exuberant clothing store and yet another coffee chain. A thin stairwell descended into the darkness between the two stores, right under an elaborate sign with “The Sultan’s Treasure” stenciled in bright gold letters. I glanced up and down the street to make sure no other demons were sneaking up on me before heading down to the shop below.

  The Sultan’s Treasure, or simply The Treasure, was located below street level. It was a tiny place, but filled to the ceiling with antiques from all over the Middle East, with only a tiny maze of space to walk through. I made my way past hanging silk curtains, delicate robes of pale pinks and blues, and a monstrous stuffed camel, the eyes of which always seemed to follow those who passed by.

  Most of the items were harmless collectibles, but a rare few set the hairs on my arms tingling. A green vase, smoky with time and dust, gave off a brief memory of a woman wearing a short fifties dress, standing over the body of her dead husband. A tapestry depicting a naked man fighting an army of jinn shifted as I moved under it, and the sound of roaring flames came from the threads. I silently crept past a large carving of a man’s grinning face surrounded by leaves and felt a shiver run through me. I ignored them all, instead heading toward the counter with my own treasure in hand.

  Jacob Babineaux sat behind the counter, his long, thin hands working the cash register without having to look down. He could’ve been one of the street urchins outside, with his ratty jeans and old T-shirt, but watch him a moment and you’ll see the surety behind his movements. People tended to underestimate Jake, especially since he needed a few inches to reach my own six-foot height, but I’d seen him take on things that gave me nightmares.

  At that moment, however, he was handing a large wooden tiki over to a tall, young man dressed in baggy clothes. I slipped behind one of the display cases, but not before getting a peek at the tiki statue. Small body, with a huge headdress, which means that it was probably Kane, the Hawaiian god of light and life. I could sense the power from across the room.

  “Now be careful,” Jake said to the man. “Put it on the doorstep, and don’t let the damn thing fall over. You do not want to piss him off.”

  The young man laughed nervously, but then fell silent when he realized Jake wasn’t joking. He clutched the statue lightly to his chest and hurried off.

  Now was my chance. I snuck up to the counter, using all my skill to be as silent as a breeze. I made it within three feet before the young man smiled.

  “You know you’re
never going to sneak up on me, Nick,” Jake smirked. He turned his dark sunglasses in my general direction.

  “One can always try. It lightens up the dreary winter,” I said as I placed the black Hefty bag on the counter. “How are you doing, Jake?”

  He frowned when the bag hit the counter. “Life is good, but why do I get the feeling it ain’t going to stay that way? What do you have? Smells like a steak that’s been hanging out in the dumpster for a year.”

  “Is Betty here?” I asked.

  “If she was, you would’ve felt her broom smacking your ass on the way out.”

  The owner of The Treasure was a ninety-year-old woman from Iowa who had more energy than Jake and I combined. At least when she was kicking me out of the store.

  “Didn’t you tell her the fire was an accident?” I asked.

  “Of course I did. You know Betty; all she sees is dollar signs. Dollar signs having to pay for a new floor, dollar signs burning up with two-hundred-year-old tapestries…”

  “I get it. It still wasn’t my fault. Pit demons can get nasty when riled up, and I was helping you out, if you do recall.”

  “Except we’ve already had this conversation,” Jake interrupted, his smile disappearing. “You know Betty is up at her cabin. You’re stalling, my man.” He nodded to the plastic bag.

  “I need a favor.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know what it is yet,” I protested.

  “I know it’s something that could either, a) kill me, b) get Betty pissed enough to kill me, or c) kill me multiple times.”

  “Look,” I said, “this is something you could do in your sleep, and it can’t be linked back here.”

  “Easy, huh? What’s in the bag?” Jake asked as he took off his sunglasses. His sightless eyes, yellow tinged and dilated, searched my direction. “I know it has to do with the bag.”

  I took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. Today I was attacked and I need to know who sent it.”

  “It? It?” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “That’s what I smell! You better tell me you didn’t bring a demon heart in here.”