Demon Dance

by Brian Freyermuth

  The helicopter hovered over our yard now, casting the light back and forth, but they couldn’t get close. The trees hid us. We couldn't go back to Beth's house, so we made our way through the neighbor's yard.

  Branches snapped but the noise didn’t carry over the steady thumping of the helicopter blades. When we reached the back fence, my fears became real. The tree line ended, leaving thirty or forty feet of empty ground between us and the other side of the yard. There was no place to go.

  I realized that Thelma was whispering “shit, shit, shit” over and over again. I looked at her with my night eyes and saw terror etched into her beautiful face. I heard boots crunching pine needles as soldiers began to cautiously move through the opening in the fence.

  So now it was up to me. I knew it would give away our position, but I didn’t care. I braced my back against the trunk of the tree and kicked at the fence with all the strength I could muster.

  Boards splintered and the tree shook. I knew the helicopter could see it. I slammed my foot into the fence again, sending more boards out into the hillside beyond. I could hear boots coming fast through the center of the yard. They didn’t have to keep to the shadows. Any moment they would see us and open fire.

  I snarled and kicked again, but I knew I was too slow. I stopped and pulled Thelma between me and the fence. I gripped the rifle to my chest and hoped the trunk of the tree would shield us.

  Bullets cracked the night. I flinched.

  But they weren’t firing at us.

  Yells came from behind us, and the helicopter’s light shifted its attention, shrouding the yard in darkness. More gunfire erupted, and I realized the firefight came from the direction of Beth’s house.

  The screams came next, shrill and terrified. Men and women dying. More gunfire. I sneaked a peek from behind the tree, but the yard was now empty, the soldiers presumably gone back to help their fellows.

  I started to move out from behind the tree when goosebumps erupted along my skin. I knew that feeling. I hadn’t felt it in a very long time, but I recognized it.

  Power.

  The air hammered down on us. This wasn’t the second-rate, spend all your spare change on cheap booze power of the street magician. Definitely not the power of a retired detective from California. Hell, even Jake, a pretty sizable power in his own right, would’ve ducked his head at what prickled my senses.

  It didn’t come with the sound of thunder, but rather a whisper. A thousand whispers all gathering in the house next door. The night took a deep breath, and a brief calm descended. A silence that vibrated my bones.

  I instinctively hugged Thelma and threw both of us to the ground as the explosion hit with a kind of sonic resonance that tore a hole in the night. I quickly shut down my gifted hearing and still had to put both hands over my ears. The night lit up. Wood splintered. Boards and pieces of trees washed over my back, stinging in their fury. A savage wind tore into both of us, slamming us into the fence, which in turn groaned and snapped in the gale.

  Then the thunder ended, and the night became dark again. The roar echoed in my ears, and all I could do was blink up at the stars. The hammer that had struck tore all awareness of self and surroundings from me.

  An eternity later I gathered my wits in my bloodied hands and managed to sit up. My ears rang. Dozens of lacerations leaked across my arms and back. A trickle of blood stung my right eye.

  For a moment I couldn’t understand where I was. Somehow I had been sucked into a documentary on Hiroshima. Trees lay in shattered piles, their bulk crushing fences and houses alike. I didn’t want to think about the poor neighbors…but then I looked at the house, and for a moment I didn’t really believe my eyeballs.

  The house still stood. The big bad galactic wolf had blown down the fences and trees, but somehow the blast had missed the houses, as had the falling trees. The back door opened and an older man gazed out fearfully into the night. Yeah, his home owner’s insurance wouldn’t cover a supernatural nuclear blast, but at least he was alive.

  A hysterical chuckle threatened to bubble up from a deep well of fear. You know, the same well of fear an ant feels when it’s trying to evade the magnifying glass of a mischievous child.

  A groan snapped me out of my hysteria as Thelma slowly rolled over. She lay about ten feet from me, torn up and bruised, but she looked better than I felt. The human shield, yup, that’s me.

  In fact, she made it to her feet before I did, and even managed to keep her balance, unlike yours truly, who slipped at least twice. With as much dignity as I could muster, I might add.

  As we turned, a disturbing thought came to me. The helicopter was gone. Not flown away, not in flaming pieces around us. Just gone, with no one to witness its passing.

  Well, no one here but us ants. Glancing fearfully into the night sky, Thelma and I scurried off into the shelter of the brush.

  Now there are times when I miss Southern California. One is during those nasty Washington winters when it rains for ten months, with only a few days of sunshine to grace the oppression. The other is when I’m running for my life down a hillside at night.

  Hey, it happens more than you’d think.

  In San Diego, scrub brush and grass fill most of the hillsides, most of which are irritating but not painful. The wilds of Washington, however, held stinging nettles, blackberry bushes, and an occasional hidden root to make things interesting.

  Scratches, bruises, and cuts covered most of our exposed skin by the time Thelma and I plunged through the brush and erupted onto the road. My ribs complained and kicked at my insides like an insistent landlord who hadn’t been paid in a year. My back and shoulder throbbed, and when I collapsed onto my knees on the asphalt, I could feel dozens of nettles sticking out of my right hand. The lacerations along my back stung and I had to keep rubbing blood out of my right eye. There was a gash hiding somewhere in my hairline.

  All and all it was a good night. We were still alive.

  I sat down heavily and tried to will the pain away. There was no sound of pursuit, although Thelma flinched as a police siren screamed in the distance. She looked as torn up as I did, but at least she could stand.

  “We have to keep moving,” she said breathlessly.

  I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to speak. But it didn’t stop me from rummaging in my jacket pocket for my cell phone, flipping it open and hitting the first number on speed dial.

  I tossed the phone to Thelma when I heard it ring.

  “Hello?” she answered. Some of the tension eased from her. “We’re OK. No, really we are. I know it’s crazy. What are they saying? Mother Mary protect us.” Thelma took a deep breath.

  “Yes. Hold on.” She hobbled across the road to one of the signs. “Southeast Thirty-Seventh and,” another glance, “One Hundred Fiftieth.”

  She closed the phone and came back to me. “We need to get out of the road. Jake is coming.” I nodded as she helped me up. I grimaced and she pulled her hand away covered in blood. “Jesus, Nick.” She turned me around a bit. “Your back’s torn up. What the hell was that explosion?”

  I started to answer her when the sound of scraping came from behind us. We both turned slowly. It was all too much, but before I knew it I found myself stepping in front of Thelma.

  I didn’t have much left, but I’d use it all to protect her.

  I needn’t have worried.

  “Adam?” I whispered.

  The man stumbled toward us. The faint light from the streetlamps showed a pale face and ragged eyes. And blood. It covered the front of his ragged sweatshirt, from neck to groin.

  He fell forward onto the road and Thelma ran over to check for a pulse. I couldn’t find the energy to worry.

  The night curled in on me. A police siren sang a low melody in the distance. I sat down heavily on the concrete as all my energy leaked into the stone below. My pain pounced like a mighty tiger, devouring me without a single regret.

  The last thing I remember was Thelma walking toward me,
bathed in the headlights of a car.

  Thelma had asked what the explosion was. I didn’t know, but I did understand what it felt like.

  The hand of God.

  With that cheerful thought the night caved in, burying me under the cool rubble of oblivion.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Horrible scenes leaped in and out of my consciousness like a coked-out film student editing his first class film. I stood in the middle of a living room in Boston, surrounded by bodies. I sat on a dark, wind-swept road, Ann’s head cradled in my lap. The rain washed away her blood. The memories stretched across a nightmarish dreamscape of guilt and horror.

  After taking part in a dozen scenes, all more horrific than the last, I finally stood in a blackened penthouse, staring down at the burned and headless body of Cate.

  “Feeling sorry for yourself again?” a voice asked from the darkness.

  I turned and saw Cate’s head on the end table next to the splintered couch. “You always did that when a case didn’t go your way,” she said with a smile on her dead lips.

  I sighed and sat down on the couch, now whole and plush. In fact, the whole penthouse was intact and filled with expensive furniture, thick carpeting, and a view that looked out over the world. Everything was normal, except for Cate’s head. A steady trickle of blood dripped from her mouth down to the carpet.

  “Ann used to say that things hardly ever went my way,” I said as I leaned back.

  “That explains why you spend most of your time feeling sorry for yourself.” Cate’s mouth twitched a bit. “Hey, could you get me a cigarette? I’ve been dying for one.” I pulled out a pack. “Get it? Dying?”

  I put one between her cold blue lips and lit the end with an antique lighter in the shape of a golden dragon. The smoke drifted up into the shape of wings.

  “Look,” she said through pursed lips, “we don’t have much time. What do you know so far?”

  I smiled grimly. “I have an army looking for me. Beth and Amanda are gone. Adam’s probably dead, and I still have no idea who’s doing this.”

  “Yeah you do,” Cate said with a chuckle. The laughter dislodged the cigarette, which fell into a pool of her blood. “Man. I hate it when that happens. You got another one?”

  I went for the pack, but it was gone. In fact, the whole room had changed back to the blackened wasteland. Wind howled through the shattered windows.

  “See?” Cate told me. “You know who did this.”

  “But what if I’m wrong?” I asked. I stood by her head, staring out into the twisted nightscape. “They can’t afford me to be wrong.”

  “When did you stop trusting yourself?” she asked. “The Nick I remember would just know.”

  I frowned. She was right. When did I begin to doubt everything I was and everything I could be?

  “Ann took that with her,” I said softly.

  “Bullshit,” Cate told me.

  I stood at an old stone wall, the bricks lined with ivy. The moon winked at me. “But what if it ends up like Boston?” I asked.

  “Make sure it doesn’t.” Cate stood next to me in jeans and a black T-shirt, her red hair back in a ponytail. Her pale skin reflected the moonlight.

  I smiled and took her cold hand. “I miss you. You and Ann would always kick my ass when I needed it.”

  She smiled back, her eyes dark. “We’ll meet again, hero,” she said, and her old nickname for me brought tears to my eyes.

  “Not too soon I hope,” I responded.

  “Ah, now that would be spoilers, wouldn’t it?” She gave me her radiant smile and looked up at the moon. I followed her glance and watched the glowing orb fill the darkness. It drifted farther down, until my whole world was the soft glow of moonlight.

  The dream faded, and the glow became a darkened ceiling. Moonlight bathed the white plaster in cold blue, but even with the shadows I knew where I was. A small turn to my left showed me the old dresser, one of Ann’s few possessions I had brought with me. The knobs were missing on the top drawer, and the rest of the battered frame showed its age. The bottom drawer had a child’s initials carved into it: ATA. Ann Taylor Adair.

  The sound of arguing broke through the waking haze, and I closed my eyes and concentrated.

  “…can’t wait around,” a man angrily exclaimed.

  “What are you going to do?” Another voice, this one I recognized as Jake’s, shot back. “Wander through the city calling her name? You have the damn army after you!”

  “I don’t care,” the other man said. “I can’t wait while they’re being tortured, or worse.”

  I sighed. That was my cue, I guess. The nasty little voice was still there, still poking me with doubt, but muted now. I didn't know if the dream was just a dream or something more, but I did know one thing. Cate was right. I had to make sure this didn't end up like Boston.

  I sat up in bed and grimaced. The sleep or whatever it was had actually done me some good. My ribs still hurt and my back burned something fierce, but a lot of the smaller wounds seemed to be drying up. The wound caused by No-Eye’s spur ached as well, which made me wonder what the hell coated the demon’s blade. Of course, Hell was probably the literal answer to that question.

  I was also stripped down to my underwear. Not sure who pulled the short straw for that one, considering my clothes probably smelled like the castoffs from a slaughter house. The thought of Thelma undressing me put way too many uncouth thoughts in my head, so I pushed them all away and slowly stood up.

  My knees popped, but that seemed to be the extent of the protestations. I tuned out the conversation from outside the room, but the voices began to rise in anger. Not good. I quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and an old blue T-shirt. A Metallica cap finished the ensemble.

  I only winced twice from the pain, which was actually a good sign. Of course it meant I’d been out for a while.

  There was one good thing that came out of slowly getting dressed. A plan began to form. It was risky and really, really stupid, but it was there. Hell, Cate used to say that it was the impossible plans that always worked. I hoped she was right.

  A cloud of anger spilled over me as I opened the door. I took a quick assessment. Adam was the voice I had heard before and he was pacing back and forth in my living room. His tattered army jacket looked even more ragged, if possible. Twisting, dirty cloth covered almost every inch of him, right down the cloth gloves on his hands. With his mane of thick black hair he looked wild.

  I guess the blood hadn’t been his. Of course that opened up a mess of other questions. I stored those away as I turned to the others.

  Thelma sat at the table, slowly rubbing her temples. She had changed into a pair of my sweatpants and an old NYU sweatshirt. I winced at that sight, and not from any physical pain. Ann used to wear that shirt as well.

  Jake was leaning with his back against the wall next to her, and to a casual observer he looked completely relaxed, a granite cliff against Adam’s rage. But I recognized the telltale signs of his anger. He leaned slightly toward Thelma, and his hands rested lightly on his stomach, although they clenched every few seconds. His sightless eyes had no trouble tracking Adam as the man paced. I always found it a little eerie when Jake did that.

  “I’m pretty sure our bad guy would love to have you running around aimlessly,” I said with a sardonic smile. “It means he gets to kill Beth in peace.”

  Adam stopped pacing and glared at me. Thelma looked up, and I could see a wave of relief wash over her face. Even Jake smiled, although he tried to hide it with a scowl.

  “What answers could you possibly have?” Adam demanded.

  “Well,” I leaned against the doorframe, “I know she’s not dead. At least not yet.”

  A bit of the tension left his shoulders. “How do you know?”

  “Logic. He wanted her dead before, but I saw his men hauling both Beth and Amanda out of the house. He could’ve had those mercenaries put a bullet in their heads, but he didn’t. Something’s changed.”
r />   “Change of heart?” Thelma asked.

  “I doubt it.” My cell phone was on the table, and I flipped it open. Ten text messages, all from my personal savior.

  I dialed Jessie’s number. “How long was I out?” I asked Jake as it rang.

  “Four hours,” Thelma answered.

  “Damn,” I muttered.

  “What’s wrong?” Adam asked. He had come up behind me, which yanked the hackles up on my neck for no apparent reason.

  There were few reasons for a demon practitioner to capture a child, and none of them were pretty. Four hours? Dammit.

  “Jessie here,” my favorite hacker said as she picked up on the other end, “and I have what you need if you’d only pick up your damn phone every once in a while.”

  “Nice to hear from you too,” I said with a smile. “So what do you have?”

  “What I have is a sore finger from trying to get a hold of you all night. This intel you wanted me to find, it’s bad news, Superman. Real bad.”

  “How bad?” Thelma raised her eyebrows at me, but I held up a finger and continued talking to Jessie.

  “Like scary bad. Codex Security is headed by a guy named Evan Constantine. Real hard asses. They’re listed under security, but I’ve found references to them all over South America.”

  “Mercenaries?”

  “You got it, hot cheeks. You got a war to fund, you call these guys up. How’d you end up crossing them?”

  “You don’t want to know. So any connection with Senator Helms?”

  “That’s the other thing I was going to tell you. The Senator uses them for his private security needs. And I do mean private.”

  “OK, now you’ve lost me.”

  I could almost feel her smile through the phone. “It took a crap load of digging, but our good senator can’t seem to keep it in his pants. Not anything substantiated, mind you, but a lot of girls were paid off to disappear over the last decade. As in six-figure payoffs. But there’s more.”

  “There always is.”