I Spy a Demon

by Keta Diablo

  A part of her psyche wanted to know the specifics about the dagger; another part wished she'd never discovered the damn weapon. Something wicked rode the crest of the very air she breathed, and yet, she couldn't force herself to turn from it.

  Stephen Oliver greeted her with a smile when she entered his office. “Nice to see you again, Miss Sizemore.” As before, he stretched an arm toward the same chair. “Have a seat.” The green cloth peeked up at her from his desk, open with the cord laid out at the sides. He glanced down at the dagger. “I believe I have some answers for you, not all perhaps, but some.”

  Her stomach performed a somersault. “Great.”

  “I believe you indicated your aunt left the knife to you.”

  Since it wasn’t a question, Cecily gave a feeble nod.

  “Do you happen to know how it came into her possession?”

  “Sorry, I don't. Not sure she ever said.”

  “Uh-huh. Was she your mother's sister?”

  Holy crap, did he plan to put her under lights for his interrogation? “Yes.”

  “Have you asked your mother, then, how your aunt acquired it?”

  Grief took a stab at her heart, reminding her how truly alone in the world she was now. “My mother passed twenty years ago...right after my sixth birthday. I don't recall anything she might have said about the dagger.”

  “I must apologize.” A slight frown revealed a flash of sympathy. “So sorry to have dredged up a sad time in your life.”

  She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “No harm done, Mr. Oliver. I don't remember much about my parents.” She leaned forward in the chair. “So, what did you find out when you tested the dagger?”

  His eyes narrowed. “See, that's my dilemma. I can tell you what it's made—”

  “From? Sorry to interrupt, guess I'm too curious for my own darn good.”

  A broad smile split his face, the first she'd seen since entering the room. “As was I...so curious, I set about testing and researching the moment you left my office.”

  “And?”

  “Well, the blade is constructed from nickel and meteorite rock and that entire part silver-plated. Not the handle, of course. We can both see that’s inlaid pearl.”

  She put a hand in the air, stumbling on the words. “Did-did you say meteorite rock?”

  “Yes, more precisely broken-down meteorite rock. They would have used the ashes, after melting down the rock, to construct the dagger.”

  “I don't understand, Mr. Oliver. Who is they?”

  “Ah, therein lays the conundrum. The knife is old, and history tells us the Egyptians used meteorite rock to construct weapons—knives, daggers, swords. They considered the sky sacred, thus, anything that fell from the sky would also be considered sacred.”

  “Are we talking history, ancient history...ancient Egyptians?”

  “Exactly. Paleo pathologists or scientists that study mummies and ancient disease processes have recovered similar daggers in numerous Sarcophagi, or what we call coffins. Egyptians believed weapons or artifacts made of meteorite rock would protect them not only in life, but in the afterlife.”

  “You have to be kidding me?”

  “I’m not much of a kidder as you call it, and would never joke about ancient artifacts, Miss Sizemore.”

  Despite his somber proclamations, she couldn't hide the subtle smile. “No, I bet you don't.” She shifted in the chair, staring down at the dagger again. “What about the symbols? Do you know anything about them?”

  “They're also Egyptian. I've seen the same in research tomes, or books.” He ran his index finger over the handle. “The symbols were carved into the pearl. In this case, a scarab.”

  “Translate, please.”

  “Scarab, a dung beetle, also regarded as sacred in ancient Egypt. They're often depicted with spread wings and hieroglyphs on the flat side of their underbellies. Fortunately, they defied the ages, the ravages of time, in large numbers. Through their inscriptions and typology, they are an important source of information for archaeologists and historians.” Mr. Oliver cocked his head to the side and closed one eye. “Miss Sizemore, has that curious cat got your tongue? Or am I boring you to death?”

  “No, no, not boring me at all. I'm sort of blown away by all this.”

  “In a good way?”

  “Yes, please continue.”

  “Very well. Egyptian mythology holds that the sun is pushed into the sky every day at dawn by the scarab beetle. The scarab also symbolized great power and determination.”

  “Great power. Therefore, one in possession of the dagger with the Egyptian symbols might wield great power?”

  “Now you're catching on. Not only great power but dogged determination.”

  A labyrinth of questions and thoughts collided, tossing her brain into overload. What was she doing sitting with a metallurgist discussing mummified Egyptians? Her speech sounded slurred, like a snail's on lithium. “The-the middle symbol, what-what does that represent?”

  “That's the Eye of Horus. Horus is their falcon god and the Wedjat Eye is believed to have the powers to heal and protect against evil.”

  God, had she clutched her throat when the word evil slipped from his mouth? She must have because Stephen Oliver had the oddest expression on his face. She managed to eke out a low-throated, “Oh.”

  “And here’s the Ankh, the cross with the loop at the top.”

  Marcel had the Eye of Horus and the Ankh tattooed on his left arm and shoulder. She recognized them now. “And the meaning?”

  “Life” or “breath of life. The Egyptians believed one's earthly journey was only part of an eternal life. The ankh symbolizes both mortal existence and the afterlife.”

  “I’ll never remember all this,” she said, for lack of something astute to say.

  “I’ll be happy to write them all down for you.” He looked down again and pointed with his pen. “The last one, perhaps the most powerful, is the Phoenix, a sacred firebird in Egyptian mythology. It's said when its life-cycle ends, it ignites its nest, burns in it and emerges from the ashes as a young Phoenix. This mythical bird symbolizes immortality, rebirth and life after death.”

  She swallowed hard. “All very fascinating, but surely, the dagger, this dagger is a reproduction.” Please tell me it's fake.

  Brown eyes met violet. “No, it is the real thing, I assure you. I did extensive testing and I'm 99.9 percent certain.”

  Her throat dried up. “Are you telling me that this dagger,” she nodded toward it, “is centuries old?”

  “I am Miss Sizemore, thus my interest in how your aunt came into possession of such a relic. What about your grandparents, did they ever mention it?”

  “I never knew my grandparents on either side, and like I said, I-I can't imagine how my aunt acquired it. I wish I had an answer for you. Hell, pardon me, I wish I had an answer for myself.”

  “I'd be flustered too. It's worth a lot of money. Museums around the world would give their eye teeth to get their hands on this.” He handed her a piece of paper. “For what it's worth, I prepared an estimate with my signature. Hope it helps.”

  She shoved the paper into her bag. “Thank you. Good to know its worth, Mr. Oliver.” She wasn't the least bit interested in the value of the weapon. She wanted to know why it was in Calder's room. “I have no use for a dagger. I mean, it's not usable or, for that matter, practical. I'll give some thought to selling it.”

  “If I were you, I'd put it in a safe deposit box until you decide what you are going to do with it.”

  “I'll do that.” She reached across the desk, folded the fabric around the dagger and tied the cord. After stuffing it into her bag, she extended a hand. “You've been an immense help, thank you so much.”

  “Welcome,” he said with a firm shake.” I'd like to know what you eventually decide. Curious cat and all that.”

  “Yes, I'll be in touch. Oh, I made a donation on my out Wednesday and specified I'd like it to go to your Department.”


  He eased himself from the chair. “Very generous of you. Good day, Miss Sizemore.”

  She pivoted to go, calling out over her shoulder, “Good day to you too, Mr. Oliver.”

  A wave of dizziness assaulted her on the way to the car. Bad enough her shins ached, now, her head felt like a keg of TNT. She slipped behind the wheel and forced herself to breathe deep, imagine the waves moving through an ice-blue ocean. The moon pulled them in; the sun pulled them out. Wait...or, was it the other way around?

  Meteorite rock?

  Egyptians?

  Mummies?

  Put them together with Dybbuks, Kappas and Sammael's fucking legions and she was going to kill Marcel.

  She couldn't wait to face off with that double-dealing, two-faced weasel.

  * * *

  Drunk on anger, Cecily parked the car in the garage and stomped into the kitchen where she came face-to-face with Mae...and Leif. She felt her eyes expand, a clear sign she wasn't able to hide her surprise. “Leif? What-what are you doing here?”

  Mae stretched her bottom lip into a frown when the man rose from the table, walked over to her and pulled her into a hug. “I've missed you, Cecily. I just had to make sure you were all right.”

  She extracted herself from the embrace. “Of course, I'm all right. I've only been gone a week.”

  “I know, but since you bought a one-way ticket, I thought you might like a ride home.”

  “You drove here from Gull's Landing?”

  “Yep, but as I was telling—”

  “Oh, forgive my manners. Mae, I assume Leif introduced himself?”

  “Well, yes, dear, sort of. I didn't catch his name but he said he was your boyfriend from Minnesota.”

  She pinched her forehead. “Mae, meet Leif Westcott, Leif, this is Mae, the woman who raised me.”

  “I asked him to stay for supper, if that's all right with you, dear.”

  This couldn't be happening. She meant to tell Leif it was over between them before she left, but then everything had happened so fast. She never dreamed he'd follow her to Des Moines, but now that he stood before her, she'd have to tell him whatever they once had (did they ever have anything tangible?) had long since gone south.

  “I think it would be best if Leif and I went out for dinner.” She met his eyes. “I know of a great place downtown called Mullets. What do you think?”

  “Anything you say, sweet thing. My car's parked out front.” He turned his best smile on Mae. “Thank you, ma'am, for keeping me company. I really enjoyed our little chat. Hope we can visit again soon.”

  Fat chance, that. “Maybe I should drive too, Leif. I can pull my car around and you can follow—”

  “What! Been driving all day, couldn't wait to see you and now you're trying to ditch me?”

  She glanced at Mae out of the corner of her eye and focused on the worry line creasing the woman’s forehead. Something in her gut told her she shouldn't be at Leif's mercy, and although he was a self-serving whoremonger, she'd never been afraid of him. “Very well, I'll ride with you.”

  “Hell, yeah. Especially since I don’t know where I’m going.”

  By the time they walked through the door of Mullets, the place hummed with good cheer and rowdy laughter. Men in business suits, men sporting their favorite team's cap or jersey, big-bosomed brunettes and long-limbed blondes in skinny jeans, midriff-baring tank tops and six-inch stilettos filled the popular bar and cafe. When the waitress came around, Leif ordered a gin and tonic, Cecily, tequila with a slice of lime.

  “Sure is noisy in here.” Leif surveyed the crowd. “How about we move to that table near the back so we can talk?”

  With a jerk of her chin, Cecily picked up her drink and headed for a dark table near the exit door. Not a bad plan if she had to make a hasty retreat. After collapsing into a chair, she looked across the table at him. “Leif, we need to talk.” He took a sip of his drink, a muscle in his jaw twitching while he studied her. “You shouldn't have come. I meant to tell you before I left, I'm moving on.”

  “Moving on? What do you mean...moving on?”

  “It's over between us, that's what I mean.”

  “Well, that’s a fine welcome.”

  “No, it isn’t, but you should have phoned first.”

  “Oh, so you could tell me over the phone you’re moving on?”

  “I planned to tell you before I left, but I didn’t have time to call you. I am sorry, Leif, but you must know you and I have nothing in common. It would never work.”

  Cold eyes narrowed. “You think you can just tell me it's over?” He snapped his fingers. “After I gave you a year of my life...just like that?” He blew air through his lips and shook his head in disbelief. “You are a cold bitch, Cecily.”

  Anger roiled in her gut. She wanted to counter with, “Yes, just like that,” but when tears glistened in his eyes, she softened her tone. “Look, it hasn't been working for a long time. You’re not a one-woman man.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  A long, exasperated sigh left her lips. “You think I’m so stupid, Leif, think I don’t know you’ve been unfaithful to me?” Must be the tequila making her almost giddy. “Over and again unfaithful?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I have always─”

  “Stop, just stop! I’ve known from the start...the smell of perfume on your clothing.” She gave a short laugh. “Not mine. The constant phone calls you tried to hide. Come on, Leif, we don’t have to make this hard. I’m really fine with this.”

  “Of course, you are because it's about him, isn't it, this kid you grew up with, Mark, or whatever the hell his name is? You've always had a thing for him.”

  She heaved another laborious sigh. “No, this is not about Marcel,” and with a slight eye roll added, “And he's no longer a kid. It's about you and me and the lies and lack of trust between us.”

  “Now, hold on.” He produced his childish tone. “I know you heard things about me, but I swear they're all lies, sweetheart.”

  She took a sip of her drink and flopped a wrist. “You and I both know they aren't lies so let's stop pretending. I just don't care anymore...maybe I never cared enough.”

  Anger seeped into his words. “You've always thought you were so much better than me.”

  “I'm going to pretend you didn't say that and then I'm going to the ladies’ room. When I come back, I'm going to call a cab and you're heading back to Minnesota. I didn’t want it to end like this, but if you're going to be a complete asshat about this, it’s the only way.”

  “That won't be necessary, Cecily.” He affected his little, hurt boy tone, the one she’d heard a gazillion times. “I'll take you home if that's what you want.”

  “That’s what I want, okay?”

  He offered a meek nod.

  “Wait here and I'll be out in a jiff, okay?”

  He put two fingers to his head in a salute. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

  When she returned from the restroom, she didn't bother sitting down, but rather polished off her drink and motioned for him to follow her. He came to his feet and steered her toward the back door. Outside, she spotted his car. “You moved the car while I was in the restroom?”

  “Yes, rather than cut through the crowd, thought it would be easier to duck out from here.”

  While she walked to the passenger door, a strange feeling washed over her. Clouds spun overhead, a wave of dizziness overtook her and her tongue felt thick. She felt Leif’s presence behind her─another ominous sign. Never once had the man bothered to open a door for her, car, apartment, store or any door that she could recall. “Wait,” she said, the word slurred and heavy as it left her throat. “Something’s wrong. I don’t feel so good right now.”

  “What are you babbling about now?” In a steel-like grip, he cupped her elbow with one hand and opened the door with the other. “Get in the fucking car, Cecily! Now!”

  Digging deep for every ounce of her fading st
rength, she spun around and kneed him in the groin. A groan fell from his mouth and his knees caved but the blow hadn’t knocked him to the ground.

  White lights exploded behind her eyelids when a fist slammed into her face. Warm, sticky blood trickled from the corner of her mouth; white-hot pain shot through every crevice of her befuddled brain. Trying to cling to the open car door, a dreadful thought stormed through her mind. God, he’s going to kill me, and not a soul around to help. “You're dead, bitch!”

  In a blur of motion, someone had entered the scene “Wrong, fucker, you're dead!”

  Like a leaf, she folded to the ground, somewhere in the back of her mind, aware of that husky voice, recognizing that intoxicating scent. Marcel? But how...why?

  She didn’t know what happened next, or in what order. Marcel had Leif pinned to the ground. Straddling his hips, he pummeled his face into a bloody pulp.

  Leif wailed and moaned like a sick calf. He pleaded for mercy from his attacker and yet Marcel continued to rain blow after blow down on him. Streaks of crimson streamed through the air and splattered Cecily’s clothes. Despite the fog engulfing her, reality slapped her in the face. “Stop, Marcel; you'll kill him! Marcel! Stop!”

  “Get up you low-life piece of shit.” Marcel yanked him up by the front of his shirt, pulled something from his pocket, and shoved him through the open passenger door. “You ever touch her again, you as much as look her way again, I swear, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

  She heard an engine roar to life and then strong arms lifted her from the ground. “Goddamn, look at your face. I should've killed the sonofabitch now. Hang on, Cecily.”

  “Don't leave me, Marcel.” Was she speaking out loud? Was it even her voice? “I think I'm going to pass out. Don't leave me.”

  “I'm not going to leave you. Didn't before, won't now.”

  Her stomach heaved and the acrid taste of vomit filled the back of her throat. “Why do you always have to be such a prick? Oh, God, put me down; I think I might be sick.”

  “He put something in your drink. I watched him from the bar, and then when he moved his car, I followed him with mine.”

  Marcel lowered her to the ground like one would a tender infant. “Stick your finger down your throat.” His voice came through a tunnel. “It hasn't taken full effect yet.”