I Spy a Demon

by Keta Diablo

  Marcel: “Farm country. Between Des Moines and Quincy.”

  Chicken Wire: Hesitation ensued. “That’s Illinois?”

  Marcel: “Affirmative. You got something for me or not?”

  Chicken Wire: “One of our drones picked up movement near Chesterfield.”

  Marcel: “I see it on the map, Missouri.”

  Chicken Wire: “Yep, an hour plus twenty from Irondale. That’s your destination, I assume?”

  Marcel: “It is now.”

  Chicken Wire: “That’s all we have right now. Boss said we’ll let you know if anything else shows up in that area.”

  Marcel: “Could be my target. Anything else in a hundred-mile area?”

  Chicken Wire: “Negative.”

  Marcel: “The drone reported active?”

  Chicken Wire: “Active and moving...East.”

  Marcel: “Anything changes with that drone report or anything new comes up in the next few hours, call me. Stopping in Hannibal, Missouri for the night.”

  Chicken Wire: “Hannibal, huh? Want to bone up on your Mark Twain history?”

  Marcel: “Nope, want to stay under the radar in a bigger city.”

  Chicken Wire: “I’ll check in tomorrow morning, unless it changes direction.”

  Marcel: “He won’t. They always return to the scene, knows someone will come for him.”

  Chicken Wire: “Him, huh? How do you know it’s not a her?”

  Marcel heaved a troubled sigh. “Calder could have taken out a her.”

  Chicken Wire: “Right. Over and out then.”

  Marcel: “Ditto.”

  It was a good thing Cecily couldn’t talk. After hearing that conversation, a frog had crawled into her throat. She couldn’t speak if she’d wanted to. So Marcel had spoken the truth, at least in part. N.O.M.E.D. served as a command center, drones existed and the network assisted the hunters on their missions. A shudder tore through her. Back at Mae’s house, anger and disbelief had ruled her thinking. And revenge. The revenge and anger remained, but the conversation between this person called Chicken Wire and Marcel brought everything into laser-beam focus of terror and disbelief.

  You can do this, Cecily. There’s no turning back now. If I survive Marcel’s wrath when he discovers me in the back of his van.

  It had never crossed her mind women could take the form of demons, or be demons. Grief sawed through her lungs when she thought of Calder fighting for his life against a demon. Marcel said her beloved twin drew his last breath in his arms, which meant, his death wasn’t quick. She couldn’t think about that now. The die was cast and Calder was dead. And here she was, crouched under fucking Egyptian weapons in the back of Marcel’s van. She had to think about facing her own demons, particularly one named Marcel Frost when he found her.

  No sooner had she recovered from her pseudo-paralysis when Marcel’s phone chimed again.

  Marcel: “You got me.”

  Familiar voice: “Hey, bro.”

  Marcel: “Christ, Elliott, where have you been?”

  Elliott: “Here and there, same as you.”

  Marcel: “Give me the code.”

  Elliott: “What! You know my voice.”

  Marcel: “Yep, and we also know our enemies can mimic voices.”

  Elliott: “Jesus, Marcel. Snake Eyes. Does that suit you?”

  Marcel: “It does.”

  Elliott: “Since you want to play games, what the hell is yours?”

  Marcel: “Gaia. Now, like I said, why did you take off after the funeral? Ma’s been worried sick. Not even a fucking phone call.”

  Elliott: “I been-been,” he hiccoughed. “Making calls.”

  Marcel: “Goddamn it, are you drunk again?”

  Elliott: “Let’s say I’m feeling all fuzzy and warm ‘bout now.”

  Marcel: “I don’t understand any of this, Elliott. I know you took Calder’s death hard. We all did, but you goin’ on a three-day bender won’t help him.”

  Elliott: “Has it only been three days? Hmm, thought I was on day four.”

  Marcel: “Fucking funny. So, where are you?”

  Elliott: “I imagine not too far from you. Headed to Irondale.”

  Marcel: “I don’t want you, don’t need you in your state.”

  Elliott: “Trust me, brother, you need me.”

  Marcel: “What’s that supposed to mean? Something you’re not telling me, Elliott?”

  Elliott: “Hell, no. Same as always. Two is better than one.”

  Marcel: “What makes you think I’m heading for Irondale, other than it would be logical.”

  Elliott: “I called in to-to the boss lady. She told me.” A strangled cough came across the line. “Told me about....”

  Marcel: “Told you about what?”

  Elliott: “Shit, lost my train of thought. Oh, yeah, the drone sighting.”

  Marcel: “Look, let me take this one. I can handle it without you. I owe this shitbag because I’m the one that found Calder.”

  Elliott: “I’m gonna cry foul on that one. You trying to say I wasn’t there when he needed me?”

  Marcel: “No, I know you were sent on another mission. I’m just saying I got this.”

  Elliott: “Don’t go, Marcel. Please don’t go.”

  Marcel: “What the fuck is wrong with you, other than your brain is polluted with whiskey.”

  Elliott: “Vodka. And nothing is wrong with me that a little more Vodka can’t straighten out. It’s just...just I don’t think I can lose you too now.”

  Marcel: “We are not discussing this. You know the rules: No alcohol twenty-four hours before you’re sent out.”

  Elliott: “Yeah, Rule number fucking ten, right, brother?” His brother’s muffled voice crackled over the phone. “Get the fuck outta here! I’ll be off when I’m good and fuckin’ ready! Ya got that, cowboy?”

  Marcel: “Elliott, who are you talking to? Are you at a pay phone?”

  Elliott: “Yeah, some dude in fuckin’ cowboy boots with bowed legs keeps tapping on the glass.”

  Marcel: “Jesus. Rule number six: Never, ever use a pay phone.”

  Elliott: “Oops.”

  Marcel: “Look, you better get your shit together and call me back tonight...from a secure phone, ya hear me?”

  Elliott: “I will, I will, promise, and then we can talk about this again. I’m telling you; I got this one. If I’d been there, Calder would still....”

  Marcel: “Don’t. Don’t go down that road. Get some coffee, sober up and call me later. I have nothing more to say except over and out.”

  Elliott: “Whatever you say, bro. Hey, before I hang up, where’s Cecily?”

  Marcel: “At home...I mean at Mae’s home.”

  Elliott: “Nope, not there. I called Mom and she hasn’t seen her.”

  Marcel: “What?”

  Elliott: “Just passing it along. She’s not there. You think she went back to Minnesota without saying goodbye?”

  Marcel: “Fuck!”

  Elliott: “What?”

  Marcel: “No, I don’t think she went back to Minnesota. Who knows what that crazy woman is up to now?”

  Elliott: “Well, just thought I’d let you know. Over and out.”

  Cecily slid a hand over her mouth. She wanted to cry. As long as she’d known Elliott, almost all of her life, she’d never heard him sound so disoriented, so lost and forlorn. The full impact of Calder’s death and the profound way it had affected all of them, smacked her in the face.

  And she wasn’t strong enough to help a single one of them.

  Cecily heard Marcel punch a set of numbers into his phone. She didn’t know if she could listen to any more of this.

  Marcel: “Mom, you’re home now.”

  Mae: “Oh, Marcel, I’m so glad you called. I’m about out of my mind with worry over Cecily.”

  Marcel: “I just spoke with Elliott and─”

  Mae: “Thank the Good Lord. He called here too, but I couldn’t make much sense of what he was sa
ying.”

  Marcel: “He’s okay, if you consider shit-faced okay.”

  Mae: “Oh, dear, then he is drunk again?”

  Marcel: “I think the word you’re looking for is still.”

  Mae: “Marcel, I’m frightened. What is going on? Ever since we lost Calder the whole world is on fire.”

  Marcel: “Not the whole world, Mom, just our world, it would seem.”

  Mae: “Gus’ car is in the garage, she didn’t go anywhere, and I’ve checked her room. Suitcase and clothing are here...everything except her purse and cell phone.”

  Marcel: “Everything except her purse and cell?”

  Mae: “Don’t scare me, now. I keep thinking that horrible man, Twig, showed up here again and took her.”

  Marcel: “Leif, Mom, the pussy’s name is Leif.”

  Mae: “Whatever. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Marcel: “That chicken-shit wuss, no. I promise you ‘bout now he’s in oral surgery getting a new set of whites, if his face swelling has gone down, that is.”

  Mae: “Where then, Marcel, where could she possibly be?”

  Marcel: “Huh. I wonder.”

  In the back of the van, Cecily almost wet her pants. She didn’t like the know-it-all tone of Marcel’s voice, the one he used when the wheels in his head were smoking flames.

  Mae: “I’m going to call her cell. If she doesn’t answer, I’ll call you right back.”

  Oh, God...Oh, God...my cell phone. Cecily whipped her phone from her shirt pocket and with shaky fingers pressed ‘power down’.

  And then she gasped when the familiar obnoxious chime echoed through the interior.

  Marcel slammed on the brakes so hard Cecily heard her neck crack. Next, the frightful sounds of him shifting the gear into park, muttering a string of curse words and then slamming the door of the van rang in her ears. Harried footsteps stomped across gravel.

  She was as good as dead.

  The back door flung open, and the next words she heard were “Jesusfuckingchrist! Get your ass out of the van, Cecily.”

  Cecily peered through a one-inch gap between two shields. “No.”

  “I knew it! In my gut I knew it, but then I kept telling myself, you wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow me.”

  “I didn’t follow you.”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, never a good sign with the beautiful man in the black jeans, white cotton shirt and Boston Red Sox baseball cap. “No, like a fucking sneak-thief you crawled inside my van and hid.”

  The thrum of ice-cold fear swished through her veins. He wouldn’t hurt her; had never hurt her. “I-I knew I didn’t have-have a chance of talking you into letting me come with you.”

  “Get out of the van or I swear I’ll pull you out inch-by-slow-inch by your hair. Now!”

  “All right, all right. I’m coming, you big bully.”

  Before she had crawled half way to the open door, Marcel reached in and grabbed a length of her long hair. “Ouch, you’re hurting me! Let go, you sonofabitch!”

  Releasing her hair, he reached down and clamped a hand around her arm. He might as well have used a vise. He dragged her the rest of the way and pushed her onto the hard ground. Standing over her, his face as grim as death, she knew in that inconvenient moment a devil with horns had crawled into this heart. Silver eyes flashed, lips and eyes narrowed simultaneously. The anger poured off him in waves.

  Yep, she was as good as dead.

  Across the road, she heard tires screech and then smelled burning rubber. She and Marcel glanced at the red, shiny pickup truck at the same time.

  “Fucking great. Just when I was about to kill you, the local heroes show up.”

  Cecily gulped, hard. “You were going to kill me?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll kill you after Porky Pig and his friend, Hayseed Rube, get their asses kicked.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cecily scrambled to her feet and followed Marcel’s gaze. Two men crossed the road at a brisk pace. The man built like a brick shithouse swung a baseball bat in the air; the other man with red hair and matching beard, carried a tire wrench in his hand.

  “Hey, asshole, what ya doin’ to that woman?”

  Marcel ran a hand through the hair at his forehead and turned to face them. “Get in the van, Cecily.”

  “No.”

  Their eyes collided for a brief moment before he turned to the men again. “I’m getting damn tired of hearing that word from your mouth.”

  “Too bad.”

  Standing in front of Marcel now, the brick house leaned in. “I asked you a question, city boy.” Before Marcel could answer, he took a quick look at Cecily. “You get that shiner from this creep?”

  “No, I-I ran into a door.”

  “Sure ya did, honey,” the bearded one with the wrench said. “Well, looks like we have us a bona fides woman beater ain’t that right, slicker?”

  “He ain’t talking, Reggie. Guess he feels he’s too good for our kind.”

  Ed-Dean advanced and stood toe-to-toe with Marcel. “That true, you think you’re too good for us?”

  “Let it go, Marcel.”

  Marcel gave Cecily a side glance. “Stay out this.”

  Reggie gave a loud guffaw. “Marcel! Well, I’ll be damned, this city boy hails all the way from gay ol’ Paree, ain’t that right, boy?”

  As if he had all the time in the world, Marcel shook his head and clucked his tongue. “You should walk away now.”

  Ed-Dean grinned like a hyena. “Walk away? Well, damn if we ain’t just shaking in our boots.” The man circled around and stood behind Marcel.

  “That all you got to say, pussy, ‘we best walk away’?”

  The tiniest of flames ignited in Marcel’s eyes. “Nope. I got more.”

  Ed-Dean leaned forward and raised the bat in the air. “Yeah, like what?”

  “Like why don’t you go home and suck your uncle’s dick.”

  For Cecily, the scene played out in slow motion. Marcel slid one foot backward and his arms went out at his sides. Not a muscle in his entire body moved. The wrench in Reggie’s hand descended one excruciating inch at a time.

  “Marcel!” she screamed.

  Marcel’s back leg kicked back and connected with Reggie’s groin. The man grabbed his crotch and fell to his knees, moaning like a heifer giving birth.

  Ed-Dean brought the bat down. Marcel parried, rolled into a summersault and came to his feet faster than a cobra strike. With a wild scream on his lips, Ed-Dean lunged, aiming for Marcel’s head. Again Marcel parried the blow and in a split second, snatched the bat from the man’s hand. Coming in low, Marcel buried the head of the bat into Ed-Dean’s gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. Like his cohort, the man fell to his knees, gasping for air.

  Mesmerized by the scene playing out, Cecily failed to see Reggie rise to his feet and rush Marcel from behind. She heard a bone crack when the man brought the wrench down on Marcel’s left shoulder.

  Without missing a beat, and with timeless grace, Marcel spun on his heels to face him. Reggie’s stunned expression spoke volumes. Marcel landed a full-frontal blow to the man’s face. Blood spurted from his nose and red, thick liquid dribbled from the corners of his lips. Reggie dropped the wrench and put his hands in the air. Long seconds passed while Marcel waited for their next move. Ed-Dean stumbled to his feet, left his bat behind, and then staggered across the road to his truck. Hands trying to staunch the flow of blood pouring down his face, Reggie staggered across the road and joined his friend.

  Cecily rushed to Marcel’s side, her first thought about his injury, her second about how beautiful he was standing there in the road as if he’d just stepped out of the pages of Esquire...male perfection head-to-toe. “Your shoulder is broken.”

  “Dislocated, and hurts like a sonofabitch.”

  “Oh, God, Marcel, this is all my fault, I’m so sorry for─”

  “Save it, Cecily. Right now, we gotta get outta here. These county Sheriffs don’t take ki
ndly to hurting their kin. Get in the van, you drive.” His face ashen, his lips white, Cecily heard a small groan from his lips when he settled onto the front seat. “Start the engine and head straight down this road. We’ll come to Quincy, Illinois in about an hour and not too far from there Hannibal, Missouri. We’ll stay there tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Just find a rundown, off the grid motel, take my wallet off the dash and book a room.”

  Several miles down the road, Cecily looked into the rearview mirror, realized no one was following them and pulled the van off to the side of the road.

  “What are you doing? We shouldn’t stop here.”

  “This will only take a minute, Marcel. No one is following us.”

  She put the van in park, jumped from the driver’s seat and scrambled around to the passenger side. After opening the door, she placed both hands on Marcel’s crooked shoulder. “What...what are you.... Ouch, be gentle.”

  “Relax and lean back.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Trust me; I can ease your pain for a short time.” Closing her eyes, she focused on his injuries and repeated the same chant she’d said over the starling so long ago. “Heal little beauty of the sky...heal.”

  Minutes passed in silence. Cecily opened her eyes and gazed into the silver pools staring back at her. “The starling,” he said.

  She whispered the word. “Yes.”

  “What about when Calder fell from the tree and broke his arm? Did you work your magic on him too?”

  “Don’t call it that, but partly, yes.”

  “Doc Walters said it would be six weeks before the cast could come off. It came off in two weeks. Was that because of you too?”

  She nodded. “Calder knew.” A tear slid from her eye. “We never kept secrets from another, you know.”

  “When did you realize you had this gift? They call it a gift─the laying of the hands.” Marcel grunted a pained snort. “Goes centuries back, before Biblical times, they say.”

  “When the starling flew away, and again when Calder broke his arm. He was in so much pain, I had to try something.”

  “And it worked?”

  “He said my hands alleviated the pain enough so he could sleep. I don’t know that I’d call it a gift. I think it just is with some.”