Demon Demon Burning Bright, Whisperings book four

by Linda Welch

  At the same time, he happily droned on about his ex-lover Dale, back and forth through their years together. The eternal romantic, Mel couldn’t get enough, she lapped it up.

  Restless, I went through the hall to the living-room, then wished I had not. Royal and I relaxed and cuddled in here. I flopped in the big armchair and propped my feet on a stack of books with worn leather covers. Soft, warm, sage-green fabric surrounded and cushioned me, but I suppressed a shiver. The room felt chilly, the wood-burning stove needed lighting, but that was Royal’s job. I’m no good at lighting wood-burning stoves. Silence pressed on me. Why? Royal wasn’t here all the time. I should not feel lonely.

  I felt lonely because I wanted him here.

  I needed a clock. Yes, a clock softly tocking in the background. Or some music. Anything to fill the silence.

  I should be used to silence, I’ve lived alone most of my life. Until Royal barged in, filling my waking and sleeping moments and all kinds of interesting moments in between.

  The window filled with the gathering gloom of evening. My gaze lit on the long, slim box propped against the wall next the stove.

  I had to do something to occupy my mind. I opened the box and pulled out a five-foot mess of plastic pine branches crushed together. This was a Christmas tree? It was a disaster. A trip to the garbage can would be an act of mercy.

  “Guys! I need a hand here!”

  Mel hurried in. “With what?”

  I held the thing up. “This tree Royal bought. It is a tree, right? I know what they’re supposed to be like and this ain’t it.”

  “Sure I’ll give you a hand.” She thrust her arm through the wad till her hand protruded from the other side. “This one?” She pushed her other hand into the arm of the couch. “Or do you prefer this one?”

  “How incredibly funny.” I frowned. “Have you ever put one of these together?”

  Thus began my education in how to erect, shape and decorate an artificial Christmas tree. My gleeful roommates were delighted to tell me precisely what I should put where, interspersed with sarcasm, including:

  “You need a stand.”

  “Put the end in it. No, the other end.”

  “It’s wonky.”

  “Lord, it’s worse than Charlie Brown’s tree. You have to shape the branches.”

  Finally, I walked a circle around the tree. “Hey, it looks good, doesn’t it?”

  Royal must have paid a fortune for the tree; it looked real now the branches were fluffed out.

  “It’s lovely,” Mel said. “Now, the decorations!”

  “Decorations?” I reluctantly squinted at the other cardboard box, the bigger box, the one overflowing with sparkly bits of this and glowing pieces of that. Royal persuaded me to get Christmas decorations. Rather, he wheedled me into letting him get them. I should have guessed he loves Christmas decorations as six fully loaded Christmas trees are permanently displayed in his living room. “Does it need decorating?”

  “Yes, it needs decorating,” Jack said long-sufferingly. “You don’t have a naked Christmas tree.”

  “Why not? It’s beautiful as it is.”

  Mel leaned over the box. “They’re not here to prettify a brown cardboard box, Tiff.”

  I squinched up my face. This was turning into a chore. Still, Mel was right, the damned tree should be decorated.

  “He put the stuff for the tree on top,” Jack pointed out.

  That’s Royal, nothing if not methodical. The package on top contained a collection of traditional glass ornaments: Santas, trees, stars, what could be elves, reindeer, in shining red, blue, orange, green, silver and gold. I cast my gaze at my roommates, knowing what came next.

  “You can’t hang a Santa right next to another Santa!”

  “Are you really this helpless?”

  “If I could get my hands on those, I’d show you how to decorate a tree.”

  “Where’s the angel?”

  “Maybe Mr. Hunky got a star.”

  Mac stuck his head around the doorframe, flattened his ears and disappeared again. He wasn’t getting near the chaos. Smart dog.

  Jack regarded the tree, which did look lovely dotted with the colored glass shapes, twinkling transparent icicles, glowing golden balls, the whole shebang wound about by a wide, shining gold ribbon.

  “It’s a mercy he got one already dressed with lights,” Mel said. “Imagine the mess you’d make putting those on.”

  I could imagine. They say you learn something new every day. Me, I’m Christmas tree challenged.

  Although I removed the decorations for the tree, the box still bulged. The living room would out-dazzle Santa’s grotto if I hung all the sparkling doodads. At least I talked Royal out of decorating the kitchen, and my bedroom. He wanted to hang mistletoe in the bathroom, too.

  Jack bent to the box. “I see the tree topper! There’s a picture on the side.”

  I knelt to extract the box from all the other stuff and had to blink hard at the picture on the outside. I carefully eased the angel from the box and her casing of bubble wrap.

  She had pale skin, jewel-tone blue eyes, and long, straight, silver-white hair.

  I went back to the kitchen and despite my resolve to not call Royal again, picked up the phone and dialed his cell. It rang, and rang.

  “Are you trying to call him again?” Mel asked.

  I ignored her.

  Jack sniffed. “I never liked him.”

  “I’m sure the feeling was mutual,” from Mel. She skimmed one hand over her hair. “He was … nice.”

  Jack made a disparaging noise. “Nice isn’t what you mean.”

  She swept up to him. “Sexy. Hunky. So what?”

  “Mm. He was that,” Jack said. He caught my gaze and decided to quit while he was ahead.

  I wished they would not talk about Royal in the past tense.

  Mel twirled to face me. “Anyway, I don’t understand why you keep calling him. When I was dating, calling was the guy’s job. A girl never called the guy.”

  The phone clunked in the cradle.

  “Get over it, Tiff. You had a good time, he’s moved on to greener pastures, that’s all there is to it,” Jack said with a toss of his head.

  I turned on him, ready to lambaste him, but couldn’t find the words.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Next morning I drove down Twenty-Second to find all the parking slots on Royal’s block taken. I should have expected that at eleven-thirty. Twenty-Second is a favorite for people taking a quick lunch break from work. I found a spot in the Clarion Hilton’s parking lot and walked through the brick passage which separates Chauncy’s Chapeaus and Bits ‘N Pieces, beneath Mallory’s Bar and Grill. Royal’s apartment is three doors along from there.

  The gate across the wrought-iron staircase was locked, so I fished in my jacket pocket for the key ring and separated the heavy, old-fashioned key to the gate from the others. Snow had frozen in little ridges on the whorled pattern on the bottom two steps and the rail felt ice-cold beneath my hand. Protected by the bricked-in stairwell, the higher steps were clear.

  Wonderful aromas from the street teased me. Scones and raspberry butter from the bakery would be good. And maybe a loaf of cinnamon-swirl bread.

  The oiled lock turned easily. Through the gate and up more steps, I knocked on Royal’s front door, hoping against hope he would open it. He’d been away on urgent business, something so important he had to rush off and didn’t want to disturb me. He meant to be back by morning, but it took longer than he estimated.

  Who was I kidding?

  The key ring also held keys to his front door, the office door, his bedroom door and the door leading from there to the roof. They were identical, but he’d had them etched. I put the key marked “F” in the front door lock and turned it, then pushed the door open.

  I said his name aloud. My voice echoed from the high ceiling.

  I wiped my boots on the mat before bending to take them off. Royal does not appreciate mucky foot
prints on his polished oak floor.

  He’d shifted his furniture along the room when we took fourteen feet of it for our office, but apart from moving the Christmas trees from the east wall to the south wall behind the couch, the basic arrangement had not changed. The fat-bellied Buddha smiled at me from across the room. The black lacquered bar gleamed. The Christmas tree lights were unplugged.

  Now thirty-six feet long instead of fifty, the room is still cavernous but voices don’t echo as badly. With its high ceiling and brick walls, it still reminds me of a warehouse loft.

  Two big cardboard boxes on which Royal had written Xmas Decorations in big red letters sat beside the front door. During our last evening together, he said he’d hang his decorations the next day, then help me with mine.

  During our last evening together. I hated the sound of that.

  With the sky overcast, insufficient daylight came through the two new windows in the west wall, so I flicked the switch beside the door to turn on the row of lamps which stride along the ceiling.

  His living space was tidy, nothing out of place, a few paperbacks neatly stacked on the leather trunk he uses as a coffee table, blue quilted placemats perfectly positioned on the glass dining table. I went in the kitchen. No dirty dishes in the kitchen sink; clean dishes, pots, glasses and silverware in the dishwasher. The glass coffee carafe glistened.

  The office was not as neat as Royal preferred. I have my own filing system; a pile of papers here, books and sheets of notepaper there - I know where everything is. I flick a feather duster over my mess now and then.

  I went outside and trudged to the top floor. Royal could be up here. He would not hear me in the living room if he were showering.

  Dammit, Tiff. Of course he would hear, his demon senses could penetrate the noise made by the shower.

  The king-sized bed was made, the quilt smooth, pillows fluffed. In the bathroom, the towels on the rack and his washcloth were dry. He had not used the shower or bathtub today.

  Depressed, I returned to the living room, flipped my phone and called Royal’s cell again. It rang three times before I noticed the tone sounded strange. It went to voicemail after the fourth tone. I didn’t leave another message.

  Something about that ring tone… . I hit the button again.

  This time I listened carefully. Not till the fourth ring did I understand what I heard: two tones, one the outgoing call, another a phone ringing at precisely the same time.

  Royal’s cell was in his apartment.

  I dialed again, keeping my phone away from my ear, concentrating. I followed the ring tone back to the office. Another attempt, and I slowly sat in my chair and opened my desk drawer.

  I drew out Royal’s shiny black cell phone. “Why did he leave it here?” I asked aloud.

  He didn’t want to speak to me. Simple as that.

  But he could have turned it off, or hid it where I would not find it, or ditched it. Or just plain ignored my calls.

  And it was in my desk drawer. This did not make sense.

  I flipped open the phone and checked the call log. No outgoing calls, three missed calls, six messages and one text in his mailbox. I called and hung up three times. I left six messages yesterday. I checked the messages anyway. Don’t you hate listening to your own voice? I sounded hesitant, whiney: “I hope you’re okay. I’m getting just a little bit worried.”

  This left the text, which I definitely did not send.

  I made the first of my six calls at noon yesterday and the text came yesterday afternoon at two. It looked like Royal was here, deleted his phone records, put his cell in my drawer and left. Everything before yesterday afternoon was gone, so he left his apartment before then.

  I read the text.

  “I expected you this morning. I trust you did not forget our appointment.”

  Cicero.”

  Cicero? Who in hell’s name is Cicero?

  I frowned as I contemplated the message. If Royal knew this man, why did Cicero sign his name when Royal’s cell would ID him?

  The log said unknown caller. I checked his address book. No Cicero listed. That in itself was odd. Phones nowadays automatically add callers to the address list.

  Turning the desktop computer on its swiveling base to face me, I powered up and activated Snoopy. This is Royal’s baby, a program which pokes its nose where it should not. I’m far from adept, but I’d logged in from home a dozen times today, hoping to find Royal on there. Royal and I can access Snoopy at the same time from different computers and work together as a team. If that sounds super-technical, it is, and as I said I’m not that good with the program, but I’d know whether Royal and I were logged in at the same time.

  Snoopy and I were alone. I sent him prying cyberspace.

  I learned something of Roman philosopher Marcus Tullius Cicero, the town of Cicero, restaurants called Cicero’s, but I doubted any of it had anything to do with the Cicero who called Royal. The chance I’d find anything was practically nonexistent.

  The sequence of numbers told me Cicero’s telephone number was not US, but maybe from another country? I dialed it, but got dead air, not even a ring tone.

  I leaned back and pictured the evening before Royal left. Nothing unusual happened. We snuggled in the living room and read, then drank hot chocolate floating with marshmallows before going to bed. He took a marshmallow from the packet and flicked it at me; hit me dead on the end of my nose. Naturally, I retaliated. We went upstairs laughing. It was a good evening.

  Then he left without saying good-bye.

  Things change the longer two people are together. Maybe this was our first silent parting. Still, I didn’t fret at first.

  I called him when Clarion PD contacted me about the plant. He didn’t answer his phone so I supposed he must be out of calling range. No big deal; he’d call me back.

  But he didn’t.

  Now it seemed I had reason to worry.

  None of this made sense. Unless… . Unless someone took Royal by force and he just had time to toss his cell in my drawer so they didn’t take it away from him.

  But that didn’t explain why his call logs prior to yesterday afternoon were erased, and there was no evidence of a struggle.

  I scrubbed at my scalp with frustration, shut down the computer, went through the living room and pushed my feet into my boots. Locking the door behind me, I tromped up the steps to Royal’s bedroom again.

  With a twinge of guilt, I sat at the roll-top desk, turned on Royal’s laptop and went through his files and address book. I did the unthinkable: I checked all his e-mail folders, even the spam, but apart from a few saucy notes from me, they were business related and no mention of Cicero.

  I closed the laptop and sat staring at nothing, panic rising in my chest. I had no idea what to do next, if I should do anything. I do not deal well with helplessness.

  I left the bedroom, jiggled the doorknob to make sure it was locked and went down to the street, locking the gate behind me.

  As I paused outside Bailey and Cognac, I spotted Royal’s pickup truck across the street in the residents’ parking lot. Intent on the slippery sidewalk, I didn’t look that way when I approached his apartment. Now I couldn’t miss the big red machine.

  Relief flared for a brief moment. He was here, somewhere on the street, in one of the stores, having lunch in one of the restaurants.

  Hope blinked out like a blown light bulb - he would have showered this morning if he were here. He was not in the apartment overnight.

  But maybe he recently got back from wherever he rushed off to? Royal enjoyed his food and never missed a meal by choice, maybe he went for breakfast or early lunch before returning to his apartment.

  My head started to spin as I ran options through. But I knew, deep down, I clutched at straws.

  I dashed across the street, earning a honk from two sedans. The truck was locked and powdered with snow. Scratching at the crisp white coat, I found ice beneath. Snow from three days ago had partly melted then f
rozen overnight; then yesterday’s light snowfall covered the ice. The truck sat here for at least three days.

  Did Royal drive here from my place three days ago, park, do God knows what for two days, then erase his call logs and dump his phone in my desk drawer yesterday morning? Was he still around? If he took off, where did he go, and by what transportation? I couldn’t see him catching a bus or train, or taking a taxi instead of his pickup.

  Standing in the parking lot, looking across at Royal’s apartment, I wanted to scream with frustration.

  I spent the next hour going door to door. He did not go to the bakery for a breakfast Danish, or eat in any of his favorite restaurants. Royal is popular on the street and people notice him, but no one recalled seeing him in the last few days.

  I drove home with my mind buzzing, taking me along paths which led nowhere.

  I noticed the flag up on my mailbox as I left the Xterra at the curb and plodded up the driveway, so detoured across the lawn to check it, making slushy footprints in the snow.

  Two bills and a cardboard mailing sleeve.

  I suspiciously eyed the sleeve with a feeling of déjà vu. A similar package led to a mess of trouble three months ago. The last time I received a mailing sleeve, addressed to Banks and Mortensen, it contained the journal of Elizabeth Hulme, an English girl of the Victorian era. This had a return address I didn’t recognize, but the journal was sent anonymously.

  An image formed in my mind’s eye, changed - Janine Hulme as I first saw her in her lovely Las Vegas home became a figure drenched in her own blood.

  Would she still be alive, had I not opened the package meant for Royal?

  Janine died at the hands of ancient Dark Cousin Dagka Shan, along with twelve more people. And I suppose Hans Stadelmann was a casualty too, as Philip Vance, aka the Charbroiler, stole Stadelmann’s ward Jacob and used him to hunt his own people. Stadelmann loved the boy and missed him terribly. Sadly, the old man passed away before Jacob could reunite with him.

  Vance thought Jacob was a vampire and I understand why. Jacob, Shan’s son, once called Teo Papek, is an ancient Dark Cousin who prefers the night hours and has sharp, pointed teeth like his father.