Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Sin City Daemon

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I cozy up next to her

  and slide my arms around her waist. “As long as that call can wait until tomorrow morning.” I lean in and press my lips against hers, covering her mouth in a deep, penetrating kiss. I explore her velvety tongue and breathe in her perfume, sweat, and skin. My cheek nuzzles her brow, feeling her perspiration wet on my face.

  Her breathing is heavy, like quiet panting. “The call can wait.”

  I’m still confused about the plan, the murders at Claremont, and their reluctance to tell me what my role might be. One thing, however, isn’t confusing: my feelings for Dixie.

  Primal thoughts enter my mind, calling me, pushing me closer. I kiss her cheek and move my hands across her body. She sighs, running her tongue over my ear. The sweet scent of her sex is more than I can stand.

  I search for the zipper tab of her jeans, but her hand covers mine, stopping me in mid-zip.

  “What’s the matter?”

  The gleam in her eye tells me it’s a foolish question. “Is it okay if we continue this in my old bedroom?

  “Of course.”

  She holds out her hand. “This way, Mr. Steel, and don’t you dare forget where you left off. Promise?” All at once, she furrows her brow. “You have done this before, haven’t you?”

  The question takes me off guard. “No. Why, am I doing something wrong?”

  Sin City Daemon

  by

  Rick Newberry

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Sin City Daemon

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Richard Arthur Newberry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1058-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1059-6

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Sylvia and Mike

  Chapter One

  Night terrors slap me awake like I’m on fire. Again. While wiping away sweat, I close my eyes and roll over. I’m sure the recent nightmares stem from one terrible thought: since I’m in prison for the rest of my life, there are things I’ll never get to do. And as long as I’m up, I make a mental list of those things, putting them in order like numbered sheep: normal things like drive a car, eat a hamburger, or make a meal; simple things like comfort someone in need, drink a soda, or make friends; special things like study human faiths, watch the sunrise, or make love.

  On the other hand, I’ve led quite a remarkable life and accomplished things most people can’t even imagine. I’ve tasted the blood of my enemies, helped save the human race from extinction, and fallen in love with a Daemon. Dixie Mulholland, the Daemon I love, is the reason I’m in prison. I gave up my freedom on the promise of hers.

  They call Wednesdays my “rest” days. I watch classic movies on television, read books, and draw. Most of my sketches are of Dixie, and I’m told they’re quite good—at least the guards seem to like them.

  On Thursdays, I have counseling: “Tell me how you feel today, Adam.”

  “Fine.”

  “Anything new to report, Mr. Steel?”

  “Nope.”

  Fridays, I spend in the gym: spin bikes, treadmills, and free weights. I like Fridays.

  Today is Saturday: clinic day. Doctors take samples of my blood and urine. Then it’s off to the MRI, x-ray, and CAT scan machines. The routine has never changed in two years.

  Today it does.

  The sound of the door opening shoves me out of a pleasant dream. A whisper sneaks across my cell, “Wake up. I’m here to get you out.”

  Even though its inkjet black in my cell, I possess decent night vision and zero in on the man entering my room. With my heart thumping, I prop up on my elbows and remain silent. The man’s face is still out of focus, but his voice—British accent, crisp, and military—stirs up memories I’ve fought hard to forget. I sniff the air. “What are you doing here, Colonel Dayton?”

  “No time to explain. We have to go.”

  He turns on a flashlight and points it at my face, blinding me for just a moment. With a hand covering my eyes I ask, “Go where?”

  “Las Vegas.”

  I plop my head back down on the pillow. The last time I heard his voice he called me a “mutt.” Not a form of endearment. His presence tonight has to be a mistake, a cruel joke, or another in an endless series of attempts to make me transform. That’s all they’ve ever wanted since bringing me here against my will—by Colonel Dayton.

  He speaks in a confident tone. “C’mon, get up. Dixie’s in trouble, she needs your help.”

  At the sound of her name, my feet hit the floor and I sprint across the room to the door. “What’s wrong? Is she in trouble?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  All kinds of warnings go off in my head. I don’t trust Colonel Dayton. Still, my interest is piqued, so I decide to see where this is going. I grab a few of my more recent drawings from a nearby table, fold them up quick, and tuck them into the pocket of my sweat pants. Colonel Dayton waves me forward into the hallway. The lights are dim, and I sniff at the air. “Where are the guards?”

  “There are only two on duty at night. They’re sleeping like babes with a little help from me.” He raises a pistol in the air. “I gave them a dose of the tranquilizer I used on you two years ago, remember? No, of course you wouldn’t.”

  I’ll never forget. “What about the cameras?”

  “Switched them all off. It’s not a particularly sophisticated security system, despite what you may have thought. I’m surprised you never attempted an escape.”

  I ignore his criticism and concentrate on the surroundings. The cold tile under my feet and deathly silence in the hallway send chills through my body. I’ve walked this corridor almost every day for the past two years, but it seems foreign now. Another sniff at the air reveals the location of the two guards, their skin is free of sweat; they’re peaceful and a
t rest.

  A long forgotten ache in the back of my neck begins to throb, signaling the first sign of the oncoming transformation. The urge to change into a canine and tear the colonel apart is strong. Are the cameras really off? I stare into his eyes. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You don’t. But that’s the wrong question then, isn’t it?” His voice is steady and calm as he explains, “I’m standing within easy reach of someone who can rip me apart. The real question is: how do I know I can trust you?”

  My answer to his question races out in no uncertain terms, “Because I’m not a killer.”

  He smiles. It’s a taunting smile, like he’s goading me on, and that makes me think my hunch is right: this is a trick to get me to transform. But I’m not biting—literally.

  “And because I’m not going to let whoever’s watching see the wolfhound.” With little effort, I force the ache in my neck to subside. I’m in complete control of the change.

  He tucks the pistol into a holster under his armpit and glances at his watch. “Good to know. And for the last time, there are no secret cameras watching us. The day shift will be here in about three minutes, so we don’t have much time. I suggest you either come with me now, or, if you feel more at home in a cage, crawl back into yours. But just to be clear, however, Dixie is expecting you.”

  He sounds convincing. “Lead the way.”

  Colonel Dayton continues down the hall, and we pass an open door. Inside the darkened room, two guards dressed in black uniforms lean forward, their heads lying on a metal desk. The monitors on the wall are blank—the cameras are out.

  Quickening my pace, I catch up to the colonel at the exit. When he opens the door, I expect alarm bells to greet us. Instead, the only sound I hear is crickets chirping. What I see, however, stops me cold. The night sky is lit up like the Starry Night painting. Millions of tiny lights fill the sky—a sky I haven’t seen in two years. I’m so grateful to be able to see the world as any other human would at this exact moment of my life: in color. The smell of clean, outdoor air sends adrenaline pulsing through my body.

  Footsteps echo down the hall behind us. In a tight whisper, the colonel says, “C’mon, they’re changing shift. Let’s move.”

  He tugs at my shirt and pulls me outside. I’m standing on dirt—real dirt. My senses drink in the sensations of freedom in one big gulp: cold wind bites at my face, the smell of fresh, unventilated air intoxicates me, and a strange, almost alien-like silence fills my ears. I’m dizzy with the lack of boundaries and want to sprint across the open field ahead.

  Colonel Dayton eases the door shut and motions me forward with a wave of his hand. “If we don’t hurry, they’ll be on us, and you’ll be back in that cell for good.”

  Fleeting thoughts of my list and all the things I’ve never done race through my head as I follow him. We clamber down into a small ravine and jump over an old wooden fence. I can’t help but risk a glance back at where I’ve been held for the past two years. The sight of my prison stuns me. “It’s nothing but an old barn.”

  “Designed to look like that,” Colonel Dayton says as he yanks on my shirt again. “It blends with the countryside. No questions about a barn way out here, and no need for anything larger; it’s a prison built to hold just one: you. C’mon, I’ve a car at the base of the hill. Let’s keep moving. Double time.”

  “Then what?”

  “We get as far away from here as fast as we can.”

  Dayton throws the “we” word around pretty freely. I find it unsettling. It makes me think he told me the truth which is not good—that means Dixie really is in trouble.

  The car he has stashed away is a brand new, jet-black Camaro. I’ve seen the advertisements for this particular model on the TV in my cell. It looked super-fast in the commercial. When I shut the passenger side door and the colonel hits the gas—it is.

  ****

  Miles stack up as Colonel Dayton keeps his foot mashed on the accelerator.

  The morning sun paints a hazy shine on the mountains ahead of us and muted colors begin to define the landscape. The biting chill in the air gives way to a cool, but comfortable, temperature. Being raised in Las Vegas, I’ve never seen so much green grass, trees, and shrubs all in one place; spending the past two years in prison didn’t help either. The snow-capped peaks take my breath away. Even though Mount Charleston, back home, is covered with a dusting of snow much of the year, I can tell (by the color of the sky, the frost on the ground, and the eerie silence) we’re nowhere near home.

  “This isn’t Kansas, anymore,” I say to Dayton; a reference to a line in a movie I like.

  He gives me a sideways glance—no hint of Oz-recognition. “It’s Colorado.”

  Important questions need answers (why does Dixie need my help is first on my mind), however, I can’t help but ask, “Why Colorado?”

  “That barn—your prison—is a facility built especially for you by the UN, the perfect spot, right out in the open. As they say, hidden in plain sight. Besides, who would think the United Nations has any holdings in Colorado? I didn’t”

  “You still work for the United Nations?”

  The colonel grins. “I suppose I just tendered my resignation.” We swerve down a steep grade, and he struggles to keep control of the wheel. Some might consider the road paved, not by my standards. “You want to know why I’m helping you.”

  I nod, then realize his eyes are fixed straight ahead and not on me. I shift my glance to him and grunt. “Uh-huh. The last time I saw you, we weren’t exactly on friendly terms.”

  Dayton eases off the accelerator and straightens his back against the form-fitting bucket seat. “I’ll be honest with you. I never put much belief in the paranormal, Daemons, werewolves, and the like. Then I met you. Your ability to shape-shift from human to canine opened my eyes—changed my view of the world. At first, I blamed you for everything: The Disaster in Las Vegas, the incredible loss of life, but most of all I blamed you for dragging me into your world.”

  “My world? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The existence of supernatural creatures, I suppose. Sure, I travelled the world in search of them—part of the job—but I’d never verified anything remotely close to being paranormal, not until I found you. And the very night that happened, I lost Jean.”

  “Major Ransom.”

  “And I blamed you.” He gives me a quick glance. “A few months ago, I received a call from Dixie on my mobile. She asked me to return to Las Vegas—said she needed my help; that it had to do with The Las Vegas Disaster. I nearly hung up, but I was struck by an odd thought: how did she call me?”

  “It’s pretty clear why she called you. She knew you were some kind of paranormal hunter for the United Nations and—”

  “No, not why she called me, but how she called me. How did she know my number? Only a handful of people in the world know what I do, let alone have access to my personal number. When I asked her about it, she told me the most incredible thing.”

  The road flattens out a bit, enough to let me concentrate on what he just said. Is he waiting for me to ask him what the incredible thing was? “What was it?”

  “She said Major Ransom gave her my number.”

  “But, Major Ransom is—”

  “Dead.” He brakes hard, hits the gas again then turns onto a smooth highway. “Jean is a very gifted person.” He chuckles. “She’d laugh when I called her abilities mind-reading. She insisted I use the term telepath. But she was more than that; she was an empath, one who can feel what others feel. I believe the major’s paranormal gifts were much greater than even she understood. I’m convinced Dixie obtained my number from the major—how else could she have gotten it?”

  “Major Ransom is alive?”

  “You’re not listening to me.” He sucks in a large gulp of morning air. “Don’t ask me how, but I’m convinced Jean spoke to Dixie from the other side.”

  “Are you even listening to yourself? What you’re saying is—�
��

  “I know very well what I’m saying. Major Ransom is using her abilities to communicate with Dixie Mulholland.”

  I’m quiet for a long time. None of what he said makes any sense. Communicating from the other side? What other side? The major is dead. At first, I didn’t trust Colonel Dayton because he’s my enemy; now, I’m convinced he’s insane. I saw a movie once where the hero was cornered in a room with a crazy person. The hero played it cool and talked his way out. Since I’m basically trapped with a crazy person, I try the same trick. “What does Major Ransom want?”

  “When Dixie first contacted me, she told me what she and her Aunt Rose were doing. She explained everything in detail, and I decided to have a look-see. At first, I was dead set against what they were doing, but the more I became involved, the more their plan made sense. In principal, I suppose, it’s the most decent course of action. I decided to put my activities at the UN on hold and help them; now they need your help as well.”

  “I don’t follow; you’re not making any sense.”

  He smiles, the first sign of any honest human emotion. “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Chapter Two

  The colonel said Major Ransom insisted on my presence. I barely knew the woman and have no idea what “problem” they’re working on in Las Vegas. I try to make some sort of sense out of what he said, but I can’t. “I’ve been out of circulation for two years. What does Major Ransom think I can do to help?”

  “According to Dixie, Major Ransom seems to think you’re the only one who can.”

  All at once, his words usher in a ray of hope; even though he thinks the idea came from Major Ransom (which isn’t possible), the words themselves are straight from Dixie. She wants me in Las Vegas, and that lifts my spirits. Still, it’s strange Colonel Dayton offered his help. The last time I saw the man, he threatened to kill us both.

  But he speaks with such conviction, I start to feel like I’m missing something; as if I’ve skipped a few episodes of my favorite TV show and have to catch up on what’s happening. So, I decide to keep him talking—after all, I’m still cornered in a high-speed car with a crazy person at the wheel and talking seems like a logical plan. “The last I heard, Dixie worked for a network in New York; I can’t remember which one, CBS, NBC—”