Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  “Help you?” Marques said, standing up from the table.

  “She meant help us,” I hope I covered her mistake. “Once again, thanks for the food. We’re going to go outside and stretch our legs.”

  “Go wherever you want,” Marques says, “just don’t leave the cage…I mean hill.”

  “Marques.” Tina scowls at him. She turns to Adam. “What he means is don’t wander too far, especially at night. It’s safer that way.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Marques says. “The hunter has become the hunted. We are being killed each and every night, one by one. The big, bad, wolf found its way to our door.”

  “That’s enough,” Tina says. “There have been some accidents, but Rosalyn, the colonel, and Cutty watch over us every night. We’ll be okay.”

  “Accidents?” Marques says. “Seven accidents in a row?”

  Jenny reaches for the back door. The rusty hinges shriek into the night. “I need some air. Can we go outside?”

  I hold Marques’s gaze for a moment, then turn and follow Jenny down the three wooden steps to the backyard, all the while straining to catch his next few words, “I don’t trust them. They ask too many questions. Especially the female. Would any canine ignore this?” I can only imagine he’s holding up Dixie’s unfinished plate for inspection.

  ****

  “And now ladies and gentlemen, The Sterling International Resort in Las Vegas, Nevada is honored to present: The Mystic.” A simple, yet haunting melody echoed through the cavernous theater: Le Portrait De La Petit Cossette, track four, “Sadness,” from the original soundtrack of the Japanese anime series.

  The stage was unlit, silent, and still. The sold-out audience stood as the music played, waiting in the dark for the arrival of The Mystic. The music stopped and small, intense points of white fiber optic lights twinkled in the background.

  Wild applause—an ovation—cheers and whistles descended upon the empty stage. A spotlight clicked on, pointing stage right. The Mystic appeared from the wings, greeted by an even louder round of applause. He strolled toward center stage, a humble figure dressed in white robes, standing no more than 5’ 3” tall. The spotlight followed his slow and steady progress across the massive stage. He stopped near a plain wooden stool and picked up a glass of water placed there earlier.

  As he took a slow sip of water, the audience settled back in their seats and the star light effects faded away. The Mystic wore a wireless headset microphone allowing full use of his arms and free range of the stage. He waited until the complete silence felt uncomfortable.

  “Greetings and peace. All are welcome in this place.” Another short round of applause rang out. “You are here tonight for a reason. The reason may be well known to you, or the reason may dawn on you later in life—sometimes it takes many years to fully understand why you are here. For those of you who have been here before, welcome back. For the newcomers, let me begin by giving a small demonstration of what I call, perfect balance.” Nervous applause greeted the words.

  The Mystic raised his hands to the side. He stood in this position for a few moments, his gray eyes washing over the crowd. The beginning of his ascent was almost imperceptible, except to the members of the audience who had “been there before.” They applauded almost at once. As The Mystic levitated higher, the entire audience joined in a constant and deafening ovation. The Mystic rose three feet off the ground and hung, as if caught in a still frame photo, for well over a minute. The audience continued its applause until The Mystic descended. When he touched down and opened his eyes, he did not bow, nor did he smile. He simply waited until the roar died down.

  “Perfect balance. Nothing is impossible. Nothing is beyond reach. Perfect balance.” Another smattering of applause welcomed his affirmation. “You are here tonight because you seek truth. Truth about yourselves, truth about the world. You have questions. You have concerns. Let me assure you,” he snapped his fingers and a large bowl of blue flame came to life behind him, “questions will be answered tonight.”

  Another track from Le Portrait De La Petit Cossette started to play: track three: “Moonflower.” The Mystic ambled to the left, speaking slowly, softly, “The world we inhabit is a dangerous place full of crime, wars, and disease. Some would say the world, our Earth, our home, is on the verge of self-annihilation.” He stopped and held up his right index finger. “With one push of a button, the world as we know it will end.” The blue flame billowed and turned orange. “How is this possible? What led us to the eve of destruction? Was it technology? Politics? Rage?” At last, The Mystic smiled. “My friends, the answer is simple. It was us. We are the reason. Human nature. You, me, the person sitting next to you right now—we have all had a hand in this destructive cycle.”

  The Mystic turned and ventured to the right of the stage. “And now that we know what the problem is, we know, too, what the solution is. Perfect balance.” He levitated again, this time rapidly, as if shot from a crossbow. He flew to the left, to the right, then hovered motionless, center stage. “My friends, what is the solution?”

  The audience roared its answer as if with one voice: Perfect balance.

  “Again.”

  Perfect balance.

  The Mystic drifted down and touched the stage. The audience went wild. The blue flame grew and billowed upward, then went out. “Perfect balance, that’s right. What a smart audience you are.” Laughter and applause echoed across the theater.

  “And now that we have solved the problems of the world, my friends, let’s dive into the truly difficult questions. Earlier, you were given a blank index card and asked to write your full name and a personal question. As you were told then, no last names will ever be used.” He waved to the backdrop where the word USED sprang to life in large, blue, neon letters. The letters drifted apart, floated, and rearranged themselves into another word. “Because we don’t want this to happen.” The letters now spelled SUED. The crowd chuckled. The letters shifted position again. “And now it’s time to earn my…” The audience shouted: DUES.

  “The first question is from Roger. When will I find the right person?” The Mystic closed his eyes for a moment. “Her name is Debra. She will dine at the Bellagio buffet tomorrow at one o’clock. Don’t be late, Roger. Oh, she’ll wear a yellow dress.

  “The next question is from Denise. My mother is very sick. Will she get better?” Again The Mystic closed his eyes. “She will regain her strength and live for seventeen healthy years. Make those years count.”

  The questions and answers went on for another thirty minutes, the crowd applauding each time The Mystic answered.

  “And now we come to the final question.” The audience expressed their sorrow with a collective, “Aww.”

  “This question is from…uh, just the letter G. G asks for guidance.” The Mystic closed his eyes. “Tonight, you must personally take charge.”

  Five blue flames appeared on the stage behind The Mystic. The tiny star lights sprang to life and twinkled across the backdrop as the music grew. The Mystic spread out his arms and smiled. “You are always welcome in this place. Thank you and peace be with you. Namaste.” He vanished. No lighting effects, no loud bangs, pops, or whistles. The man simply disappeared into nothing. The house lights came up.

  By the roar of the crowd, The Mystic’s Tuesday night hour and a half show was another huge success. Especially for G.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “That Marques is a strange one, isn’t he?” Dixie says with certain conviction as if I’m supposed to agree without comment.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  She snorts. “Sounds like he hates everything about this place.”

  “So do I. Does that make me a strange one, too?”

  “No, of course not,” she says, slipping her hand in mine, “you have every reason to hate Claremont, believe me, so do I. But Marques knows we’re trying to help him, doesn’t he?”

  I’m not a Daemon. I can’t crawl into other people’s minds and know
their thoughts. I can only guess how they feel by what I think. “Canines, especially males, like to be in control. We like to be in charge of our own destiny. Sure, we defer to The Alpha, but we still want our own way. You heard him. He lived on his own in the desert, and now his world is out of control. I think I know just how he feels.”

  I lead her down the side of the house and away from the backyard. A heavy wind continues to rush across the valley, and the last rays of the sun feel good on my skin. “I’m just being honest; there are just too many memories here: Sonny Russo, Bane, and Mikael―”

  “And Lucy.” Dixie squeezes my hand. “There are some good memories here, too.”

  She’s right, of course. I remember playing in the woods with my pack when we were just pups, long before the Werewolf Killer business. I smile. “So many nights, I’d stand right over there and watch the sun go down.” I lead Dixie by the hand to the spot I pointed out. “Right here, mostly by myself, but sometimes with Lucy, or Ivan, or all three of us. We wondered about the world and our place in it. We had a lot of expectations then. We always thought great things were in store for us.”

  She puts her arms around me. “The sun’s gone down. We should get back.”

  “Just a few more minutes.”

  Dixie and I sit down on the side of the road. With no electricity on the hill, the stars put on an amazing show. They look as if they’re just a few inches over my head. I raise my arm and stick a finger out.

  “What are you pointing at?”

  “I’m not pointing. I want to touch that star—that one over there, the brightest one.”

  Dixie laughs and cuddles next to me. “You know, Daemons believe when you die, your essence reappears as a star in the heavens.” She glanced up. “I wonder which one is my mother.”

  “And you believe that? Life after death? The other side?”

  “I learned this during The Sufferings. Besides, I don’t doubt the words of Major Ransom. She’s the one who brought you back to me.”

  I stare into her eyes. “Then maybe that star is your mother. Maybe she—”

  A quick movement off to the side grabs my attention. My heart pounds as my natural hunting instincts spring to life.

  Dixie pulls back. “What is it?”

  “I saw something—two somethings—running down the hill. That way.” I stand and help her up. “I’ll follow them. You go back to the house.”

  She scowls at me. “Not on your life. I’m sticking with you.”

  There’s no time to argue, so I take off at a sprint. I trip on a dead branch and fall flat on my face. Whatever’s moving down the hill is much faster than I am. I sniff the air, but can’t catch a scent. “I have to transform.” I turn to Dixie. She already has.

  It’s been two years since I changed into a Giant Irish Wolfhound. Lucy taught me the secret of rapid transformations: plenty of meat, red and raw, along with a strong desire to change. I have the desire, not to mention a raw porterhouse and a few strips of beef jerky under my belt.

  The tingle in the back of my neck tells me the change is coming. I start to wonder how much pain will come along with that change. Dixie gallops down the hill, no doubt catching the scent of our prey. I fumble with my shirt and pants, letting them fall to the ground. My jaw aches as it elongates. Tiny pins scratch at my skin from the inside. I ignore the pain and concentrate on the desire. That does the trick. In a few moments, I stand on all fours. I shake off the blood and bits of loose human skin remaining on my coat and sprint down the hill.

  Dixie is just in front of me, racing at a good clip. I know Claremont better than she does and soon dart past her. The raw earth under my paws feels good, natural. I pick up a scent and slow down. My vision is now in canine mode, and I make out two forms at the bottom of the hill, just short of the paved road. Dixie sidles up next to me.

  Who is it? A voice enters my mind. It doesn’t sound like her, in fact, it doesn’t even sound like speech—more like images forming in my mind—but somehow I know it’s Dixie.

  I can only hope she’ll receive my thoughts: Marques and another wolfhound; I don’t know who.

  Something smells so good. What is it?

  Fresh kill—smells like deer. Follow me. I sneak down to the base of the hill, sidestepping past branches and clumps of brush. I stay as far downwind from Marques as I can without losing sight of him. Stay close and keep quiet.

  What are they doing?

  Another figure appears behind them—a human walking in from the road. He’s carrying a rifle. Marques and the other wolfhound eat the carcass on the ground. They don’t notice the human approaching.

  Contact Aunt Rose. We’ve got our killer.

  In an instant, a green light floods the area. Marques and his friend scamper off. The human fires a shot after them and a yip cries out. The green light surrounds the human, and the weapon falls to the ground.

  Dixie and I scurry down to the road. I latch onto the human’s leg, biting into the soft flesh and crunching through bone. He screams. Aunt Rose waves a hand over the man’s head, and he freezes in place. Dixie has already transformed back into human form. It’ll take me a bit longer.

  “You two stay here,” Aunt Rose says. “I’ll get the others, and we’ll take this one away. I won’t be long.” She closes her eyes, then pops them open and stares at me. “Good job, my boy. Take good care of Dixie; she’s my pride and joy.” She closes her eyes again and swirls away in a green mist.

  It takes me a minute or two to transform back into human form. “Stay here and keep an eye on this one,” I say, pointing to the man I bit. “He won’t be any trouble. I’ll go see if Marques is all right.”

  I should have stayed with Dixie; held her so tight in my arms she’d never get away. But I couldn’t have known she’d be gone when I came back—or that we’d never see Aunt Rose again.

  ****

  “The fucker bit me.”

  Gorgeous ignored Maxwell Sullivan’s complaint, keeping her eyes trained on Dixie Mulholland instead. The evening started quite inauspiciously—another wolfhound murder at Claremont Drive. It ended, however, better than she ever imagined with the death of Rosalyn Chase. The sudden demise of that bitch would keep the Daemons of Las Vegas distracted for days; too concerned with their own safety to worry about the humans.

  “You truly impressed me tonight,” Gorgeous said, a sinful grin twisting her lips. “I’ve never witnessed anyone kill quite like that before…so much passion.” She gazed upward, into the heavens. “Poor Rosalyn. Oh well, we all make choices in life; yours came to its natural conclusion. I must remember to thank The Mystic for suggesting I take a personal interest in Claremont tonight.”

  “Fuck The Mystic,” Maxwell said. “That damn dog almost chewed my leg off.” He pressed an ice pack to the back of his calf and downed a swig of tequila from the bottle. “Can’t you put a magic spell on me or something—you know, do some hocus pocus to stop this pain? Son of a bitch, it hurts.”

  “Poor Maxwell. Would that I could, but you know the rules. I cannot heal your wounds. Keep the ice on it and be quiet.”

  “It hurts like hell. I swear, the next time I see that fucking mutt I’m gonna tear it apart with my bare hands, just like I did that crazy old lady.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, do me a favor, please direct your venom toward this little morsel sitting next to you.”

  “Fuck her.” He winced. “I was in shock when I killed that old hag, nothing but adrenalin. I can’t even stand up now, and it’s getting worse. Do something—anything—or my father will hear about this.”

  “Listen to me.” Her expression remained calm as her voice rose. “I had to put you and this little Daemon into your car and drive us all back to town. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’ve never been so humiliated. We don’t drive—that’s what humans do. Daemons ride the wind like eagles; we soar through the night on—”

  “I’m serious, this leg’s killing me. Shit, you have to do something.”

  Gor
geous stared at him for a moment and nodded. “Of course, I will.”

  “Then hurry up.”

  She held her hand over Sullivan’s head. “Dormendum.” He slumped back against the couch and passed out. “Peace and quiet at last. I’ve never heard so much whining in all my days. What a crybaby.”

  Dixie lay unconscious on the couch next to Maxwell, her breathing calm and even. Maxwell, on the other hand, twitched and groaned, his mouth hanging open as if in a silent scream. Each, in their own way, was dead to the world.

  Gorgeous narrowed her eyes at Dixie. After a calming breath, she snatched up a cushion from the couch. She knew the rules, better than most, but they were still worth testing every now and again. She placed the cushion over Dixie’s face and pushed down with all her weight. Almost at once, her hands felt red hot as she clutched the pillow in a white-knuckle death grip. She yielded to the pain and squealed, throwing the cushion against the wall.

  Gorgeous raised her eyes to the heavens. “You’re demented, you know that? What good is it being a Daemon if I can’t kill anyone. I mean, what’s the point?”

  Her hands ached, and she rubbed them together as she trudged to the window. The suite at the Wynn Hotel and Casino offered a spectacular view of The Strip. She lingered for a moment, surveying the exquisite string of neon running the length of the boulevard. The beacon at the top of the Luxor pyramid shot a steady beam of brilliant white light straight up into the heavens. Gorgeous clenched her fists and gazed upward. “I hope it keeps you up at night.”

  She closed her eyes, trying her best to contact Lucas Knight, the only Daemon she knew with the power to kill. As usual, his thoughts were blocked. She tried the telephone. No answer. “This is ridiculous.”

  Gorgeous raised her hands and evaporated in a swirling haze of blue mist.

  Almost at once, she rematerialized in Lucas Knight’s tiny dressing room and noticed the burn marks on the carpet. “Foul play?”

  “Excuse me, miss,” a man’s voice sounded from the opened door to the hallway. “You can’t be in there.”