Night Demon

by Lisa Kessler

  “We hoped there would be no rebirth,” Mulac said quietly. “We did not know if we had prevented it.”

  All three brothers turned to look at Mulac.

  “Even if she did live again, she would be mortal in this lifetime.” Kane raked his fingers through his blond hair. “She would not know her past. And she would no longer be a Night Walker.”

  Mulac shrugged. “Perhaps her past self knew her.”

  Issa nodded. “It is possible. The Demon might have reached out to the goddess through dreams.”

  “We must find her,” Kane said quietly.

  “The goddess?” Colin asked. “She could be anywhere, Kane.”

  “Then we need to hurry.”

  “It is futile, brother,” Issa said, his tone soft. “This world is vast. She could be anywhere. We will be searching in vain.”

  Issa watched Kane pace like an agitated jungle cat. He reached for his brother’s thoughts and found Kane’s mind shielded. Issa frowned. While he felt a duty to protect this world, his brother’s anger seemed hot and personal.

  “Do none of you see that we have no other choice?” Kane gestured to them and dropped his hand in disgust. “Camalotz nearly ripped eternity from my chest the last time we faced her. I still remember the pain of her claws clenching around my heart. Have all of you forgotten?

  “She will never be satisfied, my brothers, not until there is nothing left in this world to feed her, and I have no intention of letting her find my Rita.”

  His mate. Issa remembered Colin telling him his brother had taken an immortal bride. Although Kane had a tendency to launch into action without thinking things through, this explained his urgency.

  Kane resumed pacing. “Although you seem to think this search will be futile, we must try. If we allow the Demon to gain enough strength, the mortal world will not be the only one in danger. None of us will be safe from her appetite. Are you ready to see the end of this world, of your very lives? Because the end is surely what is coming unless we do something to stop it.”

  Kane stared at each of them, a silent challenge brewing in his blue eyes.

  Issa knew what lay ahead for them, and part of his soul yearned to retreat back under the sands of Egypt. He was tired of fighting for a world that no longer knew him, that he no longer belonged to.

  But he was a god. Upholding the western corner of this world was his purpose, his reason for existing. He bore the weight of all humanity on his shoulders, and he couldn’t abandon it when it needed him most. Without duty, he was merely a shadow of a past long forgotten.

  Issa sighed, nodding his head, conviction filling his dark eyes. “You are right, Kane. We must find a way to stop her.”

  “Or die trying,” Colin offered.

  Mulac nodded slowly. “If it is not already too late.”

  Chapter Ten

  Gretchen awoke with a smile. After spending more nights than she could count on a cot in the jungle, she’d almost forgotten how nice it felt to sleep in a real bed. She sat up, stretching, and looked out at the horizon. She’d left the drapes partially open last night so she wouldn’t miss the view when she woke up.

  The sunrise didn’t disappoint.

  She’d never been to San Diego before. She’d heard it was a beautiful city, but that seemed like a huge understatement. The sky was pure blue without a single cloud. She could see the downtown skyline, and the deep, cobalt water of the bay sparkled in the morning sunlight. Still in her rumpled sweats, she got out of bed and pulled the curtains open completely.

  Boats with bright sails bobbed along the bay outside, and seagulls swooped over the rooftops. She looked up just as a shiny blue-and-red jet glided down between the high-rises, landing at the airport right on the edge of the water. The tall buildings clustered downtown were just south of her window. Sunshine reflected off the glass skyscrapers, making everything look clean and new. Beautiful.

  Smiling, she turned and opened her door to grab the morning paper waiting for her just outside. Tucking the paper under her arm, she sat down in the chair next to the window to read.

  Her smile faded before she even turned the first page. On the cover the headline read:

  Another Unexplained Mass Suicide in Tecate, Mexico Has Authorities Baffled

  Her brow furrowed as she read further.

  Just across the border in Tecate, Mexico, over 150 people have been found dead from self-inflicted injuries. Other than similar wounds to the neck, there are no apparent connections between the victims, or motive for the sudden wave of suicides.

  The story went on to name the dead and speculate whether all of the recent mass suicides were related and how. Gretchen dropped the paper; she didn’t want to read anymore.

  She got up and went to the window, smile gone. Ominous shadows now faded the brilliant reds and blues of the glorious day, as if the sun, sky, and sea were only trying to distract everyone from the danger that lingered around them.

  An illusion of peace and happiness.

  Gretchen knew her geography. Tecate stood less than one hundred miles away from her hotel. Yet, right below her window, people still jogged by and airplanes landed, as if nothing was amiss. She wiped her forehead.

  Didn’t they care that people were dying?

  Gretchen turned away from the window, massaging her temples. She needed to cool off and stop overreacting. What was wrong with her? News stories didn’t usually get to her like this. Besides, even if people did try to do something about the suicides, it wouldn’t bring back the ones who were already dead.

  They’re better off dead, anyway.

  The thought stunned her for a second. Her gaze flicked to the finger she cut back at the tent. The faint, red line tempted her to tear it open. Her head throbbed as she forced her gaze away from her wounded skin. Gretchen sat on the edge of her bed, her stomach twisting, perspiration gleaming on her face.

  With a frustrated sigh, Gretchen stripped off her sweat pants and sweatshirt. Even in her sports bra and panties her skin burned. She felt tight all over, like she’d just run a marathon. Maybe she was getting sick.

  She turned up the air conditioner and returned to her perch on the bed. If she could get the stabbing pain in her head to stop, maybe she could think straight again.

  A shower. That would help. She went into the bathroom but had to cling to the basin as a wave of dizziness came over her. She fought to stay on her feet.

  That’s when it hit her.

  Life was a precious gift, something never to be taken for granted, and yet, right now, she couldn’t find a single reason to live. Her brow furrowed as she struggled to find her purpose in this world. Surely her life had meaning.

  Didn’t it?

  Why resist? Why struggle to keep living? No one would miss her. The world would keep right on going outside her window. No one would notice that she was gone.

  Lukas would notice.

  But would he really? He kept her at a safe emotional distance, always pushing her away. Would he really miss her if she were gone?

  “Stop it!” Her voice echoed off of the tiled walls, jarring her free from her thoughts for a moment.

  Your blood will set you free.

  The whisper from the jungle.

  “No.” She couldn’t breathe. Her hand smoothed down the length of her throat, massaging it, squeezing it tighter until…

  It hurt.

  Gretchen gasped, lurching out of the bathroom. The presence from the altar in the jungle was here in the room with her, polluting her mind. She knew it, but resisting the impulse, the voice, seemed impossible.

  She stumbled onto the bed, gasping for air, fighting the urge to scratch at her throat. She choked, gagging and gulping. Drenched in a cold sweat, her heart pounded as every survival instinct inside of her screamed to slice open her throat, to save herself before she suffocated.

  She needed help. With a shaky hand, she raised the phone to her ear and tried to dial, hoping it might distract her from the overpowering urge to rip ope
n her own esophagus.

  But without noticing, her free hand already scratched at her tender throat, clawing until she bled. Her pulse raced as she yanked her hand away and dropped the receiver. She’d never survive until tonight. Whatever poisoned her mind wouldn’t be satisfied until she was dead.

  Her lungs ached. It would be so easy if she could just breathe again, if she stopped fighting and…

  Cut her own throat.

  Her eyes flew open. Forcing a breath into her lungs, she crawled over to the discarded newspaper and skimmed the article until she found it—the only thing linking all of the recent suicides. Every victim bled to death with cut or torn open throats.

  She wasn’t safe anywhere.

  Anguished tears poured down her cheeks as Gretchen fought to keep her hands from her neck, but every second her will to live weakened and the voice whispered, tempting her to submit.

  Your blood will make you free. The pain will stop.

  How much longer could she keep this up? She couldn’t breathe. Her soul ached for freedom from the stifling confines of her body.

  “No.” Gretchen wept quietly. “Please, no.”

  She brought her hands up, tangling them in her long, red hair, rocking herself as she fought the ideas that weren’t her own, the ones that plagued her mind and tried to convince her that death was her only path to freedom. She looked around the hotel room for anything that might save her from herself, when her gaze fell onto her open purse.

  For a moment, hope speared through the haze of self-mutilation and helplessness. She crawled over to her purse and ripped out the contents until she finally found her prescription bottle. She still had some Ambien left.

  She kept a prescription of the sleeping pills with her whenever she traveled. She’d depended on them when she first arrived in the Yucatan jungle. She’d forgotten she still had them.

  Prying the lid open, she popped three into her mouth and forced herself to swallow them dry. Never before had she been more grateful for her doctor’s warning: More than two and you’ll be knocked out for hours.

  Dragging herself back up onto the bed, she crawled under the covers and rolled onto her back, pinning her hands underneath her body while she struggled to wait for the drugs to take over.

  “If you want me, you’ll have to kill me yourself,” she whispered. “I won’t do it for you.”

  …

  Although the town of Campo was technically still within San Diego County, it sat more than ninety minutes away from the beach. Not that Roy ever visited the beach, but he did watch the Weather Channel. While the temperature was topping 100 degrees outside his trailer, the beach bums were enjoying a moderate, eighty-five degree day.

  Bastards.

  Roy punched the numbers on his remote, settling back in his chair while the pretty-boy newscaster told him about some crazy-ass people killing themselves across the border.

  “Let ‘em go, right, Roger?”

  Roger, his thirty-year-old parrot, ruffled his feathers on his perch. “Let ‘em go. Let ‘em go.”

  “That’s right.” Roy nodded, taking a swig of his Budweiser. He clicked up the volume.

  “The Center for Disease Control has issued a warning not to cross the international border,” the newscaster said. “Officials fear the suicides might be related to lead poisoning or possible water contamination. The National Guard has quarantined the city of Brownsville, Texas in hopes of containing the hysteria.”

  The news report ended with a suicide prevention hotline flashing across the screen and some quack telling him to reach out. He pulled himself up from his threadbare easy chair, tossed the remote into the seat, and shuffled into his tiny kitchen.

  He tugged the icebox open and peered inside. The cool air caressed his wrinkled skin like a lover. Until now, he hadn’t noticed he’d been sweating. Over his shoulder, Roger squawked and flapped his wings while Roy’s gnarled fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, popping them free until he wore only his yellowed wife-beater.

  But he still felt hot.

  Closing the fridge, he moved over to the thermostat. “Damn thing must be broke. No way it’s seventy-five in this oven.”

  “Oven!” Roger echoed, scooting back and forth on his perch. “Oven, oven, oven.”

  “Shut up, ya old buzzard.”

  Squinting to make out the numbers, Roy pushed the plastic lever down to sixty-five. The compressor wheezed, the fan blew, but Roy didn’t feel any cooler. He rubbed at the back of his neck, staring at the thermostat. Ten steps later he had the tattered Yellow Pages, scanning for air conditioning repair. He needed to get a repairman out before his trailer really did become an oven.

  Suddenly, Roger landed on Roy’s shoulder. He winced, helping the bird off and onto his leathery hand.

  “What’s with you?” He dropped the phone book, staring at his colorful friend. His only friend. “You know better than to land on a bare shoulder. Rookie mistake, Roger.” The parrot tilted his head, still trying to fly away. Roy held tight to his feet and frowned. “Are you hot too, boy?”

  Roger stopped flapping his wings and stared into Roy’s eyes. “Run, Roy.”

  The old man’s heart stuttered in his chest. “I didn’t say run.”

  The bird fluttered it wings so hard Roy finally let him go. The parrot circled the trailer, his wings knocking over empty beer cans and knick-knacks while cawing, “Run, run, run, run.”

  Roy clutched his palpitating heart as he stumbled backward toward the door. His sweat-drenched back came in contact with the cool wood paneling and pain shot through his shoulder. He glanced over to see that blood trickled from the puncture wounds where Roger had dug into his bare shoulder. He wiped at the blood and Roger’s panicked command to run faded into the distance.

  He stared at the crimson stain on his fingertip and a wave of peace washed through him.

  Your blood will make you free.

  He didn’t need a repairman. He needed freedom.

  Roy pushed off the wall and made his way to the kitchen. Roger kept flying through the trailer with his “Run, run, run, run,” but Roy barely noticed. Roy tugged at the top drawer and smiled when he saw his fishing knife. Slowly, he drew the long, slender blade from its leather sheath. He’d filleted fresh fish from Lake Morena with this knife for twenty years.

  Before he could bring the blade up to his neck, Roger swooped in, his talons reaching for the knife. Roy tugged against him. “You can’t stop me.”

  “Run, run, run,” the bird answered.

  But Roy wrenched the knife free and sliced through his own neck from gill to gill. Just like a Bass.

  The moment his blood started to spill down his shirt, the insufferable heat escaped. Roy smiled in relief and collapsed onto the floor.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Guardian awoke to find his arms empty. The Demon was gone. Because his spirit was tied to hers, he usually awakened with her, but not this time.

  How long ago had she left? Did she feed in the daylight? She could move like the wind, silent as the night itself, and unlike him, Camalotz could take any form she chose once she tasted blood. He rose in the darkness of the cave where they had rested while the sun warmed the earth. Camalotz was not helpless during the daylight hours like the Night Walkers, but her strength still came from the moon. Rarely did she choose to wander the world of man in that weakened state.

  Striding toward the entrance, the Guardian lifted his head toward the sky, searching for her scent. She hunted nearby—he felt her presence, sensed her power, but he couldn’t see her. She could be anything—a bird soaring above him, or a nocturnal predator in the forest—hunting, always thirsting to be satisfied, yet never finding the drink to sustain her. As her strength returned, her mind furthered its reach, searching for more people, more entry points for her mental venom. Each death brought her more power.

  The Guardian scanned the area, searching for her with his inhuman abilities, slowly turning in all directions. Lightning lit the heavens
, arcing above the treetops. It wouldn’t be long before the rain followed. He listened to the creatures of the jungle—his sensitive ears even heard the beating of a nearby mosquito’s wings.

  Finally, he ventured out into the jungle, winding his way through the gnarled tree trunks and vines, following the scent that would lead him back to her side.

  …

  The moment the sun dipped below the waves of the Pacific, Lukas woke and rushed toward Gretchen’s hotel. He’d hoped she’d listened to him the night before and stayed inside, safe during the day while he slept. After talking with Calisto and Kate for most of the night, he believed his maker’s mate was connected to everything he and Gretchen were uncovering.

  He wasn’t sure how Kate fit just yet, but it couldn’t be a coincidence that she’d been immortal only since the tremors in the jungle started. Or that her spirit animal was a wolf, like the Goddess of the Moon, and Calisto’s maker showed up to help make her strong. And she’d chanted ko’oten. Come. A welcoming.

  What if everything they discovered was true? What if a Mayan Demon walked the earth again, leaving a trail of death in its wake? And if the news stories about mass suicides were any indication, it could kill during the daylight.

  He knocked on Gretchen’s door and waited. No answer. And worse yet, even with his preternatural hearing, no sound escaped her room. Grateful the hotel gave him two key cards, he pulled the spare from his pocket. His pulse raced as he slid his key card into the slot. The moment the lock disengaged, he bolted through the door, popping the security latch right out of the wall.

  Gretchen laid sprawled out, face down on her bed, in only her bra and underwear. Terror seized him, and his entire body tensed until he saw her back rise and fall with each breath.

  But his noisy entrance hadn’t disturbed her. In fact, she never even moved.

  “Gretchen?” He sat beside her and gently rolled her over.

  Her throat was bruised as though someone had attempted to strangle her, and deep scratches marred the smooth skin around the entire base of her neck. Lukas swallowed the knot of terror in his throat.