Paranormal After Dark: 20 Paranormal Tales of Demons, Shifters, Werewolves, Vampires, Fae, Witches, Magics, Ghosts and More

by Rebecca Hamilton

  “How’s it hanging, Mikey?” Shylock the peddler demon asked.

  I adopted a nonchalant expression, though I was sure he’d appeared here on purpose. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, not since before Jordan and I were a couple.

  “I’m surviving. What’s the occasion?”

  Shylock blew out a stream of smoke, grinning enough to reveal his slightly sharp, tobacco-stained teeth. “You don’t have to sound so suspicious. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

  I finally scowled. “The last time we met, I stopped you from killing someone and claiming a soul for your collection. Forgive me if I suspect you’re holding a grudge.”

  He straightened his leather jacket, pulling the cig from his thin lips. “You know me better than that. I’m the forgiving sort.”

  I snorted. Our paths crossed back when I was sent to investigate a string of murders overseas a few decades ago. Turns out he was working as an assassin-for-hire in exchange for souls. We fought. I bested him, but he was so impressed with me that we agreed to a ceasefire. Of all the demons I’d met, he was the closest to not being a total dickwaffle. That being said, he was still a dangerous bastard.

  “Whatever, man. If you’ve got something to say, say it. I’m in a hurry.”

  His shark-like grin spread wider. “Heading home to the wifey?”

  I glared. “So what if I am?”

  “Can’t blame you. She’s pretty plain for my tastes, but she’s got killer legs.”

  I stepped forward threateningly and he held up his hands. “Whoa, calm down, mate. It was a compliment, not a threat. I’m just here to confirm the rumor.”

  “What rumor?”

  “Seers are dropping like flies. Our archdemon lord hasn’t made any orders, and neither has anyone down below. Word on the street is that you’ve got yourself a traitor.”

  A nerve in my jaw twitched. I didn’t care to confirm it because I truly did not want to believe one of my brothers had fallen. We lost enough of them in the Battle in Heaven all those centuries ago. I couldn’t stand the thought of a repeat of history. I lost a lot of good friends that day. “I’m not the kind to gossip, Shy. You want that, go elsewhere.”

  I turned my back on him, starting towards the next street. He trailed behind me, his voice borderline whiny. “Ah, c’mon, Mike. If he’s whacked as many Seers as I’ve heard, then you’re gonna need help. A gun for hire.”

  I laughed mockingly. “Oh, so that’s what you’re up to? You want me to hire you to kill this guy?”

  “We’d make a good team and you know it.”

  “Yeah, there’s just that little matter of you being evil and also a dick.”

  Shylock caught up to me and pouted. “Well, you don’t have to be mean about it.”

  That almost made me laugh. Damn. “Sorry, Shy. Not going to happen. We’ll find this guy on our own dime, not yours.”

  “I’ll give you a discount.”

  “Forget it.”

  He sighed, grumbling, “Fine, but I won’t be the only one asking.”

  I stopped dead. I whirled around, intent on demanding what that meant, but by then, he’d disappeared. I searched the crowd along the sidewalk. Gone. Not surprising. Demons could move fast enough to break the sound barrier if they felt like it. He’d been cryptic on purpose, the asshole. Nothing I could do about it now.

  I checked my watch. Ten minutes ‘til one. Three blocks to my wife.

  At least the day was looking up.

  Jordan

  * * *

  THE SHRIMP SLITHERED against my fingertips as I peeled off the tails, tossing their little grey striped corpses into a strainer in the sink. The music of the Stranglers poured over the room and I plucked the lyrics out of the air every few seconds, trying to get my mind off of Belial and the dream. Behind me, a pot of water, saffron, and chicken broth simmered, waiting eagerly for my attention. Once the shrimp were shell-and-tail free, I’d move on to the chicken thighs. One step at a time. Cook. Breathe. Calm down. In that order.

  I was halfway through sliding the raw chicken into a hot pan when I heard a knock at the door. I glanced at the clock on the microwave. Ten minutes to one. Michael was early, and had clearly forgotten his key again. He had the worst habit of leaving things at my apartment.

  I finished shoveling the chicken into the pan, washed my hands, and answered the door with a sigh on my lips.

  “We’ve got to work on your memory, Mi—”

  The man standing on my welcome mat was not my husband.

  He was black, in every sense of the definition. His skin was far darker than mine, nearly reaching Wesley Snipes’ infamous hue. His hair was black too, but the edges near his hairline were peppered with grey, as was the hair on his stylish goatee. He wore a dark blue suit and white tie, his dress shoes polished to a high sheen, and a leather jacket was tossed over his right arm. It was too hot for these clothes. I figured he was a Jehovah’s Witness because he looked like he’d just stepped out of a church, or out of a Tyler Perry movie, for that matter.

  I cleared my throat, trying to mask my confusion. “Can I help you?”

  “Yeah,” he said in a deep voice. “Jordan Amador?”

  “Yes?”

  He smiled. “Figures. You look just like her.”

  My brow furrowed into a frown. “Like who?”

  “Your mother.”

  My blood ran cold. I gripped the door to keep myself from swaying at the sudden sensation of panic. No one knew my mother except me, my aunt, the angels…and the demons. But I couldn’t sense any power coming off him.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  His smile didn’t waver.

  “Lewis Jackson. I’m your father.”

  Chapter 4

  Jordan

  “MIND IF I come in?”

  I nodded, too numb to speak, and he stepped inside. I shut the door, slumping against it, still trying to wrap my head around the words he’d just said.

  “That’s not…that’s not possible. My Dad ran out on me when I was born,” I mumbled, raising my eyes to look at him again.

  He tossed his jacket across the kitchen chair, facing me again. “I wouldn’t put it that way, but I guess you’re right.”

  “How did you find me? How did you even know my name?”

  He reached into his pocket and withdrew a box of Marlboro menthols, lighting one before he spoke. “Your mother decided on a name long before she had you. Catalina’s a woman of faith, wanted your name to have…what did she call it…symbolic resonance?”

  Lewis chuckled then. “Always had a way with words, she did. Anyway, I ran your name in a Google search and saw you were hanging out with some guy in a band. Flew out here, asked around until I came to this Southern diner called the Sweet Spot and they told me you lived near here. Ran into the mailman and he said you live in this apartment.”

  He shrugged. “So here I am.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to flatten out all the thoughts racing through my mind. “Flew in from where?”

  “Detroit.”

  “Long way to fly for your long-lost daughter,” I said, drawing the last three words out slowly as I crossed my arms beneath my chest. His explanation kicked me out of my stunned state. Some things were just not adding up with his story.

  “What exactly prompted this reunion?”

  Lewis grinned again. “Damn, you talk just like her, girl.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Answer the question.”

  He inhaled deeply, staring at me with eyes that were the same color as mine—like Hershey’s milk chocolate melting on a sidewalk during a hot day. After blowing smoke at the ceiling, he walked towards me and stopped a few inches away. I didn’t back up because I knew at least four different ways to knock him out if he dared touch me.

  “Got some people that ain’t exactly happy with me right now. Business partners. Ain’t the friendly type either. Thought you might be able to help me out.”

  The vagueness of his words weren’
t lost on me. Hell, he was already dressed like a pimp so finding out he was one certainly wouldn’t shock me. “Business partners?”

  “Yep. Investments. That sort of thing.”

  I shook my head, smiling. “You flew that long a way and still can’t be honest with me? That’s pretty rotten, Daddy-o.”

  He flinched at the name, and I savored the expression.

  “What?” he asked. “You want me to be honest now, is that it?”

  I shrugged. “Might as well. Can’t hurt your chances any.”

  “Business is business, little girl. I don’t need to get into no details. All you need to know is that I got a lotta people bangin’ down my door and I need some help.”

  “How much do you owe?”

  He sucked in another mouthful of smoke. “Fifty-thousand.”

  I laughed. He blinked at me, surprised by my reaction. I clapped my hands once, wagging a finger at him as I walked towards the kitchen where my chicken was in danger of burning in the pan.

  “You’re good. Very good. Best scam artist I’ve seen so far.”

  Lewis’ face melted into an offended look. “You think I’m lyin’?”

  “No shit, Sherlock,” I scoffed, flipping over the sizzling meat. “First of all, you haven’t asked about taking a paternity test to even prove you’re my so-called father; second of all, the way you found me sounds like pure bullshit; third of all, only a fool would think I had or could get a hold of that kind of money. So yeah, I think you’re lying.”

  He stalked towards me in quick, angry strides, and reached into his pocket. I tensed, ready to lay him out if he tried to hit me, but he came away with a photograph, thrusting it into my face.

  “Is this good enough for you?”

  I stared. It was a photo of my mother and my supposed father at the altar of a church. Some of the bitter amusement drained away. It looked pretty real. A cold spot formed in my stomach but I ignored it, hardening my expression.

  “Any fool can Photoshop.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said dryly, and then reached into his pocket once more. This time, it wasn’t a picture that appeared. Black beads dangled from his fingers, tapering down into an old cross so worn at the edges that the paint faded away to reveal the brown wood beneath it. My mouth went dry. I remembered the way the beads felt against my cheek when I fell asleep with my head nestled in my mother’s chest. Once, when I was an infant, I chewed on the end, forever marking the bottom of the cross with tiny teeth marks. She told me she got the rosary from her mother the day before she died. Her mother was a devout Catholic. My mother hadn’t really been, but she kept them anyway.

  I took them from him, my fingers trembling. “Where did you get this?”

  Before he could say anything, I heard the lock on the door turn and then Michael walked in.

  He froze with a hand on the knob, green eyes dashing from my lifeless expression to the tall black man standing only inches away. I saw many things flicker in his face—shock, anger, suspicion, worry—before his expression settled into a neutral look. He shut the door, shoving his keys back into his pocket and dropping a plastic bag with what appeared to be a caramel apple in it on the table.

  “Hi. And you are…?”

  “Lewis, this is Michael. Michael, this is Lewis. My…” I couldn’t say the word. It choked me with cold, dry fingers.

  “—her father,” Lewis finished, frowning at my hesitation.

  Michael’s eyes widened to epic proportions and then darted to meet mine. He stepped forward, as if he wanted to touch me, but restrained himself. Lewis’ face darkened with anger as he glanced between the two of us.

  “Who’s he?”

  I licked my lips, mumbling, “My husband.”

  “You gotta be shittin’ me, girl,” he snapped, stepping back to give us both disapproving glares. “You married a white boy? What the hell your mother been teachin’ you?”

  All the horror and sadness that had been bottled up inside me suddenly burst outward like a crack in a dam, the water erasing every shred of decency I once possessed.

  “She’s dead.”

  Lewis’ eyes also went wide, his jaw slack. “She’s—”

  “Dead,” I spat. “She died when I was five years old. The only thing she had the time to teach me was to be strong in the face of evil, but I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you?”

  The annoyance came rushing back into his features then. “You ain’t gonna talk to me like that. I’m still your father.”

  “Calling yourself that doesn’t make it true. You can say it all you want. Father, father, father. You’re still just some asshole sperm donor.”

  He stepped close, pointing a finger at me. “Better watch your mouth. I didn’t leave you and your mother because I was scared. I thought you’d have a better life without me. We wanted different things. It woulda happened eventually if I didn’t split when I did. Thought I’d be making things easier for you.”

  A bitter laugh escaped me. “Easier? You thought our lives would be easier without you? Let me show you how my life has been without you.”

  I grabbed the hem of my shirt and began to lift it up. Michael caught my wrist and his expression was strained as if he were distraught by the fury blazing inside me, spilling out of every corner of my skin. “Jordan, you don’t have to do this.”

  “No, let him see. Let him see his so-called easier.” I yanked off the shirt and Lewis’ gaze fell upon the scar on my chest, and he couldn’t hide the look of abject horror. I turned around, exposing the network of scars down my back.

  “Does this look easier to you? After my mother was taken, they sent me to live with Carmensita.”

  “Christ,” he croaked. “What did she do to you?”

  “What didn’t she do to me,” I said in a low voice before turning around to face him.

  “Clearly leaving us was the best decision you ever made. I suggest you do so again, since it worked out so well last time.”

  “Jordan—” He tried to touch my arm, but I jerked it away.

  “Get out.”

  “Wait—”

  “Get the fuck out of my home.”

  Lewis stared at me until I screamed, “GET OUT!”

  Slowly, he gathered up his jacket and left. Michael said nothing. I threw my shirt on the floor and pressed my hands against the counter, forcing myself to breathe, but the air had evacuated the room, leaving nothing but poison to fill my lungs. My shoulders started to shake. I pressed my forehead into the cool surface, stifling the sob building in my chest. I felt Michael’s arms wrap around me, and his soft lips against the nape of my neck. Somehow, this simple touch made everything unravel. He slid his palm over my bare stomach to my arm and turned me around, folding me into his chest. I cried while he held me, still silent, still kind, still mine.

  * * *

  A HEADACHE WOKE me up. The ache settled behind my left eye and throbbed, as if a tiny man with a jackhammer was going at it with my skull. I groaned and rolled onto my stomach, pressing my face into the pillow. Several slow breaths helped some of the pain subside. I stood up, slowly, experimentally, and then shuffled into the bathroom. Two Advil, a glass of room temperature water. Easy fix. Wish I could say the same for the rest of my life.

  Michael sat at the kitchen table, hunched over his laptop, one hand folded over his mouth. He glanced up when I walked in and concern rushed over his face, replacing the concentration.

  “Hey,” he murmured.

  I offered him a small smile. “Hey.”

  I noticed an enormous black pot on the stove and lifted the lid, surprised to find yellow rice dotted with shrimp, chicken, sausage, and diced peppers inside.

  “You finished the paella.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “Figured you’d be hungry when you got up.”

  I replaced the lid, walked over, and kissed him. He slid his hands around my waist, fingertips gliding over my bare skin. I sighed and pressed my forehead to his.

  “Thank you.”


  “De nada,” he whispered back.

  I sat sideways in his lap with my feet dangling a couple of inches above the floor, and rested my face in the side of his neck. “Am I a horrible person for reacting the way I did?”

  He shook his head. “I’m still amazed that you didn’t punch him in the face. I was definitely thinking about it, to be honest. What did he even want from you?”

  “Fifty-thousand dollars.”

  Michael gaped at me. “You’re serious.”

  I nodded. “Apparently, he’s in trouble with some ‘business partners’ and ran out of options so he tracked me down.”

  “Did he have proof that he was your father?”

  I nodded towards the counter where the necklace still sat. “He had my mother’s rosary. The one she got from her mom. I remember it from when I was little. I don’t know how he got it, especially since he didn’t know my mother died.”

  “Didn’t the psychiatric hospital forward all your mother’s stuff to your aunt?”

  I nodded.

  “Maybe he went to see her first. She must have been holding out on you last year when you went to visit. Not sure why she would have given him the rosary.”

  I snorted. “Because it’s twice as cruel to let him have that and not tell him she died than to tell him the truth. What a bitch.”

  “That’s the understatement of the century.”

  Silence fell. I sighed. “Baby, what should I do?”

  He met my eyes. “What does your heart tell you to do?”

  “My heart doesn’t speak English.”

  He chuckled then, kissing the corner of my lips. “Then I’ll just have to translate. But we don’t have to do that now. One problem at a time, hmm?”

  “Yeah. Murdered Seers come before deadbeat dads who may or may not be pimps.”

  My husband made a noise between a laugh and a sound of horror. “That’s not funny.”