Demon Fire (Brimstone Magic Book 1)

by Tori Centanni

  “Hey, I was just making conversation,” I said. “I’m happy to ride in silence.”

  “My parents were killed by demons,” he said, hands clenching the wheel.

  My stomach roiled.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, suppressing a shudder at memories of my own bodily demon invasion. Demons were as nasty and evil as you’d expect. I’d been lucky to survive my encounter, and only managed because the demon had possessed me for such a long length of time. Usually the demons killed people outright or possessed them for a short period before killing the host to get out. I’d also been young and stubborn, which hadn’t hurt. It had taken everything I had to fight it out of me. I’d never heard of anyone else doing that—no doubt because no one spoke much about their experiences with demons anymore—but even if I wasn’t the first, it had to be a rare thing. Once a demon got inside a body, they held on for dear life until they were ready to let it go.

  He nodded. “They were experimenting with magic they shouldn’t have been. This was before demon magic had been officially banned. In fact, I believe their deaths might have encouraged the local Magic Council to lobby for the change.”

  Demon magic—and summoning demons—was officially outlawed about fifteen years ago. That meant Conor had been young. Fourteen or fifteen at most. Too young for such tragedy.

  “Must have been hard losing them like that,” I said.

  Conor’s fingers tightened on the wheel. “It was. But I learned how vile demons can be, how dangerous magic involving them is. I became a demon hunter, and took a job with the Watchers as soon as they’d have me. It helps knowing I’m ridding the world of evil in their honor.”

  It sounded so corny but he was totally sincere. I knew Conor was more or less a good guy—most Watchers were, if a little rigid—but knowing that he saw himself as a demon-killing almost-superhero was kind of endearing.

  “Killing demons is a noble goal,” I said. I could still remember the sheer terror and helplessness of being possessed by a demon. The monster had total use of my body while I sat in what felt like the back seat, watching myself do and say terrible things with no ability to stop it. Those were the worst days of my life. I still woke up screaming from the nightmares.

  Conor glanced over again, only briefly because he couldn’t take his eyes off the road, but there was something heavy in his expression. “I certainly think so.”

  At least we were on the same page on that score.

  Chapter 8

  From the outside, Store-It Sunday looked like any other indoor storage facility, if a little rundown. The dark blue paint was starting to flake from the walls and a meager attempt had been made to remove the lettering on the glass of the front door. The result was a faded outline that said “Store-It” and a phantom list of hours.

  The door was locked, with key card access, presumably for customers to get to their units at any time, at least back when this place had customers.

  The building buzzed with the slightest hint of magic. I stepped back a little and glanced around. Conor had gone around back to check things out but I didn’t have long. I blinked and looked at the building with my shadow sight. Shadows were manifestations of demon energy or residual residue from demon magic. They could also indicate the presence of demons. If someone were, say, possessed, there would be a faint shadow around them.

  I squinted into the dark. Nothing. If there were shadows here, they were too faint or impossible to see from outside.

  A noise made me jump. Heart pounding, I checked that Conor was still around back and not standing there watching me use demon magic, trace amounts though they were. It would probably be hard for him to detect me using shadow sight, but I couldn’t be too careful.

  Letting out a breath, I cupped my hands against the glass and peered inside. One of the fluorescent lights overhead had burned out but one further back illuminated a staircase and an elevator. I could make out the outline of a customer service or maybe security desk off to the side, under the dead light.

  The floor was remarkably dust-free but otherwise there was no indication anyone had been inside the building since it went up for sale, save perhaps a cleaning service to keep things tidy.

  “I don’t sense a ‘Go Away’ spell,” Conor said, rounding the building. He’d walked the perimeter. “But there is something magical about this place.”

  I felt it, too.

  “I wonder what that means,” I said.

  Conor stepped up to the intercom above the keypad. “Let’s find out.” He hit the call button. A ringing came through the speaker, tinny and mildly distorted.

  I was about to suggest breaking our way inside when the ringing abruptly cut off. There was silence, but with pops and crackles that let us know the callbox hadn’t dropped the call.

  “This is Demon Hunter Ramsey, with the Watchers,” Conor said sternly.

  More silence. Then: “I’ll be right down.”

  Conor and I exchanged a glance. Before we could comment on the strange pep in the speaker’s voice or the weird fact that anyone was actually here, the elevator doors opened and a man came to the entrance. He wore bright purple pants and a matching jacket, over a dark coal-colored collared shirt. His hair was red and spiked up. He smiled at us indulgently as he opened the door.

  “Sorry for the delay,” he said cheerfully. “We’re closed this evening so I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “You run this storage building?” I asked dubiously.

  He was dressed more like a stage magician than a storage unit manager. I could tell he was a witch, but that didn’t mean much.

  “I run this enterprise. It is much more than it appears to be.”

  I stared blankly at him. I wasn’t in the mood for a big run around.

  “Who are you?” Conor asked.

  The man bowed. “Wilder Jones, at you service.”

  “Well, Mr. Jones—“

  “Wilder,” he corrected. “How can I help you?”

  Conor’s jaw clenched at being interrupted but he recovered quickly. “I’m with the Watchers,” he repeated. “We’re here to ask you a few questions.”

  Wilder’s eyes widened slightly. “If you must.”

  “We must. Let’s go inside.”

  Wilder’s smile returned. There was something off about it. But before I could think about that too hard, he was leading us into the elevator and I didn’t have time to dwell. The elevator was sleek and shiny, but I kept my hand on the hilt of my sword in case this man was leading us into some sort of trap.

  The door opened and my jaw literally dropped. I don’t know what I’d expected: a stark hallway lined with storage unit doors, I guessed. Instead, it was a wide open space, edged with sleek white tables and chairs that surrounded a giant dance floor. An actual disco ball hung in the center of the room, catching the light from silver fixtures that cast just enough light to illuminate the space while keeping it dim and edgy. A sleek white bar with rounded edges sat against the left wall, with walls of liquor behind it, including several hand-labeled bottles that looked like they might be faerie wine or goblin juice.

  It smelled like a bar, with the faint hint of stale beer and sweaty bodies in the air, mingling with the aroma of industrial-strength lemon cleaner. There was another scent buried under all that but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

  “Welcome to Midnight,” Wilder said, throwing his arms out with a flourish.

  Conor and I exchanged another glance.

  “You run a nightclub up here?” Conor asked, skeptical, despite the obvious club right in front of us.

  “Indeed. It’s quite prestigious, so it’s lucky you came tonight. I wouldn’t want my clientele spooked by the Watchers showing up.” He beamed. Again, I got the faintest hint something was off about him. I just couldn’t pinpoint what.

  “Is Marcus Goldsmith a member of your clientele?” Conor asked.

  Wilder’s smile faltered but only for a split second. “I would love to help, but I cannot reveal th
at sort of information. Surely you understand.”

  “I understand that if you’re not going to be straight with me, I’m going to be calling for backup. Wouldn’t want your clientele to get wind of that, would you?” Conor met Wilder’s eyes head on.

  Wilder shifted from side to side, clearly uncomfortable. “He may come here on occasion. I’m unsure why you’re inquiring about him. He’s never done anything unseemly that I’ve noticed.”

  “How often is ‘on occasion’?” I pressed. “And who does he hang out with while he’s here?”

  Wilder blinked. He looked to Conor, as if to ask why I was daring to ask questions. Annoyance rose in my middle. Seriously, not wearing gray didn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to ask questions.

  “Answer her, please,” Conor said.

  “A few times a week, I suppose. These are clients, not pets. I do not keep close tabs.” I somehow doubted that—Wilder had a controlled air about him that made me think he was up in everyone’s business, exactly the sort of guy who would keep tabs on everything and everyone—but I wasn’t going to argue. “And let’s see… I believe he’s friends with Ogden Hunter.”

  Conor quickly wrote that down.

  “And I would mention that Perry Wentworth has been acting strange lately, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

  “Strange how?” Conor asked, clearly dubious.

  Wilder shrugged. “Unusual for him. Drinking a bit more, acting a little skittish. It might be nothing.”

  I stared at him, unconvinced. He sounded totally sincere but there was just something about him that was making my Spidey-sense tingle.

  “I see,” Conor said. I couldn’t tell if he was as suspicious of this nugget of information as I was.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Ramsey?” Wilder asked, deliberately ignoring me. Though when he felt my glare, he smiled a plastic customer service smile in my direction. There really was something off about his expression, maybe in his eyes.

  “Actually, yeah. I’d love to know the last time you saw Mr. Goldsmith.”

  While Wilder was thinking about that, I took a risk and glimpsed into the shadows, hoping the minuscule amount of demonic energy it took would go unnoticed. It only took a second to see shadows clinging to Wilder’s shoulders. I swallowed a gasp and quickly looked away.

  Wilder stopped mid-sentence, eyes cutting to me, which made Conor glance over as well. I held my breath, hoping to hell he couldn’t sense the microscopic amount of demon magic my shadow sight had just used. After a second, Wilder kept talking, swearing that he’d last seen Marcus a week ago, long before he’d died.

  My vision swam. The shadows could mean a lot of things, including that Wilder was currently possessed. It was impossible to tell without a longer, more powerful look and I couldn’t risk that now. It had been reckless to risk even the slightest glance. Conor was a trained demon hunter. He knew how to sense any hint of their presence, though he wasn’t able to see shadows. If he felt demonic energy clinging to me, I was screwed.

  As Conor and I walked out of the building, I had to keep myself from running out of there, as if the shadows could fly off Wilder and glom onto me.

  “Are you all right?” Conor asked, when we reached his car. “You look pale.”

  My stomach twisted. I couldn’t tell him what I’d seen without revealing my secret so I just nodded, keeping my mouth shut to avoid throwing up.

  Conor didn’t look convinced but after a moment, he started the car and pulled away from Store-It Sunday. Knots inside me loosened as the distance between us and the demon shadows increased. The farther away we got, the better.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “To find this Ogden Hunter and see if he knows Marcus is dead,” Conor said.

  “What about the other guy, the one Wilder said was acting funny?” I asked. That would be my first target, just to cross it off my list, since I was fairly sure that had been a lie meant as a distraction.

  “I’d rather speak with the victim’s friends first, and then chase wild geese,” he said sternly.

  “So you think he was lying, too.” I was impressed. I’d known Conor was good at his job of demon hunting. I’d heard stories about him single-handedly taking down a massive, powerful demon with a set of silver daggers. On some level, I knew he must also have great intuition (one doesn’t survive fighting demons otherwise) but it was different seeing it in action.

  “I think he didn’t seem particularly forthcoming and then all of a sudden he wanted to throw an extra name in the ring.”

  “So where is this Ogden fellow? Hiding in shame from his old-fashioned name?” I asked.

  Conor shook his head. “There’s great tradition in names.”

  I sighed. So much for us having a breakthrough in personal understanding. “I was just teasing.”

  “He lives with his parents. His father works at the Magic Council as a file clerk.”

  That’s right, folks, there were witches who took paper-pushing jobs at the Magic Council, largely for the prestige of saying they worked for the Council. I couldn’t imagine a more boring job. I mean, if I wanted to work in a cubicle, I’d get a job at a mortal-run company and hang up my proverbial witch hat.

  The Hunters lived in a suburban housing development a little north of Everett. All of the houses were roughly the same tall rectangle shape, though some color variation and slight changes in the front porches had been made to keep the houses from looking entirely cookie-cutter. It didn’t help much.

  Their driveway had two cars parked in front of it and signs all over warned against street parking, so Conor had to drive around until he found a section for overflow parking near a small, grassy park area. The spaces butted up to the green square of land and only half were full.

  At this hour, no one was in the park or even around on the sidewalks, which was good, because I wasn’t leaving my sword behind.

  I shut the door and slid my sword into its sheath, nodding that I was ready. Conor hit a button and the car beeped as it locked.

  Headlights flashed. A car came zooming around the corner. It skidded to a stop on the street, not bothering to park in one of the open spaces. Two guys jumped out of the passenger doors. They wore ski masks and all black, like they’d just committed a bank robbery.

  Before I could think, they were coming toward us, flinging magic. The first spell came flying at me. I ducked and rolled. It smacked into the pavement, crashing into the ground like a small meteor. Rocks flew up and smacked into my ankle.

  I heard Conor swear. He’d also dodged and was now on the ground in the other direction, slightly behind the car. I was out in the open.

  Another ball of magic flew toward my face. I made a mental note to cook up a batch of shield charms when I got time.

  I dodged again, and then quickly sprang to my feet. Sword out, I charged the first masked guy, the one who was throwing magic my way. He seemed surprised and hesitated before throwing his next spell. It was a big, glowing green ball. The heat of it practically singed my cheek as it flew past, grazing my head.

  In my periphery, I saw Conor withdraw a weapon from his belt. This wasn’t one of his silver daggers. It was some kind of rod with a magical charge. A spell flew right at him. I yelled at him to duck. Instead, he held up the magic rod. The spell bounced off an invisible shield that the rod had generated.

  Pretty cool toy, but I didn’t have time to appreciate it.

  The guy facing me cast another spell. I reached him before it left his fingers and swung my blade at his wrist. He withdrew his hand in time to save it and my blade cut through the air. Another ball of magic flew at my chest. I whirled, dodging, and attacked again. This time the tip of my blade grazed his skin.

  He screamed, but the cut was little.

  The driver revved the car engine.

  The mage I was fighting swore and tossed another ball of magic at me, and then another, in quick succession.

  What kind of magic did th
ese guys have? It was exactly like the mages in the park. Way too powerful and quick. Mage magic was strong but it shouldn’t have been this rapid-fire. They should need more time between spells to gather energy.

  I dodged and ducked, wishing like heck Conor wasn’t here and I could use my demon fire against these guys. Instead, I rushed the mage with my sword. As I flew at him, I felt a crackle of magic in front of me and slammed into an invisible wall.

  I fell to the ground, stunned. My pulse raced. I licked my lips.

  The magical wall was exactly like the one that mage in the park had thrown up. It was a shield spell of some sort, but bigger and stronger than any I’d seen. The guy wasn’t holding a rod like Conor’s. I hadn’t seen him throw a shield charm. So how the hell had he done it?

  Panting, I forced myself to my feet. I readied my sword to attack.

  The next spell caught me by surprise. I was too close. The burst of magic slammed into my midsection, exploding against my skin. Heat scorched me and I flew backward at impact, losing my balance. My butt hit the pavement hard. My sword clattered to the ground next to me.

  I heard Conor shout something about arrest as he rounded on the guy with his dagger and magic shield. The guy threw yet more magic but the driver honked. He tossed out another spell in Conor’s direction as he backed up to the car, pulled the door open, and climbed in the back. The other mage tossed another spell in my direction. I rolled out of the way, pain exploding in my side.

  The driver honked again and the second mage got in. The car peeled out, tires inches from my toes.

  Conor swore as they went, quickly pulling out his notebook.

  “You’re taking notes now?” I asked, incredulous. In my defense, my head was ringing and pain was still clouding my judgment.

  “License plate number,” he said, snapping the notebook shut and coming toward me.

  “Oh,” I said. Honestly, I didn’t think the Watchers ever thought to look at such mundane stuff. Maybe I really had been underestimating them.

  He extended a hand and I took it, using all of my effort to heft myself off the ground. Pain radiated through my midsection again and I winced.