It was hard to steer clear of the obvious religious overtones connected with demons, and despite a desire to do just that, I found I couldn’t. Fallen angels or creatures from another dimension? Which would be preferable? Either one required a leap of faith and there was little I took on faith these days. Too many hard lessons in cold, merciless reality for me to quite believe in something I couldn’t see, touch or shoot. Just like ghosts.
But I had shot it. Mercy had touched it. We’d wounded it and had been wounded in return. I did not for a moment believe it was dead. One fake out is more than enough for me to never trust to appearances again. But, Primals to the side, things that could be wounded could be killed. Imps weren’t partial to salt and I was willing to bet that this mega-demon wasn’t, either. Detouring down the religious track for a moment, salt was a major component of Holy water, and hence might be why Holy water was traditionally seen as a weapon against demons. It was something to work on, at least. I’d add the paintball rifle loaded with Holy water paintballs to my arsenal again.
I was pretty certain I could fight this demon now. Bullets, Holy water slash salt and some old fashioned grit and determination. Knowing I could fight it didn’t answer the question of why I had to fight it, though. Was it my anti-imp antics of the past months that had sparked this attack? Or was this more along the lines of that saturation point Aurum had suggested? Aurum’s proud father act at the end of the Veilchen affair might have caused the local Old World creatures to skip town, but it might have also pushed me that last little distance across the line from annoyance to threat. Was the demon attack a hit job? If that were the case, I couldn’t rely on even Aurum’s half-arsed mentoring this time. I’d passed the test, got my bronze medal and now it was time to sink or swim.
The other thing I’d learned back then was just because something seemed inconsequential, didn’t mean it was. A kid was killed because I’d paid him lip service instead of delivering a serious response to his concerns, all because I’d decided a 300 year old vampire firing pot shots at me was more important than a kid’s weird dog story. In light of the demon attack, of the very real, very dangerous threat it posed to me and Mercy, it would be easy for me to forget Carson’s girlfriend issues and the Davis murder.
But I’d promised and I’d made a vow not to break any more promises.
Well, at least try to not break them. Or most of them, anyway.
Somewhat settled, I went and woke Mercy up.
She groused and resisted until I hauled her out of bed and tossed her into the shower. She emerged awake and hissing. As a result, I had little say in her wardrobe choices.
The jeans were new, but artfully torn in all the wrong places, and the top was little more than a bra. I tossed her a jacket and she snarled but put it on. Score one to me.
Then, for some unknown reason, I grabbed the keys to the motorbike.
Mercy cheered. “Can I drive?”
“No.”
I slung on a leather jacket over my usual attire of cargo pants and black t-shirt and we went for a ride.
I love my car but the bike, a Moto Guzzi 1200 Sport, is something altogether different. You get to experience the speed first hand, feel the pressure of the wind resistance against your face, get up close and personal with the power roaring through the engine. There is a real appreciation of the weight of the machine and how that weight is used as a positive, not a negative, as it is in many cars. Trust me, you’ve never lived until you’ve leaned over so far into a corner that your knee has all but kissed the dirt and trusted to the speed of the bike to get you upright again.
There is no environmental control, no recycled air-con to keep you cool and blissfully unaware of the world roaring past. You smell the diesel exhaust and the road-kill, but you also smell blossoming flowers, freshly cut grass, a bakery early in the morning. Rain is a thousand, fleeting kisses all at once and the wind is all of your own making. On a bike you get it in all senses, all on overload.
Of course there’s the danger, the vulnerability, the exposure, the heart-stopping realisation that driver coming through the intersection hasn’t seen you. You have to have something of a reckless turn to your nature to embrace the danger, to welcome it as a release for the part of yourself you keep chained in the dark.
But, what it comes down to in the end are two main things. One, it’s cheaper than a car, and two, watch any dog with its head hanging out a car window and you’ll be watching a sublimely happy dog.
Of course, it did make answering the phone a bit tricky.
The phone vibrated in the thigh pocket of my pants and I remembered that I’d promised to call Erin. And hadn’t.
Mercy, perched casually on the back as if Newton’s Third Law didn’t exist in her own private world, leaned forward and reached into the pocket. She pulled out the phone and answered.
How she or the caller heard anything I’ll never know, but after a moment, Mercy’s voice came into my head via the link.
“You forgot to call Erin.”
“I figured. What’s happening?”
“We’re meeting her at the office.”
Oops. Hope she didn’t want a ride.
Thankfully, Erin’s BMW 530i was parked outside the office building when we got there. Erin stood on the footpath, mobile glued to her ear. She saw us pull up and waved for patience, then turned her back on us.
“Hospital,” Mercy announced.
“Don’t eavesdrop,” I chided.
“I didn’t mean to.”
I pulled off my helmet and waited while Erin finished her call. She hung up and took a few deep breaths, then faced us.
“Ready?” she asked.
“S’pose,” Mercy muttered.
“Everything okay?” I asked Erin.
“It’s all good.” Then she scowled at me. “You said you’d call.”
“Sorry, got distracted.”
“He got propositioned,” Mercy announced.
Erin’s eyebrows shot off the top of her head. I’m hoping it was shock at Mercy’s lack of tact, and not sheer disbelief that someone might think I was sexy.
“Mercy, we’re going to have to repeat that little talk we had about what’s appropriate and what’s not.”
It was pretty dark and the footpath was only faintly illuminated by the lights of the building behind, but I thought there was a tinge of colour to Erin’s cheeks. She ducked her head and scrounged through her bag for car keys.
“We should hurry. Courey won’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Lead on,” I said gallantly.
Erin got into her car and lead us out of the CBD and toward Toowong.
We ended up outside a large, fenced in building not far from Karawatha Forest. An unmarked car was already parked outside the gate, a lean, older man lounging against it. One look at him and I sent a silent request to Mercy. She complied by taking the Barretta Cougar from the back of my pants. Don’t know where she concealed it but I would bet this Detective Courey wouldn’t think to look there.
I parked beside Erin and took my time taking off my helmet. Mercy followed my lead. We waited until Erin and Courey had greeted each other and had time for a few personals and then wandered over.
“Miles, this is Matt Hawkins and Mercy Belique,” Erin said. “Guys, Detective Miles Courey.”
Courey was a very fit looking guy in his early fifties and his handshake was aimed for crippling. I took it like a man and like to think I gave back as good as I got. He didn’t seem to notice. The detective looked Mercy over and then subjected her to the same handshake. She’d learned long ago to not shake back as hard as she was capable of.
“The same Matt Hawkins who’s house got shot up six months ago.” Courey said it like there had never been any doubt.
“Yeah.”
“Never did find out who was responsible.”
I shrugged. “It’s a mystery. Not had any trouble since.”
He looked me over again. “You carrying?”
Bingo
. “Sir, I have a conviction. I’m not eligible for any sort of firearm permit.”
Courey lifted one eyebrow. “I am aware. But, are you?”
“No.”
For a moment I thought he was going to pat me down. I almost wished he would. For her part, Erin looked on with no expression.
Courey grunted and turned to the gate. He dialled a number on his phone and said, “Courey here. We’re ready.”
A moment later, a door opened in the building and a security guard walked out to meet us. He and Courey exchanged professional nods and we were let in.
“You got an hour, max,” the guard said to Courey, politely ignoring Erin, Mercy and me. What he made of us I have no idea. Let’s face it, we weren’t exactly a professional looking mob.
“No problem.” Courey dropped back to walk beside Erin. “Looking tired, McRea.”
“It’s tough being this good all the time.”
“Yeah, gets me down sometimes too.”
The security guard let us into the building and returned to his desk. Courey led us down a long hallway.
“The lab Davis was working in has been locked down,” Courey said. “It’s still classified as a crime scene, though, so you won’t be allowed to touch anything once inside.” The last was directed at me even though he didn’t look at me. Amazing ability that. “Just what sort of consulting do you do, Mr Hawkins?”
“Fashion, usually, but I’m doing this as a favour to a friend.”
Courey’s entire response was a quick glance at Mercy and a very eloquent grunt.
“Best policy,” Erin murmured to me.
“I consult in esoteric matters, Detective,” I said.
“Do you understand the meaning of that word, son?”
What is it with me and older gentlemen with that world weary been-there-heard-it-all-don’t-mess-with-me attitude?
“Certainly do, sir.”
We stopped outside of a door crisscrossed with crime scene tape. Courey flipped out a blade and sliced through it.
“Then you’ll understand how you didn’t actually answer my question,” he said, opening the door.
“Certainly do, sir. Mind if Mercy and I head in alone first? Wouldn’t want you and Erin interrupting the esoteric flow of the room.”
This time Courey glanced at Erin for confirmation. She nodded and so he waved us in.
Mercy and I entered the lab.
Of all my truncated, properly professional working career most of it had been within one laboratory or another. They’d all been pathology labs and compared to research or development labs, they’re a different kettle of test tubes altogether. Whatever I’d been expecting of this lab, what I found was bank after bank of computers, a couple of server towers and in the far corner, a series of small laser mountings in sealed, plastic containers. There were no lasers in the housings, though. Perhaps the work hadn’t progressed to practical applications before Gerry Davis was murdered.
“Getting anything?” I asked Mercy.
She prowled close to my back, her usual position in unknown situations. “Feel something,” she said and moved past me.
It was my turn to follow her and she took me to the opposite corner to the lasers, close to the entrance. As I got closer, I could start to feel it and right in the corner, it swamped me.
Dark and bleak and roiling with fear. It clawed at my heart, desperate to be felt and understood and raged against. This was wrong, so wrong. Why was he doing this? It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him.
The image flashed before my eyes. Chris Davis’ sad, round face. He reached for me, curled his fingers around my neck. I pleaded with him, why, why, why? No. Stop, please. I love you. Why?
There was no expression on his face, no hatred, no fear. Nothing to tell me why he was doing this.
His hands closed, tighter, harder, stronger than I’d ever felt from him before. This was not the slightly clumsy lover who tended to fumble in the dark but with tender intentions. Nor were these the hands of an awarded marksman who’d never fired his gun in anything other than calm deliberation.
My throat constricted, cutting off air. Darkness swirled at the edges of my sight.
He was doing it. He was trying to kill me.
But he wasn’t my husband.
Chapter 14
Matt collapsed to the floor, choking. Erin shook off Courey’s restraining hand and ran into the lab. In the corner, Mercy moved faster than Erin could see and pulled Matt backwards, tossing him into the clear space between two benches. He hit the ground with a heavy thud and coughed.
“Matt?” Erin skidded to a stop and knelt by him.
Whatever seizure had held him was gone now. He lay on his back, dragging in great gulps of air. His hands pressed to his throat and his eyelids fluttered.
Mercy crouched by his other side. She took his hands away from his throat and for a moment, Erin could see red finger marks on his tanned skin. The vampire held his straining hands in one of her own and passed the other over his eyes. He calmed immediately.
“What happened?” Erin asked Mercy.
Eyes flashing silver, the vampire glared at the corner. “The death lingers. It caught him.”
“What’s going on here?” Courey demanded.
Mercy looked up at him, and thankfully her eyes were normal brown.
“Matt’s psychic,” Erin explained. “He felt the murder. I take it that corner was where she was found?”
He nodded. “Psychic? Why couldn’t he just say that up front?”
“He likes his mysteries.”
“And you like destroying them,” Matt muttered.
Erin sighed. “You all right?”
He struggled to sit up. Mercy put one hand under his shoulder and lifted him easily.
“What a head rush.” Matt shook his head as if trying to dislodge water from his ears. “Rather ride the rollercoaster though.”
“Mercy said you got caught in the death,” Erin said, highly aware of Courey leaning over her.
“Yeah. Big psychic scar in that corner. Very violent death.” He glanced at Courey. “She was strangled.”
Erin shivered, recalling the impression of fingers on his neck.
“In that corner,” the detective confirmed. “We hadn’t released that detail.”
“The man who killed her looked like Chris Davis,” Matt continued, tone absent as he looked back at the corner in question. “But it wasn’t him. She knew it wasn’t him.”
“How did she know?” Courey asked. If he doubted Matt’s experience it didn’t show in his voice.
“The hands. They weren’t his hands. The face was his, the general body shape was his, but the hands weren’t. Whoever it was made an imperfect copy.”
“They wore a false face, you mean,” Courey said.
“There was no mask, Detective.”
Erin glanced between Matt and Mercy. The vampire stood and popped the bones in her neck.
“What do you mean?” Erin asked, dreading the answer.
“I mean it was a shape-changer. Something that could look at a picture of Chris and then change physically to look like him.”
Courey’s patience found its limit. He snorted and straightened. “A shape-changer?”
“Psychics you can deal with but not shape-changers?” Matt hauled himself to his feet and faced the other man. “That’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?”
“Not at all. I’m quite willing to admit that there are people who are particularly sensitive to certain things. Just as I’m willing to admit that what they feel is going to be right a certain percent of the time. But that’s people. I ain’t never seen someone ‘shape change’.”
Mercy nudged Matt with enough force to threaten to knock him over again. “Ghosts.”
“Ghosts now?” Courey threw his hands up.
“No, Detective, no ghosts. Mercy’s just reminding me about my own thoughts regarding ghosts. I guess I can understand your position on shape-changers.” Matt turned to Erin. “We m
ight want to get Chris somewhere safe. If something out there is walking around wearing his face, he could be in trouble.”
Courey crossed his arms. “I think the police can handle protecting him.”
Erin shook her head. “Not if they’re not willing to admit the nature of the threat.”
“And you do, McRea?”
It wasn’t just Courey waiting for a response. Matt raised his eyebrows at her as well. Whichever way she answered, she would disappoint one of these men.
Courey she respected professionally, and he was a great source of help to her work. There was a hint of something more personal creeping into their working relationship, and friendships were rare enough in her life these days she didn’t want to ruin this one before it even had a chance.
Then there was Matt, and to be honest, Mercy. The vampire was as much a part of Matt as his arm or leg. And it was a scary package. Matt was subject to fits of untempered rage and Mercy was, well, she was a vampire. Without Matt’s control she would be nothing more than a savage, ruthless predator. Their world was populated with werewolves, demons and who knew how many other untold terrors. Erin had been pulled into this nightmare against her will. She’d almost died, twice. She’d sworn off Matt and his adrenaline fuelled life.
Yet here she was again.
“I…” She glanced at Matt. “I’m willing to listen to him.”
Courey sighed and shook his head. “Are you done in here, Hawkins?”
“Not yet. I want to check for other things.”
The detective stalked out to the corridor.
Erin looked around the lab so she wouldn’t have look at Matt. “Do you want me to leave as well?”
“No. You should be right for this. Mercy? Smell anything?”
Mercy practically crawled around the room and it seemed she caught some scent by the door. This she followed directly across the room to a computer that was still lightly dusted with fingerprint powder. Courey watched from the doorway, arms crossed, frown etched on his brow. Matt stood back and let Mercy track. Erin stayed by him, not wanting to get in Mercy’s way.
As they knew it must, the trail led to the corner where the murder had occurred. From there, Mercy crawled across the floor to an unremarkable spot between a bench and the wall and stopped.
Night Call (Book 2): Demon Dei Page 12
