by Alice Bell
Night of the Demon
Devon Slaughter Book 2
Alice Bell
The descent to Hades is the same from every place. —Anaxagoras
Copyright © 2016 Alice Bell
All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Edited by D.S. Taylor at ThEditors
Cover Design by Sara Eirew Photographer
Thank You
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.
Table of Contents
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
A Note from the Author
Connect
About the Author
Part 1
“DEMONS CAN be dangerous if they are in the human world illegally. Wayward demons who manage to find their way from the demon realm into the human world, of their own volition, revel in their godlike powers, using them for their own pleasure and debauchery.” —The Guardian Spirits, Sarah Rose (Psychic, Medium and Channel)
1. Zadie
SHE SWAM as if her life depended on it, though she had no life. Not yet.
It was like before, when she was swallowed by the lake, and died. Only this time she was coming up, and up, her inhumanly strong legs kicking, her powerful arms pulling through the dark water.
Nausea hit as soon as she gulped air. Such a terrible sickness, cured only by a warm human body, she remembered.
The volcanic lake and its strip of white sand, the clouded sky overhead, was so timeless, she couldn’t tell if she’d gone backward or forward in time. Fat raindrops pelted the water around her. Mist swirled.
It must be evening, she thought.
The beach was deserted, except for a couple running toward the shelter of trees that once hid thatched roof casas and a tiki lit bar.
Her clothes were in tatters and she had kicked off her slippers light years away.
Of course, she had no idea how far she’d traveled.
She crossed the sand, holding her arms over her exposed breasts, shivering and trying to think past the throbbing pain and cold raindrops.
The path was familiar and rough, and there ahead were the casas, as if no time had passed at all.
Hope surged inside her, a raw human emotion, kept alive by a love she couldn’t forget.
Light came from a window, and she slid into the shadows, too weak to make herself invisible. She kept going, her bare feet scraping over rocks and thorny tree roots.
She stopped to rest and peered through the trees. One casa caught her eye. It was set back from the others. It had a purple door, red trim. An orange sarong hung over the porch railing, along with a black string bikini and men’s swim shorts.
She stared, wondering: Could this be it? Where she had held him in her arms for the last time? The clothes weren’t hers, and yet, they were the type of thing she would have worn. Her fingers twitched.
She was like a cat, a jungle predator, silent and graceful, even while ravaged by fever and weak with hunger.
Her actions were instinctual. She peeled off what was left of her clothes and snatched the sarong, and wrapped it around her long body. Her hair was a white flame in the bruised twilight.
She threw open the door.
He was the first person she saw; his bare back, tawny skin, broad shoulders, the curl of dark hair at the nape of his neck. His Bermuda shorts had slipped low on his hips.
Her memory of him was carnal, more lust and possession than love, but she didn’t know the difference. Anymore.
And then her gaze landed on the girl who gaped at her. “What?” the girl’s voice was light and fluttery, nervous. “Who are you?”
They had been embracing, she realized, before she entered and ruined the moment. A smile curved at her lips.
But when the man spun around, it wasn’t him.
This man was crudely made by comparison. “Whoa, hey,” he said, a twist of humor in his voice, as if it was funny. “Wrong casa.” Like he thought she was high. Or stupid.
Pain scalded her vision. She advanced.
The girl screamed, and the sound hurt Zadie’s ears. She lashed out, sending the girl careening across the room. The girl’s head smashed into the edge of the table. There was a thunk.
And then beautiful quiet.
The man lunged at Zadie. His breath was tinged with beer. The scent of terror wafted from his pores. He tried to pin her arms but even in her weakened state, she was too strong. She slammed him against the wall.
And then she was on him, kissing his neck, and his mouth. Her hands moved down his body, inside his shorts.
In a burst of ecstasy, she bit his neck.
He whimpered. God, he was sweet.
* * *
It was too bad about the girl.
She would have to hightail it off the island before the authorities got involved.
She wore the man’s clothes because the girl was a tiny thing. His jeans were loose but the right length. She knotted one of his T-shirts (red) at her waist, and slid her feet into a pair of flip flops that were only slightly too large.
Before leaving, she bent down and checked the man’s pulse. He was still alive. They’d probably blame him for the girl.
Contents of a money belt spilled out on the table. Zadie grabbed a wad of cash; cordobas and a few US dollars. It wasn’t much but she didn’t need much. She could already feel her powers growing, straining at the seams.
It was an easy walk into the village. As quickly as it had come, the rain had ceased. Whenever a car went by, she hid or made herself invisible. She had to lie low until she could get off the island.
When she got to town, it was dark and the streets were lit by shaky streetlamps. The first thing she did was steal a newspaper. Her heart hammered, as if she was human.
She stared at the date. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She would never forget the last time she’d seen Inka. The date was carved into her memory. She’d made it her mantra, the one thing she had to remember.
She shook the newspaper, disbelieving.
Could she be so unbelievably, stupidly lucky? Only seven months had passed since she’d been caught, tangled up in that poisonous net. Inka was the fish who got away.
She glanced around, looking for the dark shadow of angel wings. She even went into the tienda and pointed at the date on the paper. Though she spoke atrocious Spanish, “Es hoy … today?” the woman understood. “Si, si!” she answered, with a beatific smile.
It was good to be back.
She sat on the damp sidewalk and pored over current events. She understood a few words in Spanish and proper names. The gist of what was going on in the world was evident in the photos; Senator Passwater caught with another bimbo, nuclear waste running amok (go figure), uprisings in the mid-east. Same shit, different day.
She was intoxicated by her heightened senses, the smell of ink on the pages of the newspaper and rain moistened earth, the cheap sugary sundries lining the shelves of the tienda.
Around her, nightlife began to stir. Two young girls, arm in arm, walked past, giggling. Many blocks over, on the edge of town, a bottle shattered in the street. The sound splintered her eardrums. She cast the paper aside and
stood up. Her powers needed tuning, but another feeding and she’d be as agile and powerful as ever.
She headed down to the dock.
Taco meat sizzled on a grill. The scent was glorious. Music thrummed from a nearby bar. She reveled in the familiar sensations, as she walked.
Hands in the pockets of her jeans, she gazed at the ferry schedule, and saw there was a midnight boat to Granada.
Imagine.
The stars were aligning for her. Centuries could have passed. Or turned back. But they hadn’t.
Her smile was wide and lovely and bewitching.
She didn’t feel gratitude though. Humility was too human. Too pathetic. She was a lion among lambs.
* * *
A few days later, she found the bar in Queenstown. It was just as Inka described with choppers lined up out front. She admired the statue of Ishtar, the goddess of sex and war with her bare breasts and angel wings, perched above the flashing neon sign that said, “Babylon.” She felt proud, like seeing her own flag on the moon.
Inside, the owner knew Inka well. He handed Zadie a creased, beer stained envelope with Inka’s writing on the front: FOR ZADIE BLAIR ONLY. Do not open if you are NOT ZADIE BLAIR. If you do, you will DIE. (Inka’s dark humor, though not altogether a joke).
It was just a short note inside. “On the run and headed north. I’ll hang around the portal for a while. Hope to see you there. Someday.
“PS. HE is TURNED! But not with me. Had to keep moving. Angels on my back.”
2. Devon
Nine years later, 11:01 p.m. Friday, 13
THE WROUGHT iron gate creaked open. I was still high, cranked up off Ruby’s pain and sorrow, her fear, her ecstasy. Adrenalin pounded in my veins and made me alive, a rush that came at her expense.
She had almost died. In my arms.
I had drained her life force, the opposite of what I was supposed to do, which was to administer a little white pill, no bigger than an aspirin, to erase her memory of me. The one that would drive her mad. In the end, I had given her the pill, and watched her swallow it, feeling the most terrible human loss.
Whatever had passed between us was over.
Yet, I didn’t want to leave.
I stood in the shadows.
A red Jeep came up the drive. It stopped in front of Ruby’s three story gabled house where she lived, all alone. Beyond the pointed roof, clouds drifted across a starless sky.
A blonde man jumped out of the truck, a man I recognized as Henry Thorne. I’d met him one night at Embers, Ruby’s favorite dive bar on the boardwalk. He liked her. I knew it as soon as I shook his hand, and wanted to crush it. He pounded on the door, calling out her name.
For fuck sake, it’s unlocked. Did he need an engraved invitation?
Finally, he went in.
My fingers curled into fists. What if I was still human and could be Ruby’s only one? I thought of the Bob Dylan song. “It ain’t me, babe.”
But was it that guy? With the big red Jeep? What did he need it for when he couldn’t even kick down a door? Wilderness recreation?
I tried to envision Ruby with her artificially bright red hair in one of her Goth dresses roasting marshmallows by a fire. And the image took another shape. She had changed into a flannel shirt, his shirt, casually open to show the silky shadow between her full breasts. Her hair was pinned up and messy with a few escaped tendrils. Her legs were bare and slender and breakable.
Henry was inside now. My gaze followed their shadows moving behind the curtains. He touched Ruby so tenderly, smoothing her hair.
A voice inside me hissed: Leave now, Devon. And don’t look back.
Still, I hesitated, watching, as he picked her up in his arms and carried her away from the window, as if to say, “She’s mine, now.”
I reached for the doorknob.
But I could only save Ruby from myself. So I turned and leaped over the fence and headed down the empty street.
I took my time going home. It wouldn’t be home for much longer.
Sarah Rose, the almost famous psychic, waited for me on the steps of my building. “You are late,” she glared.
“Sorry.” I gave her a seductive smile but she wasn’t impressed. She knew what I was, a trespasser who went against the supernatural order of things. She was, after all, here to correct the situation.
I read her watch upside down. “There’s a good forty minutes to the witching hour.” Meaning: Why are you so pissed? But I knew why.
According to Sarah (who was as close to an expert as I might ever get), the gates to the demon realm would open tonight, at exactly midnight. Not a second earlier, or later. And not again for another thirteen years.
“Where were you?” The way she checked her watch reminded me of Ruby. “I can’t walk all the way across town in thirty seven minutes.”
“So drive,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.” But she wouldn’t let me out of her sight.
Fury crossed her face, before she adjusted her psychic chastity belt. She was a great looking woman, forty-ish and tall, straight black hair with a streak of gray. I was standing so close to her, a heartbeat away, and yet her pulse refused to let me listen. Any tortured human angst was locked up. I couldn’t get a single drop.
The more angst, the better the high. Ruby had been so addictive.
I wondered about Sarah, what she kept from me, like buried treasure. Was there a way to break in and tap those pent-up emotions?
I unlocked the door, and glanced at her. “I’ll probably never see you again. After midnight.”
We looked at each other for what seemed a long time, considering we were supposed to be in a hurry.
“Listen,” I said, finally. “I want you to have this building. I know it’s a fixer-upper—”
“It’s condemned,” she said.
“But it’s big.”
We both gazed up at the towering pile of neo-Gothic stonework. “It is rather grandiose,” she said.
“Well, it’s yours if you want it,” I tossed her the key.
We stepped into darkness. Only a dim light slanted through the windows from the street. With a sudden flash of longing, I understood (for the first time) I was leaving. The reality stabbed me in the gut, more painful than a knife.
Unless … I changed my mind.
Who said I had to go? Who died and made Sarah queen?
Ruby had begged me to stay.
I thought about how in the movies and on TV people flitted in out of dimensions like it was nothing. But this earth, for all its heartache and broken dreams, was all I’d ever known.
“Geez. I can’t see,” Sarah said.
“No electricity,” I said.
She pulled a phone from the back pocket of her jeans, activated the flashlight and beamed it around the marble foyer. A stained glass window glimmered under her light.
“Wow. Look at that,” she made a sound with her tongue. “They don’t build things like they used to. But I’d have to de-ghost the whole place. Ever see any ghosts?”
“Nah. They’re probably scared of me.”
“Uh-huh.” She shined the light across the room. The spiral staircase glowed sinister.
Were there ghosts? What if someone had been murdered here?
What if this is where I belong?
“Maybe we should just stay in tonight,” I said.
Sarah made a face. “Wrong.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger. It isn’t worth it.” Not a total lie.
“Oh, Devon. It is worth it. Think of Ruby. And all the other Rubys you will encounter in your immortal lifetime.”
With that, the last of my buzz from Ruby was gone.
I felt empty and sick.
“Shall we go?” Sarah sounded impatient.
A wave of nausea hit me.
Though I tried to be stoic, Sarah heaved a sigh. She noticed everything. “Are you getting weak?” Her tone was accusing.
“Don’t worry about it. I hate to be a bother.”
“Oh, Devon.”
“I’m not going to attack you. Okay? You’re not my type.” Lie. Everyone was my type. “Seriously, just open the portal and push me through it.”
She began to walk toward me with a determined expression. More of a grimace, really, like there was a gun to her back. When we were only inches apart, she tilted up her face.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Kiss me.”
“What?”
“I bet you’re very good at it. Go on. Pretend I’m one of your victims and shove your tongue down my throat.” She closed her eyes.
“Jesus, Sarah.”
She would do anything to get rid of me, which hurt my feelings. I had feelings, by the way, even ones that went beyond my own desires. Ruby had taught me that. Emotion sparked to life inside me the night I met her and began to remember who I’d been before.
“I don’t kiss humans,” my words were laced with the same scorn Sarah had shown me a time or two.
Her eyes opened. “You don’t?”
I’d kissed Ruby. Devoured her. “As a general rule,” I said.
She reached out and put her hand on my arm. “Bless your heart.”
Now, that was just plain condescending. Sarah, of all people, didn’t believe I had a heart. I wanted to pull away but her touch was soothing. It eased the ache spreading through my limbs.
“You know you can’t turn a human with just a kiss?” Her lips quirked.
Glad I could amuse her.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I said. “Did it ever occur to you I’m the one undead here? I might have insight on a few things.” By her own admission, Sarah was far from a scholar on the intricacies of my particular situation. “I’m not a total moron. Perfect recall, remember?” I tapped my temple.
“You have to know how to turn a human, Devon. It requires intent. And skill.”
“Oh, really. You know that for sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay then.”
