Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2)

by Alice Bell

  “Yes, sir.”

  He drank from the bottle. When he was done, a drop of scotch clung to his bottom lip. He didn’t wipe it off. He got in my face. “You wanna be me, huh? You wanna be me, Slaughter? Then learn how to be a fucking rock star.”

  Whether I wanted it or not, it was hard to believe I’d ever be Decimus. I was pretty sure I wasn’t meant to rise up that far.

  I lived in a ware house, in a small room, segregated from the other soldiers, who were all angels.

  Occasionally, at night, Decimus took me out. If he had to. He didn’t care much for my company but it was his duty, he said, “to get the demon stink off.” He made it clear he didn’t think that would ever happen.

  He was right about one thing. If what I did on the virtual battlefield was what it was like to kill a demon, it was easy.

  On the first day of training, Decimus handed me a wooden stake. I laughed. “Is this a joke?”

  It was no joke.

  In the human world, angels and demons were equally matched when it came to supernatural prowess. But an angel soldier had one advantage—no weapon could kill an angel. Whereas, if a demon took a wooden stake to the heart, or any major artery, it meant instant death; they were reduced to ashes, just like in the movies.

  The fact that angels didn’t die made demons very elusive. The longer a demon had been wayward, the harder they were to capture. Even Decimus had been outwitted a time or two. He hated bounty hunting. He took only kill contracts. “Why waste my time tracking bitches?” he said. “If I can’t kill them?”

  That’s all I did in training. It was like going to the gym with Jep and running the virtual tracks. Only I carried a wooden stake, and stabbed virtual demons … from every angle.

  I leapt rooftops for the kill. I traveled faster than a speeding train. For the kill. I was a killing machine.

  “When are we going to learn strategy?” I asked Decimus.

  “We?”

  “I.”

  He gave me a strange look. “I? Who are you? The Nutty Professor? This isn’t grammar class. Forget about strategy for a minute and loosen up. Loosen the fuck up, Slaughter. You got that?”

  26. Ruby

  IT WAS half past noon, before I rolled over and fumbled for my phone on the night stand.

  My head throbbed. I groaned. My memory of the night before was splintered. I couldn’t tell what parts had been real and what pieces were dredged up from my own unreliable perception of things.

  I took a bottle of Evian from the fridge, and got back into bed. I sat with my phone in my lap, staring at the screen. It was Saturday and the first day of Spring Break.

  Everyone was going on vacation, including Dr. Sinclair. At the end of our last session, she’d advised me to stick to my regime. “It will be tempting to stay up late and sleep in,” she’d said. (Exactly.) “But try to be in bed by ten during the week. Schedule is so important, Ruby. On the weekends, you can be a little more lax.” (Lax wasn’t the word for it.) “Go out with your friends, though nothing strenuous. Asleep by midnight, no later.”

  I desperately wanted to call her answering service and report my emergency.

  At the same time, I wanted to go on with my life, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. At the very least, I wanted to make it to tonight—for the open mic reading.

  I’d invited Wong over. We were going to have drinks and walk to the cafe together. I’d been looking forward to it all week.

  Just get back on track, I told myself. Put one foot in front of the other.

  I drank a cup of green tea and dressed for the gym. I used the Stairmaster in the corner and climbed and sweated, feeling tingly, afterward. On my way home, I stopped at the liquor store.

  Later, in the afternoon, while listening to Nirvana, I washed up the dishes in the sink, and tidied my apartment.

  I took my time getting ready; bathing, putting my hair up in a French twist. I wore a black cocktail dress, and ankle boots. I wanted to wear my silver Gucci’s but they weren't practical.

  By the time Wong showed up, I felt as close to normal as I would ever be. I felt proud too, like I’d swam to the other shore, instead of turning back when the tide got rough.

  “Wow, girlfriend,” Wong turned around in the middle of the living room. Her sparkly gold dress twirled. “No wonder you're such a recluse. If I lived here, I'd never want to go out either.”

  We sat on the sofa, with our chocolate martinis, legs crossed, facing each other.

  “God, this is good,” she said. “I might get wasted.”

  I'd made her martini according to the recipe, with a full shot of vanilla vodka. Mine was practically a virgin with just a splash of alcohol.

  “Can I ask you a sort of personal question?” Wong said.

  My stomach dropped. “Sure.”

  “How can you afford a place like this on a teacher's salary?”

  I smiled, relieved. It was an easy question. “I have an inheritance.”

  “Oh. That must be nice.”

  I decided to be honest with her, to reveal a little of myself. Dr. Sinclair said making friends took practice. “I'm fortunate, yes. But the truth is … I have no family left. I would pay all the money I have to get them back.”

  She looked into my eyes. “I can imagine,” she said. “Well, I have a huge troublesome family. Plenty to share. You'll have to come for dinner sometime. They'll love you. My mother will adopt you, and try to run your life.”

  I laughed. “I need someone to run my life.”

  Wong was in the bathroom when Henry called. I picked up. I had to. And I wanted to, I realized.

  He was downstairs. I buzzed him up.

  I could still take things slow, like Dr. Sinclair suggested. I thought of the movie Annie Hall, and how they kissed to get it out of the way. So I'd got my virginity out of the way. I guessed sex was like making friends. It took practice.

  There was a feeling of spring in the night air, as we walked to the Cafe.

  Henry held my hand, and it reminded me of something, but I didn't know what. I'd never walked down any street, holding hands with anyone, except my grandmother, when I was little.

  The cafe was packed, standing room only.

  I found my girls at a table, white-faced and grim. The twins were arguing.

  “Miss Rain, thank God. Charity wants us all to go up together. At the same time.”

  “No, no. You go up when it's your turn to read, one at a time,” I said. “Don't worry, I'll announce you.”

  “Miss Rain, there's a microphone.”

  “It's open mic.”

  I could smell coffee on their collective, nervous breath. I should have warned them not to drink caffeine.

  “I think I'm going to be sick,” Charity said.

  The din was deafening. I pulled my phone from my bag to check the time. Ten to nine.

  I resisted the temptation to pop a Valium. It seemed an unfair advantage. I didn't have a chair, so I hovered over them, and scanned the crowd for Wong and Henry. I found them in the back, leaning against the wall. Henry held a beer. Wong sipped from a glass of red wine.

  Chastity followed my gaze. “Oh my God! Mr. West is here.”

  “Miss Wong too.”

  “I dare you to go over and talk to Mr. West.”

  “He's not all that. My boyfriend's better.”

  “What boyfriend?”

  “Miss Wong is hot.”

  “Look at her dress.”

  At last, a woman wearing a black top hat got on stage and tapped the microphone. The noise quieted. “Welcome, fans. Are you ready?” (Hooting and cheering.) “Tonight we have special guests, Team Rain.” There was a polite smattering of applause, followed by a long whistle from Henry.

  “Go girls!” Wong shouted.

  A small band—a cello, a guitar and a keyboard—played an intro.

  The girls stilled.

  I'd signed them up third, thinking it would give them time to settle down. But I should have taken the firs
t spot. They were only going to get more and more nervous.

  An entertaining poet who played a kazoo between stanzas got the crowd worked up. I was dismayed by the cries of “More! More!” I glanced at the girls. Were they intimidated?

  The next guy was a hipster, in torn skinny jeans, flowers in his beard. He got applause before he even started. My heart sank. He was going to be a hard act to follow.

  “I was thinking,” he said into the microphone, his voice deep and honeyed. “About the letter B. So I wrote this little ditty, called, The Essence of B.”

  The room turned quiet.

  We waited.

  And waited.

  He looked at us with imploring, tortured eyes.

  “Any day now!” someone called out.

  He cleared his throat. “The Essence of B. Buh … buh. Buhbuhbuh. Buh! Buhbuhbuhbuhbuh ...”

  I put my hand over my mouth. I heard a low wheezing sound from the table. Charity had her head down. Her shoulders shook.

  “Buh! Buh!”

  The lady with the hat ran on stage. “Okay! Thank you. Thank you very much.” She took the microphone and nudged him away.

  It was our turn.

  I went up and introduced Chastity first. The crowd stomped and bellowed. “Hallelujah,” a man yelled.

  Chastity held the microphone too close. Her breath was loud, her giggle louder. But she pulled herself together.

  “I was born with a caul,” Chastity’s story began. “Like my mother, and her mother before her.”

  The girls performed well, overall. There were a few mistakes and giggles. One girl tripped going up the stairs but she took a bow and the crowd cheered.

  Afterwards, the girls were triumphant. And reluctant to leave.

  The cafe emptied.

  We pushed two tables together. I bought a round of lattes. Henry and Wong commented on the stories, in a serious manner, which thrilled the girls. I felt their rush, the rush of making something out of thin air, and sharing it with others, with the world. Henry's leg pressed against mine, under the table.

  I was warm, and content.

  We told jokes. The girls gossiped. Wong ordered pita bread and hummus. The late crowd came in, and the cafe got noisy again. I had to get up from the table and drag Chastity away from a man twice her age.

  It wasn’t until Chastity and Charity’s mother called them home by sending a cab, that the party broke up.

  When the girls had gone, Wong and I finished the hummus, and Henry tipped back another beer.

  “I should have had you for a teacher, Miss Rain,” Wong said. “You deserved to be nominated for Teacher of the Year.”

  “That’s right,” Henry said.

  “But Georgie was gunning for it,” Wong said.

  “What Georgie wants, Georgie gets,” Henry said.

  Wong gave him a look. “Does she?”

  Henry got up and put his bottle in the recycle bin.

  It must have been nearing two a.m. when we left. We walked three abreast, with Henry in the middle.

  We turned onto Irving. Cars zoomed and honked. People walked in groups, dressed for the clubs. Wong and Henry talked about Spring Break.

  Up ahead, on the sidewalk, I saw Zadie. And her friend, Inka. My mouth went dry.

  Inka wore a biker jacket and a black mini-skirt, black thigh high boots. Zadie was sleek in peach and black, a fur stole around her shoulders. I could barely breathe. They were beautiful and terrible.

  Zadie winked at me, as they passed. I touched my lip, where she had bit me. I wondered if I was the only one who could see them.

  But Henry spun around to stare. “Who are they?”

  Wong glared at him. “Really? You slob.”

  Henry put up his hands. “Sorry. I just—wow. You don’t see babes like that every day,” his voice trailed off. He cast me a sheepish glance.

  I knew then, I hadn’t spun them entirely from my imagination. My throat constricted. I forced myself to breathe.

  Henry took my hand. “Those women have nothing on you, Ruby,” he said.

  I gripped his hand, and prayed he could keep me sane. If just for tonight.

  27. Devon

  I MISSED Jep. And Claudia. I wondered what they were doing, when I sat in my room, alone, without even a book for company.

  One night, a smattering of gravel pelted the high rectangular window above my bed. I looked out, and down, to the fenced yard, expecting to see Jep, though I don’t know why.

  It was Claudia. The motion light had detected her. She shielded her eyes from its glare.

  I went down the narrow, metal stairway to let her in.

  She wore the same black outfit as before, black tights and dress, sturdy shoes. It reminded me of something Ruby would wear, and I had flash of memory; Ruby sitting at the bar, alone.

  “Hey, you,” I said.

  “Hey, stranger. I finally sniffed you out,” she came in and glanced around at the sparse furnishings.

  There was only a counter (where I ate my rations) a sink and cupboards, the closed door to the cramped vestibule containing a shower, a toilet, and a shelf for my toothbrush and shaving kit.

  I had on black fatigues, which I mostly wore, and preferred. My rock star wardrobe wasn’t really mine. When there was an occasion, like a photo shoot promoting the New Army, or a campaign event for one of the progressive archangels, a white limo picked me up and took me to a studio to be dressed.

  “Do you have any good booze?” Claudia said.

  “No, I’m in training.”

  She made a face. “Not even a bottle of Night Train stashed somewhere?”

  I laughed. “Night Train? What century are you from?”

  She looked offended. Her gaze darted to the stairs. “What’s up there?”

  I ignored her question. “Claudia, really, where are you from?”

  Time was different in the realm, and escaping was tricky for that reason. You never knew where you would come out. She had escaped twice, she said. I wondered if she had time traveled, and it made me curious when she’d been turned.

  Before me, in what would be my past? Or after me, in my future?

  I thought of her use of slang, calling me baby when we first met, like she was Janis Joplin. Night Train was a favorite of skid-row drunks back in the day, and it struck me as a reference my father would make. I guessed it was still around, but my generation got wasted on Everclear.

  “The same as you,” she said. She seemed defensive, suddenly, nervous.

  “How do you know what century I’m from?”

  “Can we go upstairs?” Without waiting for my answer, she went up, her steps ringing out on the metal rungs.

  “They sure have you hidden away,” she stood in the doorway of my room. “Shielded from society.”

  “They dust me off and bring me out, as needed.”

  She went in and sat on my bed, gave a little bounce. “Want to take it for a test drive?”

  I leaned against the doorframe and assessed her. Was she coming on to me? I wouldn’t mind. I was lonely as hell. But I wasn’t supposed to fraternize with demons. Nor could I even think about an angel in that way. I was a man (a demon) without a country.

  “I imagined you living in the lap of luxury,” she said.

  “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “You’re famous, you know. I read about you all the time, in the tabloids. We all do … we’re jealous, we want to be you … or at least, fuck you.”

  “You want to fuck me?” I said.

  Our eyes met, before she glanced down at her shoes. I couldn’t figure her out. Was she shy, beneath her bravado? One thing I felt sure of—she had secrets. I didn’t know if they were dangerous secrets, or just sordid.

  She got up, and came toward me. I was blocking the doorway. I didn’t move. I watched her.

  She reached up to touch my face, my beard. “I like this,” she said. “It’s sexy.” Her thumb pressed my bottom lip and reminded me of the archangels checking my teeth. My semi-aroused s
tate went south.

  She dropped her hand. “Have you ever been in love?” she said.

  “That’s kind of a random question.”

  She shrugged. “I was just wondering.” (Defensive again.) “Don’t you want to tell me?”

  “Sure, I’ve been in love. Have you?”

  She blinked. “No. Not with a lover. I’m in love with a place … a place I can never go.”

  We snuck out, like teen-agers. She took me to the demon quarter, where I saw my face painted on the sides of buildings, where we stood by fires to warm ourselves and pass a bottle of Night Train, where sometimes I was recognized (and it was alright), where she knew every secret place, where demons acted out scenes from the human world; skivvy dance clubs, strip bars, back rooms with pirated movies playing on the wall.

  We started meeting up, almost every night.

  She revealed pieces of herself to me, through her lies.

  I recognized her life story as fiction, a jumbled up, wacky, modernized version of Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire. I saw how much she romanticized the vampires, how she aspired to be like them, powerful, and invincible.

  I discovered her true love, the place she’d never been—the human world.

  I told her about Zadie and Ruby, and Nicaragua, the stars over the desert, my fractured memories of being turned.

  I confessed my yearning to see Zadie again, how I might have come to the realm just to find her.

  Sometimes, Claudia curled up with me, on my bed, in the wee hours before dawn cracked the faux sky.

  It wasn’t sexual. It was just nice.

  “Would you slay Zadie? If you had to?” she asked, propped up on her elbows, gazing down into my face.

  “Never,” I said.

  “Do you think you’ll ever go back?”

  “No.” Jep’s words haunted me. They don’t want a real soldier.

  “You don’t think so?” she was shocked.

  I shook my head.

  “But they have to send you. They will. I know it. And you can run away … and find Zadie.”

  “Live happily ever after?”

  “Why not?”

  I’d given up on the future. I lived for the nights, when I would see Claudia again.