Deamhan

by Isaiyan Morrison

  Veronica only shook her head, startled by the woman’s bizarre appearance. She wore a black wife beater, faded black pants, and her mascara was smeared and smudged. She winked and smiled a welcoming smile, then turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

  The music thundered even louder now, and Veronica returned her attention to the dance floor. Two dancers clad in sheer white shirts, micro-minis, and fishnet stockings gyrated on a raised stage in the center of the dance floor, while the horde of men below them at floor-level clawed at their feet. One of the dancers placed the spiked heel of her knee-high boot against a man’s forehead and shoved him backward. Like shamans in a ritual trance, the men and women twirled their hands and moved their hips from side to side.

  Veronica stared at the performance until the rapidly blinking dance lights caused vertigo to set in. Feeling nauseous, she turned and leaned against the railing that separated the dance floor from the rest of the carpeted venue. She swallowed back bile, resisting the urge to regurgitate the ham and cheese sandwich she’d wolfed down earlier.

  The tiny hairs on the back of her neck danced. She felt the waitress standing behind her and stiffened. Veronica knew it was vital to hide her thoughts from the Deamhan, and she did her best to make her mind a blank slate by imagining a brick wall.

  She’d heard the stories from her best friend Sean Fechin about researchers in The Brotherhood having their thoughts invaded by a Deamhan. It was just one of their various abilities. They couldn’t control humans like vampires could with the sounds of their voices. Instead they forced themselves into a human’s brain, scouring it for any information they desired. Each of the researchers told Sean it hurt like hell.

  “You okay?” The waitress tapped Veronica on the shoulder.

  Veronica slowly turned around, trying to envision a blank wall.

  “You sure you don’t want anything?”

  A bottle of Jack popped into her mind. “Whiskey.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Yeah, just whiskey.”

  The waitress twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “Whiskey it is, then.” She headed for the bar.

  Veronica turned back to the dance floor, appreciative that the music had changed tempo and volume. A slow song oozed throughout the club. One of the dancers left the stage, men trailing behind her like hungry pups. She stopped just outside the bathroom door, and the men jammed into one another like cars at a traffic light. The dancer graced them with a sultry smile, blew a kiss, and closed the door behind her. As if the spell she’d held over them had broken, the men glanced at each other in confusion, then each headed back toward the dance floor.

  The waitress seemed to appear out of nowhere again, and she placed a shot of whiskey on the table in front of Veronica.

  Veronica handed her a five. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks.” She folded the bill between her fingers with one hand, and tucked it in her cleavage. “Anything else I can do for ya?”

  “Yeah. How long has this place been open?” Veronica glanced around, feigning awe. She didn’t expect hiding her thoughts to be so difficult.

  The Brotherhood had Goliath-sized manuals about dealing with the Deamhan, if you encountered one. All new researchers were required to read and study the book prior to their first honorary mission into the world of the Deamhan. But Veronica refused. Instead, she took the route of the non-professional. She practiced the “How to Control Your Mind” exercises from Dummy books she’d loaned from the library in San Diego. Sean also helped by smuggling copies of affidavits from field researchers that explained how they’d reacted when they were in the presence of a Deamhan. She relied on these stolen copies to help her survive in this new world. Now, she hoped she’d studied enough.

  The waitress rolled her coal-rimmed eyes to the ceiling and tapped her chin. “It’s been here forever.” She shrugged.

  “It’s always packed like this?”

  She smiled. “Oh, yeah. Everyone comes here. There’s nothing else to do in boring Minnea-snore-a.” She gave Veronica an once-over appraisal. “You here by yourself?”

  “No, I’m with a friend.”

  “Well, have fun. It’s a kick ass club.” She waved and walked away.

  Veronica tossed back the whiskey and gagged as it stung the back of her throat. The volume of the music increased again, and the crowd’s jollity changed with it. They cheered, pumping their hands at the DJ booth in unison. The DJ whistled into his microphone in response, nearly deafening Veronica.

  She finished the rest of her whiskey, sipping slower this time, as she scanned the crowd. Her stomach gurgled a complaint against the harsh liquor. She sought the bathroom door again and noticed a crowd of women pushing in. Better go get in line. This could take a while.

  Veronica excused herself through the crowd, passing another group of scantily dressed teenagers. Her eyes settled on an older couple nestled quietly in a corner booth. Their arms wrapped around each other in a quiet embrace, watching the dance floor. How odd.

  Cautiously, Veronica pushed open the bathroom door. A group of women stood in various poses in front of the cracked and broken mirrors near the far wall. She stepped over the clumps of matted hair and wet, crumpled toilet paper on the bathroom’s white-tiled floor, noticing the wet garbage lining the sinks and stalls. The toilet in the last stall overflowed, spilling its nasty contents onto the floor. The bathroom’s filth contrasted the rest of the club. Dozens of different conversations overlapped one another, and the sound of the running toilet grated Veronica’s nerves. A few of the women glanced up, then continued pasting on make-up in blotches of cherry, amber, peach, tan, purple and black.

  Not all of them were human. One woman, particularly ghostly, applied a heavy layer of face powder to give her skin a normal hue. She painted her eyes, lips, and cheeks to eliminate her Deamhan markings. Veronica saw the dancer, now standing in front of the mirror brushing her hair. She chatted freely with the Deamhan woman, giving her tips on what kind of makeup appealed to men.

  A chill snaked up Veronica’s spine.

  The dancer shoved her hand into her red backpack and pulled out more cosmetics to add to the many bottles and tubes littering the sink.

  Veronica approached the sinks, her steps tentative. The dancer watched Veronica’s silent approach in the mirror. In one swift motion, the female Deamhan scooped her belongings into an oversized handbag and pushed her way out the door. The other women followed, leaving Veronica and the dancer alone.

  Veronica adjusted the water temperature to cool and prepared to splash her face, but was afraid to take her eyes off the dancer. She knew she should say something, but “Hello” might sound bold. “What a nice night” seemed silly. “You’re a really good dancer.” Nah. The woman would think she was hitting on her.

  “You have to wait a minute,” the dancer said as she stared at Veronica’s hands.

  Veronica glanced down and then jerked her hands from the milky water gushing from the faucet. In a moment, the water ran clear.

  “Thanks,” Veronica said. “I nearly put that on my face.” She noticed a healing scar above the dancer’s collarbone, slightly discolored. A scab wound extended from the middle of her back down to her cleavage, stitched together with dried blood. Healed bite marks covered her neck.

  The Brotherhood called them minions—humans who spied and reported to their Deamhan owners the details of who, what, when and where. They were mentally unstable, dangerous, and they vied to be sired by serving their masters well. They dreamed of becoming powerful and immortal like the vampires they’d seen in movies or read about in books.

  “How did you get those?” Veronica asked, pointing to the dancer’s scars.

  The dancer glared. “That’s really none of your business.”

  Veronica dropped her head and murmured an apology. She snatched a paper towel and dried her hands. “Sometimes I don’t think before I open my mouth,” she added.

  The dancer’s shoulders relaxed and she returned
to brushing her hair. “It’s okay. You aren’t the first person to ask.”

  Veronica knew she wouldn’t be the last, either.

  The dancer turned to her again. “I’ve never seen you here before. You a first-timer?”

  “It’s obvious, huh?” Veronica appraised her own clothing in the mirror. Her faded black shirt revealed its age and tiny holes. Her blue jeans were ripped at the knees, but that was fashionable, right? She looked down, noticing the fraying cuffs and her scuffed shoes. Fashion had never been her thing.

  The dancer coughed a laugh. “No, not really. Anything goes at Dark Sepulcher.” She struck a pose in the mirror, pursed her fire engine red lips, and blew herself a kiss. “See ya, toots.”

  As she strutted out the door swinging her tote behind her, two women rushed in, nearly knocking the dancer down, but she never spoke up nor broke stride.

  The two shoved into the nearest bathroom stall together, slamming the stall door behind them.

  What the hell?

  A loud bang echoed from the stall, rattling the adjoining booths in domino effect. Following loud and furtive whispers, a fit of giggles erupted from behind the wooden door. A leg covered in bruises and welts jutted from under the door.

  As Veronica tiptoed to the exit, the stall door flew open and slammed the wall. A tall, dark-skinned woman stood up, straightening her black leather mini skirt. Completely naked from the waist up, her small breasts sported erect nipples. She grinned knowingly and lifted her skirt, flashing Veronica with black, boy-cut underwear with the word “sexy” glittering in red.

  Stunned, Veronica froze.

  The other woman squatted over the toilet with legs spread, her underwear tangled around her left ankle. Her tight red shirt bunched above her full breasts, revealing pale, perky nipples and a tight torso. As she stared at Veronica, her lips twisted into a half-grimace, half-grin, and then she let her legs fall farther apart, proudly showing Veronica her shiny, bright pink tissue.

  The African American woman inhaled deeply.

  “Mmmm.” Her eyes bored into Veronica’s. “Your scent is intoxicating.” She curled her upper lip into a snarl and jerked her thumb toward the squatting woman. ”Better than this whore.” She cocked her head back, closed her eyes, and sniffed the air again.

  “You’re a virgin,” she cooed. “Untainted.”

  When she smiled again, Veronica noticed the blood on her lower fangs. She took a step back toward the door, her hand hidden behind her, frantically searching the air for the knob.

  “Hey,” the squatter snapped, crossing her legs. “She’s mine.” She wrapped her arms around her bloody-toothed partner’s waist, and pulled her back into the stall.

  Veronica slid another step backward. The door loomed in the corner of her eye. It seemed a million miles away.

  “Tell her, tell her you’re mine,” the woman demanded as she jumped to her feet. “Tell her!”

  “Shut up.” The African American woman’s command immediately silenced her lackey. She turned to Veronica. “What’s your name, honey?”

  Her voice felt sensuous in Veronica’s ears, and her eyelids felt heavy. Veronica could feel her inching closer, and though she knew she had to move, part of her wanted to stay. The woman opened her mouth as if to smile, and her tongue languished out, slowly licking the blood from her teeth.

  Veronica’s fingers grasped the doorknob; she jerked open the door and fled into the club.

  “Where’re you going, baby?” the throaty voice called behind her.

  The slamming of the bathroom door silenced her laughter.

  Veronica rushed back to her table, her heart pounding out a cadence in rhythm with her hurried steps. What she learned on her own about the different kinds of Deamhan ran through her mind again now, in an effort to calm herself.

  For centuries their kind went unnamed. They were called demons, hell spawns, and even vampires. Centuries ago researchers in Ireland finally settled on the name Deamhan, due to their licentious behavior. Based on their feeding habits, they then split the Deamhan into the Ramanga, Lamia, Metusba, and Lugat.

  Through blood and with sharp teeth, the Ramanga drained every drop of blood from their victims. Being the only Deamhan with retractable fangs, they relied on the psychic energy within the blood to survive. The Brotherhood labeled them as the strongest of the Deamhan.

  Considered sexual whores, the Lamia fed by draining the same energy through the mouths of their victims. They had no need for fangs. All they needed was a viable opening and a willing or non-willing participant.

  The Metusba, the quiet of all the Deamhan, fed off the psychic energy contained in their victim’s auras. They stood in the crowds without the need to be up and close with their victims and they drained only what they needed, nothing less and nothing more.

  While the Metusba walked among the crowds, the Lugat slithered, feeding off the leftover psychic energy by using their hands. They could feed off of almost anything; where a person sat, what a person touched.

  Though they differed in feeding habits, they all died the same; beheadings, staking, starvation, and sunlight.

  “Hey!” The waitress again appeared in front of Veronica, stopping her in her tracks.

  How does she do that? Veronica glanced toward the bathroom, afraid she’d be followed. Her chest heaved and beads of sweat collected on her forehead. Maybe she’ll think I’ve been dancing. The air around her felt thick and heavy.

  “You okay?” the waitress asked.

  “I need a drink.”

  “Another whiskey?”

  Veronica nodded, and the waitress disappeared into the crowd. Veronica held her breath to calm her rapid breathing in hopes the adrenaline coursing through her body would dissipate. The pulsating bass emanating from the speakers grew louder and more intense, causing her to rub her temples. The dancer from the bathroom had returned to the stage, now even more scantily clad in a short skirt with white electrical tape X’ed over her nipples, dancing in gymnastic gyrations.

  The crowd’s movement grew violent, with patrons pushing and shoving. The throng morphed into a mosh pit, and Veronica wondered how long it would take before someone was crushed. Fog machines released a steady stream of mist from above the crowded dance floor, giving the huge room an ethereal atmosphere. The lights dimmed, and Veronica could hardly make out the waitress as she returned, carrying a shot of whiskey.

  “Here ya go.” She handed Veronica the drink.

  Veronica gulped her drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, this time thankful for the sensation of the amber liquid searing her throat. She preferred vodka, but at this moment, any liquid running down her gullet was good enough.

  “You want another one?” she asked. Veronica nodded, and the waitress left. Veronica dropped her face to her hands, trying to readjust. Damn, this is harder than I thought it’d be. Her mind raced: hide your thoughts, don’t show fear, stick to the plan.

  She felt a tingling sensation deep in her forehead. In seconds, it had increased to the extent of a migraine. She looked up squinting, the pain becoming more intense with each passing moment, and she knew.

  Someone is reading my thoughts.

  The waitress returned with two drinks. She placed them in front of Veronica.

  “Uh, thanks?” Veronica couldn’t recall ordering two whiskeys, but she pulled out a ten.

  “It’s already paid for.” The waitress pointed to a man sitting at the opposite end of the bar, his long brown hair slicked back in a ponytail. He wore black jeans and a long black see-through shirt, revealing pierced nipples and a six-pack. Beautiful.

  He stared at Veronica with deep brown eyes and smiled, his pale skin resembling a Deamhan at its finest. She felt the pain in her forehead ebb and flow, subsiding a bit each time. Veronica turned to the waitress, but she’d again disappeared.

  Muddled, she downed the whiskey and slammed the empty glass on the table in front of her. She shut her eyes and concentrated on emptying her mind. The pain
diffused into a mild tingling.

  Veronica snapped her eyes open when a male voice told her to not be afraid. She whipped around, but no one was near.

  The voice came from within her head.

  “It’s okay,” the voice said.

  She looked at the man, who still fixed her in his stare, and he slid from his seat and headed her way.

  She dropped her head and stared at the counter. She fought the urge to fling her glass at him and run. Leaving Dark Sepulcher wouldn’t answer the questions about her mother’s disappearance. Don’t think of Mom. She quickly visualized the brick wall.

  “Your thoughts stick out,” the man said, taking the empty stool next to her.

  His penetrating stare caused Veronica’s head to tingle again, but the tingle stopped as quickly as it started. She’d clouded his attempt to rummage through her mind.

  Veronica cupped the whiskey glass and stared into its glowing liquid.

  “Beautiful women like you shouldn’t drink whiskey.”

  What a line. His respectful approach did nothing to impress Veronica. The Deamhan were naturally devious.

  Veronica remained quiet. The stranger smiled and reached for the glass, grasping it from the rim and placing it front of him.

  “I’m trying to start a conversation,” he prompted.

  From the corner of her eye, Veronica saw him examine her. His eyes roved her short, formal straight brunette hair, her face, and finally her hands. Even over the din of music, she could hear him inhale her virginal scent. She tried hard to block her thoughts from him, but the tingle told her she was failing.

  “You should know it turns me on when you do that,” he said.

  She glanced at him, making eye contact for a second and then quickly looked away. He mumbled something, but his voice was too low for her to hear over the blaring speakers.

  Veronica’s thoughts caught his attention again, and he leaned back on the stool, studying her.

  Veronica understood now how a woman could fall for a man like that. Most of the men in Dark Sepulcher were attractive, but this man was hot. She stole a covert glance from under her eyelashes. Tall, medium build, long, glossy hair—stop it. Stay off that bandwagon.