Demonized

by Naomi Clark

  Demonized

  By

  Naomi Clark

  Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.damnationbooks.com

  Demonized

  by Naomi Clark

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-337-9

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-338-6

  Cover art by: Jinger Heaston

  Edited by: Ellen Tevault

  Copyedited by: Sherri Good

  Copyright 2011 Naomi Clark

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Kyle

  who doesn’t seem to mind sharing me with imaginary people.

  To everyone at Different Star and CWIL for help with that tricky first line, John and Wilma for honest feedback, and to Skelly who kept pestering me to finish this story. To Jonathan, for random acts of kindness, and to Kim for her enthusiasm and for stepping into the breach to help edit AFTERLIFE. Finally to Mum and Dad. I hope you like Mutt!

  Chapter One

  I’d never have made it as a cop. The hours were lousy and everyone hated you. I decided at a young age that being a private eye was a much better prospect. The combination of hard liquor and the chance to spy on women really spoke to me.

  Hauling a dead hooker out of a bathtub of ice wasn’t what I had in mind, yet here I was on a humid August afternoon about to do just that.

  The harsh light overhead painted her face chalky white and glowed off the smears of blood around her bluish lips. One hand draped over the side of the tub as if reaching for the vodka bottle lying on the cracked tiles.

  ”Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pushing up my shirtsleeves. Didn’t want to get them wet. Or covered in blood. Someone had slashed the girl a second smile across her pale throat. Blood still oozed from the cut, dripping a sluggish trail between her breasts. The melting ice covered most of her lower body, but patches of it were stained pink, suggesting other bloody wounds further down. “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

  “You don’t get paid for it at all, Banning. Step away from my crime scene, please.”

  I turned to watch Anna stalk toward me as her polished heels clicked on the tiles. Excuse me; she was Detective Radcliffe right now, all balls and business. She didn’t look hot or sweaty like me. She looked composed and lethally efficient, ready to kick ass and take names.

  “Hi, Anna,” I said, straightening up. “How’s tricks?”

  “I really hope you weren’t planning to move that body, Banning,” she said, surveying the scene. I heard boots clomping through the flat as the rest of her gang came to get in on the action.

  “I was looking for distinguishing marks,” I explained with a shrug. I patted my shirt pocket for my rolling tin, and then realized smoking at a crime scene probably wasn’t okay. “A tattoo,” I clarified when Anna narrowed her baby blues at me.

  She pursed her lips. “I didn’t know you did murder cases.”

  “Missing person,” I corrected. We both stared at the dead girl. She stared back with glassy green eyes.

  “Has she got a name?”

  ‘”If she’s got a butterfly tattoo on her back, her name’s Rhian Ellis.”

  Anna already had a pair of latex gloves on. She carefully pulled the body forward to reveal the pink and green butterfly inked on the right shoulder.

  “There we go then. Rhian Ellis. Hooker, stripper, corpse.” I tipped Rhian a salute. Anna rolled her eyes.

  “Who had you looking for a missing hooker?” she asked. One of her boys poked his head in the room before I could answer.

  “Forensics are here, boss,” he reported. “They want to start photographing.”

  Anna nodded. “Let’s talk in the kitchen,” she suggested to me, turning sharply on her heel, never doubting I would follow. I glanced once more at Rhian, taking in the small details. Dark roots showed amongst the auburn waves of her hair. Traces of glitter twinkled on her eyelids. Something twanged inside me, nausea and something else, a buzz of excitement. Shit, I’d been afraid of this.

  “Banning!” Anna barked from the doorway. “Kitchen!”

  I tucked my hands in my pockets and slunk out of the bathroom. I’ve seen some weird shit the past year – everything from vampires to ghosts to demons. A dead hooker should be a welcome break after that, a nice, normal corpse that wasn’t walking around trying to kill me, or kiss me, or anything else, but the girl in the bath tub pricked at me. I wondered ghoulishly if she was missing a kidney, like in an urban legend.

  “Hey, Ethan,” one of the policemen greeted me as I passed through the living room. I nodded, not registering who it was. Too many people milled around, dusting, snapping pictures. The small flat felt hot and cramped. I’d lived in similar places over the years, mostly without the corpses though.

  Unwashed pots and pans cluttered the kitchen. A faint smell of bad meat wafted from the bin in the corner. Empty vodka bottles were lined up neatly on the windowsill. Anna looked like a diamond in a dog turd, a gleaming piece of perfection amongst the filth. She stood with her arms folded, scanning the room.

  “Who was looking for her, Banning?” she asked me.

  I closed the kitchen door, shutting off some of the noise in the living room and pushing down that nasty sense of enjoyment I got from the scene. “Clients get the whole confidentiality whack from me, Anna.”

  “This is a murder investigation. Any information you have, I want.” She leveled her accusing gaze on me. “I sincerely hope you’re going to co-operate with my inquiry.”

  I shrugged, like I hadn’t really decided. “How’d you get here so fast?” I asked. I’d only been in the building a few minutes myself, just long enough to find Rhian.

  “Anonymous tip,” Anna explained. She moved around the kitchen in a slow circle, wrinkling her nose as she passed the bin.

  She waited for me to volunteer some information. We played this game from time to time, when our paths crossed. We both knew I’d spill something, because I was pretty hot for Anna. I think sometimes that she’s pretty hot for me too, in a Lady Chatterly-Mellors kind of way. It’d be a pity fuck though, because…Well, look at her. She’s all legs and curves, more like a swimwear model than a cop. Her blonde curls were pulled back in a tight, professional ponytail that gave you a perfect view of her killer cheekbones and pouty lips. Goes without saying, she could do better than me.

  “This isn’t her place,” I offered as Anna came back to her original position. “Been looking for her for a few days and one of the girls at the club she strips at mentioned this place.”

  “Stripped at,” Anna corrected with a flash of compassion in her eyes as she said it. “What club is this?”

  “Hush, on Knight Street.”

  “So whose place is this? Boyfriend? Pimp?”

  I shrugged again. “It’s rented out to one Tamsin Searle, but I’ve had fuck all luck getting in touch with her.”

  Anna nodded. “And your client
…”

  “Not giving you anything until I’ve spoken to them, Anna. Sorry.”

  Before she could reply, one of the boys shuffled into the kitchen, his eyes alight with a feverish excitement. “It’s the same as the Skinner girl, boss,” he said.

  Anna stood up straighter, if possible. “When’s the coroner coming?”

  “He’s stuck in traffic on Sturgeon Street.”

  When the coroner arrived, Anna would kick me out, denying me any chance to indulge in some morbid bystanding. “Who’s the Skinner girl?” I asked.

  “Prostitute we fished out of the river two weeks ago,” Anna replied. “She’d been sliced up around the stomach and her throat was slit. Looks like your Rhian has been butchered the same way.”

  “A cutting remark, Anna.”

  “Excruciatingly unfunny, Banning.” She sighed, tugging her ponytail. “Look, Ethan, I’m going to need information, you know.”

  “Using my first name. You’re trying to seduce me, Detective Radcliffe.”

  She ignored that. “I want your client’s name, and any further information you have pertaining to the dead girl. Think you can manage that?”

  I shrugged, getting that she wasn’t really asking. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll wait by the phone.” She turned her back on me, already forgetting me.

  I left her in the kitchen, wishing I had a chance for one more look at the dead girl. As I walked past the bathroom, a shiver crawled down my spine, like icy little fingers. Something dark inside me licked its lips at the thought of seeing the hooker again, soaking up the aura of death and pain again, but officers blocked off the bathroom. They swarmed around it and left me with no option but to head out into the steamy summer afternoon.

  I know it sounds fucked up. I’m not into dead girls. Seriously. Last autumn I worked a missing person case in Shoregrave, murder capital of the country, and ended up dealing with the kind of fucked up shit you usually only see on bad drug trips. I learned a lot. Like that wraiths were real and ghouls wandered the graveyards at night, and that ghosts came back for revenge if you killed them violently enough.

  That demons could hide in your bathroom and jump down your throat.

  I leaned against the wall of the building, rolling myself a cigarette. Demons. Yeah, I’d had a demon inside me for a few sick minutes. Then the wraith had sucked it out of me – mostly. I think. I don’t know. All I really know is since then, I’ve been living on coffee, cigarettes, and nerves, feeling dangerous. Hearing a Voice in my thoughts and dreams that isn’t mine. A Voice that wants blood and guts, violence and misery.

  I’d laid low at first, hoping the Voice would leave. I didn’t take any cases, didn’t go anywhere. I just sat in my living room watching the twenty-four news channel and feeding the Voice. Terrorism, natural disasters, pandemics, rape, and murder… the Voice loved it. Bounced off the walls of my mind with it, while I clutched my head and drank more coffee. Nasty, but it kept the demon part of me occupied while the human part tried not to go on a killing spree.

  Eventually, I ran out of money and realized the Voice wasn’t going anywhere. I was stuck with a perpetual reminder of my trip to fucking Shoregrave.

  That’s why I was chasing down missing prostitutes – sorry, dead prostitutes – and hankering after one last look at Rhian Ellis’s cold white flesh.

  I shook off the feeling as best I could and left the apartment block. Outside the afternoon faded into dusk, and the air felt heavy with humidity. Dark storm clouds filled the sky. I hoped the rain would cool things off. I couldn’t think in the heat.

  I rolled myself a cigarette and headed down the block to my car. This was a shitty part of town, row after row of boarded-up stores and graffiti-scarred apartment blocks. Garbage cans overflowed and reeked of wet rot. A stray dog with ribs showing through his patchy fur shivered in a doorway, watching me with huge, wet eyes. I paused to dig in my pockets and found half a candy bar I’d started eating on my way here. I tossed it to the dog, who snapped it up and swallowed it duck-like, straight down the gullet, no chewing.

  Fuck, this place felt depressing. How the hell had Rhian Ellis ended up here, slaughtered in another woman’s bathtub? Everything I knew about her – and I knew a lot, thanks to the very thorough man who’d hired me to find her – said she shouldn’t have ended up this way. She’d been a straight A student from a good family, most likely to succeed, destined for stardom, blah, blah... A good girl. A nice girl.

  A nice girl who’d turned to stripping and prostitution somewhere between the cheerleading squad and Harvard University? Go figure.

  I got to my car, a battered green Hyundai that had seen me through many adventures, before I realized I had a stalker. The skinny mutt trotted along behind me, wagging his thin tail hopefully. I leaned against the car and considered him. He was a real looker, big and scrawny, black-and-gray fur wiry and patchy. God knows how long he’d been out on the street begging for candy, but I guessed he wouldn’t be doing it much longer. Open sores on his legs and flanks wept, and his eyes were rheumy.

  “Kill it,” the Voice said. “Put a bullet right in its stupid, doggy brains. It’s dying anyway.”

  I slid my hand inside my jacket, fingering the barrel of my gun. It’d be a mercy killing, that was for sure. The poor mutt was on his last legs.

  “The pain will be delicious,” the Voice added, like it dangled some tempting treat before me. “Think of that.”

  I thought of it and gripped the gun. The dog whined, like he was asking me to finish him off.

  Then the rain started, slick and warm and hard. In the second it took me to release the gun and push the Voice to back of my head, the mutt and I were soaked to the skin. I sighed and shoved my hair back from my face. “Fine. Get in,” I told the mutt, opening the Hyundai’s back door. He wagged his tail and hopped onto the back seat, settling down there like he’d always been there. I considered him for a second. I’d had a dog when I was a kid, a big stupid Labrador called Rufus.

  Mutt looked like he might be part Labrador. He had the same goofy grin on his face as he watched me watch him. I sighed again and climbed into the car.

  The storm continued all the way home, doing nothing to break the humidity. My car’s air conditioning had packed up weeks ago, and by the time we arrived home, Mutt and I were damp, sticky with heat, and miserable. I parked outside my place and let Mutt out. He ran straight to the front door like he’d always lived here and waited for me to haul my ass over and let him in.

  I wasn’t into housekeeping or DIY, or fixer-uppers, or any kind of handy-home maintenance. So my house was a brand-new, one bedroom place, identical to every other brand-new, one bedroom place on the estate. It was rented, so any time anything broke, went moldy, exploded or caught fire or whatever, I rang the landlord and he fixed it. I guess the downside was that that the place was completely without character or soul, but after my time in Shoregrave, where there were about two ghosts for every living person apparently, I appreciated a soulless dwelling a lot more.

  I let Mutt inside, and he ran over to my couch and shook his wet fur off all over it, then sat looking at me with that hopeful, big-eyed doggy gaze. I shrugged off my jacket, dropped it onto an armchair, and looked back at him. “So what’s the deal, Mutt?” I asked him. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Kill it,” the Voice suggested. I ignored it.

  “You need a vet and a few good meals.” I decided. Mutt wagged his tail in agreement and wandered through to the kitchen. I fixed him a bowl of water, and after some mental debate, gave him a bowlful of leftovers from last night’s Indian takeout. Yeah, he’d probably crap it all over the nice, beige carpet later, but I could always throw a rug over it.

  While Mutt chowed down on his lamb balti, I slumped on the couch and pulled my cell phone from my jeans pocket. Turning the TV on, I dialed
my client and flicked through the home shopping channels while I waited for him to pick up.

  “Mr. Banning? You’ve found her?” Doug Baxter, Rhian’s ex-fiancé, sounded painfully eager, desperate for news. The Voice liked it. I could almost feel it licking up Baxter’s misery.

  I rubbed the back of my neck. I hated this part of the job. “Yeah, Mr. Baxter, I found her, but there’s bad news, I’m afraid.”

  Baxter was silent, already knowing what I’d say. His breathing sounded heavy and slow, like he tried not to hyperventilate or cry. It made me itchy. I see a lot of grief in my job, and it always makes me itchy, uncomfortable. Like I’m seeing the person naked. I don’t like it. Didn’t like it, until a demon jumped inside me, anyway. Since then... Well, I still don’t like it, but the misery keeps the demon quiet, keeps it from pushing me to create some mayhem for it.

  “She’s dead, isn’t she?” Baxter said finally, all the life sapped from his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Baxter. There will be a full police investigation, so I need your permission to pass the details of the case along.”

  “Investigation? Rhian... She...She was murdered, wasn’t she? Someone killed her.” Now I heard fire in his voice, a bit of pepper and fight. The Voice didn’t like that as much, but I privately saluted Baxter for it. Anger was much more productive than depression.

  “I’m afraid she was. I’ve already spoken to the officer in charge, and she’ll do all she can to bring Rhian’s killer to justice, Mr. Baxter. I promise that.” I knew Anna would. She was a one-woman crusade, that lady, a blonde hurricane of justice and righteous indignation.

  “Okay.” Baxter paused. “Okay, fine. I guess we should meet to discuss your fee and the…all the…details.”

  “Sure.” I checked my watch. It was too late to take Mutt to a vet, but too early to give up on life for the day and go to bed. “You want to meet this evening? We can meet up in the Coburg Bar.”