Demon Blessed

by Nikki Sex

  Chapter 50. Back to Normal

  On Monday morning, the day after the full moon celebration at Spukani Lodge, I send text messages to Hope, Owen, and Stafford: “How was the full moon? I hope you had fun. I’m at work today, but I can talk later tonight.”

  Hope and Owen reply with glowing reports of their happiness. Stafford’s response is more subdued, but he agrees to call me after seven p.m.

  We have a lot to discuss.

  Thanks to him, I’m stuck here in Canada—the place I want to be. There’s no escape now, not with the enchanted link Stafford has placed on me. What will happen next?

  The last few days have been a whirlwind of change and surprises.

  To think, it all started out innocently enough when I got dressed up and went out last Friday night for an energy feed. My demon healed Webb’s melancholy. Then I discovered Hope and Owen, and brought them home. By Saturday morning my demon had magically healed them both, and genetically altered Hope.

  My inner monster has learned a new skill. Who would’ve dreamed a demon could make lives better? Yet demons being demons, they instinctively zero in on a person’s greatest desires—and their greatest fears.

  Knowledge can be used for good or for evil. It seems my friend is using his insight into peoples’ personalities for good. An empathetic demon. Go figure. I must be doing something right.

  Still, after the last few days, I feel as though I’m tip-toeing through a field of landmines using an out of date map. No explosions, yet—so far, so good!

  How’s that for positive thinking?

  Still, my greatest secret has not been discovered; Hope and Owen are happy with their new lives; and Stafford didn’t kill me in a fit of well-deserved pique for identity theft.

  I still can’t believe I managed to pick his daughter’s name for my birth certificate. I mean really? Was that bad luck, or what?

  I’m unable to shift to wolf, so Stafford won’t want me for his mate. Oh, well. Considering the circumstances, everything worked out alright.

  I sigh. My heart is heavy, my soul saddened.

  It’s never a good idea to lie to oneself. Once you start, it’s hard to stop. The truth is, I wish I’d been able to shift. My demon and I would have found a real home.

  I kiss Toby goodbye, get in my car, and face rush-hour traffic. I have an appointment to keep with the Zheng family. I plan to find their dad’s ghost, speak to him, and hopefully discover where he hid the missing diamonds.

  Vancouver's most prestigious homes are concentrated largely on the city's west side. That is where the Zheng family resides.

  West Point Grey is one of Vancouver's older neighborhoods. The area is known for two of the city's popular beaches, Jericho Beach and Spanish Banks. Both are great for watching the sunset over English Bay and the mountains. The homes on Point Grey Road are the most expensive in British Columbia.

  The Zheng household is no exception. Large wrought-iron gates open wide as I drive up and into the curved driveway. The home has three stories, built in Medieval Revival style. It has a steeply pitched roof, prominent cross gables, decorative half-timbering, tall, narrow windows with small window panes and massive chimneys, topped with decorative chimney pots. The grounds surrounding it are covered in beautiful sculpted formal gardens.

  I get out and walk up the three steps, but before I can knock on the huge double doors, Kimberly Zheng opens one side.

  “Ms. St. John. Thank you for coming. Please, come in.”

  I step into a home that surprises me. The front seemed Tudor, yet inside it has floor to ceiling windows, high ceilings, and spacious rooms that maximize unobstructed views of the waterfront.

  “This is my sister, Meili.”

  “How do you do?”

  There is a distinctive familial connection. The two women look similar, yet Meili is a good five years younger.

  Conversation flows more or less naturally as the young women show me through their home, as agreed. It’s must be over 5,000 square feet of luxury. There’s a paneled library, movie room, you name it—it’s here.

  All this space and I don’t sense the spirit of Mr. Zheng in any part of it.

  Strange.

  The diamonds are missing. The man has recently passed away. I doubt he would’ve left with the anxious energy of his loved ones pulling at him. So, where is he? We’ve walked through every room in the home, but there’s no sign of the deceased.

  We end up back in the living area, where Mrs. Zheng sits drinking tea. She’d been in the garden while I checked through the house. If Mr. Zheng doesn’t show himself soon, I’ll end up scrutinizing the garden for ghosts, too.

  Mrs. Zheng nods at my arrival. Her face is blank, but even so, I can tell she isn’t happy to see me.

  “You two are the only living offspring?” I ask Kimberly. “There is no one else?”

  “No one. Please, sit down. Be comfortable,” she replies. “Would you like tea?”

  “No, thank you.” I end up sitting alone on the huge leather couch.

  “May I see your father’s last Will and Testament?”

  Mrs. Zheng begins to rattle away in Chinese. “Please,” Kimberly says with extreme politeness. “I do not understand what his Will has to do with anything?”

  “It may have everything to do with it.”

  I’m met with silence.

  “OK, can you at least tell me the date of the Will? Nothing specific—an approximation. How long ago did he write it?”

  Kimberly frowns, speaks to her mother in Chinese. “He wrote his Will ten years ago.”

  “Your mother knows English very well, doesn’t she?”

  Kimberly says nothing. Her mom keeps a very straight face. She reminds me of a carved Chinese dragon. Looks like solid rock on the outside, but bring her to life and you’re in deep shit.

  “Fine. Well, this is what I think. If the Will you have is ten years old, I don’t believe it’s the most recent.” I pause to let that sink in. “After your brother died, your father would have possibly changed, or at the very least updated, his Will.”

  Mrs. Zheng’s face is stonier than ever.

  Her daughters register confusion, surprise, and then the logic of the situation kicks in. I wait, but no one says a word.

  I continue, “I believe your father had another child, perhaps a child out of wedlock. Maybe—and most likely, a son.”

  Total silence.

  “If you tell me the name of your half-brother, I’ll speak to him. Your father is likely with him.”

  Both sisters appear astonished at this possibility. Again, rapid fire communication occurs, back and forth for a long while. The young women attempt to hide their unhappiness, but I think they both feel hurt, betrayed, and aggravated.

  If I had any half-siblings, I’d certainly want to know.

  It’s a standoff. No one speaks for some time.

  “Look,” I finally say to the mother, “you aren’t hurting financially. Use his old Will, if you really want. Live without the diamonds—if you can. Your husband will not rest in peace, but it seems that is a choice you can make.”

  She says nothing, but I can tell she understands my every word.

  “But if you want the diamonds, bring out the current Will. I think your husband will appear, either here or with his other child. Either way, he’ll speak to me after that.”

  The mother stands with a tiny sigh—this is her version of an extremely snarky huff. With a proud, elegant stride, she leaves the room. When she returns, she hands me a copy of the current Will.

  I scan down the page.

  At the beginning of the document, Mr. Zheng’s illegitimate son by another woman is named as beneficiary of half of the family’s estate. I retrieve a notepad and pen from my bag, write the son’s name and address.

  “So, she has come to her senses,” a voice triumphantly speaks, directly into my mind.

  I scan the area, but see nothing. “How about you show yourself?” I send mentally to the room at large.


  Starting at his feet, like gathering mist, his body forms until he stands before me. I peer upward to regard a stern-looking Chinese man.

  “Nice trick,” I send to him. “Mr. Zheng, I presume?”

  “I am Xiu Zheng.”

  “Pleased to meet you. I take it your wife disagreed with your final wishes?”

  “If our son had lived, the business would have gone to him. I had an affair twenty years ago. I have made the provision for my son, Lantham, to inherit half of our family business if he meets certain criteria. My wife disagrees.”

  “Ms. St. John?” Kimberly asks.

  I raise a hand. “One moment, please. Your father is here.”

  Her eyes widen with pleasure, awe, and surprise.

  Meili gasps excitedly. “He is? May I talk to him?”

  “Wait one moment.” Then to Mr. Zheng, “Where are the diamonds?”

  Mr. Zheng explains. The day he purchased the precious gemstones, he returned home late. Too tired to bother taking them upstairs to place them in the family safe, he’d left them in a secret compartment he had in his car.

  He hadn’t planned on going to sleep and never waking up.

  “My wife has persuaded my lawyer to use the older version of my Will.”

  “Mmm. Financial persuasion?”

  “How else?”

  I resist the impulse to laugh. Ready cash must be tight for her right about now.

  I look into the face of the Chinese Dragon-Lady, a woman protecting the family fortune for herself, or (more honorably) for her daughters. Aloof and dispassionate, she hides her anger as she silently sips her tea.

  My eyes meet hers. “Did you bribe his lawyer to ignore his most recent version of your husband’s Will?”

  The woman doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but I can see the palpable answer. I nod. “I’ll take that as a yes. Must have been expensive.”

  Dragon-Lady says nothing.

  “I’ll take this copy of the Will, shall I? That way, I can personally ensure Mr. Zheng’s last instructions are carried out. I saw a fax machine in Mr. Zheng’s office. I’ll fax his Will to MacLeod International, and I’ll leave each of you a copy. Then your husband will tell me where the diamonds are.”

  “It this true?” Xiu Zheng asks. “You will do this for me?”

  I smile. “Certainly. It will be my very great pleasure to help clear up this little misunderstanding.”

  My morning with the Zheng family ends most satisfactorily. The girls both have a chance to speak to their father, to say their last words, to give him their love. A stubborn, civilized man, he had been unable to hide his tears of farewell.

  Another Hallmark moment.

  It’s times like this I love my job.

  The energy from Xiu Zheng’s passing slips over my skin as delicate as a soft, sensual caress of silk. Peace flows through my demon and me, as I decide to take the scenic drive home from the Zheng’s family estate.

  Chapter 51. Detective Joseph

  On my drive home, I hear my phone give a text alert, which I ignore. The moment I park my car in my apartment’s underground garage, I check the message.

  My boss’s secretary texted to tell me I have an appointment with a detective from the Homicide Unit at one p.m. Occasionally, I’m brought in as a consultant, but only one guy in the Vancouver police department values my opinion.

  John Joseph.

  Yay. I love working with him.

  I shower Toby with love, take him out for a brief walk, grab a quick lunch, and catch a bus to work—arriving exactly 15 minutes early. Detective Joseph is already waiting for me in the Green Interview Room. He respectfully stands the moment I enter.

  “Detective Joseph,” I exclaim. “It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  He smiles—mainly with his bright, intelligent eyes, but says nothing.

  Probably forty-years old, the detective is an attractive man. Not movie star handsome, but calm, honorable, “I-sure-as-hell-feel-safe-with-you-around,” handsome. There’s something in his steady gaze that makes a person know they can trust him.

  Quietly proud of his First Nation heritage, the detective comes from Vancouver Island, the Nuu-chah-nulth tribe, meaning "all along the mountains.” He has high cheekbones, his eyes are nearly black, his skin deeply tan, and smooth. A half a foot taller than I am, he has long, black hair which he ties back in a ponytail.

  In the 1800’s, the Canadian government found First Nation people’s names confusing and difficult to pronounce. They believed assimilation would more likely occur when everyone had European names. Consequently, they enacted the “Indian Act,” to change each Indian name.

  The Indian agents on the west coast of Canada often assigned biblical names. It happened like this: A First Nations individual would come in and be asked for his or her name. They may reply, “Nawh Lhindesch'osh.”

  At that point, without rhyme or reason, the agent might have written the man’s name as “Adam Michael.”

  Later, if poor Adam Michael was asked if he was related to the Michael’s from the Squamish First Nation, his might reply, “No, but I bet we had the same Indian agent!”

  For John Joseph, researching genealogical records to discover his family tree must be nearly impossible.

  “How may I help you, John?”

  His dark gaze locks with mine. “Can you come with me to a murder scene?”

  “Of course.”

  Eyes still locked with mine, John nods, turns, then walks out the door.

  I follow, grinning. Detective Joseph and I have a great working relationship. A “man of few words” describes him exactly. Good communication can occur without words. John is an intensely aware man who barely needs to use his voice at all.

  Throughout my time here at MacLeod International, we’ve come to an understanding. From the very beginning the detective never once questioned or doubted my psychic abilities.

  In the tradition of his ancestors, he has a hyperaware sense of the natural world. Although we’ve never spoken about it, I suspect he’s also conscious of the supernatural world.

  He saw something in me without the common human need for proof.

  Dressed in an understated dark suit, wearing a leather and bead woven charm on his wrist, John has a distinct hint of power. Possibly, his psychic magic manifests itself as intuition. If I persuaded him to talk about it, he might mention “gut feelings” or instinct. The man senses something, but keeps this knowledge to himself.

  They say “like” recognizes “like.” Maybe that explains our wordless compatibility.

  We take the elevator down to the parking level and walk to his sedan. Ever the gentleman, he opens the door for me. I restrain my broad grin, but inside I’m giggling. I’m going to count the number of words he uses today.

  His total so far? Nine.

  I have rules to this game I’m playing. I’m not permitted to encourage him to speak, nor am I allowed to ask questions or initiate conversation. That’s why for the entire drive, neither of us says a thing.

  We travel down the trans-Canada Highway, turn off at the New Westminster exit. Nausea twists my gut. This isn’t far from Coquitlam where Hope and Owen were attacked. When we arrive, he parks and we walk to the scene where a construction site has been barricaded off.

  Official vehicles are parked all around as though scattered like pick-up-sticks, while yellow “crime scene, do not cross,” tape is everywhere, cordoning off the site from media and gawkers. Official looking people are coming and going, uniformed officers work alongside the coroner. Frowning with unease, I regard a cop with a video camera, forensic men and women, technicians, and so on.

  Wow. Lots of activity. Either a number of people have been killed, or a Very Important Person has been murdered.

  Closely following the detective, we thread our way through the crowd. The smell and taste of putrefying flesh slams into my senses. I’m putting on my best “nothing to see here—boring, average, not important,” act while trying not to wi
nce.

  “Hey, who’s this?” a uniformed cop asks, blocking our way as he guards a door. His blond hair is cut military short, his eyes wide and spooked. He’s a young man, probably fresh out of the Academy, full of rules and restrictions.

  “Consultant.”

  Ten.

  “She been cleared?”

  John Joseph simply looks at him until the young cop colors, nods, and looks away.

  Ten. That’s it. Ten words total. By God, I love this guy.

  The construction area appears to be the site of a future office or apartment building block. They’ve only got the foundation complete, including underground parking.

  My demon reaches eagerly; he smells blood, not fresh blood which is his preference. Yet to him, it’s all good—death is death. His excitement transfers into me until my whole body pulses with hunger, lust, and need.

  I wish I could talk to him, but I can’t right now. Instead I lock him down, obstructing all sensation—disconnecting myself from feeling.

  My entire body tenses as I smell the decaying entrails from humans passing. The place stinks to high heaven. God dammit, this is another bloodbath—I just know it. It will be exactly like when I found Hope and Owen.

  Death has an odor like no other.

  This is not good.

  Chapter 52. Horror

  We enter a well-lit underground parking area where I take in the ugly spectacle. Nothing is quite as disgusting as the smell and sight of rotting flesh, and congealed blood.

  I see and hear people speaking as we approach the scene.

  “I wonder what in God’s name did this?” a plainclothes detective says, holding a cloth over his face.

  “What is right. It looks like a grizzly bear attack.”

  The man who had been speaking, suddenly breaks from the scene, runs further away. He bends over, falls to his knees. I see him jerk forward and backward, going through heaving motions, throwing up the contents of his stomach.