by J. D. Brown
Angie giggled. “Calm down. You’re totally hot. You know that’s not what I meant.”
Lyn did know, but she pursed her lips and pretended to be annoyed anyway because she couldn’t think of a way to tell Angie the real reason why Sam was off limits. She learned at an early age that there were some things you couldn’t tell people—no matter how much she loved them, and no matter how much they claimed to love her. Most people simply could not accept that demons were real or that Lyn could see them.
Angie believed, and Lyn loved her friend dearly for it, but there was a limit. A threshold she couldn’t cross. Angie’s metaphorical threshold might’ve been much higher than most people’s, but it still existed. Telling her bestie she had accidentally bound a Greater demon to herself … well, Lyn was pretty sure that crossed the line.
2
Meet the Emersons
L yn waved goodbye while Angie closed the dojo for the night. She unlocked her beat-up, old Honda Civic Hatchback named Notre Dame and climbed inside.
Lyn rolled the window down while starting the ignition. Exhaust tainted the humid Paradise city air as she left the parking lot and cruised along Main Street. A warm breeze teased the ends of her blonde locks, except for the spots where the Arwah demon’s ichor weighed it down. After cashing the check at an ATM, she went to a gas station to feed Notre Dame and herself.
“Regular octane fuel for you, bacon and cheese muffin for me.”
Lyn gobbled the sandwich in three bites then killed the gas pump at fourteen dollars and two cents. She paid the cashier, hopped in Notre Dame, and headed home to her own personal haven in the crusty dregs of downtown Paradise. Angie hated that Lyn lived in the projects, but where else in the world could she afford a lake view? So what if it was the sludgy city-dump side of the lake? At least the ’hood was never boring with its vulgar street art and shameless residents.
She parked Notre Dame in its usual spot right in front of her apartment building, grabbed Johnny, and then skipped up the cement stoop to the main entrance.
The landlord, a pudgy man named Diego who owned exactly one pit-stained wife-beater and one pair of blue boxers—seriously, Lyn had never seen him wear anything else, even in the winter—stood just inside the apartment complex, checking his mailbox. He glimpsed in Lyn’s direction as she entered. His thick unibrow furrowed into a tight scowl as he opened his tequila-scented mouth, presumably to yell at her about the rent.
Lyn beat him to the punch. “Merry Christmas, Diego! Keep the change.” She shoved the bank envelope into his hands and then ran upstairs before he had time to count it. She was still fourteen dollars and two cents short, but it was enough to keep her from getting evicted.
Lyn was panting by the time she reached her apartment door on the sixth level. She cursed the broken elevator for the extra workout, even though she had to admit it was the only reason the place was so cheap, and let herself inside.
There was something different about her living room. She noticed it immediately as she kicked her shoes off to the side—and it wasn’t the hunk of demon sitting steely-eyed in her brown tweed armchair. The middle-aged couple seated on her couch was new, but she didn’t think that was it.
Hmm. She couldn’t figure it out.
The three of them turned to look at her as she closed the door. The couple on the couch seemed rather aghast as they absorbed her ichor-stained appearance. Their eyes widened as they scanned her from head to toe, color draining as their gazes halted on Johnny. She couldn’t blame them. He was a good-looking katana. Almost as good-looking as his namesake.
Sam unfolded himself from the armchair and stood. To normal people, he looked like a magazine model; square-jawed with golden tanned skin and a sexy smattering of dark stubble. A light button-down shirt and khaki shorts swathed his lean frame; a heck of a change from the torn bloody state she had originally found him in.
Of course, after she saved his life and bound their souls together, the human façade melted away. Lyn saw Sam for what he really was: five-hundred pounds of smoothly carved brimstone that only resembled a walking Adonis. She recalled that fateful night after she had brought him to her apartment, when he removed the shredded rags from his torso to wash the blood from his wounds. His spine had been bruised black, the flesh over his ribs stained yellow from internal bleeding. She wanted to rush him to the hospital, but then she noticed the Hellfire in his veins and the molten lava in his core.
Looking at him was like having double vision. Even now, as his milky blue eyes focused on hers and a muscle feathered beneath his tight jaw, she could see both his human guise and the demon within.
Sam ran his fingers through his hair. The thick tufts were powder white at the roots, silver at the tips, and stuck out in all directions like tiny spikes. She supposed other people could convince themselves the unnatural color was manufactured, but Lyn knew the truth. Sam’s hair reflected the dim lamplight the same way the blade on her katana had glimmered under the fluorescent bulbs of the dojo while killing the Arwah demon.
“Lyn,” Sam spoke in a flat tone. “This is mister and missus Emerson. They have come seeking your assistance.”
The couple seated on the couch stood. Mr. Emerson wore a striped polo shirt tucked into khaki pants with a cell phone clipped to his belt. Mrs. Emerson wore a flower-print blouse over mom jeans with lipstick that matched the shade of her puffy pink eyes. She had been crying but acted stoic in front of Lyn.
“Er, how can I help you?”
“It’s our Violet.” Mrs. Emerson sniffled as she handed her cell phone to Lyn. On the screen was an image of a girl about Lyn’s age with perfect blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a brilliant smile. She stood poised in a cheerleading uniform with blue and white pompoms at her sides. “She’s … she’s …” Mrs. Emerson’s lip trembled as fresh tears glossed her hazel eyes.
Mr. Emerson wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled his wife close. He drew a deep breath and then sighed. “Our daughter, Violet, is … was … the latest victim in the Paradise suicides. You’ve heard of them on the news, right?”
Damn. People still watched that? “Uh, sure. And I’m very sorry to hear that, but shouldn’t you call the police?”
“We have,” said Mrs. Emerson. “We’re not stupid.”
“Sweetie …” Mr. Emerson rubbed his wife’s back.
“These deaths,” said Sam as his vacant blue gaze slid to the distraught couple. He showed no real emotion toward them, one way or the other. Either he played the part of the detached professional, or—more likely—he honestly didn’t care at all, and just wanted to move the process along so the Emersons would leave. “They have been ruled a mass suicide, but the police have no clue as to why the victims took their lives; if it is the work of a cult or merely a pact between strangers. They found four bodies so far; all of them female, blonde with blue eyes, between the ages of nineteen and twenty-one. And,” Sam’s gaze met Lyn’s before it narrowed, “between five-foot-five and five-foot-ten. But other than their appearances, the victims have nothing in common.”
“That’s oddly specific,” said Lyn regarding the victims’ descriptions. Never mind the fact that Sam had just described her.
“Yes.” Sam nodded. “A little too specific for your run-of-the-mill suicide pact.”
“So you agree?” asked Mr. Emerson. “It was murder. A serial killer targeting young blonde women.”
Lyn winced. “With all due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Emerson, if the coroner said it was suicide then it probably was. I’m not sure how I can help you. I’m a paranormal investigator. Not a private investigator.”
Seriously, she had spelled it out on the website and everything. Didn’t people read?
“What about the sigil?” Mr. Emerson pulled a crumpled piece of notebook paper from his back pocket. “The cops are keeping it a secret from the media, but all of the victims carved this symbol into their chests before taking their lives.” He smoothed out the wrinkles in the page before handing it to Lyn
. “It’s satanic, isn’t it? Some kind of occult ritual thing?”
Lyn tried not to scowl as she took the paper from Mr. Emerson. She hated when the general populace lumped demons and occultism together. Sure, there were a few misguided souls who took the Necronomicon a little too seriously, but all it really did was feed Hollywood and give New Age religions a bad rep. Lyn had to give Mr. Emerson props, though. Men rarely believed in demons or the occult.
Lyn studied the paper. A rough pencil sketch of complicated unbroken lines surrounded by a circle of smaller geometric shapes slashed the page. The drawing was indeed a sigil of some sort, but that didn’t mean it was demonic or even real.
“Sounds right up your alley.” Sam’s sculpted lips curved into a slight smirk. “Doesn’t it?”
“We’re just looking for information,” Mr. Emerson added. “Anything that might help the investigation.”
The desperation in Mr. Emerson’s tone tugged at Lyn’s heartstrings. She wanted to help, but she didn’t understand what was in it for Sam. Why was he encouraging her to take the case? Wait, was he encouraging her to take the case? It seemed like it, but in the short week that she had known him, helping a mere mortal seemed out of the demon’s character. He was more likely to sup on their souls.
Sam had made Lyn aware of the precise requirements of his diet early on, and because they were stuck together they had managed a compromise; he would only eat bad people. The scum of the earth. The rapists and murderers, and …
Oh. Now I get it. Sam was hungry.
Lyn forced a compliant smile. “I will consult my sources and do everything I can to shed some light on this sigil for you.”
Mrs. Emerson’s surly expression wasn’t moved, but her husband’s was. Something like relief seemed to ease Mr. Emerson’s posture. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. There’s a five-hundred-dollar non-refundable deposit due before any work begins, and an additional three-hundred-dollars due in exchange for whatever information I find. And Mr. Emerson, I must warn you; most of the time these symbols don’t mean anything. You should be prepared to face the likelihood that there’s nothing for me to find. That your daughter might have just been … well …”
“Suicidal?” Mrs. Emerson snorted. “That’s what the detective said. I can’t believe you dragged me out here, Ed.”
Mr. Emerson’s thin white brow turned upward. He rubbed his chest and sighed. “Violet wasn’t suicidal. She was a happy kid. She had tons of friends, a good boyfriend. She was valedictorian of her class and so excited to start college. No. I know in my gut she wasn’t capable of hurting herself. She got mixed up in something bad and I’ll do anything to get justice for our little girl.”
Lyn fell in love with Mr. Emerson. If only her own father had cared half as much. It was just too bad she couldn’t really do anything for Violet’s parents. Grief was long and excruciating, and like it or not there was probably just some catfishing internet troll on the other side of these deaths.
Even so, whoever’s responsible deserves some court time. Or to have their soul devoured by Sam, but Lyn didn’t want to think too deeply about that.
Mrs. Emerson nodded to her husband, and he opened his checkbook. Lyn jotted down their contact information on the back of the sketch, accepted the money, and then bid the Emersons goodnight.
Sam glanced at the door as it closed behind them. “You needed the money.”
Lyn’s first instinct was to argue, but technically Sam was right. Even after borrowing money from Angie, she was still fourteen dollars and two cents short on the rent. She had other bills to pay too, and it was Sam’s fault she was behind on her finances. He had nothing but the rags on his shoulders when he moved in. Lyn had to buy him clothes, shoes, a toothbrush, deodorant. Not that she knew if Greater demons used deodorant.
“You could’ve told me you were hungry.”
Sam narrowed his gaze and Lyn shivered. It often felt like he could see inside her or something. Blindness my ass. The milky-blue cataracts were probably just part of his disguise; a fabrication to make him seem meek and vulnerable.
Greater demons didn’t need to possess a body. They wore a sort of human costume over their demon form, but it was theirs nonetheless. Sam’s human pupils were covered in late-stage cataracts, but his demon eyes … Entire galaxies hid in their terrifying depths. Like a star gone supernova too close to a black hole, his irises shimmered with the beauty of the cosmos while the dark, cold centers seemed to consume everything.
No. He swore he was blind. Not that Lyn was dumb enough to trust a demon, but Sam exhibited certain habits …
He had begged her to download a voice recognition program on her laptop that allowed him to surf the net with verbal commands. Then it read the content back to him. Not to mention, the way he often reached to feel the layout of things with his fingertips, and how he sometimes tilted his head to listen to the wind, or how his footsteps sometimes hesitated when nothing blocked his path.
The quirks were very subtle, but she had noticed. You couldn’t live with someone for a week and not notice they were blind.
Or demonic.
Lyn turned away from Sam and stepped into the hall. “You want to eat whoever convinced those girls to kill themselves.” She shucked off her martial arts uniform, revealing the T-shirt and boy briefs underneath, and then tossed the jacket and pants on top of the washing machine through the laundry room doorway. Hmm. That’s odd. The laundry room felt different too. “What if they really just wanted to off themselves? It’s a large city. Four suicidal Caucasian women aren’t really that surprising.”
“What if they didn’t?”
Lyn shrugged. “How would we know?”
“Identify the sigil,” said Sam. “Follow the clues.”
Lyn still stood in front of the laundry room. She held onto the door frame and leaned past the opening while studying the layout. The room was tiny, the size of a closet with the washer and dryer stacked together. But what was missing? Was something missing?
“Well, you saw the sigil. Are the Emersons right? Did one of your buddies make those women kill themselves?” Plenty of demon possessions ended in suicide, after all.
“I don’t have buddies,” said Sam.
“Shocking.”
“And I didn’t exactly see the sigil. I’m blind, remember?”
That was too bad. Might’ve been the easiest money she’d ever made. “I meant what I said to Mr. Emerson. The sigil probably means nothing. It’s probably the logo of an anime character or whatever.”
“The logo of a what?”
“Never mind.” Giving up on the mystery of her laundry room, Lyn pulled away and continued down the hall to her bedroom door. “It’s noble that you want to help the Emersons.”
Sam scoffed. He stood right behind her; his ominous presence smelled of fire and brimstone. “Only one’s intentions can be noble, and I doubt mine are any more gallant than that gas station sandwich you ate before coming home.”
Lyn whirled around to face him and gasped. “I didn’t— How could you— I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
His lips curved in mockery. “I’m a demon, Lyn. I can sniff out sin a mile away.”
Her cheeks burned. “Since when is eating garbage and lying about it a sin?”
Lyn wasn’t concerned with dogma or the state of her soul, but they had made a deal, and she just admitted to breaking her end of the agreement. She should never have bargained with him in the first place. She knew she couldn’t stick to a diet.
“It’s not,” Sam admitted. “But I made dinner.”
Lyn frowned. “With what? There’s nothing in the kitchen.”
“I went to the market.” Sam flashed his supermodel grin, the only part of him that didn’t come with double vision. His demon smile was as superb as his human one, which was so not fair.
“You don’t have any money.”
“Is money required?”
Lyn scoffed. “Seriously? You
stole produce?”
He shrugged. “I followed a recipe this time.”
Lyn rolled her eyes and entered her bedroom. She tossed Johnny on the bed then took a good look around. Piles of laundry on the floor with no possible discernibility between clean and dirty: check. Heaps of nomadic garbage and wrinkled receipts: check. An ignored slice of pizza that was probably harboring new life forms under the bed: double check. Her room seemed to be the only normal part of the apartment.
“Was this recipe from a Whole30 website and is kale involved?”
“Kale is good for you.”
“Listen, Doctor Google, lots of humans live perfectly long healthy lives by not eating kale.”
“If you’d just try it.” Sam leaned against the doorframe and crossed his wide arms over his broad chest.
Lyn smiled, amused that she could annoy him—a Greater demon—with something as trivial as her diet. She went to her closet and rummaged around for a clean T-shirt and pajama pants.
“We made a vow to each other.” Sam lowered his chin and watched her through half-closed eyelids. “I swore-off corrupting the innocent, and you promised to give up processed food.”
“I vote to re-negotiate our deal on the grounds that your dietary cravings are way more morbid than mine.”
A low growl accompanied his throaty sigh, but she knew the threat was empty. He couldn’t hurt her. Not without hurting himself. That was the only benefit of their little dilemma.
Wait, what if he was a masochist? “Hey, are you a masochist?”
“Are you?”
“What? No.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“About masochism?” she asked.
“About the suicides.”
“Oh, right. What about them?”
Sam stayed by the door while Lyn searched for clean underwear. She pretended not to pay any attention to him, but she watched from the side of her vision. He stood as casually as any man could while having a conversation about four dead women, but Lyn was a Daughter of Eve—cursed with the sight just like all the Conway women before her. She saw everything. The fire in his blackened veins flowed like molten lava, setting the smoothly carved brimstone of his muscles aglow. The heat of his core seemed to cool to a fine layer of soot just under his human skin that sometimes fell gracefully to the floor like tiny gray snowflakes. The man was a walking, smoking, volcano.
