Demonica

by Preston Norton

  “I like a meal that puts up a fight.”

  His body mass expanded, causing veins to bulge. Bones cracked, shifting to an entirely different structure. Halfway through the process, Amon exploded. A full-sized werewolf emerged from the fleshy blast. Shredded clothes fluttered around him. Muscle shifted beneath his black coat of fur. His lips pulled back, exposing yellow teeth.

  He lunged.

  The Demon Dagger flashed in my hand. I charged. A massive paw swept at my face. I limboed backwards, narrowly dodging it. As I whipped back up, I swung my blade at his throat.

  Taking the offensive so quickly, I missed his immediate counterattack. Amon backhanded me with the same paw. Though the claws weren’t a threat on this side, the sheer force of the blow hit me like a fuzzy sack of bricks. The Dagger was knocked free of my grasp. I didn’t realize that I was spinning until I hit the balcony railing. I barely had an instant to process the impact when I bucked over the edge. My hands flailed, scraping the air desperately. I barely caught myself on the railing. The Dagger clattered on the hardwood floor below. A thirty-foot drop. Dangling there, the numbness of the impact finally evolved into this fire exploding in my left shoulder and side, and, like, holy shit, make it stop!

  I didn’t have time to readjust my grip. The wolfish behemoth launched his hulking body at me. I dropped, just barely missing the collision. The railing obliterated. A shower of splinters raced me to the floor. I tried to land on my feet, but the distance caused my legs to buckle, absorbing only half of the impact. I collapsed, and my shins screamed.

  Lying on my back, I watched Amon readjust himself in mid-air like a cat in slow motion, fully prepared to land on his feet. Though his strong legs did not fail him, the hardwood floor was not as accommodating. His hind legs crashed through the floor first. Gravity did the rest. His lower body sank while his front paws clawed desperately for a grip.

  The floor lurched and groaned. A series of cracks sounded beneath me. I staggered to my feet, but it was too late. The floor collapsed; fortunately, at a slightly forgiving angle. I slid down the slanted, broken surface until it ended and I dropped completely.

  My landing was cushioned but by the only thing I didn’t want near me: Amon. His flesh was muscular and hard, but his thick hairy coat softened the impact. I rolled off—or rather was forced to roll off—as Amon pushed his thick limbs upright.

  Everything was dust. It filled the air like infinite fog, except, you know, minus the ability to breathe. I anticipated this, and held by breath while Amon proceeded into this hacking/wheezing hairball routine. I ducked low, taking advantage of my smoke shield. All the while, my eyes scoured the floor, searching hopefully for any sign of the Demon Dagger. It was the only way I stood any chance of surviving this.

  “Monica…” Amon’s silhouette was a shady blur. The dust was clearing. “You can’t hide from me.”

  Wandering blindly, my shoe connected with some invisible metal object, scraping the concrete floor. I frantically bent down with straying hands, hoping and praying it was my Demon-slaying tool. My heart sank as the shape and texture didn’t match up.

  “I don’t need my eyes to see you, Monica. I can smell you.”

  I felt the vibrations as Amon bounded forward and launched at me. Growl became snarl. Demon Dagger or not, this semi-heavy metal object would have to do. Briefly examining it in my hands, I realized it was a large wrench.

  Flying to my feet, I swung.

  Amon’s hot breath splashed in my face, but only for a second. I bashed the wrench into the side of his face. A sickening smack followed. I spun on my feet. My body twisted just out of reach of Amon’s tumbling form. Too close. Thick hair grazed my bare skin. I felt the impact in the concrete; it jolted up my bones.

  The dust was settling. The remaining dust particles were illuminated by the single light bulb from the entry floor above. Filthy white walls were discolored with spreading mold. Rickety shelving was built into one wall, housing grimy tools and parts. Cardboard boxes lined the adjacent wall, stacked in a lopsided pyramid. On the opposite side, an outdated washer, dryer, and water heater were barely visible in the shadows, merely boxy white shapes against an interlacing framework of pipes.

  And then there were wooden stairs. Naturally, they ascended the furthest point of the long, narrow basement.

  I didn’t even need to think. I just dropped the wrench and ran. Amon’s massive form brushed against the collapsed rubble. The sound caused me to glance back. Bad idea. The right side of his jawbone hung disjointed from his awkwardly open mouth. Then his yellow eyes flashed to me. His jaw shifted back into place with a cracking pop! A deep growl resonated in the back of his throat.

  I ripped my gaze away and flew up the stairs.

  Heavy feet padded the floor behind—just as I reached the door knob. I pushed it open but not before Amon collided with the stairs. He was a hairy freight train. The steps collapsed beneath me. My arm flailed out—barely catching the foot of the door frame. My feet dangled just inches above the shifting hump of Amon’s shoulder blades. I mustered all my strength, which wasn’t much, but when you’re about to die, you muster that shit from places you never knew existed. I pulled myself up and hoisted my left knee over the edge. Below, Amon rustled noisily through the debris, regaining his footing.

  Hurryhurryhurry!

  I hastily rolled forward, flinging my legs out of reach—just as Amon leapt. His teeth gnashed at the open doorway. He fell back down to the basement floor, landing on his feet.

  I blinked, soaking in my surroundings. The basement door was directly connected with the kitchen. The counters were grimy. I noticed a cockroach scattering at my sudden presence. I scrambled to my own feet, backing away from the doorway. It appeared too narrow for the colossal wolf to fit, but I didn’t doubt his ability to force his way through.

  Where was my Demon Dagger?

  And that’s when that motherfucker, Common Sense, bitch-slapped me in the face. I had the ability to summon the Demon Dagger! I didn’t need to find it. It didn’t matter if I dropped it. The Dagger was always with me!

  Shit. Better late than never, I guess.

  Amon lunged at the doorway, his thick shoulders breaking the doorframe. Front claws dug fiercely into the linoleum. His yellow eyes fixed solely on me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a blocky wooden knife rack on the counter beside me. I hastily grabbed a handful of steak knives. I moved forward, thrusting all of them at Amon’s bulky black face. Digging one set of claws deeper into the floor, he swatted the knives away like toothpicks with his other paw.

  And there went that Slayer instinct again because apparently I was still charging directly at him like I knew what the hell I was doing. Amon’s free paw swung at me, thick five-inch claws extended. However, both of my arms were brought together, swinging in unison as the Demon Dagger materialized in my grasp. The whole blade sliced perfectly; Amon’s thick wrist was butter. His black-blooded paw splattered against the wall.

  He howled.

  Swinging upward, I skillfully flipped the blade in my grasp and stabbed down. It pierced cleanly into his skull. The howl gurgled in his throat. The end.

  I released the sleek handle. Took a step back. And then I just stared at this thing, and it was dead, and I killed it, and my god, was this real life?

  Amon’s yellow eyes rolled back into his eyelids. His head hit the linoleum floor with a thud. Hardly a moment passed when he instantly began to deteriorate. His flesh crumbled to dust, revealing a monstrous skeleton. The bones lasted only a few seconds longer before disintegrating as well. Charred ashes were all that remained.

  Suddenly, a blue aura erupted from the ashes. The neon energy concentrated around the Dagger, which began levitating from the floor, blade down and handle pointed at me. The sapphire light exploded outward in a blazing stream, searing into my chest.

  My body went numb, and everything went black
.

  15

  Three Demons and a Witch

  “Monica.”

  My surroundings were a blur. Nothing made sense. All I could feel was this anger. This fucking hatred inside of me, and I didn’t even know why I was mad, but I was. This thirst for death and destruction, burrowing in and out of me.

  I killed Amon. I remembered that much. Amon—the werewolf Demon who had killed Cate and hurt Casey. I had killed him.

  Why was I still so furious?

  “Monica!”

  My eyes fluttered open. Dante was leaning over me. His dark hair was ruffled. Curious blue eyes studied me with genuine concern.

  “Monica, are you okay?”

  I blinked, still trying to register reality. My peripheral vision consisted of Justin Timberlake posters and a frilly pink bed. Dante had taken me back to my middle-school-era bedroom. My gaze shifted back to Dante. His arctic eyes were a glaring reminder of the neon blue light that struck me from Amon’s ashes. Light that channeled through my own weapon.

  “What happened?” I said.

  My question was vague and seemed to encompass an army of questions raiding my brain at once. What happened to Zoey? What had happened to Dante? What was that blue light after I killed Amon? What all had happened since I lost consciousness?

  Dante sat beside me on my bed. As if he could read minds, he answered the first question on my racing list of concerns. “Zoey’s okay now. You don’t need to worry about her.”

  Relief swept over me. But only for a brief second. There was still the glaring issue of my fake Demon boyfriend being inexplicably allergic to my best friend.

  “How?” I asked. “I thought you couldn’t go anywhere near her.”

  “I didn’t help her,” said Dante. “Her own kind got her out of there.”

  I didn’t like Dante’s wording, even though it hinted at something we had already suspected for the past 36 hours.

  “Her…kind?” I said.

  “I should have realized it sooner,” said Dante. “Mammon—that voice that came out of nowhere—is a unique kind of Demon. What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in abilities that extend far beyond most Demons. They call him the Witch King.”

  “Witch King?” I was confused where he was going with this—what it had to do with Zoey—when suddenly the pieces crashed together in a most unpleasant way. “You mean, Zoey…she’s a…?”

  “Mammon has the unique ability to grant mystical powers to humans. In essence, the Witch King is a maker of witches. He’s a greedy Demon who satisfies his needs by manipulating the selfish desires of his followers. And yes, Zoey is one of them.”

  “Zoey’s a witch,” I said out loud, because saying it in my head just wasn’t cutting it.

  “Yeah.”

  And there it was. Zoey—my best friend since forever—was a witch. Fuck you very much. If someone could just direct me to the nearest open grave, I would gladly drop dead in it.

  Or better yet—drop a shit-load of Demons in that motherfucker. I was still pissed, and a mass Demon-killing spree felt like the best therapy.

  Whoa, Monica. Keep your shit together. Calm down. Deep breaths. In and out, in and out.

  “So…you can’t go near witches?” I said. I kept talking because it was the only thing keeping me from going completely Van Helsing apeshit.

  “Of course I can,” said Dante, rolling his eyes. “My guess is that she’s wearing a witch relic that fends off Demons of my kind—Demons made tangible through Deals, not the possessed sort. Otherwise it would have the same effect on Mammon. It’s probably a necklace or bracelet or something like that.”

  “And Mammon…he was the one that attacked you?”

  “Not Mammon. Two other Demons: Asmodeus and Lucifer. That was them who crashed through Hexham manor and snatched me.

  “Lucifer?” I said. “As in…the devil?”

  “No, it’s just a name. Every culture has its own selection of overused celebrity names, even in a Demon society. It’s like the name “Jack” in Hollywood. I swear, if I watch another movie or TV show with a main character named Jack, I’ll puke.”

  “But…the devil is real?”

  Dante sighed. “Now is really not the time to discuss theology. We have other matters demanding our attention.”

  “Did you beat them?” I asked. “Satan and What’s-His-Face, I mean?”

  “It’s not Satan, it’s Lucifer,” said Dante. He rolled his head in exasperation. “And she is as girl. Both of them are. And no, I did not beat them. Mammon likes to pretend he’s the leader, but Lucifer is the true bitch in charge. I was lucky to escape.”

  My sense of victory dwindled with the mention of all these new Demons. Especially the fact that there were more difficult ones up ahead.

  “Where does Amon fit in?” I asked hesitantly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is he stronger? Weaker? How does he compare with the other Demons?”

  “Amon is one of the stronger ones,” said Dante. “But he’s also possibly the stupidest one. He’s always been the rogue of the bunch. Mammon and Lucifer weren’t so much here to support him as they were for damage control. I think it’s very possible that they expected you to beat him.”

  Great. The only Demon I’d taken out was the expendable one.

  “What about Asmodeus?” I asked, noting the omission of the third Demon.

  Dante pressed his lips into a straight line. “Well…Asmodeus was Amon’s lover. I’d count on her trying to kill you next.”

  “His lover?” Shit just kept getting weirder and weirder. I was quickly losing my desire to ask more questions.

  Oddly enough, my fear was quenched by that same anger I woke up to. A part of me wanted nothing more than to kill another Demon, whoever or whatever it was.

  What was wrong with me?

  “Asmodeus is a succubus,” said Dante. “A female sex Demon. You’re going to find that all of these Demons are really quite different from each other.”

  Dante opened his mouth to say more but seemed to hesitate. Those penetrating blue eyes betrayed his usual swagger and confidence. Whatever was wrong, it made me feel genuinely uncomfortable.

  “Monica…I haven’t been completely honest,” he said. “There’s something that I haven’t told you. Something that you really ought to know now. It concerns your abilities as a Slayer.”

  16

  The Power of the Slayer

  “You want me to WHAT?”

  It was the middle of the night, in the middle of a dark and unfriendly forest clearing. Before I let Dante transport us here, I had him take me to my front porch, so I could officially “come home” and let my parents believe that I was in for the night.

  Ha. What a joke.

  Now here I was, enjoying the moonlight and that bitch, Mother Nature, after I had just annihilated a wolf the size of a rhinoceros. The thought of my best friend being a witch still squirmed in the back of my mind. I still had no clue why Dante had even dragged me out here. But no, that just wasn’t weird enough for him.

  “I want you to take off your clothes,” he repeated, and then added awkwardly, “Please.”

  I just stared at him. Like, what the hell do you say to that? I wanted to slap him, but with my newfound anger management problems, who’s to say I wouldn’t just go all out and slay the bastard? I kept my arms rigid, wrists pinned to my side, and just tried not to detonate.

  “Is there a name for what’s wrong with your brain?” I asked.

  “Would it sound weird if I said that you’ll thank me? Actually, you know what? Don’t answer that.”

  I just folded my arms and glared ocular death out of my soulless ginger eyeballs.

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help,” said Dante. And then he threw his hands up in exasperation. “You know what? Forget it. Keep your
clothes on.”

  “What’s this about? Really.”

  “It’s simple,” said Dante, eager to move on from his disastrous conversation starter. “Have you felt different at all since you killed Amon?”

  “Different? How?”

  “You tell me. Has anything felt…off?”

  The answer was obvious

  “Yeah. Yeah, I feel…angry. It’s weird. Like I’m not myself.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Now I want you to focus on that anger.”

  Was it even worth asking why?

  Nope. Not even a little bit.

  I sighed, too tired to argue. Closing my eyes, I channeled my thoughts, drawing upon my anger. Or something like that. Like, how does this meditation shit even work?

  I didn’t even have to try.

  The fire was already there, just waiting to be acknowledged. It flooded my consciousness. It was this damn, and it crumbled with a touch, and to hell if I thought I could tame the force on the other side. I was no longer aware of my surroundings…not even myself. All that existed was the tempest inside of me, spiraling, building pressure, threatening to burst.

  I exploded.

  At least that’s what it felt like. It was like a muscle spasm. But everywhere. And multiplied by a bajillion.

  And then it was over. I fell to all fours, panting heavily. Despite the chill of the night, my body was suddenly burning. And then I glanced up at Dante who was grinning wildly.

  Why did he look so small?

  I gasped. The sound that escaped my throat was much heavier. I glanced down at my hands.

  In their place were thick, reddish-brown paws, claws extended.

  “WHAT THE HELL?” I screamed. At least I tried to scream. The sound that came out was more of a bark. My voice was deeper, gruffer… I wouldn’t go so far as to call it entirely masculine, but shit if it wasn’t monstrous and intimidating.

  “You, Monica Binsfeld, are a werewolf,” said Dante. “Surprise!”