Night Call (Book 2): Demon Dei (21 page)

“You might be right about that, Hawkins. But at least I don’t use my friendship to attack her.” He let me go and stepped back, straightening his clothes. “If you were going to see her again, to maybe insert another knife, don’t bother. She’s asleep, at last.”

I let him walk away, even though every nerve in me itched to chase him down and smack the honesty out of him. Not so long ago, confronted like that, I probably wouldn’t have been able to hold back. Not so long ago, confrontations like that usually involved a vampire or ghoul, not a man simply defending his friend.

If my enemies were anything to go by, I’d come a long way since not so long ago.

I didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

I was too wound up to go see Erin. I’d come to apologise for my earlier behaviour, but thanks to
Courey, that would be nigh unto impossible now. Instead, I wanted to hit something and hit it hard. My control had been getting better these last couple of months. Not so many irrational urges to let the anger flow. (Okay, let’s just side-track here for a moment. Irrational? Is whaling on a vamp that’s trying to kill me irrational? I don’t particularly think so. To rephrase…) Not so many opportunities to let the anger flow. (Better.)

I’d successfully finished my court required visits with a psychiatrist for anger management issues. Dr Campbell and I had parted on, if not friendly, then at least respectable terms. I respected that he had a job to do and he respected that I wasn’t ever going to be a lie down and take it kind of guy. He did, however, give me some good exercises for rechannelling my excess negative energy. The best had been the investment in a boxing bag. Still, by the time I could get home to where the bag was, I’d either have calmed down or blown the pressure valve and done something stupid.

One of the less impressive techniques Campbell had given me was something called ‘primal scream therapy’. Supposedly, you go somewhere private—and remote or sound proofed—and scream and scream until all the anger goes away. Don’t know about anyone else, but when the blood is boiling, a good yodel does little more than get me in the freakin’ mood.

So I did the next best and healthy thing. I repressed it.

I was getting good at it. There had been a distinct lack of berserker tendencies over the last couple of days. That whole thing between Erin and the demon, I’d handled rationally. The first meeting with the demon, I’d used the energy in a more productive way. Now Courey’s little demonstration. A few hints of maniacal twitches, sure, but no broken bones or torn tendons. Neat.

The phone rang just as I got into the car.

“Night Call.” See that. Not even a snarly greeting.

“Matt, it’s Chris Davis.”

“I hope you’re calling from your hotel room,” I said, not liking the strained quality I heard in his voice.

Chris sighed. “No, I’m not. I’m still at home.”

“Chris, I know you’re probably in no danger, but I would really appreciate you doing this, just to ease my mind.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. It’s not me. It’s Rufus. He refuses to go.”

“And you’re calling me why?”

“Well, I was hoping you might be able to persuade him to do this.” There was a short pause where I suppose he expected me to jump in and agree. When I didn’t, he continued hopefully. “Perhaps you could bring Mercy. I think Rufus would listen to her, if she could tell him why this is necessary.”

“Mercy’s otherwise occupied today,” I said. “And I would really like to see you tucked away before she’s available.”

“I still think Rufus might appreciate a visit from you. He’d probably listen to you more than he would me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mysterious and cool and not his father.” The last was said with dry understatement.

And Mercy was young and more appealing to a teenage boy than either a mysterious cool guy or his dad. Okay, I could see that.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll come and try.”

Relieved, Chris gave me his address and I headed over. The Davises lived in Rocklea and only a couple of streets over from the new estate where we’d found the demon last night.

Coincidence?

Yeah, I didn’t think so either, but I didn’t have enough parts to make the connection yet.

I was walking up the drive, trying to bridge the clue gap when the front door of the Davis’ house slammed open and a kid stalked out.

Rufus Davis must have taken after his mother. He didn’t look much like his dad, that’s for sure. He was tall and lanky with a clumsy awkwardness that said he hadn’t finished growing even though he was well on his way to six feet already. His ratty jeans, thankfully, didn’t hang half way down his arse, and his long-sleeved t-shirt showed some promise by advertising a tour for Muse. A NY Mets cap was jammed so far down over his face that all I saw was a scowl of mighty teenage angst.

“Rufus?”

He pulled up short as if he hadn’t seen me, which he probably hadn’t. “Yeah?”

I held out my hand. “I’m Matt Hawkins. I’m helping your dad with some things about your mum’s death.”

The shadowed face tilted toward my hand but he made no move to haul one of his own out of a pocket to shake it. “She wasn’t my mum.”

“I guess she wasn’t. Sorry.”

“You’re here to try to make me go a hotel, aren’t you.”

No point in trying to snooker the kid. “Your dad thinks you might listen to me.”

“Why?” There was utter wonder in the single word.

I struggled to recall my teenage years. There’d been all the usual mishaps—fights, girls, unauthorised parties, family arguments, family arguments that ended with someone in hospital and a close shave with charges for assault—but I don’t think I’d ever gone through that total rebellious stage. That was probably more to do with the fact I had an older brother with a firm grip on ‘right and wrong’, and an even firmer fist, than any excessive respect for the limits my parents tried to impose. I also had a younger sister and that kind of makes older brothers all righteous and protective so you tend to spend a lot of time on the lookout for incoming boyfriends and giving them a thorough going over. But that was a whole different kettle of sharks to a single child with a pretty rough history.

In short, I was going to have less of a chance relating to Rufus than his father had.

“My thought exactly,” I muttered.

“Then why are you here?”

“I told your dad I’d try.”

“You tried, now you can go.”

Rufus made to walk past me. I grabbed his arm, brought him up short.

“Not until I’ve made something of an effort.”

“Get your fucking hand off me, prick.” He tried to pull out of my hold, but his stubborn refusal to take his hands from his pockets hindered his attempt.

“Gosh, you talk tough, kid. Let me quake in my boots for a moment.”

I hauled him back in front of me. All his protests got him was a moment of shaky balance where it was either lift his arms to steady himself or fall over. He chose the former and I caught a glimpse of his left hand. It was scared across the back and missing three fingers. He had thumb and first finger only.

That reminded me about his real mum. I couldn’t help the surge of pity for the kid, but I could help letting him see it. I knocked the hat from his head instead.

Like his hand, his face was scared. All down his left cheek to his jaw line and back up over his ear—what remained of it—and a good way across the side of head. No hair grew on the puckered pink skin. There were more burn scars low on his neck, extending under his
shirt on his left shoulder. I could guess that they went all the way down his arm to join up with his ravaged hand.

Exposed, Rufus glared at me and faster than it had even happened with Erin, his aura reached out to touch me. Or should I say, slap me. My connection with Erin had been like the first strike in a sword duel, a testing thrust and parry, a (please excuse the inherent sexism) gentlemen’s agreement that here be equals.

Rufus was nothing like that. He was all attack, show dominance, do not lose. His aura tasted of too sweet maple syrup starting to crystallise and oranges just this side of rottenness. Underlying the cloying sweetness was a current of dry heat that my brain translated into the same sensation you get from straight vodka.

He had some power, this scarred kid. I could feel it weaving through his aura, a tidal ebb and flow of something skating on the edge of darkness but without the complexity to be considered malicious. It wasn’t psychic like my own power, nothing conscious or even subconscious. This thing just was. It was strange and strong in its own way, but it did little more than batter at me like a toddler going up against an adult. A lucky hit might do some temporary damage but I was pretty sure I could stand here and take it all day.

“Got a good look?” Rufus snapped and broke me out of my shock.

He didn’t know what he was doing. His attack had been an unconscious response.

I pushed out with the well of energy in my chest, the telekinetic part of my power, and knocked aside his efforts.

Rufus flinched as if a fly had buzzed straight at his face. His attack stopped and his aura retreated, but he rallied with a spiteful, “Want to see the rest? What are you? Some sort of perverted pervert?”

I snorted. “You wish.”

As hard as he tried to hide his scars, I was willing to bet Rufus banked on them a whole heap. He probably depended on the pity they would evoke in people, used them as an excuse for his behaviour. I could guess Chris felt pretty guilty about the accident that had left Rufus so severely burned and his mother dead. Just as I could guess Rufus rode that guilt as often and as far as he could. The phone conversation between them I’d overheard the other night showcased a father trying the hard line with a kid he knew he couldn’t control.

Hey, I’ve seen all the movies. I know it takes a tough, uncompromising stranger to sort these types of damaged personalities out.

Perhaps Chris had seen those movies too.

“The thing is, kid, it’s just plain disrespectful to not to look at someone when they’re talking to you,” I said.

“Respect needs to be earned,” he threw back at me.

“Right. And you’re not doing a lot to earn mine.”

“And you don’t need to earn mine?”

“Sure. I’m just not that eager for it. Listen,” I snapped before he could grumble any more. “All your dad wants is to go to a hotel for a few days. Nothing big and something that might keep him safe. Keep you safe. Aren’t you worried about the fact your stepmother’s killer is still on the loose?”

Rufus shoved his hands back in his pockets, eyes narrowed. Everything about him closed down and there wasn’t even a spark of aura as he grumbled, “What makes him think he’s in danger? Gerry wasn’t even living with us when it happened. Nothing she did had anything to do with us. She was barely even around when she was with us.”

Dear Lord. There were abandonment issues as well? Guess I couldn’t exactly blame the kid.

“So you think there’s nothing to worry about?” I asked, just to make it absolutely clear.

“Of course not. It’s been more than a week since she died. If dad was important he would have been taken out before now.” Rufus glared at me. “And yet you think you’re some sort of high shit and now he’s all worked up, thinking we have to get to a ‘safe house’. A safe house? What the fuck am I supposed to do there? I’m barely allowed to live as it is. He’s always hanging over my shoulder, trying to be ‘pals’ or something.” He bent over and snatched up his cap. “Well, I’m sick of it. You can go be his friend, then, if he’s so desperate for one. Fuck knows, he’s got nothing else in his life. Drag him off to a hotel room, pervert, if you want, but I’m staying here.”

Jamming the cap back over his head, covering his scars, he slouched across the yard and turned onto the street.

I suppose I could have chased him down, hauled his smart mouth back, but I didn’t. Really, it wasn’t my place, no matter what Chris might think.

Chris met me at the door to the house. From the apologetic, worried look on his face, I decided he’d witnessed the calm, rational discussion.

“I tried,” I said in greeting.

“Thanks. I just didn’t know what else to do.” He waved me into the house.

There were two suitcases by the door, which Chris fussily tucked further into the wall as he passed them. He led me into the kitchen and poured two mugs of coffee without asking if I wanted one. To one of them, he added a good dollop of whiskey, and quirked an eyebrow at me while he waved the bottle over the other mug.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m off the coffee, even the Irish sort.”

“I don’t usually drink this early in the day,” he said hurriedly, then he paused. “I don’t usually drink, to be honest. Things have just become…”

“Hard,” I finished for him. “It’s okay. Most people would probably be leaving out the coffee right about now.”

Chris gave me a grateful smile and sat down at the table. I sat as well and as I watched him he reverted to his Sad Sack resting state. Perhaps a little charged by the encounter with Rufus, my psychic senses twinged and I felt about him a touch of overripe oranges and off maple syrup. It wasn’t his own aura, but trails leashed around him loosely.

So I wasn’t the only one Rufus lashed out at. I could understand it, I suppose. Rufus was upset and confused. He blamed the person closest to him. Everyone does it, just not in the same way Rufus did. As gently as I could, I pushed aside the leavings of Rufus’ anger and felt a shimmer of Chris’ aura.

It wasn’t overwhelming as Erin’s had been, or aggressive like Rufus, but tidy and unassuming, sticking close to Chris’ body like a well groomed coat, flattened even more by his son’s attacks. The only hints of his flavour I got were milk and wheat crackers—only two of the most bland tastes known to mankind. No wonder Chris couldn’t keep his son under control.