Night of the Demon: Paranormal Romance (Devon Slaughter Book 2) (5 page)

My hands curled into fists. “I was
supposed
to die,”
I said. “I didn’t ask to be a demon.”

Something flickered in Kaia’s eyes, something I wished I
could decipher. “You
did
die,” she said.

 Anger pounded in my veins. “Right,” my tone was clipped.

“Devon, I hope you will believe me when I say I’m very sorry
for what happened to you.”

 I didn’t believe her.

“At the same time,” she went on. “If you were not engaged in
risky behavior, as a human, you wouldn’t have been susceptible to—”

“
What?
” I stared at her (exactly as she’d forbidden
me to do). “Are you for real?”

There was a terrible silence. Two bright spots of color
appeared on her cheeks.

I knew I should backtrack. Grovel. But I couldn’t.

Her hand went under the desk. I realized she was about to
press an alarm, or worse. I thought of Claudia’s fingers digging into my arm,
her belief that she was headed for ‘the dungeon.’

“Sorry,” I said.

Kaia lifted her chin. “I’m sure you are. But I think we’re
done here.”

The door banged open.

My black-clad escorts hauled me up out of my chair, and
dragged me away … back to the cold metal walls of my room.

HENRY STOOD, while the waiter seated me.

I was late, due to an out of control shopping spree. 

“You look different … I mean great.” His eyes studied me.

I’d had a make-over at the Aveda salon, and my hair was
still red but the color was toned down, more mahogany than Cherry Kool-Aid. He
doesn’t like it, I thought.

I’d got a French manicure too, with acrylic nails I hoped
wouldn’t poison me if I accidentally chewed them.

I put my napkin in my lap, and then I thought it was too
soon. Henry’s napkin still lay folded on the table. I’d gone to restaurants
with my grandmother but only when I was very small and no one cared if I did
the wrong thing. I realized growing up with my mother had been a little like
being raised by wolves.

“You’re beautiful,” Henry said.

“I changed my hair.”

“I like it.”

“Really?”

“How about an appetizer?” he glanced down at his menu. “Tomato
tartlets?”

I stared at my own menu and the words got jumbled and
squiggly. “Why don’t you order for me,” I said. “I’m going to … freshen up.”

Oh, God.
I was talking like my grandmother. 

He started to stand.

“Please. Don’t get up,” I wanted him to act like he did at
school. All the standing up and sitting down was making me dizzy.

I headed for the bathroom and took a wrong turn. I ended up
in a bar with black wainscoting and crystal chandeliers. It wasn’t unlike my
grandmother’s house. The thought struck me as funny but when I caught sight of
my face in the mirror behind the bar, I looked stricken.

“Honey, you have to be twenty-one to be in here,” the
bartender said.

I went back down the corridor and found the women’s lounge;
pink and softly lit. A vanity was stocked with lotions and atomizers and mint
candies. Two women
freshened up
. I sank into a floral patterned chair,
and fished in my new handbag for a Valium. Like my mother used to do, I split a
pill in half. I swallowed the tiny crescent, no bigger than the half-moon on my
pinkie nail. 

My mother had called her pills little charms, and they were,
until they weren’t. Dr. Sinclair doled them out to me, no more than ten at a
time. They were only to be used in an emergency.

I was already feeling better before I got back to the table.
By the time the Tiramisu arrived, I was thinking about Henry’s lips and what it
would be like to kiss him again.

We’d kissed once before and he flirted with me a lot but
something always got in the way. Like Georgie.

He helped me into my faux fur coat and guided me out of the
restaurant, his hand on the small of my back.

“Oh, look. The stars,” my breath came out in a little puff
in the frosty air.

As I gazed up at the stars, they seemed to swirl. Déjà vu
swept over me. This had not only happened already, but it had happened many
times over, as if time could get caught, like a butterfly in a web.

“It’s cold out here,” Henry blew on his hands. He wore only
a tweed sports jacket but I wondered how he wasn’t arrested by the beauty of
the moment.

“Come on, Ruby. Where’s your car?” his tone was the
slightest bit sharp. 

And just like that, my nerves were shot. I itched for
another pill but getting hooked on such things—drugs and men—had been my
mother’s undoing.

She’d shot her lover three times. Months later, she
contracted pneumonia and died herself. I believed she had willed herself to
die. Or, in my darkest moments, I wondered if someone had unplugged her I.V. or
smothered her with a pillow. She had murdered a man, after all.

You are not your mother
.

Henry walked beside me. The asphalt was slick. I
concentrated on not falling.

“Sorry we had to take separate cars,” he said. “I wanted to
pick up my Jeep before the shop closed.”

I glanced at him and realized he wasn’t really tall, it was
just that I was short. For some inexplicable reason, I felt disappointed. I
couldn’t understand why. What did I care if Henry was tall?

At this moment, I just wanted a little romance in my life.
And Henry was as handsome as a Ken doll, the heartthrob of the academy where we
taught. I should count myself lucky he would even look my way. 

I unlocked my car door.

He held it open for me. My pulse raced against the false
calm of Valium. The lights in the parking lot cast a surreal glow.

“So, what do you say? My place or yours?”

My heart skipped a beat. I looked up into his eyes. “My
place?”

“I’ll see you there,” he said. 

I drove faster than usual. My mind raced. I was nervous
about the date continuing at my place but at the same time, I couldn’t imagine
going to his. 

Traffic was heavy across the bridge.

I kept glancing in the rearview mirror. Headlights glared,
but by the time I turned down my street, there was no one behind me.

Suddenly, I felt bereft and alone. I imagined Henry getting
a call … a better invitation, maybe even from Georgie. 

Stop it. He’s coming
.

I hurried into the house and carried my shopping bags down
the hall. The house was so big and empty, full of nothing but memories. Each
room had its own little secret.

I threw my bags in my old childhood bedroom. It was musty
and unused. The bed was made up with pink ruffled sheets and a violet
comforter. A maid used to change it regularly but I’d got rid of the help after
my grandmother died. The maids had rotated from week to week, often young
women, and I felt uncomfortable having them in my home, arranging my personal
things, when I only knew their names from a nametag.

But it was too big a house for me to handle alone. I
couldn’t keep it dusted, or the dark wood polished. Just thinking about doing
any of these things overwhelmed me.

Dr. Sinclair had talked to me about renting out the house,
or even selling it, so I could have a place of my own. It would be a new
beginning, she said. It would build confidence.

I washed my face in the bathroom, and put on fresh
lipstick. 

Downstairs, I lit the gas fireplace. No candles. That ritual
had ceased. But I knocked on the mantel. Three times. For luck.

I went around picking up books and putting them back on the
shelves, fluffing the pillows on the sofa and the love seat, peeking out the
window.

It wasn’t until the front gate buzzed that it hit me—
I
need to change into
something more comfortable
.

I pressed the button to open the gate, kicked off my pumps
and raced upstairs. I searched through my new
Fox and Rose
lingerie and
chose black and white lace. My hands were shaking as I did the straps. Lights
shone through the window and arced across the wall.

I was scampering down the stairs when the doorbell rang.

I’d changed into a loose silk blouse (dusty rose) and a blue
lace skirt, trusty pink sneakers. I flung open the door. “Hi,” I was suddenly
breathless.

Henry stood on the porch holding a bottle in a brown bag. He
slid it out to show me the label. Seagram’s 7. “This is what you like?”

A faint memory flared at the edge my mind. The earth
shifted. I grabbed onto the doorframe.

“Ruby? Shit. Sorry. I know it’s cheap. You were drinking a 7
& 7 that night at Embers.”

I had danced in the arms of someone tall
...

Nausea swept over me.

I swallowed. “You’re right,” I said. “I do like Seagram’s.
Of
course
.” I touched his leather gloved hand. No man had ever paid so much
attention to me as to notice what drink I ordered.

But I wondered: When was I at Embers with Henry? I couldn’t
recall ever seeing him there. It used to be my favorite bar but I hadn’t been
there in such a long time.

Had we danced? Was it him?

“Come on,” I pulled him inside.

He laughed and the sound followed me through the foyer and
into the kitchen, along with his footsteps.

“What a swanky place,” he peeled off his gloves and stood
close.

I poured a finger of whisky into two glasses. I didn’t plan
to drink much of mine. Just tiny sociable sips. I wasn’t supposed to drink with
my new medication.

I wasn’t ever supposed to drink, if you want to know the
truth. But I didn’t want to have to explain that to Henry. He’d already caught
me in the depths of a downward spiral. Of course, I’d blamed it on the
flu—delirious with fever. People believe what they can understand. Even if it’s
not true.

“So. Is this your ancestral home?” he said.

He took the glass I handed him, then walked across the
kitchen to stand in the doorway. His gaze scanned the living room where a fire
blazed and the crystal chandelier sparkled. “It’s like those mansions in the
old movies,” he said. 

“You want to go in?” Nerves and excitement shivered across
my skin. Something was happening, something good, something I wanted. And I
hadn’t ruined it yet.

I gestured to the love seat. It was nearer to the fire and
the coffee table where we put our drinks on marble coasters. Henry ran his hand
over the carved wood. “Is this American?”

“French Provincial,” I said, and it seemed a strange
conversation, dry and far off the point.

He turned to me. Our knees touched. He leaned back into the
cushions and I did the same.

“Do you like having so much room all to yourself?” he said.
“I think I’d ramble around and go half insane.”

I hated the word insane. I grabbed my drink and took a shaky
sip. Ice rattled.

“Did you ever see that old movie?” Henry said. “With
what’s-her-face with the great big eyes … Bette Davis.
Now, Voyager
?” 

I nodded. “
‘Now, voyager, sail thou forth, to seek and
find.’
”

His expression clouded. Was I really quoting poetry? “
The
Untold Want
,” I said. “By Walt Whitman?”

God, things were getting awkward, and yet, I kept talking.
“The movie is based on a novel by Olive Higgins Prouty.” Heat crawled up my
neck. “She, um—well, she was one of Sylvia Plath’s patrons.” 

“Oh, Plath. Yeah. The poet who put her head in the oven,
right?”

I was starting to feel slightly miserable.

“She was a genius,” my tone was edgy.

“You remind me of her,” he said.

“Plath?”

“God no. Bette Davis.”

God no
.

It bothered me the way he said it, like he could only think
of Plath’s tragic madness, and not her talent, or the mark she left on
literature, on the world. My mind roved over the idea that Henry would dump me
if he knew very much about me.

He looked so handsome in the flickering firelight. I just wanted
him to kiss me. I couldn’t think about later, or I would ruin everything.

What would Dr. Sinclair do?

I reached out and put my hand on Henry’s face, a move I’d
seen countless times in movies.

I felt him still. His breath was sweet with whisky.

I kissed him, like I knew what I was doing, like I was Bette
Davis. 

His hand groped under my blouse. Instead of falling into his
touch, I pulled away. I was afraid. Of the unknown. Disappointment caved inside
me. I hated myself sometimes. Why couldn’t I finish what I’d started?  

I smoothed my skirt over my knees with shaking hands.

Henry watched me. “Too fast?” he said.

I nodded. I couldn’t look at him. I’d led him on. He would
leave now, and I’d spend the night alone, as usual.

“It’s getting late,” he said. (Just as I knew would happen).
“I should let you get some sleep.” But he reached over and tucked a strand of
hair behind my ear, a gesture that made me want to lay my head in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine, Ruby,” his eyes held mine. “We have time. Don’t
we?”  

I DIDN’T know how long I was there. Minutes … hours … days.
It felt like a long time. I was bored as hell. Bored
in
hell? 

I slept on the narrow bed.

I woke.

I stared at the ceiling. At home, spiders made webs in the
corners. But everything here was pristine … sterile.

I found myself yearning for instructions from the
computerized voice. I made mini-movies in my mind where I followed a series of
increasingly bizarre orders from the voice. The plots went from slap-stick to
macabre. 

Eventually, old Muscles came for me, with the redhead.
“Let’s try again,” she said, and led the way. Muscles shoved me through the
door, down the hall.

We waited for the elevator.

“We’re going up, right?” Muscles said.

“Yeah. Weird, huh?” Red answered.

“Why is it weird?” I said.

They shook their heads at me.

“Be smart, dude,” Muscles advised. “Keep your head down and
your mouth shut. Geez, how’d you go and piss off the church lady, anyway?”

Red gave me a small, sympathetic smile, as the elevator
opened.

Inside, she said, “We’re going to the top floor.” She was
looking at me and there was a question in her eyes. Obviously, she didn’t
expect me to have any answers so I didn’t offer any.

“It’s either good news or bad news,” Muscles announced.

Jesus, the guy was a fucking oracle. I took in his combat
boots, his black fatigues and shirt, exactly the same as Red’s. I was pretty
sure they were in uniform. “Are you guys demons?” I said.

Muscles rolled his eyes but Red said, “Yeah. We are.”

Like before, the lack of movement in the elevator, as if we
were going nowhere, was unnerving. But, at last, we were spit out onto a
different floor … a different world, sparkling and opulent.

The ceiling must have been fifty feet above us, onyx and
back-lit. Immense pillars gave off a reddish glow that warmed the limestone
walls. The floor was marble, inlaid with gold.  

There were a few people, or rather angels, I supposed, since
they weren’t wearing state issued pajamas.

Bronze lamps shed a muted light. A receptionist sat behind a
shiny black desk that was hung from the ceiling by golden chains. She had a
sleek cap of dark hair, elaborate make-up; crimson lips, purple eye shadow. She
looked up and an expression of surprise crossed her face when her gaze landed
on me. She quickly turned away but not before I saw her disgust. 

Two men (angels) passed by, dressed in suits. They too
turned their heads to gawk, before averting their eyes. 

I felt dirty in my fatigues and pitiful slippers. 

“Come on,” Red nudged me. I followed her across the expanse
of marble, past the desk.

We entered a foyer that gleamed under crystal chandeliers. A
wide marble staircase went up and up. The stairway to heaven, I thought. And
yet, there was no doubt in my mind, I was going to the other place.

We started our ascent.

“Pretty wild,” Muscles said, behind me.

“No kidding,” Red said.

I got the impression they’d never been here before and I
tried not to think too much about what that implied. I was grateful to have
something to focus on; one stair at a time.

Only the sound of our steps and our breath marred the
pristine quiet. Above us, on the Cathedral ceiling, medieval angels spread
their wings in glorious oil painted colors.

“That’s it, huh?” Red said.

“It has to be. There’s no other door.”

It was a giant wooden door, like an entrance to a castle.

“Do we knock?”

I thought it was self-explanatory, since there was a gold
horse’s head knocker, but I did as I’d been told, and kept quiet. I let them
mull it over, resisting the urge to reach up and give a few loud raps. After
all, what did I know? I kind of liked Red. I didn’t want her to get in trouble,
should knocking prove to be some unpardonable sin. Or the trigger that
unleashed the dragon.   

Finally, she stood on tip-toe, lifted the knocker and
brought it down once, like a polite question. The door opened immediately.

The scent of roses permeated the air. Silver vases placed
throughout the darkly lush room held roses of all colors; red, white, pink,
fuchsia, yellow, blue, black.

Two archangels stood at a desk, gazing down at a huge flat
screen perched on it. One had obsidian hair worn in an afro. Giant gold hoops
gleamed in her ears and a gold braided necklace lay over the collar of her
purple robe. The other archangel was her physical opposite. My throat
constricted at the silvery glint of her white blonde hair.

Zadie
.

They looked up when we entered.

God, help me, I
stared
.

My heart thumped. 

My ears rang.

Not Zadie
.

I dropped my gaze too late. The blonde leveled a glare that
stole my breath. I averted my eyes. I was so focused on not looking at her, I
didn’t realize that next to me, my escorts were bowing.

When I caught on, heat burned the back of my neck. I tried
to bow, casting a sideways glance, to see how it was done. 

As I held my position, on one knee, head lowered in extreme
deference, I vowed that I would find the escape portal … if only to kill Sarah.
 

The blonde waved her hand dismissively. “Go demons. Leave
us.”

My escorts made for the door and I followed.

“Not
you
.”

It was worth a try. I figured Kaia had sent word that I was
a moron. Why not use it to my advantage? 

I stopped. When I turned, I heard the door close behind me.

“Hello, Devon Slaughter,” the dark-haired archangel said.
Her voice was musical, her smile so glorious, I found myself smiling back at
her, before I remembered to show deference.

I lowered my eyes.

“You can look at me,” she said. “I’m Vashti.”

The blonde didn’t introduce herself. She came around the
desk and stood in front of me. I was careful to train my eyes on a point beyond
her. I felt her animosity, hot like her breath in my face. My skin crawled.
“Put your hands behind your back,” the blonde said.

I did.

“There. That’s the proper way to stand, while waiting
instruction.”

“Oh, Zillah. Give it a rest.” Vashti came close too.

They were tall. Almost as tall as I was. But not quite.

Vashti made a circle around me. “He’s very pretty,” she
said. “From all angles.”

“Pretty
is
as pretty
does
,” the one named
Zillah said.