Demon Master Read online

  This tradition served many reasons. Wally was able to go to mass fewer than three miles from home, which was convenient. It was also an opportunity for her, and, by default, Risa, to gain the high ground on me. The fact that the priest was a dashing forty-year-old ex-professional volleyball player from California had little to do with their interest in hearing Father Kevin call the catechism in his robust baritone. Or so they insisted.

  I also got the house to myself for two hours each week, which I used to the fullest by sleeping on the couch, eating pizza, and other constructive activities. On this night, though, my restlessness got the better of me, and I decided that research was in order. I knew that immortals were vain. Surely, I reasoned, Sandrine had left her mark elsewhere. Given her earliest mention, it would most likely be in print. Her career had been decades long when I was born. That type of trail was difficult to mask in full, especially as the digital age rolled on. The internet was forever.

  I scrolled through newspaper databases until my eyes were bleary, but I found her. Rather, I found things about her.

  Sandrine was a French citizen of unknown origin. She presented herself in court as middle class woman who was surprised to have been charged with a crime, but preferred to let the court see how innocent she was.

  I found her everywhere once I knew what to look for.

  Marseilles. Lisbon. Earlier, Morocco. All sites of her curious bloodlust and places where she had slipped the leash of justice through murder, wile, and bribery.

  I couldn’t wait to meet her. I felt like I needed Risa’s logic or Wally’s intuition, paging through newspaper columns that urged everyone to be careful—but also buy our paper to find our more about the killer. She was a murdered who needed men, alone and vulnerable. She was not quite in society, but not quite out of it. She was on the edge, using sex as a setup.

  In a in flash, I knew where to find Sandrine. I began to think like her and her need to find lonely men. Free of families. Devoid of serious relationships. Out of their normal element.

  Perhaps, a bit desperate and willing to be put in a vulnerable position to get something that they needed in order to feel like a man. There was only one type of woman who granted a man the satisfaction of a virile identity far beyond his charms.

  I sat back down at the keyboard and typed Escorts. South Florida. French. A single ad came up. With a picture. Her eyes were stone flat above a fake smile. “Hello, Sandrine,” I said to the air.

  Gotcha.

  35

  Video Chat with Cazimir

  I pinged the Baron. He signed on to video, smiling.

  “Impressive, Ring. How will you proceed? She is quite dangerous.” He was understating the case. She was terrifying. There was something deeply offensive about her method of killing. I knew that murder in and of itself should be the supreme violation of a person, but Sandrine brought new elements of fear and disgust with her crimes.

  “I’ll have to approach her as a customer. A public meeting is too uncertain. I don’t know how cagey she is, but I’m betting that, after a century or so of killing, she’s hard to corner. So it has to be me, alone, and I have to take her alive, at first.” I needed interrogation rather than death. It was new territory for me.

  “She won’t be held. That means you must act quickly, and with a maximum violence in order to subdue her.” Cazimir’s tone was urgent. He knew that paralysis of any kind would mean my death, and it could happen at her leisure.

  “My last name, Byk? You know the meaning?” he continued. “It is the word for a bull, an animal never known for subtlety.” He smiled at me and put his hands up in an imitation of horns. “Bulls are always charging. They are capable of enormous destruction in a short amount of time. There is little middle ground in the mind of the bull. But, in spite of our name, my family has chosen to live through avoidance, some would even say deception. We had to, in order to survive a vicious political landscape through these centuries. Europe has been at war, Ring. Only the bones remain. My family took only from the forest; we would not bear the shame of living on the shoulders of the poor. So we have hidden our herd, and our family, and our wealth in this life, by folding ourselves fully into the green depths around us. Do you know of the KGB?” he asked.

  I said, yes, of course. Who didn’t?

  “The KGB is timeless. How they were feared. We took in ragged refugees often; their flight from the organization in power at the time was that of a terrified animal. The KGB used to drive cars know as Black Crows. To see one park in front of a neighbor’s house was a death sentence for the target of their visit. There are several Black Crows rusting into the moss near my home, along with many other cars, long rows of decrepit boxes rusting through the somber colored paint from the Soviet years.”

  “Who owned the other cars, Cazimir? Surely not all of them were serious threats to your home. Your family. Or your secrets, for that matter.” I was dubious about the guilt of so many; doubtless, their bones were forgotten under the leaves of decades, a secret garden of missing souls under the towering canopy.

  “Not all were secret police, true. Many were commonplace thieves masquerading as local officials. Hunters visited our land, too, to be turned away peacefully whenever possible. The automobiles rusting into the earth are a testament to my own personal failures to be less visible. So many, like dying poplars along a rutted track.” His gaze was distant.

  “Why do you stay there, Baron?” I asked.

  “I must stay here, because of Elizabeth. I can’t let her loose in the world. Not any longer,” he said, the gave me a sad smile. “Find her.” He cut the call.

  I knew a great deal more after the call, because I knew that failure to find Elizabeth meant death for a lot more people. I would be making plans with Sandrine as soon as possible.

  Tomorrow, if all went well, it would be a brief but memorable date and the last of Sandrine’s poisonous career. A lover is coming, Sandrine. And I will be most attentive.

  36

  Database Entry

  From Risa’s Files:

  This Weekend: Elite French companion available for incall only. Ft. Lauderdale Beach. Donations 800 per hour, 1500 for two hours. Room visits only, no travel or dinner possible, although moonlit walks on the beach are possible for select gentlemen. Email for appointment. References required. No locals. Picture unimportant. Mature men preferred. This is not an offer of prostitution but merely for time spent together. All other contact is between two adults at their discretion. Please be properly groomed and respectful of my wishes. Kisses, Sandrine.

  37

  Florida: Ring

  Gyro could sense my tension. He stayed close to me in the yard as I wandered, apart from everyone else. A fat moon began to rise over the canal, adding a buttery line of light to the flickering water. Suma and Wally were putting a medical kit together in case Sandrine got the better of me; they would ride together, while Risa drove me to the hotel. Wally’s frantic energy in traffic was too distracting, so I would sit quietly next to Risa.

  I was to meet Sandrine at ten, well after dark. Through email, I had baited the hook with a false portrait of a lonely, childless businessman. No wife. No family. A faceless employee on foreign ground without any defenses against his own needs. I was perfect for Sandrine, and she scheduled a visit without hesitation.

  Under a loose-fitting shirt, I tucked my knife, the cool metal resting against the small of my back. I didn’t know if she had the same tendencies as Elizabeth, but I could not allow her hands near my face. Her weird biology meant no kissing. What a shame. Even if I could handle her poison, any slowdown would expose me to her other weapon, and I had no intent of being used as a pincushion. That meant I had to disable her quickly and with maximum force.

  Sandrine was a nail, and I was the hammer.

  A gentle touch on my shoulder from Risa alerted me that it was time to go. With a final stretch and pat of Gyro, we paired off, Suma and Wally in the other vehicle, and left for the beach.

 
Risa drove. I sat loosely, as she quizzed me gently about our plan. Her voice was soothing to my nerves, at least until I would feel my fighting instincts take control with a chill at my neck and a leaden calm in my mind.

  “When you walk in the lobby, what’s first?” Risa began.

  “It’s too nice a hotel for escorts to work without bribing a staff member. I’ll look for a concierge to recognize me. She might even have a Helper, but I doubt it. It’s too obvious, and they tend to be a bit awkward in upscale settings, especially this close to their mistress when she is killing.” We had discussed the possibility of human collaborators earlier. It seemed thin, especially since three was a crowd when the blood started flowing. Helpers and Friends were like drug dealers. They never died old.

  “Elevator up to fourth floor. Her room is a suite on the end, like we expected. It will be quiet there. You have the envelope?” Risa asked.

  I patted my pants leg. “In my pocket. I’ll put the money on the bathroom counter. She’ll pretend to check it and come out. I can’t let her undress me or get undressed. I don’t know exactly how she kills, but it’s attached to her. No contact with her hands or mouth. I need to hit her quickly and without hesitation. That won’t be a problem. I’ll go for a knockout and text you immediately. She’s at least a century old, I think, so we won’t be able to hold her for long. I’ll start questioning her right away, but I’ll have to get up to open the door unless you break in. That’s a bit loud, I think, so I’ll have to be fast.”

  Risa nodded periodically as I spoke. “Wally’s worried; call her on your way up. Suma, too.”

  “What about you? Have I got this?” I asked her as we pulled in the parking lot of the hotel.

  She turned to me and put her hand on my face. “You’re too fast for her. But if she wounds you, run. Run fast, and come to us. Come to me. And then we’ll take care of it, or her, whatever. And she’ll regret being born.” Her eyes were bright. I knew she meant it, and I knew she was worried. As I opened the door, she squeezed my hand once and turned away, her pride keeping any hint of tears from my view.

  I entered the hotel and walked across the tiled foyer with Mediterranean décor. I peeled right to the waiting bank of elevators after a discreet glance around the room. It was staffed lightly, and I saw no obvious candidates in league with Sandrine until I met the eyes of an unblinking bellman. He averted his gaze as I punched the four on the controls and waited for the soundless elevator doors to slide open. As the doors closed, I noted his brisk walk to the bar area. Maybe two working with Sandrine, one human, one Helper. I filed that thought and turned to the matter at hand, my heart rate rising slightly as the elevator stopped with a minor twitch.

  Odd numbers left, even on right, to the end of the left hall. With a final check of my blade and one other surprise I had, I knocked twice, softly, and stepped back. It was date night.

  She opened the door and stepped back as I came in. Thin and waiflike, she had an elfin quality to her bordering on androgyny. A black skirt covered her thighs, and a white silk top clung to her frame. A gold chain hung between her small breasts. She was beautiful, with doe-like eyes and a pixie cut that accentuated her apparent fragility.

  I knew better.

  “Thomas?” she asked, her voice cultured, French, quiet. I had to remain focused as she sat on the edge of the bed and crossed her legs, displaying them for maximum effect. With a start, I remembered my role and cast my eyes down, playing the awkward john. It was easy. She projected refined calm.

  “Yes, hi, hi. Sandrine, hi. May I excuse myself to the restroom for a moment?”

  She smiled and waved me toward the inner door as I made a show of fumbling with the envelope. I went into the separate bathroom, laying the money on the vanity and quietly checking my knife. So far, so good. I walked back out to find her in the same position on the bed.

  Her hand patted the mattress soundlessly, once. “Do come over, please. Would you care for some wine? Or something stronger? The bar is excellent.”

  Her manners were impeccable. I sat. There was a mild tension, but she reached out and grasped my hand softly, then smiled. “Tell me a bit about yourself. And about what you like. You shouldn’t be nervous. I’m here for you, and I’m very experienced. Would you like to kiss me, perhaps? A massage?” Her flirtation was seamlessly woven with her hand steadily moving about my leg, my stomach, a brief caress of my upper arm. I’d been frisked for weapons in the most erotic way imaginable. I was impressed, even if she did miss my blade. She was a pro. I could respect that.

  “I am not with women very often. At all, really. So I was on business here, you see . . .” I stumbled, offering her an opening. She accepted. Out of position, I could not refuse her kiss. She was gentle, very coy. I felt nothing odd, even though I knew she was built to kill, and I had let her get far too close. Memories of Elizabeth percolated in my thoughts. I shut them down. I had to be present for this.

  Her perfume was Chanel, but under it there were hints of vinegar and almond. Not the smells of a woman. Nor the scents of humans, for that matter. I forced a blush and stammered, “Could you, you know, kneel in front of me? Just to start? And then maybe, we can walk on the beach, like we’re lovers? I miss that sort of thing. And the other thing, too. If I ever really even had it. I don’t know . . .” I trailed off as she stood, removing her heels and delicately placing them on the bed. They looked expensive. I wondered what size they were and how many she had. I knew Wally would like to know.

  “You want my mouth?” she asked, lifting a brow.

  “Y-yes,” I stammered.

  She knelt, smiling and crossing her feet behind her, and began to slide her hands up my legs. It was electric. I could see how she had been so lethal for so long. Her smile was secretive. I placed my hands behind me, flat on the bed, my legs and torso tense. She leaned forward, reaching for my zipper as I exhaled in anticipation. A light chuckle escaped her throat. It was the laugh of a woman who knows she is in total control.

  Without warning, I drove the pommel of my knife into her temple hard enough to make her teeth crack against each other as she sagged to the carpet, stunned. From my pocket I withdrew a pair of titanium zip ties. In seconds, she was trussed on the bed and very, very disoriented. It was time for questions, and she had, after all, advertised that she was an excellent conversationalist. I intended to get my full hour’s worth of her company, whether she felt chatty or not. Climbing on the bed, I straddled her, careful to remain on her chest. I wasn’t concerned with her comfort. I was concerned about my life.

  She wheezed to consciousness, her eyes rolling like an animal in distress. A circular dent in her skull remained from my knife handle, a killing blow for a human. It gave her left eye the curious tilt of an impressionist sketch gone wrong.

  “What do you want?” Her voice was unemotional. Cold.

  I had to admire that type of recovery. She was resilient.

  “You paid for my body. I don’t think you want anything more, Thomas. You will find that I am a prickly blossom.”

  “Prickly. What a descriptive,” I said and reached back under her skirt. I found her secret, its chitinous length tucked up against her abdomen. How many men had felt that violation? How many women? It was cool and glassy under my grip. I squeezed once, hard. She gasped and bucked under my weight, her head rolling side to side in a symphony of hurt. I had her stinger in hand, and I intended to use it.

  “Call me Ring. Sorry about the bullshit story. Since you know I am aware of your enhancements, if you will, let me tell you what I want, and we’ll be fine.” I was feeling gallant, and a bit confident. My plan seemed to be working. So far.

  When she remained silent, I continued. “First, don’t scream. Any excessive noise results in this blade”—I tapped the point against her breastbone—“being driven through to the mattress. Blue stars, ashes, poof, no Sandrine. Okay?”

  She nodded once, grimacing.

  “Second issue. Do you know what you are going to tell me ton
ight?” I asked.

  “No, I do not. I hope you will explain what you wish to hear.” She seemed unsettled, even a bit fearful. That was a new and unusual sensation for her, I was certain.

  “I want to find Elizabeth. I want her with no misdirection. No warnings. No tripwires, verbal or otherwise, that will alert her in any way. You will tell me, beginning this instant, or you will live much longer than you ever thought possible. While dissolving. You see, my friends and I are compulsive researchers. We love facts. Information is power, as I am sure you know. And the fact that I find most relevant now is that you will find this”—I waved a small plastic bag filled with white powder—“is going to prove very persuasive, should you choose to be less than forthcoming.”

  Even restrained and with a fractured skull, she managed a laugh. “Heroin? Or something else? Do you seriously think that flooding my body with drugs will do anything other than make me angry, let alone cripple me? My metabolism will shrug that off without hesitation. Please, allow me to assist you.”

  She opened her mouth wide. Her tongue was very pink and narrow. I halted my hand from moving too close, unsure about the range of her stinger hidden underneath those curving lips.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Boric acid is quite fatal to your kind. A common insect killer, easy to find, and easy to administer. The death is rather slow. Painful. So, your vaunted metabolism will heal you, only to be overwhelmed by the next round I administer to you, which you will, of course, recover from. Somewhat. And the beat goes on. You see? Unending pain. Continual living death and renewal until I tire of your presence or run out of poison. Neither of which will happen quickly, Sandrine.”