Demon Master Page 2

  4

  Database Entry

  From Risa’s Files:

  For Sale: 2004 Ford F-150 4x4. Loaded, low miles, babied by owner who was last seen leaving work with some Goth tramp half his age. Since he left his wife and daughters without a word or warning, I’m selling his truck the same way. First 6,000 takes it. Reply to this email to see truck. If you’re my husband, don’t reply at all!

  5

  Florida: Ring

  When my favorite uncle and namesake, Hring, passed on, he left me some valuable things, like my knife, his advice, and my home.

  He also left me a small, well-tended strip mall built in the 1950s, and less than a mile from home. With room for six businesses, Hardigan Center was full of tenants, with the exception of the corner space, where my uncle’s television repair shop lay as it had the day he closed it in 1981. With faded Zenith and Curtis Mathis signs, the paneled counter and worn interior was a time capsule. Though this corner remained still, the other spaces in the Center were alive and humming with energy, and one of them smelled delicious. It was time for lunch.

  On the far left of the Center was the Butterfly, a Thai kitchen run by a family that had become an extension of my own. Panit and Boonsri were second generation restaurateurs whose parents had moved to Virginia in the 1960s. Panit was four inches shorter than his willowy wife, Boon, who had a brilliant smile and long black hair that fell to her waist. She ran the front dining area with a graceful touch and a demand for cleanliness that kept the Butterfly filled during lunch and dinner. I smiled at Boon as I walked in and inhaled the mouthwatering aromas. She hugged me and started towards the kitchen in a smooth loop, her gold bracelets happily jingling with each step.

  “I was wondering if you would turn up. Panit has lots of little snapper to cook. Want one?” Boon asked, with a warm smile on her beautiful face.

  Few people could make me feel as welcome as she, and Pan was a wizard with local snapper, frying them whole with red chilies and coriander and then topping them with cucumbers, key lime sections, and tomatoes. It was heaven on a plate. I leaned into the chair and settled in to wait.

  6

  France: Elizabeth

  Elizabeth stood with her elegant silhouette backlit by Paris at night. She toyed with her champagne glass, eying the honey-blonde girl who was young and impossibly beautiful—compared to anyone else except Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth was something entirely different, with dark eyes and hair in a face that would command men and women to anything and everything in her service. Even a fool could see that the blood of kings flowed in her veins. Standing in heels, the girl met Elizabeth’s height, eye to eye. Around the women, the immediate area was in the disarray of lovemaking.

  “Before you go, are you ready? Do you need anything?” Elizabeth asked, her voice cultured and commanding.

  In the girl’s purse rested a first-class ticket to Miami and credit cards, all with no limit. The girl reddened slightly from their time in bed—but she was also flushed from her internal struggle as her body began to change. By week’s end, she would no longer be human.

  “No, I have everything. Thank you. Thank you a thousand times. This is . . .” she trailed off as Elizabeth gave the smallest of frowns.

  “Something is missing. Here. This.” She held the girl’s hand and slipped a delicate ring on her finger. The diamond was framed on either side by a strange stone deeper than oxblood. Light swirls of silky color danced in the gems.

  “I cannot—” the girl started.

  Elizabeth shook her head slowly. “It was my daughter’s. Wear it, and when you have a daughter you love, give it to her.”

  To a girl of such youth and beauty, children were far away where she was going.

  “But what if I have no daughter?” she asked.

  Elizabeth looked briefly at the window. “Petra, your life will be one of gifts, giving. And receiving. Men will want you. They will try to own you. All of them drunk with lust, an endless line of their eyes shining with greed.” Elizabeth gave a wintry smile. “You will appeal to their vanity even as they feed you. Savor it. There is no other feeling like it.”

  She kissed the girl on the cheek in dismissal and turned to the champagne bottle settling in the silver urn. “Whether you want to or not, you will be a mother of sorts. Many daughters, I think. And when you find one who meets your mettle, you will give her the ring as a gift. In the meantime, the gift you will give is yourself.”

  7

  Florida: Ring

  “We’re eating at the Tradewinds, so I need you to behave,” I said as we pulled up. We were outside a vintage steak house where we would be the youngest people by far, and I couldn’t trust Wally to behave. Last time we were here, she almost gave some old war veteran a heart attack by kissing his cheek while dancing to Sinatra.

  “I kissed his cheek, not his bum. Not my fault he had a bad ticker,” Wally said airily.

  “Still, you know how I love the food. Don’t get us thrown out?” I asked as the valet took my keys.

  “We’ll see,” Wally said.

  Risa snorted and we went inside, led to our table by a waiter who had worked there since before I was born.

  Risa smiled into her menu and pinched Wally’s forearm.

  “If I order the filet, will you get the lamb?” she asked as the table negotiations began in earnest. They had to share, so they could not willingly order the same item at the risk of depriving themselves of anything. I decided on Florida lobster and clams casino with a double anchovy Caesar salad. While we slathered the rye with whipped butter, we drank in the room and tried not to talk shop, but we failed.

  “Why don’t they hunt here?” Wally asked, looking around.” It seems odd that we’ve never even caught whiff of anyone unusual in the years we’ve been here.”

  “No singles. Everyone here is married or has lifelong friends,” Risa answered around a mouthful of warm bread. “These people have real families. Too many ties. Too many smart people here who have just enough city sense to be passed over.”

  She was right. This would be a challenging place to peel someone away from a group. Why take the risk? It made grim sense, and we ate without watching the room, or at least that’s what we told ourselves.

  After a dessert of Key Lime pie, we were done, and I paid the check. Wally gave the ticket to the young valet, who returned a breathless moment later with her black Toyota Highlander. She rarely waited for anything, and tonight was no exception. It’s an excellent reason to let her drive, despite her constant stream of profanity in even the most manageable traffic.

  “Here you are, ladies,” the valet said, as he opened the door with a gallant flourish, studiously ignoring me. We all turned at a sharp bark of anger behind us. Two women were being separated by their husbands and shooed to their respective cars. They had argued over something important enough to disrupt the afterglow of dinner. The other valet, a tall kid with blond hair, watched them go their ways and shook his head ruefully while smirking. Old people, his expression read.

  The couple closest to us hurried past to their waiting car.

  “She just reached out and touched my earring and pulled at it!” The indignant victim told her husband.

  He took a diplomatic tone and tried to soothe her. “Maybe she just wanted to feel it. They are unusual. It wouldn’t be the first time someone admired them.”

  The effect on her was immediate as she touched her earrings while waiting by the open car door.

  “True. I do love them. Even your sister mentioned how they look on me, and she never wears jewelry at all,” she said.

  As I got in the passenger side of Wally’s SUV, I noticed the glimmer on her earlobe. It was a gold teardrop stone, deep and rich. I knew that gem. Carnelian.

  8

  Database Entry

  From Risa’s Files:

  Dear Parent of Camper,

  Here at Camp Tamiami, we take pride in our safety and commitment to the children. Unfortunately, due to the
continued vandalism and attacks on the horses, we can no longer include riding lessons or trail excursions as part of our curriculum this summer. We will gladly refund the extra stipend paid for this activity and substitute another fun time on the camp property. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause and look forward to your visit on Family Day.

  Sincerely,

  Director Margorie Lewis

  P.S. If you have any information about who has been harming the horses, or the whereabouts of former employee James Bath, please do not hesitate to call us or the Florida State Police.

  9

  Florida: Ring

  “I think we should look into a new club on Las Olas in Ft. Lauderdale. It’s been open for three weeks, and there hasn’t been a single crime reported within two blocks,” Wally said. We were having our morning meeting over breakfast at home, which was as close as we got to being a corporation.

  Risa arched her brow at that, knowing full well that a late-night club crowd fueled on alcohol and sexual tension would be highly unlikely to remain on the good side of the law.

  “Nothing?” I asked, thinking. “That is . . . unusual.” In our experience, a bubble of calm meant that something was causing criminals to look elsewhere for their prey, perhaps using a close, personal method of persuasion.

  We were quiet for a moment, ruminating on the tedium of loud nights at a club filled with the self-absorbed, drunk, or desperate.

  “What’s the hot night?” Wally asked Risa.

  “There are two. Thursday and Sunday. We could all go at once. The place holds over 500 people. Big. It’s on the water, so we could drive or water taxi in at different times and meet in the middle. The music is supposed to be killer. It might even be fun.”

  Risa was oddly optimistic about this place, but then she loved standing by the water at night in Fort Lauderdale. We were nodding together now, so it seemed like this was the focus of our week.

  I broke the silence. “Gyro has to get his nails clipped today. I’ll take him.”

  I volunteered to chauffeur the beast often because I always took him for ice cream, which then gave me an excellent excuse to have ice cream. Ours was a mutually beneficial relationship in this respect.

  Wally piped up, “We got a message board contact from Hayseed last night.”

  Message boards were our link to others like us who were careful about not revealing too much of their identity. I had always surmised that anyone who sensed they were being hunted could use the very same tools we did to discover who or what was threatening them. It seemed that discretion could only enhance our ability to hunt and kill immortals. Over the years, we built a network of contacts who shared our rare occupation. Hayseed was one such contact, operating in the American heartland. We knew he was a male, a bit older, and that he had spent the better part of a decade chasing one particularly vile creature whom he would only describe as a Feeder.

  When he got drunk one night after discovering the remains of a pair of teen girls, he sent us a picture of the crime scene. It was a charnel house on the edge of a wheat field. Blood and tissue hung from cut stalks, and there was so little of the girls left that the next rain would wash them into the thirsty soil, lost forever to their grieving families. Light indentations of shoeless female feet dotted the site, where a splash of rusty blood indicated the killer had planted her feet to lunge and tear. Hayseed had written of the stench, old and sour, a scent that stitched death and gore with the violating tone of ammonia. A ghoul, I thought instantly, looking at the hideous images. Only a ghoul would tear a human in such a gleeful manner, skipping birdlike around the victim as it bit and slashed.

  Ghouls were the last stop on the train of immortality, often even being killed by their own brethren, who reviled their less cultured cousins. Their descent was often marked by hysterical violence and a complete loss of control. It was easy to see why their indiscretions could lead to other parties taking an interest in eliminating them from the world. Crudely put, they were bad for business and brought the one thing to immortals that they would not brook: visibility. They were not always alone, often paired with a human we branded helper or friend, both terms used as a slur to describe a true shithead willing to sell out humans for sex and long life. Helpers became indentured servants, slaved to a beast that used them for as long as they could. Rewards were never free, as even the sexual pleasure showered on them turned them into shadows. Their lives with their masters ended as they began: with deception and lust. And then death. Always with death.

  We thought of Hayseed as the Captain Ahab of the plains, chasing his own white whale. He had, over the years, passed us information about the kinds of monsters that traveled and stalked the highways and cities of Kansas, Nebraska, and points east. The sea of grain that stretched under the stars was a dangerous place. Commerce demanded that trucks and trains traverse the yawning spaces of the plains, and, with these, came lonely men who were exactly the type of souls that immortals found irresistible. Hayseed stayed busy. Abandoned trucks and cars and luggage led him through a web of hints that would end in the same scene, with Hayseed moving on and the ashes of an immortal committed to the relentless wind of the prairie. He was, in his own way, as lethal as we were, but far lonelier.

  “What did he say?” Risa, brow raised, was curious.

  Wally got serious. “A local auctioneer was settling an estate that should have meant nothing to anyone. It was a clapboard house on a lot that belonged to a dowager who had died three years earlier. The market was so weak that there was no reason to press for a sale, but eventually, not one, but three, relatives came forward demanding the entire estate,” she said. She paused and glanced at her laptop again. “The house was empty except for out-of-date furniture that didn’t even have kitsch value. The land is piss-poor and too far from town to matter, and she had a monthly check of less than nine hundred dollars, most of which went to bills, a kid who cut her lawn, and the local animal shelter.”

  Risa was deep in thought, and I was nowhere near a guess as to what the hook could be. We waited for Wally to continue.

  “Two of the relatives seem like ghosts. No ties to the area, no discernible relation to the woman. The third has the ring of truth, and his statements are so guileless that I think he might be real. He said he was the son of her sister’s first husband and that he had spent the Christmas season there for three straight years while his father served in the Marines.”

  I interrupted, “Why only Christmas?”

  Risa followed with several questions, all focused on the reason for the dustup over the estate. “Where was the mother? Was she missing? Did they have money or . . . were they special? Who was the boy, other than a holiday guest?”

  She tapped her nail against her teeth and became quiet. I knew a thinking Risa meant that I was missing some of the obvious questions, let alone the hidden ones.

  Wally spoke, her tone soft and thoughtful, “Hayseed wrote almost nothing about the family. I think he only wrote about the place at all because of one detail. The attorney who handled the estate asked Ethan, the now-grown boy, if he had enjoyed Christmas on the plains. He said no, he wouldn’t have even known which day Christmas fell on since they didn’t have a television or a tree or presents.”

  Risa laughed. “You’re telling me there was a single old Jewish Luddite in the middle of five states of wheat?”

  I smiled, too, until Wally finished with a flourish.

  “No. She wasn’t anything like that at all. Ethan says she was spooky as hell, rarely spoke to him, and wore an old necklace that she would take off and shake at thunderstorms as they rolled towards the house. He was a kid, so he didn’t really grasp what she was doing; he just thought she was insane. If you ask me, the old lady was a witch.”

  We all recognized the necklace as the only bright point in an otherwise unremarkable story, although an old woman confronting a wall of lightning on the prairie seemed courageous, if stupid. Witches came in all types. A solitary old lady wasn’t newswort
hy to us. I couldn’t imagine what Hayseed had thought we would find compelling about this tale, until I remembered that our information flowed both ways.

  “When was our last message to him? Before or after I met Senya at the bar?”

  “After.” Wally was certain. “And I was thorough, many details.”

  We all thought that, no matter how small, the details always gave insight into finding what or who was just out of our reach and how to make our grasp that much longer.

  Risa finally spoke. “Since we know about Ethan, and a lone weather witch who seems to have had no impact on anyone or anything that we know of, we need to know two things. What necklace was she wearing, and who else wanted it?”

  Wally nodded and said, “Yes, and one more thing, too. Who else came to claim the estate? What was the excuse they gave to travel to a place where a solitary woman presided over an unwanted scrap of ground? Was there anything interesting about them, other than the simple fact that they were even aware of her death? I’ll message him again and ask him what we’re missing.”