Demon Master Read online

  I checked my email to find that the Baron was awake and eager to chat. While my partners slept away the early evening in a daydrinking buzz, I connected with Cazimir, uncertain of what I would say. As it turned out, I said very little, since he spoke immediately.

  Again at his desk, he began our chat by holding up a ring of smooth wood. Not all permanent things were stone, it seemed. Some, he explained, could be as timeless as stone. Like a simple ring.

  Or a cross.

  “Are you familiar with the larch tree, Ring?” he asked, rolling the object between his fingers.

  I was not and said as much.

  “The wood is hard but not remarkably so. This ring is larch. I did not carve it, but I wish I had. Simplicity is elegance in this case. It has passed from hand to hand for centuries. Isn’t that hopeful? That something this small can survive while only becoming more polished?” He stared, shortsighted, at the ring, admiration coloring his expression.

  “What’s the purpose of the ring? Was it a wedding band?” I asked.

  “I do not know. Larch has been a favorite wood of the pagans for millennia. Perhaps it is the shape of the tree, or the color. Look at the effects of a simple cross, two millennia later after a woodworker was hung to die in the sun. Do you think that the Romans could have possibly foreseen the boulder they were carelessly tossing into the pond of history? I doubt it. I show you this ring because it represents a bookend to my collection. I began as a keeper of these antiquities before I ever set my hammer to a gem or any metal. Value is rarely universal, but to me, something as simple as this”—he brandished the ring—“is worth keeping and protecting, if only for respect of its history.”

  He set the ring down, regaining his composure, as a woman came into the picture, carrying a glass of wine. Tall and blonde, she moved with soundless efficiency. “Thank you, Ilsa.” He returned his gaze as she wordlessly departed the screen. “My staff is efficient but rarely chatty. It makes for quiet evenings.” His face betrayed a hint of boredom.

  “I understand the scope of your labors a bit better now. Do you have any family left, other than Elizabeth? Is the collection your legacy?” I asked this man who was nearly alone in a glorified log cabin, hidden from the world.

  “It would seem so. I can feel my time here becoming thin. I am, or I should say, was prideful, a terrible sin, to be so, but now I feel myself losing depth, like an echo or a reflection of a man. The beasts here are unaware of my presence anymore. My time for challenging and changing is past. I only hope to recover some of what once was. I am becoming that which I would mock, looking back into the sunset. Pride demands that I bring Elizabeth to heel and not leave a legacy of violence spurred by my own hands. I cannot allow it, so I implore you to find her. And, when you do, to keep my legacy for yourself, or sell it to create lives for the helpless. Please leave me with that knowledge, that my sins will be cleansed through the good of strangers. And, if you succeed, I leave here fulfilled.”

  I nodded to his fading image. I knew he was right, and my own pride could wait.

  21

  Florida: Sandrine

  Posers. I should be in surgery, not standing here smiling like a simpleton among these people, thought Arnaud, although he was far too meek to say so out loud. His dumpy shape and thinning hair made him stand out in the midst of the beautiful, wealthy crowd around him. At the center of the room stood an auctioneer, his hair as slick as his delivery, droning in a playful British accent under the enormous white tent. Thin, tanned arms glittering with gold rose to bid on more jewels, all in the name of charity. It was a farce, and Arnaud would not have attended were it not for the fact that these people funded his work at the hospital in West Palm Beach. His punishment for being a good surgeon who fixed injuries form domestic abuse was to stand here, pretending like could afford the jewelry being offered. He endured it in quiet misery.

  He took a polite sip from his champagne flute and tried to focus on the object being held up by an auctioneer. The screen behind the podium displayed a ring of unusual beauty, setting the tent abuzz.

  “Magnifique,” said a soft voice at his ear.

  He turned, smiling to hear his mother tongue, and smiled wider when he saw the speaker. She was young, perhaps in her late teens, willowy and Gallic in every way. Her close-cut hair and eyes were black, her skin pale, and her aura silky, a touch disdainful. Her eyes were even with his, but he felt small next to her grace. Arnaud was enchanted.

  She pointed with her chin at the auctioneer. “Bid for me, please? I will pay as high as twenty-thousand American dollars. I am a bit shy for this room,” she concluded, with a glance from under her lashes.

  His arm rose, unbidden, to enter the fray of the auction. When her breath caught at his clear tone as he shouted above the others, he made his decision.

  The girl will have the ring no matter what price, he thought. And maybe this time I will get the girl.

  He got the ring. And as the night wore on, he had the girl.

  “Look at the light in it. Like falling stars. So perfect.” Sandrine rested her hand on Arnaud’s thigh, his pulse racing higher. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the sand, the sun long since set. The crowd had dispersed in their fleet of cars, their egos sufficiently caressed. It was quiet, save the waves. She laid her arm over his shoulder and leaned to him, her lips curled in a smile. Arnaud sighed in pure submission. This is real. Not like emailing the prostitute from the advertisement and answering her questions, exposing my loneliness to a whore who would not even send me her picture until she could investigate me. I will never feel that shame again.

  “How many surgeries will your hands do this year,” she asked, close enough to kiss him. “They are so beautiful. Like an artist.”

  “I hope to . . . well, I shall, as many as I can afford, we can afford, rather, so, three hundred, but more if I can. There are always so many, from so far away. There is so much violence, and I only have so much time.” His voice fluttered away into her mouth, which met his softly.

  She pulled back, the kiss still hot on his face. Her arm wrapped around his neck, hugging him with a possession he had yearned for. Her grip began to tighten. How can she be so strong? he mused, as spots flooded his vision, floating red starbursts of pain. Sparks. Shadows. A red curtain, descending. He felt darkness take him.

  “You are quite right. Our time here is rarely as long as we wish.” After laying his inert form on the soft sand, she began to drag him, his body leaving a furrow in the shells.

  Arnaud awoke to the first steely gray hints of dawn. I am nude. And I am buried? In sand? He was still at the beach, but under a copse of trees. Above him waved palmetto fronds, a sea grape, and an oak. He felt air on his stomach, and his face was clear, but he was held tight by the sand. Wriggling, he strained and groaned at the pain in his neck, a deep bruise from being choked. It was a miracle his hyoid bone had not broken. He sensed she was near, and then she spoke. He felt his first genuine whisper of terror, like a spigot being turned slowly on.

  “I did not intend to kill you, of course. That would be wasteful, not to mention rude. I do love the ring so, and my mother taught me that I should reward the men who are kind to me,” Sandrine said as she appeared above him, unbuttoning her blouse. She was very thin. Her skirt and shoes were gone. She straddled him, nude, her hands braced on either side of his head. Her pelvic bones pressed into his abdomen like spikes. Naked, he realized how angular her frame truly was. Sweat beaded her brow and lip. She was straining, but at what, Arnaud could not guess. She gave him a cursory smile as she leaned to kiss him.

  “I would like to give you a gift in return. It is only proper, since you would be most generous to my children. In fact, they could thank you for every meal,” she murmured, raising her torso high above his exposed midsection. A clicking noise emanated from where her sex should have been, as a bone white appendage extended from her dark junction. It glistened malevolently in the growing light. She pressed in to kiss him, a fleshy dart under her ton
gue flicking forth and piercing his soft palate. Bitter venom flooded his mouth as he began to numb instantly. Arnaud felt himself deaden from her poison working through his body.

  I cannot move. Dear God, I can feel, but I cannot move. She is like-- a parasitic wasp. I am her children’s food. The scientist in him was dispassionate, even removed, from her real nature, but observant of how she would bring death. The man in him screamed wordlessly in a helpless, piteous roar.

  He felt the shock of her ovipositor puncturing his navel, but no pain. It pulsed once, and again, and then a last time, the sterile eggs spearing into his gut to be enclosed in warmth, safety, and blood. They would yield no live births, but would result in certain death for Arnaud. She withdrew from him, spent, her skin flushed with the effort of insertion. Arnaud could not even scream as she stood, brushing sand from her legs and hands as she reached for her clothes that were hanging on a low oak limb. The sun began to warm his face, and he became aware of an itching from within as his body went to war against the hostile invaders who would survive only long enough to kill, the egg cases rotting within him as he decayed under the sands of a picturesque beach.

  Her heels now on, Sandrine kicked sand over Arnaud’s stomach and face, thinking to keep him hidden until he had been consumed. It was instinct, she knew, but it was old. There would be no children. There will also be no more Arnaud.

  As I was taught. A good mother leaves nothing to chance.

  22

  Florida: Ring

  I opted to drive to Blue’s club as the girls were still rowdily drunk, although showered and dressed. Both wore cowboy hats in honor of our destination’s unique theme. The Corral was all neon, saloon doors, and pleather couches, where girls could grind their marks into submission, one three-minute song at a time. I parked discreetly in the gravel lot next door while Risa was quietly arguing with Wally about what type of champagne they would order.

  A bouncer I didn’t know politely asked us for our identification, looming over us in a white dress shirt that fit him as if it was sprayed on. He was huge but friendly, and we stepped into the Corral only to be hit with sensory overload.

  There were women everywhere. East Europeans, girls on tour, Americans, seasoned pros, and everything in between, and around them were the men. The men’s eyes glowed with interest, like wolves, and the women circled them like sharks.

  Wally and Risa ordered a magnum of Cristal. Some nights, they were too clubby for their own good. I let the room wash over me. Body spray, beer, whiskey, cigarette smoke, and lust were the flavor of the night. I assessed the patrons. And the dancers. None of the talent could compare to the natural beauty of Wally or Risa, but they were stunning in their own way.

  But a lot more glitter.

  The waitress in a hat and boots brought the bottle to the table, and I gave her my credit card. On the tray was a folded note that simply read “Office.” As the girls poured and settled in, I stood and headed to the back corner, where the money room door was hidden behind a partition. Even buzzed, I knew that nothing would evade Risa’s eyes, so I left to see what Blue had in mind.

  The door clicked solidly behind me as I blinked in the glare of a modern, fully lit office devoid of nudity and western décor. Blue slid from her desk to embrace me and kiss my cheek with a, “Hullo, kid.”

  I smiled back and slid into a cloth chair, frankly admiring her in the process. She was naturally beautiful but tiny, with a competitive edge to her smile that made it known she was the pack leader on her premises. She had intelligent green eyes in a face that was heart-shaped and capped with brown curls. A pair of sunglasses still rested, forgotten, on her head from her arrival at work earlier that day. She was driven.

  “I gassed up the boat and spooled the rods. I thought you guys might anchor at that rock pile where the coast guard cutters go to dry dock.” I knew Blue was not as interested in catching fish as her son was, but a productive spot would assure them a single spot to anchor, eat, sun, and talk, without having to move due to inactivity among sealife. While Blue appreciated the Zen of angling, her son was more of a results-oriented sportsman.

  “Oooh, thanks. He loves that spot. Did they move that one ship so we can sit there without having our guts pounded by wakes all day?” The last trip there had been more like punishment than rest.

  “It’s gone. All clear. You’ll have no trouble. So, what day? It’s ready even for tomorrow, if you want,” I told her. Her excitement was plainly visible.

  “So, business first. Two women were here, for like a week. Even the slow times. They smoked ciggies from somewhere I didn’t recognize and laughed at our best liquor like we were bumpkins. But they left killer tips, so the girls let them camp out without hassling them for dances. I watched them, sort of casual at first, but the third night I wondered if they were vice or something. Although the one woman—she was a bit older, maybe thirty-five—was dressed way above pay grade for a cop. I never really saw them that well but the older one was, according to our bouncer Brian, “shit your pants” beautiful, which is saying something, given his record with the girls here. She was white, had dark hair, came from money. I think, just a hunch. It wasn’t flash. It was real. She drank a lot less, but they both sort of sized up the girls. And some of the patrons, too, I think. The younger one was well dressed, too, but more like a vacation wardrobe than someone who took their life with them, you know?”

  I did. It was the difference between a tourist and a traveler. A traveler hired cars, had things done for them, and never lifted a finger.

  “Brandi waited on their table the last two nights. She said that the younger one kept flashing a ring that looked like big money, a diamond with other stones around it. And here’s the fun part: she left it as a tip when they finished their last drink on Thursday night. Brandi showed me. I’d say it was worth enough to buy a house. Maybe a small one, but a house. And I haven’t seen Brandi since. She was sleeping with our new liquor rep. They met out one night away from here, and he said she’s gone. Like, totally gone. Her apartment is empty, and her car is sitting right where it has since that night. It just feels a bit more like, I don’t know . . . they were recruiting for something? Brandi had a degree, you know. Chemistry. She was going to finish her master’s in Industrial Chem. But she got knocked up by some asshole from the Navy who headed for Guam on the next boat. She was book smart, not street cagey like the other girls here. And I know she was dead set against hooking, so my question is, what did they want her for?” she finished and folded her arms.

  I could tell she was pissed that something—although she didn’t know exactly what—had transpired here in her place. I thought for a moment. “Brandi, was she pretty, not makeup pretty, but smart or elegant, a sort of cerebral beauty?”

  “Exactly.” Blue edged closer.

  I had to tell her something, so I offered her what I could. “Nothing is happening in here now, I know that. Let me talk to the girls, and we’ll discuss it before you fish. Everyone is safe here, this was a sort of search. That’s all I can tell you now. More soon, I promise.”

  That was good enough for her. She was a realist at heart. She opened the door and kissed me again, reaching up on her toes to do so. I felt like a liar and was ready for a drink.

  “Come get the boat. Then we’ll talk,” I said as I walked back into the barrage of the club.

  23

  Database Entry

  From Risa’s Files:

  Dear Pat,

  Since you won’t return my calls and you’re too frigging dumb to get online, I have to write you a letter even with my arthritis. Thanks a lot.

  You need to get your ass out of Virginia and come down here and talk sense to your idiot brother before I kill him. He’s got himself a whore that is gonna spend every single dollar he made with my sister in twenty years of busting ass at the shop. I met her and let me tell you, it ain’t going the way you want it if you think the kids will have a penny left to their name come Christmas. Her name is Silky (some ki
nda stripper name or some other kinda slut) and for starters she’s thirty years younger than he is. She’s got him buying her high priced sushi every night up on Las Olas like he’s some prince and she dresses him like a douchebag on vacation. She won’t eat a damn thing except for expensive fish! They got an apartment up on the water and she’s got him swimming like a frigging dolphin every day and now she gets him to swim at night cause she likes the quiet, she says. I think she’s full of shit and believe me one day he ain’t coming back from that swim. You get down here right now and send this whore packing so I don’t have to bury him because he likes the young stuff, you hear?

  I mean it!

  Marion

  24

  Florida: Karolina

  The greenhouse was twenty yards long but was filled with miles of potential. A new strain of beans, his creation, grew in the greenhouse, and it was Adam’s baby. Eleven years, three million dollars, and a flash of brilliance as a newly minted Ph.D. had brought him to this point of triumph. With more than a dozen trial crops, Adam was ready to feed people. The money would come, too, and with it fame. Maybe women. He liked women.

  But he loved Karolina. She had a mind more beautiful than any he had encountered in his thirty years of life. He had first met her when the university had ended his funding after four years of no progress. When a private charity asked for a grant proposal, he was met by Karolina alone at a suite in a bland business hotel in Miami. She had asked him, simply, if he was right. Could he grow a plant to feed the masses?