Personal Demons

Chapter 7

"How much time do I have?"

She hadn't intended to ask, but the question fell out of her mouth just the same.

Greyson shook his head. "I don't know. A lot of demons are involved in this. They don't like you right now and they're not forgiving enemies."

"But you're not scared?" How dumb was she? The man was a demon—or the demon was a demon, could she still refer to him as a man?—and she was trusting him. She sat in her living room alone with someone who could be the demon equivalent of a hired assassin. He had originally mentioned clients, hadn't he?

"I'm not scared," he said. "I was, shall we say, nervous at first. I came to see you. It was obvious you didn't know what I was. Even after you saw the demon in the restaurant last night you didn't know what you'd seen."

"The de—that thing, that thing on the woman's ... it was a demon? You saw it?"

"Of course I saw it. It was showing itself. Only you humans don't see them when they do that, no matter how powerful your psychic abilities may be." He took another sip from his glass. Now that they were both back in their chairs and fully clothed, some of the tension in the room had eased. Or maybe it was just that being told she was in danger of being killed by demons tended to put a damper on a girl's sex drive.

"But you didn't say anything."

"What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, you saw a demon, don't worry because I'm sure you'll be fine'? I wasn't going to say anything at all and try to just take care of it myself, but then you had to go and accept that offer."

Was he going to harp on that forever? "What the hell is the big damn deal about accepting offers?"

He leaned forward in his chair. "It's demon rules of engagement. You made a promise to me, which should have been binding. You broke it. You accepted an offer, but now you're going to refuse to follow through. Another broken promise."

Megan stood up. This was ridiculous. This was beyond ridiculous. She started pacing, pausing only to turn off the television, which had been on with the sound off the entire evening. Not evening anymore. She glanced at the clock. It was just after midnight. "I didn't accept Art's offer. He wanted me to come work for him. I said no. And what does he have to do with all of this anyway?"

"You didn't say no, you said maybe. Then you showed up there tonight and asked questions in a professional capacity. Even worse, when he told his clients you were there to work, you didn't argue."

"I didn't ask any—" Oh, no. She had. She'd asked Hanna about her voices. She'd treated one of the group's clients in the group setting. She didn't need Greyson to tell her what that might mean. If she was understanding him properly, it was the appearance, the actions, that mattered. The intent or equivocation was unimportant.

"How did you know that?"

"Word gets around."

"And now they all know."

He nodded. "You asked questions, which means in Art's eyes, in the demon world's eyes, you're working for Art. But first you made a promise to me, which I duly reported to my ... superiors. That made them angry. They think you're his weapon now."

She stopped pacing. It wasn't helping anyway. "Weapon?"

"You call yourself a demon slayer. You're a psychic. That's powerful. It means something to us. It especially means something to the personal demons, because it's their game you're interfering with. Now it looks like you've taken sides and joined the fun. What are they supposed to think?"

She must be dreaming. That's what this was, a dream, a horrible nightmare that she would wake up from any minute and it would be morning ... She let herself imagine it for another minute before she had to give up. This was no dream.

"The personal..." She shook her head. Every word she spoke or heard dragged her deeper into this and she didn't want to go any further down the slope tonight. Or any night, for that matter. "Maybe you could tell them? Just tell them I'm not a demon slayer or anything, and they'll leave me alone."

He shook his head. "That might have worked before," he said. "But now they think you're playing sides. Demons don't leave you alone. You may have noticed we're rather a persistent bunch. There's no ‘out’ with demons. You're in. You have to win or you have to die."

She hadn't wanted to talk anymore. She wanted out. Out out out. She was too drunk and tired to think of anything else.

There had to be some way to accomplish that, other than death or battle. She didn't know if she believed Greyson's story about her options or not. On the one hand, it sounded reasonable. On the other, she still didn't know exactly what his purpose in being here was. Was he protecting her or what? Was he just waiting for his chance to kill her and get whatever glory she presumed would come to the demon who killed her? Did he just want to see if he could get her into bed?

She was inclined to believe the last, especially after he'd spent ten minutes trying to convince her he should spend the night with her. All the offers to sleep on the couch in the world meant nothing when a man had that look in his eyes.

Not that she thought his desire had anything to do with her personally. Dante was a user and she was a challenge, it was that simple. If she ever did sleep with him—which she wouldn't—he'd never call her again.

Maybe that was the way to get rid of him. Sleep with him, tell him she expected him to marry her, watch him inform the demon council or organization or whatever that she wasn't a threat and they should all stay very far away.

Focusing on the amusing aspects of that image and not the sensual ones, she climbed into bed with a bag of tortilla chips, a glass of water, and a book. She wasn't especially hungry or thirsty, but Hot Spot had scheduled a photo shoot for the next day and it would be best if she wasn't too hung over. It would be nice to have some professional photos of herself, with her make-up and hair done.

The book was no help. For once she couldn't lose herself in the adventures of Lord Gruffydd and his reluctant bride. There were too many worries to be dealt with.

She checked the phone next to her bed and set Dante's card next to it. He'd insisted on scribbling his home—where would a demon live, anyway?—and cell numbers on it. Much as she wasn't sure what to do about him, she had to admit she was glad she had them. Just in case.

Maybe the chips and water were a bad idea. Maybe she should have just kept drinking until she passed out. At least then she wouldn't be turning off the light and trying to fall asleep with images of Greyson Dante's naked back in her mind, as clear as a photograph.

Damn demon.

Megan wasn't sure what woke her, dragging her from a sound sleep and flinging her into a state of hyperconsciousness. She reached for the lamp next to the bed, only to stop before she touched it.

Something was outside the large picture window on the wall to her right, something human-shaped. It stood framed by the window, the moonlight behind it casting a fuzzy shadow on the sheer curtains of her bedroom. She wasn't seeing a profile, either. Whatever it was, it was looking into the room.

Looking at her.

Slowly, she pulled her arm back under the covers, gripping the edge of the comforter with both hands. Her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest.

Part of her wanted to huddle under the covers and pretend nothing was wrong. Just like she'd done as a child. Hiding while her parents talked about her, argued about her, while her brother started bringing home more and more unsavory friends to fill the house with pot smoke and loud music.

Mentally she chastised herself. You're a grown woman, Megan. Get out of that bed! Fight, damn it! GET UP!

Over the rasping of her breath came a tiny scraping sound. Skritch. Skriiiitch. Fingernails scratching at the glass, at the lock. He was trying to get in. He was trying to break into her bedroom.

A scream fought to escape from her throat. She bit it back. Sweat broke out on her forehead.

Something clattered in the kitchen. Had she locked the door after Dante left. She had, hadn't she? It didn't matter, did it, because someone was trying to break into her bedroom and someone was in her kitchen and oh my God I'm going to die if I stay in this bed—

She took a deep breath and tried to center herself mentally. She could do this. She had to do this.

One ... two ... THREE!

She leapt out of bed, almost tripping on the bedcovers, and grabbed the phone and Dante's card as she ran into the bathroom, yanking the door shut behind her and turning the lock. Fighting back sobs, she scrambled into the tub, flipped the bolts on the window and flung it open. The ground a few feet below was soft dirt. Nothing had ever looked more inviting as that dirt, or her cool moonlit yard beyond it.

She grabbed the phone and business card and set them on the sill, then shifted her weight so she balanced on the thin inner edge of the tub on her toes, with her bottom pressed to the narrow windowsill.

Her neighbors’ house was about forty yards away. Why had she moved to this goddamned secluded neighborhood?

Glass smashed in the house. She jumped, slipping back into the tub. The phone fell from the windowsill onto the soft earth outside. No big deal. She'd pick it up when she hit the ground. She didn't need it anyway. They would have a phone at her neighbors’ house, it was safe there, she would be safe there.

Tears poured down her face. Adrenaline pumped through her body. She had no idea where her intruders were. The glass could have been the window or the coffee table or anything.

Something moved in the bushes in her yard. A head appeared, then shoulders. A man lurked there. She didn't need to read him to know something about him wasn't right. Blackness seeped from him like a dank fog.

Noises came from her bedroom. Even over the beating of her heart she heard it, the sound of the closet being opened, of the lamp breaking.

The phone was on the ground. The man in her yard was looking right at her. She did not know if she could get through the window and grab the phone in time. If she didn't get the phone she would die here. The people—or demons, go ahead, call them demons—would know where she was. They would check the bathroom door in a minute and find it locked. Would they shoot the lock? Would they shoot her? Did demons use guns to kill? She hoped they did. She would rather be shot, die quickly, than be ... ripped apart or eaten alive or any of the other nasty ends Greyson had alluded to. Was she the rabbit who would be pulled out of a hat tonight?

The man emerged fully from the bushes. He moved so slowly, jerkily. The moonlight fell on his face. Megan choked on the terrified sob in her throat.

The bathroom doorknob rattled. The man in the yard, half his face missing, rotted, started towards her, his feet dragging through the stiff dying grass. His face was rotted. Bones and teeth were visible through the shreds of greenish skin. It had to be some kind of demon, had to be, because the word her brain came up with, the word zombie, was not possible. Demons might exist. Her exhausted brain rebelled at the thought of zombies.

She might be able to outrun him. She might not. She did not want to be eaten by some horrible, decayed thing, to have her last vision on earth be that terrible grinning face.

Another figure appeared in the yard, a woman, walking towards Megan with the same jerky gait. Then another. How many more were out there?

A knife—or, oh god, fingernails, long hard fingernails—scraped the door. Someone moaned.

Crying, she climbed through the window and lowered herself to the ground. The man heading towards her sped up, limping across the yard in a way that reminded her horribly of the way she and her girlfriends used to play horses when they were younger—clopclop, clopclop, a sort of bastard skip that nonetheless carried him faster than she'd hoped. The other creatures in the yard did the same, destroying her hopes of escape to the neighbors’ house.

The earth was cool under her feet and smelled safe. She longed to bury herself in it.

No, she did not! Buried meant buried, dead. She was not going to die.

The thing headed for her wailed, a horrible dead cry. The others echoed it, their voices tearing the silence of the night to shreds. Megan screamed too. She picked up the phone and threw it into the bathroom. Indoors she might have a fighting chance.

She grabbed the windowsill and lifted herself, her arms shaking, her feet scrabbling and scraping against the stucco wall. In her hyperaware state, the sound of grass shuffling and sighing beneath the feet of the outside creatures reverberated through her head.

Her toes stung. They slipped against the wall, wet with her blood.

Finally she managed to hook one arm over the sill and into the bathroom. The door shook as the beasts pounded on it. It needed to hold long enough for her to think, long enough to call Dante. Long enough for him to get there or send some hellbeasts or whatever he would do...

She got her entire upper body into the bathroom and was in the middle of her final heave before the thing ... the demon ... the zombie ... the whatever it was, grabbed her ankle. Ice-cold fingers pulled harder than she'd ever imagine anything could pull. Megan screamed. She kept screaming even as she fought, as it pulled her partway back out of the window. Teeth sank into her calf. She kicked with her other foot as hard as she could, her body shaking. She kept kicking after she felt something cave, as something slick and cold and wet coated her foot and the teeth and hands holding her let her go.

The bathroom door shook and bowed inward every time the creatures hit it. Megan grabbed the phone in shaking, hurting fingers. She could barely press the buttons.

She called Dante. Holding the phone to her ear with her left hand, she hunted for a weapon with her right. Bottles and jars crashed to the tile floor as she scrabbled along the countertop for something, anything to use. The only razor she owned was a safety razor and it wasn't a very good one. She was a waxer. Once in a movie she'd seen a woman beat a man over the head with a toilet tank lid, but she only had one free hand at the moment. She grabbed a book of matches she'd used for a candlelight bath one night.

In the cabinet under the sink she had an ancient aerosol can of hairspray, a bottle of bleach, a toilet brush, scrubbing cleanser, and a plunger. Her sweat-slick fingers slipped on the metal of the cans as she reached for the plunger's solid wood handle.

The phone stopped ringing in her ear. Dante sounded wide awake. "Megan."

A shout echoed in the room. Megan swung around. The man and woman were just outside, their faces in shadow from the moonlight shining on the backs of their heads. It gave them an oddly haloed look as they yowled, reaching in through the small window. Reaching for her.

Megan screamed. "They're in the house, Dante, they're in the—"

The door broke. The phone fell from her hands. She lunged for the plunger, wielding it like a baseball bat, and swung.

She hit the one closest to her across the forehead. The noise in the room was deafening. Her screams, the screams of the things outside and inside reverberated through the tiny tiled room. Nothing existed in the world but noise and confusion and the revolting smell, the stink of decay and filth.

The thing fell. Megan pulled back the plunger to hit the other. The handle was broken. She sobbed and fumbled for the hairspray.

Her fingers closed over it just as cold hands clutched her head, pulling her entire body to the right. She shrieked and swung the can up towards it with both hands. The can vibrated in her hands when the blow connected.

It let go of her, but the first was already moving again. Megan grabbed the matches. She put the can between her thighs and yanked one match from the pack, her hands shaking as she pressed the head of the match against the sandpaper strip with her thumb.

Nothing happened. One of the creatures reached for her again. The match lit.

With her left hand Megan picked up the can and sprayed, dropping the book of matches onto the floor. Her aim was off but when she lifted the match the flame caught. She felt the heat but no pain as a ball of flame poured from the can, igniting the thing closest to her, driving it back against the wall. It fell in a heap to the floor.

The spray kept flaming. She turned it on the other creature, ignoring the cacophony of howls that filled the room, seeing only the flames rising from the two bodies. Hot, horrible triumph filled her as they shrieked and writhed.

One of them got up, still intent on capturing her. Flames spread as its ragged clothes caught fire. Megan stepped into the tub, only to feel hands in her hair. She threw herself forward, hitting her shoulder on the wall. A flaming hand reached for her. She swatted at it, burning her fingers, terrified of catching fire. With her left hand she fumbled for the shower spigot. The water was cold, but she barely felt it as it plastered her hair to her head, made her T-shirt stick to her skin.

One of the creatures was down, a ball of flame on the pale gray-and-tan tile floor of her bathroom. Its writhing slowed as she watched. She might risk extinguishing the flames on the other one with the water, but she didn't want to burn to death. She wore only an old cotton T-shirt, highly flammable.

Megan wrenched the detachable shower head from its metal cradle and beat the creature with it. Water flew into her eyes and up her nose, into her raw and burning throat. She could barely see, barely breathe. Her feet slipped beneath her but somehow she kept her balance, bracing her feet against the sloping sides of the tub.

She turned the water off, her shoulders aching as she kept beating the creature. Its charred hands flailed in the air, reaching for her, not taking its focus away from her even as its nose broke under the nozzle. Fingers dug into her flesh. White-hot pain riddled her body, adding to the adrenaline and terror already forcing her to keep going, keep fighting. She continued to beat the thing, her mind free of all conscious thought except to kill, kill, kill. Kill it, beat it, live, win.

Her screams seemed to come from her entire body. Her arms moved on their own accord, lifting the makeshift weapon, bringing it back down.

The thing's skull caved under the nozzle, now slick with black slime and water. Her fingers ached from holding it.

Finally the thing fell, half into the tub. The two things outside still poked shriveled arms through the bathroom window, but they couldn't reach her. Megan forced herself not to look at them, not to go near them. She stood, soaking wet in the tub, her body shaking and covered with blood, her legs trembling with the effort of standing.

Dante called her name.

Sirens sounded in the distance.