A Demon's Desire (7 page)

“My mother is Italian, but I grew up in
France,” he answered.

“Emma likes to travel. She goes places alone,
all over the world.” Mama frowned. “I don’t care for that. I’m
old-fashioned; a lady should always have an escort, especially
overseas, but Em has her own mind.”

“That she does,” he agreed. “You don’t know
what might have caused her fear of the dark?”

“Have you asked her?”

“Not yet.”

“She won’t tell me,” Mama admitted. “I’ve
asked, and her response is always vague. She likes light, or light
keeps her awake, or something like that. I’ve gotta call Sissy’s
doc in about ten minutes. We can chat later, if you want.”

Mama swept up her dirty dishes and retreated
to the kitchen. Tristan puzzled over her words, unable to piece
together the information he was missing. After a dozen years alone
in his attic, it had taken only a couple of days for him to feel at
home with people who seemed to accept him where no one else ever
had. He liked the feeling of being around a normal family.

He took a shower before retreating to Sissy’s
room. Amber, he knew, would not stir for another day entirely, but
Emma would be up soon enough. Tristan entered and then closed the
door to the little girl’s room, his gaze sweeping around before
resting on her.

Her color was already improving. Satisfied,
he opened himself to the shadows and focused on controlling
them.

* * *

Emma awoke surprisingly refreshed and set
about avoiding Tristan with determination. She was relieved to see
the door to Sissy’s room closed. Gratified for a chance to escape,
Emma waved to Mama, grabbed a banana, and left. Isolde followed
her.

She breathed the clear, warm air of autumn
deeply, content to find some time alone. She bypassed her car and
walked through the maze of apartment buildings to the main gate.
The road leading to the 7-Eleven on the corner was narrow,
undivided, and normally traveled by drivers going far too fast.
Fortunately, most were at work this time of the morning. She
strolled down the blacktop.

Isolde’s paws clicked rhythmically as they
walked, the massive dog’s head swinging back and forth. Emma rifled
through her purse for sunglasses and placed them atop the bridge of
her nose.

“It’s a pretty day, angel,” she murmured,
comforted by the rustling of trees and cheerful songs of birds.

She walked to the corner and crossed the
street into a sleepy downtown of three-story brick buildings,
mom-n-pop owned shops, and antique stores at every corner. She’d
visited her sister’s many times before without giving the downtown
more than a glance.

She hadn’t walked far into the downtown area
when she sensed someone following her. She looked around. No one
was on the street but her and Isolde. She shook off the feeling and
continued, heading toward a sign pointing down a set of stairs to a
used book store in the basement of one of the antique dealers.
Isolde followed, and Emma waited for her at the bottom of the
stairs before tugging open the heavy door. A bell jingled, and
coldness washed over her.

She dismissed it as an overambitious air
conditioning system and shivered as she entered. A direct stare
made the hair on the back of her neck prickle, and she turned to
greet the clerk, her smile freezing in place. A freak worthy of
Wooster, Maryland, in black with a powdered face, fake contact
lenses giving him golden cat eyes, and a black dyed Mohawk. His
look was borderline hostile, his frame tensed as if to spring on
her should she consider shoplifting.

“Okay, then,” she muttered and turned
away.

He watched her, and it took polite perusing
of the nearest shelf to convince her the AC was not the only
discomfort in the small shop. It
was
cold-- familiar, bone
chillingly cold, like standing by the ocean during winter, or maybe
like …

… entering Sissy’s room. Emma tightened her
grip on Isolde and glanced around. There were no signs of shadows.
The shop was bright and decorated for Halloween. Just the creepy
clerk stood out.

“Thank you,” she called and made her way back
to the door.

No response, only an eerie catlike stare.
Emma ran up the stairs and awaited Isolde, shuddering. Her phone
rang. She tugged it free and looked at the display, vaguely
recognizing Tristan’s number. She frowned and tucked the phone
away, resumed her grip on Isolde’s neck, and walked away from the
shop. The sense of being watched returned, and she glanced back
over her shoulder, unnerved to see the clerk standing on the
sidewalk in front of the stairs, staring after her. She turned a
corner, and he was gone from view. When he didn’t reappear, she
tried to tell herself it was a freak incident and continued with
Isolde.

Half an hour of walking calmed her nerves
once again. She stopped to peer into several antique stores before
arriving at one whose windows were already decorated for Christmas.
The owner had used Depression glassware to create the outline of a
tree. Fascinated by the creative display, she leaned forward to
study a small pink plate, puzzled by two black spots on it until
they blinked. Emma jerked back, startled, and the man peering at
her through the translucent plate straightened.

Another freak, this one with normal hair,
dark clothes, a nose piercing, and eyes as black and hostile as a
night in hell.

Isolde growled. Emma stepped back and moved
on, pausing half a block away to see him step from the shop and
stare after her.

She never noticed the freak population of her
sister’s town to be so high! Emma turned back in the direction she
came and crossed the street again. Her pleasant walk was too much
like strolling down Demon’s Alley. She dug through her purse for
her debit card, determined to stop for food somewhere before
retreating home in defeat.

Isolde growled again, and Emma glanced up,
stumbling as she sought to avoid a form in her path.

“Excuse me,” she muttered.

“No problem.” The man’s voice was cold and
monotonous. Emma looked up as she passed him. He was a vision of
winter with pale skin, gold-white hair, slate gray suit, and cold
gray eyes the color of snow clouds.

“You dropped this,” he said and bent to
retrieve something from the ground. Isolde bared her teeth, and
Emma snatched the dog’s scruff.

“Keep it, it’s okay,” she said as he showed
her a five-dollar bill. She turned away, walking quickly. She felt
it again, the sense of someone behind her watching her. Cat-eyes
stood by Mr. Winter while the man with the black eyes looked after
her from the corner across from them. All watched her with
intensity too black to be human.

Emma quelled her rising panic long enough to
go another two blocks. She ran when she was out of sight of the
freaks, the Great Dane loping beside her. She went a few blocks
before resuming her path toward home.

A freak on the corner distracted her. He
started to cross, as if to intercept her. She began to feel
threatened by the watchers and glanced at the McDonald’s across the
street. She crossed the street and paused by the door.

“Stay, Isolde,” she said.

The dog sat. Emma entered. The crew behind
the counter was blessedly normal. She stood at the register for a
long moment, staring at the employee gazing at her while her
thoughts were on the men following her.

“Four cheeseburgers,” she said finally and
pulled free her debit card with a shaking hand. She paid and
exited, leading Isolde to a seat in the outdoor dining area
overlooking the street. All four of the freaks following her stood
across the street. Emma shuddered.

“Well, angel, we’re holed up here for a
while.”

“Excuse me?” the young man holding a tray
beside her table asked.

“Sorry. Talking to my dog,” she murmured.

He gave Isolde a pat and deposited the
cheeseburgers onto the table in a small pile. Emma unwrapped a
cheeseburger for Isolde before freeing one for herself. She stayed
for two hours with the freaks watching her like crows a weakling
field mouse. They didn’t try to approach her again, and she assumed
they were there only to watch her. Two hours seemed to be their
limit. She watched them disburse into four different directions and
waited until all of them were out of sight before she rose.

Elated but suspicious, she ventured out of
the dining area. They didn’t reappear. She leaned over the railing
and spotted the 7-Eleven on the corner two blocks down.

“Okay, Isolde, our goal is there,” she told
the dog. Relieved she thought to wear sneakers instead of sandals,
she tapped the dog on the back of the neck and moved into the
middle of the empty street. “Let’s go!”

She sprinted down the street, fear and
exhilaration drowning out all sounds but that of her heart, her
breath, and the clicking paws of Isolde. She reached the final
intersection and snatched Isolde’s scruff when the dog failed to
stop. Two cars whipped past, and Emma dragged the dog forward
again, pausing at the other side to turn around.

Her watchers lingered on the other side but
made no move to follow. Fear slithered through her. Emma moved
forward at a slow trot down the narrow, undivided road. Two cars
passed her, and she kept one hand on the trotting dog to prevent it
from wandering too far into the road. As she heard the third car
approach she gazed around her, soothed by the calm forest lining
one side of the road. The scents of earth and trees were pleasant
along this stretch and she shook out the tension in her
shoulder.

Isolde growled suddenly. She glanced at the
dog.

“It’s okay, angel,” she purred with a
pat.

The dog bared its teeth, clamped them around
her forearm, and planted its huge paws on Emma’s body. Emma toppled
over backwards into a muddy ditch with a cry of alarm. The dog
landed half on top of her, and she started to shove it off when the
wheels of a car dipped dangerously close into the ditch as it flew
by.

Stunned, she struggled to catch her breath
and turned wide eyes to the dog. Isolde righted herself with a few
grunts and clambered out of the ditch and flung mud from one
paw.

“Oh, Isolde,” Emma gasped. “Oh, you beautiful
dog!”

She climbed out of the ditch and hugged the
animal, kissing its ugly, large face. Isolde panted and licked her.
Emma straightened, shaken, and slung mud free of her arms. She
glanced around, afraid to be only halfway down the road. With a tug
on Isolde, she raced the rest of the way down the road, pausing for
breath when she passed through the gates of the apartment
community.

“Okay, Isolde,” she gasped. “Don’t tell …
anyone … even Tristan.”

Isolde panted without responding. Emma leaned
over to catch her breath and walked forward on spaghetti legs. She
wiped as much mud from herself as possible before reaching Amber’s
door. She waited outside to steady her breath and create a story of
why she and the dog were caked in mud, then removed her shoes and
left them by the door.

Emma pushed open the door, pausing at the
sight of mail lying piled on the linoleum entrance way. The letter
on top was addressed to her. Surprised, she snagged it and closed
the door. Her mother and Tristan sat in the living room drinking
tea.

“Hey Mama, Tristan!” she called and all but
ran through the living room.

“Emma!” her mother exclaimed. “What have you
been doing?”

“Cross country … um, walking!” she said and
slammed the door to the bathroom closed.

She leaned against it with a sigh and pulled
off her muddy clothes. She started the shower and sat down, naked,
on the toilet seat. She no longer felt like crying now that she was
home and Tristan was in the room next to her. She felt like …
suppressing everything and never leaving the house
again.

She groaned and reached for her letter. No
return address. She opened it.

Adam will be back soon.

The letter fell to the floor.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. “It’s not
possible!”
I saw him die.

Emma slammed the cork on her spinning
emotions and climbed into the shower, struggling to scrub free mud,
fear, and memories. She calmed under the warm current of water and
rested her head against the wall.

Tristan could fix Sissy. She would face
whatever else it was that followed.

She stayed in the shower until the water grew
too cold to bear. She escaped to the guest bedroom to compose
herself before she joined the two in the living room playing
backgammon. Her mother sat on the floor, cross-legged like a
youngster, snacking from a bowl of popcorn. Tristan was devilishly
mysterious in a cool green, short-sleeved cashmere shirt and camel
khakis. His feet were bare, revealing well-cared-for feet and long
toes. He smelled of sandalwood, night, and dark spices. Emma fought
the urge to move closer, if only to smell him.

“Who’s winning?” she asked.

“I am,” Mama answered. “Wanna join?”

“Don’t really care for games. How’s
Sissy?”

“Her color’s returned, and she actually
smiled in her sleep,” Mama replied. “Tristan thinks she’ll wake in
a day or two.”

“Will she be better for good?” Emma asked,
eyes drifting to the solid, silent man beside her.

“Yes. She’ll be weak for a while,” he
answered without looking at her. Emma’s eyes lingered on his dark
eyes. She recalled briefly how he scared her the night before. Was
he enough to counter the black witch? What if Olivia found out she
failed, tracked her down, and tried to hurt the rest of her family?
Once Sissy was well, and her debt to Tristan paid, would she alone
be enough to keep the black witch from attacking her family?

Maybe if she surrendered to Olivia, it would
be enough to satisfy the psycho. The thought weighed heavily on
her.