Darkness of the Soul (27 page)

“Well, I’m glad you guys are enjoying yourselves.” She slung her purse to land atop Travis’s desk, causing Parker to jump, inhale his own spit, and start coughing. Sheila dropped into an unused chair and wheeled it toward the others, so she was sitting in the middle of them, and looked around. “So let’s get this party started.”

Woods waited a bit longer. He rummaged in his coat—an old and weather-worn drover’s coat, since his police issue short leather coat was still in the cloakroom of St. Mary’s, so far as he knew—drew a bottle from one of the inner pockets, and bounced it in his hand.

When it looked like Drakanis had control of himself and Parker wasn’t going to choke to death, he lifted the bottle of whiskey, allowing them all to see the label. “Anyone want a tipple before I start? I can’t guarantee that there’ll be any later on. I’ll need it.” His face had lost much of its sarcastic shine, leaving him with the look of a grim and feral animal. As the lighting changed in the room because of passing clouds, it made him look almost like a corpse, one with two gleaming sapphires that served as its eyes.

Drakanis shook his head at the offer; Brokov and Parker both accepted and passed the bottle around. When it came back to Woods’ hand, he upended it and poured what remained down his throat. Feeling the heat blaze its burning trail over his tongue and down his throat to make a volcano of his gut, Woods smiled. He hadn’t had much stomach for drink before, but after the pain that the janitor had put him in, this was almost pleasant, and it served to sharpen his thoughts.

He took a deep breath and let it slide out slowly. Giving a last shove at the pen, he was rewarded with a flare of pain in the front of his head, and the pen rolled about six inches along the desk.
Good
deal.

He cleared his throat. “I’m going to tell you a story, and it’s a long one. Napping not allowed. No interruptions either. I don’t think I’ll be able to tell it again.”

The others nodded, solemn and silent. Damien thought they looked like kids at story time in kindergarten. “All right. Once upon a time…”

Chapter
26
 

5:30 pm, July 6, 1990

Once
upon
a
time,
a
very
boring
young
man
met
a
woman
who
wasn’t
in
the
least
boring.
He
was
tired
and
angry,
having
spent
a
day
doing
meaningless
labor
for
a
purposeless
boss
with
nothing
to
show
for
it
but
an
under-the-table
twenty
and
a
case
of
heartburn
and
had
decided
to
spend
the
evening—and
the
twenty—up
at
the
lake,
just
to
get
some
fresh
air
and
watch
the
water.

He
was
sitting
on
a
bench
near
the
beach,
looking
out
over
the
water
as
it
cycled
from
blue
to
green
to
red
and
then
to
orange,
shifting
like
a
chameleon
to
match
the
upcoming
sunset.
He
wasn’t
really
looking
at
anything
in
particular
until
movement
in
the
corner
of
his
eye
caught
his
attention,
and
he
looked
up.

A
girl
was
walking
down
the
pier,
heading
to
the
end
of
it.
He
had
looked
up
too
slowly
to
see
her
face,
but
what
he
could
look
at
was
enough
to
make
him
forget
that
prick
Charlie,
the
hauling
of
boxes,
and
the
impending
migraine.
Long,
tanned
legs
crawled
up
into
a
pair
of
shorts
that
had
probably
been
white
but
now
looked
bloodstained
from
the
light.
A
plain
hank
of
rope
cinched
the
shorts
around
the
flare
of
her
hips,
and
just
above
that,
he
could
see
the
tips
of
some
kind
of
tattoo
peeking
out
as
if
it
were
trying
to
escape
the
confines
of
the
clothes.
He
made
a
mental
bet
with
himself,
which
he
would
win
later,
that
it
was
a
butterfly.
She
was
wearing
a
white
button-up
middy
that
day,
which
was
almost
glaringly
bright
against
her
skin,
and
then
there
was
the
hair,
thick
and
blond
and
swishing
like
a
tail.

He
gathered
up
what
courage
he
could—and
as
the
seventeen-year-old
he
was,
this
was
much
easier
said
than
done—and
walked
after
her,
catching
up
to
her
at
the
end
of
the
pier.
He
struggled
to
find
something
witty
to
say,
something
that
would
really
catch
her
attention,
and
came
up
blank.

He
could
tell
from
the
set
of
her
body,
the
slight
angle
of
her
head,
that
she
knew
he
was
there,
but
she
was
not
saying
anything,
and
he
was
almost
afraid
to
come
any
closer.
He
had
to
say
something
,
he
decided,
no
matter
how
stupid
it
was.
Much
as
it
would
years
later,
the
first
word
to
come
to
mind
just
slipped
from
his
lips.

“Bananas,”
he
said,
and
she
smiled
and
glanced
over
her
shoulder
at
him.

“That’s how I met Sheila,” Damien interrupted himself and tried to ignore the way Brokov started at that. She knew already that this story wasn’t going to end well for this other Sheila, somehow had intuited it, and the fact that she shared a name with this girl didn’t strike her as a good sign.

Damien sighed and shook his head. “If I’d known where it was going to end up, I don’t think I’d have talked to her that day…”

.
 
.
 
.
 
But
he
did
talk
to
her,
starting
with
bananas
and
moving
on
to
introductions.
Then
they
went
to
dinner,
blowing
his
twenty
bucks
on
the
Red
Lobster
Tuesday
Special.
From
that
moment,
the
two
of
them
rarely
parted,
though
neither
of
them
ever
felt
like
making
it
official
to
the
point
of
discussing
marriage;
they
simply
knew
they
would
be
together.

Then
came
the
others,
friends
they
each
had
met
over
the
years
who
it
turned
out
all
ran
in
similar
circles.
All
of
them
shared
something
of
an
interest
in
the
occult—some
finding
it
an
escape
from
the
annoyances
of
the
everyday
world,
others
finding
it
an
interesting
diversion
and
area
of
study,
still
others
finding
it
worthwhile
for
the
image
it
provided
them—and
as
the
circle
of
their
shared
friends
grew,
they
began
digging
into
it,
deeper
and
deeper.
Through
it
all,
Damien
held
his
secret,
that
to
him:
this
wasn’t
just
fantasy
or
bullshit;
he
actually
did
have
some
kind
of
powers.
Nothing
major,
mind
you,
but
he
could
tell
you
what
you
were
thinking
most
of
the
time,
and
if
someone
left
a
door
ajar
or
something,
he
could
close
it.