Demon at My Door

 Michelle A. Valentine Books

DEMON AT MY DOOR

Copyright © 2012 by Michelle A. Valentine

All Rights Reserved. No reproduction or utilization of this work without written permission of the publisher, Michelle A. Valentine Books.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

For questions or comments about this book, please contact the author at [email protected]

Demon at My Door

(The Collectors Series)

By Michelle A. Valentine

Books by Michelle A. Valentine

Demon at My Door

Rock the Heart

Rock the Band

Chapter One

Someone in this room is about to die. The hum, deep in my bones, is undeniable. Shockwaves roll through me whenever I’m near a person who is about to bite the big one. I feel it now and I hope like hell it’s not me. But it’s definitely going to happen right here in the Grove City Country Club. 

Soon. 

I scoot back further in my seat and slouch down, trying to block out the incessant buzz in my skull. I hate when shit goes down where I work. This has been the best job for me while I attend college classes. The flexibility cannot be beat. Not many places would hold your spot every summer. 

It’s bad enough I got arrested at my last job for possession of a deadly weapon. Thank God I was underage at the time and that whole ordeal was expunged from my permanent record. I don’t need a repeat of that here. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to hurt anybody or anything last time. 

Well, I guess that’s not exactly true. I had every intention of shooting the boy demon with the silver bullet I had loaded in the chamber of the revolver I scored from a local gun dealer, but he’s pretty damn quick.    

The vibration in my bones increases in intensity, breaking me out of my thoughts and my teeth rattle a little. My eyes scan the area for the cause. 

It’s happening. Right now. 

My heart thunders as my eyes lock on a rather plump man with salt and pepper hair with a spray tan from hell. He kind of reminds me of an over-sized Oompa-Loompa dressed in tennis whites. The heavy man curses at our newly hired receptionist that sits behind her desk to my immediate right and treats her like she’s not fit to lick the mud from his boots. Every fiber in my body is drawn to him and I know without a doubt he’s the one. My bones are like tuning forks for the damned and they are never wrong.

Sweat beads on his forehead and the vein in his neck distends while he growls at the girl. His protruding belly bumps against the marble counter in front of him with each labored breath he takes. “What the hell do you mean you can’t find my tennis reservation in the computer?” 

He says he has one, but the petite blonde girl wearing a ‘required’ smile isn’t able to locate his name in the computer. 

“Where is the manager? Do you even know who I am?” the fat man yells at the girl before he blots his forehead with a perfectly pressed handkerchief.  

My heart bleeds for the receptionist. I hate it when people are rude, but when the ones who are about to die are jerks, it helps lessen the guilt I feel for them when the sadistic creature from hell comes. 

The girl chews her bottom lip. Her pale skin shows a hint of red in her cheeks, no doubt caused by sheer mortification. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wellington, but my manager is out sick. Let me—”

He holds up a chubby hand, and his face turns the shade of a beet. “I don’t want your damn excuses. I want a court, and I want it now!”

“I’m sorry,” she apologizes again. Her bottom lip trembles like she’s about to cry, but he’s doesn’t care. He points his finger under her nose and continues to berate her during his little tantrum.

“I said—” He grabs at his chest in mid rant and grunts in pain. That’s when it happens. Time stands still. There’s no movement or sound in the crowded lobby. The silence in the room allows the faint sound of my breath to echo around me. The receptionist is frozen in a look of fear, hair stuck in mid-swing, her eyes still glued in Mr. Wellington’s direction. Two little boys in front of the entry door across from me are stuck in a game of catch and a cleaning lady, wearing a blue uniform, is in mid-sweep—all of them unaware that time has stopped and true evil is about to enter the room. None of them will have a clue they were even put on pause, like a DVD. The only people still able to move at all are Mr. Wellington and me. 

My eyes search the immaculate room. He’s here somewhere—the little demon who stole my soul. Now, I just have to wait on him to make his grand appearance.  

The fat man falls to his knees in front of me with a heavy thud, and a combination wave of sweat and fear blows in my direction. His eyes widen as he gasps for air and clutches his chest. They always look at me, probably because I’m the only thing moving around them. They all have the same look in their eyes, too. 

Fear. 

I should be used to this. But no matter how many times I see it, soul bargains still creep me out. 

“Help me,” Mr. Wellington rasps.

My mouth pulls into a frown, and I bite my bottom lip. I shake my head. There’s nothing I can do to help him, even though I want to. He’s going to die, and the demon has already come to offer him a deal. There’s no stopping it now. I’ve tried before, countless times, but each time my attempt is overcome by the sheer strength and power of the demon boy.   

Mr. Wellington collapses on the floor, riddled in pain, and stretches his hand toward me. I press my back into the chair. The fancy buttons in the fabric press against my skin through my thin, black t-shirt. I bring my legs up to my chest to get out of his reach. I hate it when they ask me for help. It makes me feel like crap when I can’t.

A vortex of air blasts into the room and whips my black hair in my face. My eyes water as loose strands snap into them, so I close them tight and begin to hum. Thank God no one can see me. I know I must look insane rocking back and forth like this, but I don’t care. It’s not anyone can see me. A distraction of any kind is better than bearing witness to another death.  

When the room grows still, I know he’s here and my pulse quickens. I can sense his presence and, after all, this is his trademark tornado entry. One of the daggers I had blessed by a priest off the internet a few days before presses hard into my back. The steel handle warm against my skin as the blade remains covered in the waistband of my pants. It’s the next method I’ll use to try and kill the little demon bastard. 

“Hello, Natalie.” I open my eyes to the sound of the dark-haired demon boy’s voice. He looks innocent as he stands in the doorway of the lobby in his black slacks and white button down shirt and vest, definitely not what first comes to mind when you think of an evil creature from hell.

My eyes roll. Here we go again. I wish he wouldn’t address me like we’re friends, because we are so not. Sure, I’m grateful he didn’t kill me when he had the chance, but still, he’s ruined my life with his little visits. The whole town thinks I’m a crazy nut-ball thanks to him. Hopefully this dagger will take him out once and for all, and I can finally get my life back. 

My right hand inches behind my back. The hilt of the blade is firm in my palm. This is it. It’s now or never. My muscles tense in my shoulder as I start the motion to jerk the weapon from my waistband. 

Wind whips in my face, and I suddenly find myself pinned against the chair. Damn. He’s quick. 

The demon grips my arm with his tiny fingers. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You know your plans to kill me never work. Why even try anymore?”

He grabs the dagger from my hand and examines it, flipping it over and over in his hand. He smiles at me, takes a couple steps backwards then throws it straight up into the ceiling.  It sinks into the fancy marble clear up to the handle, like it’s cutting through butter.  

My mouth goes dry. Damn it. There goes that idea. I really thought that dagger would finally do the trick. Now, I’m forced to sit here and watch. Powerless, yet again. 

His dark gray eyes stare into me, and my insides churn. Why does he look at me like that, like there’s more he wants to say? It scares the hell out of me, but I can’t let him see my fear. Fear is a weakness to him, and I can’t let him know he has that much power over me. 

I clamp my eyes shut again. Taking a breath in through my nose to stop the quivering I feel prickle in my throat as I say, “Just do what you came here for and leave me alone. I’m not in the mood to chat today.” 

His footsteps echo off the marble floor, each one sounding closer than the last. When he stops, I can sense he’s about an arms length away. “Have it your way, but you did promise to be mine. You’ll have to get used to talking with me eventually. We made a deal, remember?”

How could I ever forget what I had done when I was just five years old to save my mom? If only she hadn’t chosen to make us hot dogs for lunch that day, she wouldn’t have choked. And he would’ve never came to my door and been able to trick me into promising him my soul. 

When I don’t answer, he takes a slow breath and then sighs. My eyes snap open in time to watch him squat next to the dying man. Mr. Wellington’s humongous frame dwarfs him, but the boy exudes power and is in total control of the situation at hand.  Mr. Wellington’s skin is a faint shade of blue, signs of no circulation—heart attack victim this time. The demon bends down and slips a faint whisper in Mr. Wellington’s ear. He closes his eyes and slowly nods. 

I’ve never figured out what the demon says to the people he steals souls from, but whatever it is he promises them, they always say yes. He knows what gets to a person. He knows what it takes for someone to give their soul to him, just like he knew how to get to me when I was a kid. 

Mr. Wellington attempts to extend his shaky hand to the demonic boy. The boy’s eyes light up, and his little pink lips curve into an angelic smile. The demon shakes Mr. Wellington’s hand.  When their hands meet, my palm screams with the same electrical shock I felt the first time I shook the boy’s hand. I can feel the energy that flows between them as they seal the deal. A low grunt escapes my lips, and I grimace from the pain. Every time he makes a deal—more times than I can count—in my presence and shakes a hand, I’m tortured.   

Without warning, the little boy whips his head toward me, his gray eyes flash a blinding, white light. “Natalie, close your eyes.”

The vibration in my bones heightens as the demon exerts more power. On command, my eyes snap shut once more, and I bury my face into my knees. He always tells me not to watch. My index fingers jam into my ears, but I can still hear Mr. Wellington’s screams while the demon finishes off what the heart attack started. 

Curiosity wins out and I peek over my knees. It’s like a car wreck. I can’t help but to look. 

My body trembles as the soul of the man darts through his open mouth. It hovers like a see-through angel above him. Pulling a black-glass vial from his pants, the demon chants something in a foreign language that kind of sounds Arabic, and his eyes glow a brilliant white as he says the last word. His fingers twist off the lid. Mr. Wellington’s soul morphs into a ball of white light and bounces in a current of air. It’s ready to be collected.

The demon extends the black vial away from his body. His white eyes stare at the hovering ball of energy, like if he blinks it will disappear.  The soul shrinks to the size of a dust particle and plummets into the tiny, glass container. After the demon double checks the lid, he stuffs it back into his pocket like it’s a pack of gum. Mr. Wellington’s lifeless body is all that’s left behind. 

The demon always kills them. Not once has he ever left a person who made a deal alive. Not one, except me. 

Chapter Two

Tears stream down my face as the demon’s words reverberate in my brain, haunting me every night since I made the deal with him.
“You belong to me now, and I’ll be back to get you after your twenty-first birthday, when the time is right. No one else can touch you until then and I’ll always be around to make sure.”

I dry my face with the sleeve of my pajama top and check the clock. It’s 3:33 in the morning. Why am I not surprised? I’ve been waking up at this time for sixteen years now. At first, the same dream every night kind of freaked me out, and telling Mom about it is one of the reasons I ended up in therapy when I was a kid.  

After my body calms down, I glide my legs across the cotton sheets, feeling their smoothness against my skin. I stretch my arms over my head and yawn. Slowly, I sit up and the memory of the dream floats into a foggy haze. My hand slides into my night stand drawer and opens it. I pull out a picture of Stew from between the worn pages of my favorite book. A smile tickles my cheeks. 

For the past couple of months, I’ve had a nightly sneak-out date in the old, backyard tree house with my neighbor, Stewart Masterson. We’ve had to slink around all summer since we’ve both been home from Capital University because his dad doesn’t approve of me. Stew says it’s not
me
, per say, just what my reputation says I am.