Demon's Delight (6 page)

P
OWER
and Flower made it to Mass General in record time, given rush hour traffic, and went at once to the maternity ward. Flower was carrying a teddy bear. Power had a gaily wrapped box with a big blue bow on the top.

“Excuse me,” he said to the charge nurse. “My daughter, Rhea Goodman Mere? She's having a baby? Can you tell me what—”

A shout interrupted him. “And stay out!” Punctuated by the clatter of an emesis basin slamming into the wall.

“Never mind,” Flower said. “We can find her.”

They turned and walked down the hall in time to see their son-in-law practically sprint into the hallway. “All right, all
right
!” he yelled back. “Don't come crying to me when you forget how to do your breathing!”

“Chris, darling!” Flower called, hurrying up to him and giving him a hug. “We came as soon as you called.”

“Happy birthday, by the way,” Power added, handing Chris the gaily wrapped box. “A milestone. You're to be congratulated.”

“I found
three
gray hairs on my head this morning, and your daughter—and my daughter—are directly responsible. I'm only thirty-two, and I'm going gray!”

“Well, nobody forced you two to get married and have babies,” Flower said gently.

“Quite the opposite,” Power muttered.

“And don't worry about Violet Number Two; she's at home with her aunties and uncles.”

“Great. If she points a toy gun in my face and pretends to shoot me, I'm holding both of you responsible.”

“We can't help it that ‘kill the witch' is everyone's favorite childhood game.”

“It's not everyone's—”

“What are you doing out there?” Rhea shouted. “Taking a poll? Get your ass in here!”

“Coming, coming!” He gave his in-laws a final, harassed glance before going back through the gates of hell.

“The baby will be your birthday present!” Flower called after him.

“Doubt it,” Power said, glancing at his watch. “It's almost midnight.”

“Second babies always come faster.”

“She's only been in labor for four hours.”

“Darling. It's
Rhea
.”

“That's true,” Power said, and sat down with his wife to wait for another Goodman-Mere baby.

 

“And…it's a boy!”

“Oh,
great
,” Rhea groaned. “What was I thinking? I
knew
it hurt like a bastard, and I let you knock me up again anyway.”

“Hold on a minute, Mom, we'll get him cleaned up, and then you can hold him.” The nurse had to shout over the baby's wails to be heard.

“Listen to the lungs on that kid,” Chris said happily. “A chip off the old maternal block.”

“Shut up.”

“And he's gorgeous.”

She perked up, as much as she could in her exhausted state. “He looks okay? I figured he was okay from all the yelling. Violet Number Two did the same thing when she was born.”

“Here he is, Mom!”

Rhea stared down in wonder at the tiny, perfect face. The baby was looking up at her with the blue eyes of a fair-skinned newborn, and she wondered if they would go dark like hers, or green like Chris's. She hoped they would be green, because…

“Welcome to the world, Christopher Goodman Mere,” she said softly, and kissed her baby at the exact moment her husband kissed her on the top of her head.

Catherine Spangler

To all those who have ever suffered loss of family or home,
or been affected by hatred and intolerance. May you find
inner peace and joy in living every day to the fullest.

Special thanks to Roberta for the title and the ending.
You're amazing.

For, remember, man looks upon the things of the day
but God looks upon the heart.

(Edgar Cayce Reading 3253–2)

T
HE
high heels of her boots made a distinct click on the sidewalk, amplified by the exaggerated swing of her hips. She knew that the strut and the boots, along with the rest of her skimpy outfit, were terribly clichéd, but why should she care? After all, she was what she was. She saw no need to pretend otherwise.

Winter was creeping in early in Dallas. There was a distinct nip in the October night air. The cooler temperature seemed to lessen the stench of unwashed bodies and vomit and urine that drifted from behind the shabby buildings.

The unpleasant smell was further masked by the tantalizing scents of cooking food and burning wood. The food aromas came from the restaurants and clubs along the strip; the wood odor probably from a homeless person's fire—which would be extinguished if the police who occasionally patrolled the area saw it.

Both food and wood aromas stirred nostalgic memories.
Home and hearth, dinner cooking, family, warmth, love.
Vague, distant memories that refused to be completely vanquished.

Rachel Stryker shook those thoughts away. Hunger gnawed at her, and it was time to get down to business. She continued her strut down Harry Hines, letting the darkness wrap her in anonymity, although she could clearly see every detail of the debris-and-hypodermic-littered street.

Midway down the block, a man got out of an older, battered, maroon Toyota Camry. He looked around, attempting a nonchalance that told her he was after either drugs or sex—or both.

She walked faster, her long strides eating up the sidewalk between them. He saw her and stopped short, his gaze skimming down her. He was middle-aged, balding, nondescript—like hundreds of other marks. He straightened and tried to smooth his shabby jacket as she reached him.

“Hey there,” she said, letting her allure drift around him. “You look like you could go for a little recreation.”

He wet his lips, his gaze still roaming over her. “I don't think I can afford you.”

“Oh, you can,” she said, drawing the net tight. “Because I'm worth it. I'm the best you'll ever have.” She eyed him, recognizing his type—he either was paid his wages in cash under the table or cashed his paycheck as soon as he got it. “Fifty dollars will get you whatever you want, baby.”

“Sure,” he muttered, staring into her eyes, firmly in thrall. He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a money clip and peeled off a fifty-dollar bill. She found it odd that poorer people tended to carry more money on them, in larger denominations, as if it made them feel richer.

“Come on.” She took his arm, guided him into a nearby alley. It was easy enough to maneuver him, since she matched him in height, and was far stronger than he'd ever comprehend.

He was dirty, his foul breath and body odor an unpleasant affront to her highly developed sense of smell, but again, what did it matter? She was just what he needed, and he…he was key to her existence.

She slipped the money into her fanny pack. “Well, let's get started then.” She stepped close and placed her hand on his chest, savoring the rapid beating of his heart.
Is there anything more
exhilarating,
she thought, as she always did,
than the blood—a life force essential to survival—thundering through a living, beating heart?

“So,” she breathed, lowering her face against his neck, “how do you want it?” She nipped the side of his neck, slipped into his mind. She wouldn't begrudge him his fantasies, as long as he gave her what she needed. Ah, he was easy to read…

She quickly unbuttoned his coat, then his shirt, jerking them open so that his bare chest was exposed to the cool air.

“Hey, you're movin' too fast,” he protested. “I want my money's worth, lady.”

“You'll get it. I promise.” She undid his pants, slipping her hand inside and wrapping her fingers around his cock.

“God, that feels good,” he groaned, fumbling for her breasts. She wasn't wearing a bra, so it was a simple matter to unzip her bodice with her free hand, allowing him to fondle her breasts. Since he was focused on getting inside her rather than her taking him into her mouth, she squeezed him, stroked his balls.

Still groaning, he jerked up the hem of her dress, exposing her slender thighs and pubic hair. He seemed excited about that, clumsily touching the thick thatch of hair. “You don't shave down there like most whores,” he muttered, slipping a thick finger between her nether lips and probing inside her.

She opened her legs farther, let him finger her a moment, then grabbed the lapels of his coat and jerked him against her, turning so that her back was against the gritty cinderblock wall. She hitched one leg around him, fitting herself against him and urging him to slam home.

“That's it,” she crooned, meeting his thrusts as she again pressed her lips against his neck. “That's it. Take what you want, what you're paying for.”

She opened her mouth, sank deep. Life gushed into her, a hot surge more potent than pure adrenaline. Gulping the intoxicating liquid, she became omnipotent, flashed to the stars and back in a wild, heady rush. At the same time, a part of her managed to remain grounded and keep the mind lock on her mark. In return for her personal nirvana, she hurled him over the edge.

“Oh God, oh God!” he screamed, in the throes of the most powerful orgasm of his insignificant life. He emptied himself inside her, in long, drawn-out waves of sensation. He'd never felt such pleasure. He was dying, dying…God, God!

Then blackness closed in around him…

Rachel stared down at the prone man, noting the even rise and fall of his chest. Since he was completely dressed, and it wasn't that cold, he'd be fine until he came to in twenty minutes or so. He'd be weak and possibly have a headache, but he'd also have the memory of a hot sexual encounter that had left him completely satiated—even though it had all been in his mind. She smoothed her shawl and stepped out of the alley, another business transaction completed.

Strolling away, she ran her tongue over her fangs to catch the remaining film of blood. They were already retracting, the earlier heated flush receding. Fading way too quickly, like her john's simulated orgasm. Leaving her cold and bleak until the next fix.

 

The next john, obviously more affluent, was better dressed and better spoken, but he was a cold, unemotional man with gutter morals. He was able to pay a lot more for Rachel's services than her last customer. “Don't you have a place where we can go?” he asked, as she grabbed his expensive coat's lapels and maneuvered him behind a tattoo parlor.

She refused to do her transactions in the confines of a car. She never allowed johns to take her to a hotel, either—although there were numerous dives and flophouses in the general vicinity—not even for exorbitant amounts of cash. She didn't need that much money, nor did she have to worry about her personal safety—it was difficult to kill a being without a soul. But she needed the cover of night, and she needed the blood, and her profession was perfect for those needs.

“I want to go somewhere where there's a bed or a hot tub,” he said imperviously, obviously used to his orders being obeyed. “Or I want my money back.”

“No,” she whispered, flowing into his mind. “That's not what you
really
want, is it? I know what you want, and I can give it to you.”

She slid down him, going to her knees where he wanted her, subservient and willing to do what his wife wouldn't. Her fingers rubbed his thighs, circling upward, almost—but not quite—touching his straining erection.

He moaned, thrust his pelvis forward and said, “Get on with it!”

She unzipped his pants, eased his cock out, gave him what he demanded, teasing and tantalizing him with her mouth and tongue.

He was vaguely aware of her long fingers digging into his bare buttocks, and found that incredibly erotic. He grabbed her head, pressed her closer, and she took more of him. Jesus, she was good.

Then she took him really deep into her mouth, deeper than any woman had ever managed. He wanted to hold back, he tried to hold back, but her mouth was moist and her throat tight, creating an exquisite suction around his dick, and suddenly he was exploding. Oh man, oh man, he'd never experienced such pleasure. He didn't know if he could take it, if his heart could hold out.

His world went dark with stunning, ruthless suddenness.

 

Rachel left the back alley and its fully dressed occupant without a backward glance. She felt the warm glow of his blood in her veins, given in exchange for another illusion of a sexual act that had never really occurred. She considered it a fair trade.

This was her last “business transaction” of the evening. She knew, without the benefit of a watch, that the night was waning, with about two hours remaining until sunrise. She'd had enough blood, and she had more money to add to her hoard. It was time to call it a night, although there was certainly nothing awaiting her at her condo.

She slipped behind the buildings fronting Harry Hines and walked past stinking Dumpsters and litter scuttling along the ground until she found a bedraggled and pitiful group of people huddled around a fire in a trash can. The stench was overwhelming, the atmosphere of despair and mental confusion oppressive.

Most of those living in the streets were mentally ill, homeless through no fault of their own, shunned by the rest of society. Rachel had long ago accepted that justice was a jaded crapshoot. Drawing some bills from her pack, she approached the group.

“Hey Paul, Sam, Martha,” she said, acknowledging the people she knew. “If I give each of you some money, will you promise to share with everyone here?”

They nodded enthusiastically, toothless smiles splitting filthy faces. “Thank ye, Rach,” Sam said, snatching the bill she offered him. “God bless ye.”

“Same to you.” She couldn't bring herself to say “God.” She didn't believe He existed—just a useless myth. “Don't spend it all on booze, okay?”

They all nodded their agreement, but she knew they'd make a run for the Centennial liquor store as soon as she was gone. Maybe some food would make it into their bellies—she could only hope.

She headed for her car. She lived in a modest condominium in Oak Lawn and could walk the miles to get there, but she preferred to travel by automobile, as a hedge against being caught out in sunlight. The years had taught her that anything could—and did—happen and that she must always be prepared. The instinct to survive was strong, even if she no longer remembered the reasons to persevere.

Her car was at Parkland Hospital, a few miles south on Harry Hines. Rachel always used the visitor parking garage. She could afford it and didn't have to worry about her vehicle being vandalized. And if someone tried to question her appearance or her regular use of the garage, she could always glamour them into forgetting they'd ever seen her.

She'd gone one block when she saw him. He was standing beneath one of the streetlights that still worked, and its fluorescent glow gave him the unsettling illusion of being framed in a halo. His body language was different from the usual Harry Hines crowd.

He appeared to be expectant, almost waiting for something—or someone—although he didn't emit the threatening hostility of a criminal, the hardness of a drug dealer, the apathy of a drug addict, or the general despair and hopelessness that swirled in varying shades of darkness in the area.

He wore gray slacks and a navy sports coat over a dark gray sweater, and his swept-back dark blond hair gleamed in the light. Despite the strongly chiseled features of his face, the slightly over-large nose, and the surprisingly sensuous mouth, he had a wholesome look—a glaring indication that he was totally out of place here, in the bowels of Dallas. He might be an undercover cop, but she didn't sense it, and she was rarely wrong about cops.

Police, like soldiers, had a distinct aura surrounding them. Generally it was an air of power and arrogance, sometimes cruelty and finding sadistic pleasure in the fear of others; although some cops did radiate a genuine concern to help. But the compassionate ones were rarely seen here among the depravity and hopelessness. Not that it mattered; Rachel was well acquainted with the cruelty of corrupted power—and she was no longer helpless.

A chill swept through her. Mentally damning the stranger whose presence had raised unwelcome memories, she started past him, but he stepped into her path. Surprisingly, he met her gaze, another anomaly for the area. His eyes were dark, intent.

“Hello,” he said.

She shifted around him, kept walking.

“Wait!” he called out. “Please.”

Ordinarily she wouldn't have stopped, but the
please
—the rareness of hearing that word—startled her. She paused, looked back over her shoulder.