Hollywood Demon (The Collegium Book 6) (4 page)

Mark parked a block away from Hollywood Boulevard where secure parking would keep the Rocinante safe. After naming the demon, he and Clancy hadn’t said anything more. For himself, he needed the silence to force the lid back on the volatile mix of old emotions of anger, betrayal and fear. They were the raw mix that distilled into the determination that drove him.

He got out of the car and walked around it to meet her. “My great-grandfather Edgar bound the demons so that they couldn’t enter our world via cameras.”

“I remember the story.”

Of course she did. Growing up at the Yarren Estate, she would have heard it enough times. How his great-grandfather had survived the First World War and become one of the founding members of the Collegium—the group of magic users who protected mundanes and magicals alike from rogue mages and magical attacks, such as those that killed so many in the Great War. The first major act of the new Collegium had been to seal all cameras against demons using them as portals into this world.

“There was a reason photographs used to be developed using a silver wash,” Mark said as they strolled out of the car park. “Silver protects against evil. Edgar used that in the Collegium spell. People no longer had to fear the possibility that the camera would truly steal their souls.”

Clancy shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. “The thought of my soul being stolen always gave me the heebie-jeebies when I heard that story.”

“And it happened—until Edgar and the others prevented it with their master spell in Paris in 1920. Once he’d set it, Edgar came here to California to join the emerging movie industry, secure in the knowledge that demons couldn’t contact people through the new moving images. But he couldn’t have anticipated digital photography.”

She rocked to a stop on the sidewalk. “No silver.”

“Precisely.” He was pleased that she was thinking and not merely humoring him in what others considered his delusion. “The Collegium believes that Edgar’s spell holds against demons entering all images regardless of the silver content in their processing. They point to the fact that no demonic possession happened via a painting after Edgar’s spell sealed all cameras.”

“But you disagree?”

“Demons play a long game. I think they’ve been waiting for a chance to exploit a hole in Edgar’s spell and Faust found it with digital photography. He doesn’t contact his victims via their image, but buries the invitation in the code that writes the software.” They stood in the shadow of one of the tall apartment blocks, in the grimy rear of it with the stink of discarded cigarettes and trash. “You see, demons never simply stole a person’s soul, they bargained with them.”

She walked on, slowly. “So the contract you believe Phoebe made with a demon…”

He strode beside her, reining in his impatience at her “you
believe
”. Everyone doubted him. At least Clancy hadn’t dismissed his story out of hand. “The museum is just around the corner.

She flapped a hand, dismissing the museum and a potential job. “How do you think Phoebe signed a contract with this demon, Faust?”

“Does it matter?”

“What?” She dashed in front of him and stopped.

He stopped, too; a hair’s breadth from touching her.

“Of course it matters,” she said.

A ridiculous hope surged in him. “So, you believe me?”

“Get outta the way!” A deliveryman balancing three large boxes swore at them.

“Sorry.” Clancy grabbed Mark’s arm and tugged him to the side. “I’m not a demonologist. You should contact the Collegium.”

“I did.”

“And?” She released his arm.

On impulse, he clasped her hand as they resumed walking. After a moment’s hesitation, her fingers curled around his. Her trust helped counter some of the bitterness in his heart. “The Collegium sent out a demonologist twice when I reported happenings like the one outside my neighbor’s house this morning. Neither time did they find evidence of a demon’s presence.”

“It could have evaporated, the evidence, I mean.”

“Apparently a demon’s presence leaves a stain in this world for those sensitive to it.”

She considered that as they walked around the corner, emerging into a quiet street of tattoo parlors, thrift stores and some hopeful if unlikely souvenir shops for lost and wondering tourists. “If the Collegium sent guardians to the site of your crash, they must have sensed the demon.” She squeezed his hand. “Sorry to remind you of it.”

“It’s okay. The people who stopped to help Phoebe and me dragged us clear a few seconds before the car exploded. The flames and chemicals, and Phoebe’s death, obscured the demonic stain. I’m sure the demon arranged things that way. I’ve been tracking him. That’s why I’ve joined the sceptics’ club and others. I look for certain oddities.”

“So does the Collegium’s forecasters’ department.” Her objection was small and apologetic as they halted out front of the museum.

“Yes, but they’re not as single-minded. They’re looking for trouble everywhere. I’m tracking one particular demon.”

“And you think he’s aware of you?”

“I think he’s laughing at me,” Mark said flatly, and changed the subject. “Come on. Let’s go in. I’ll introduce you to Bryce.”

Clancy looked at the dark and shuttered museum with its gray sign proclaiming it the
Museum of the Boring But True
. Not exactly a catchy title. “Mark, the museum’s closed.”

“Bryce lives above it.” He released her hand and strode forward to hit a buzzer beside a discreet door.

“The boss lives above the shop,” she muttered. “I don’t think—”

“Who’s there?” An impatient voice emerged staticky and abrupt from the intercom.

Great.
Her prospective employer was grumpy. Nope, she didn’t want this job. To be courteous—and because her grandma would ask—she needed to at least enter the museum. She sighed. What she needed was coffee and space to sit down and think about everything Mark had just told her. Did she believe him? He’d said her grandma didn’t. His family refused to. The Collegium had dismissed his story.

“It’s Mark, Mark Yarren. I’ve brought a friend. She might be interested in working in the museum.”

A short silence from the intercom preceded another burst of static. “I’ll be down.”

Mark gave her a crooked half-smile. “Bryce mightn’t have many social skills, but he’s a good guy. A talented software engineer.”

“A geek.”

“The world belongs to them,” Mark said. He looked so ordinary, as if he hadn’t just been discussing demons. The sun shimmered on his blond, sun-streaked hair and healthily tanned skin. “If you can code, you can—”

The shutters at the front of the museum rolled up. A subdued whine indicated that an electric motor powered their retraction. First the legs, in gray sweatpants, then the chubby torso covered by a blue t-shirt, and finally, an unshaven face with the beginnings of a double chin and its eyes squinched up as if at the brightness of the morning light were revealed.

Bryce Goodes regarded them for a long moment through the front glass door. Then he smiled and reached for the handle. “Mark! Good to see you, man. Come in.”

Mark put a hand to Clancy’s lower back, ushering her in first.

Bryce’s pale blue eyes tracked the gesture as he shuffled back from the entrance, giving them space to enter.

Space was in short supply within the museum. It was crowded! Display cases jostled with ordinary tables in a maze-like pattern. Shelves along the walls held more objects located in-between posters, the details of which Clancy couldn’t discern. The museum was long and narrow, stretching back, but since its side windows remained shuttered, the light from the glass front door and windows only dimly reached the first third of the exhibits. It was like walking into a depressed junk shop. The name of the museum seemed only too apt: the Museum of the Boring But True.

Then Bryce switched on the lighting. Overhead fluorescents flickered into life and a couple of spotlights glared onto what he obviously considered the jewels of the collection.

Now, Clancy could see that the posters on the walls were grainy photographs super-enlarged, and that every object was displayed with copious explanatory notes beside it. A large glass box held one of the “mermaid bodies” that had been popular in the nineteenth century, a hoax generally composed of a monkey’s skull and something like a manatee’s skeleton. Long, harsh black hair, likely horse hair, was stuck to the grinning skull.

She edged away from it as Mark made introductions. She politely held out her hand to Bryce. “Sorry that we intruded so early.”

“Not at all.” His hand was warm and dry, his grip firm, and it didn’t linger. “I was awake.” A smirk flickered across his face. “Mark knows I like to start my day early. So. How do you know Mark?” The question was purportedly for her, but Bryce stared at his friend.

Mark stood casually among the jumble of objects, seeming unfazed that the nearest object to him was an Ancient Egyptian sarcophagus.

Clancy peered closer and tapped it discreetly. Papier Mache. This was some Hollywood prop! It was her imagination that had made it seem real. She’d freaked herself out.

As the shock of encountering the museum’s cluttered display eased, she realized that it wasn’t as pathetic as she’d assumed. The collection wasn’t some sad obsessive’s display of junk. It ranged widely across the spectrum of issues sceptics attempted to debunk, and the arguments outlined in the detailed display notes were reasoned and evidenced. Space junk sat beside displays on UFOs and aliens, health scares were debunked, and political campaign ephemera (buttons, posters, flags) brightened up analysis of politically-linked conspiracies. The museum actually represented a lot of hard work and dedication. What it needed was some sparkle; some re-arranging to appeal to tourists who wandered in, off Hollywood Boulevard.

“Clancy’s an old friend,” Mark said. “We knew each other as kids.”

“A long term arrangement.” Bryce seemed delighted, and intrigued.

She stared at him, taken aback by the odd phrasing.

Mark frowned. “Clancy’s just returned to LA. When she mentioned wanting a job where she met people—”

“You thought of me.” Bryce laughed, turning away and heading for the rear of the museum. Stairs in the back corner, behind a “private” sign, indicated that was how he accessed his apartment.

“Of the museum,” Mark said slowly. He glanced at Clancy.

She shrugged. This was his friend and his idea.

“Have you any experience of working in a museum, Clancy?” Bryce called back.

He might be okay shouting the length of the building, but she wasn’t. She trailed after him, winding through the maze of display tables, with Mark following her. “I’ve not worked in a museum, but I’ve had a couple of casual retail jobs.” She couldn’t see Bryce any longer. He’d gone behind the staircase. “Maybe I’m not the right person for this job.” The museum was intriguing and she had some ideas on re-arranging the displays, but judging by his present rude behavior, Bryce would be a nightmare to work for.

She’d worked for the Collegium. One nightmare employer in a lifetime was enough. She stopped at the edge of the staircase.

“How do you take your coffee?” Bryce asked. “It’s only instant, I’m afraid.”

Oh.
Oh, now she felt ashamed of her impatience. Perhaps Bryce wasn’t rude so much as socially awkward, as Mark had said. Shy. “Instant is fine, thank you. No milk or sugar.”

The boiling of the kettle filled the silence. Clancy fidgeted. As oddly fascinating as the museum was, it couldn’t hold her attention. She was back with Mark’s story. Would Phoebe really have sold her soul to a demon?

Yes
. The answer resonated deep inside Clancy, coming from the teenager she’d been; observing everything, living on the fringe of the glamorous adult world. Phoebe had been self-absorbed and ambitious. But Clancy had thought the actress’s self-interest had included Mark. That somehow the woman had truly loved him.

“Here’s your coffee.” Bryce pushed the hot mug into her hands.

She hid a wince as she hastily re-adjusted her hold so that her fingers didn’t burn. “Thanks.”

Mark juggled his mug, too, taking a sip before setting it down beside a display of old cellphones and detailed notes on radiation.

Bryce reached back, picked up his own mug, and held it as casually as if the contents were chilled.

Clancy’s eyes widened. The mug had to be insulated…

“So, are you a sceptic?” Bryce asked.

“Um…”
And how am I meant to answer that?
She didn’t simply believe in magic, she used it! That is, she
used
to use magic. “I guess I’m skeptical about alien abductions, things like that.”

“Good, good.” Bryce nodded.

“But I’m not an expert or anything,” she added. “I’d have a lot to learn.”

“Mark could teach you.” Bryce glanced at Mark, and his look was almost a leer. “I’m sure he’d be only to eager to teach you…everything.”

Definitely creepy. Clancy shuffled back a step, edging closer to Mark.

“Bryce,” he began, then halted as the fluorescent ceiling lights flickered.

Clancy had half a second to glimpse Bryce’s eyes flash red, then the official sceptic-in-residence lunged at her.

She froze. All of her taekwondo training and, faced with an attack, she froze!

Mark didn’t. He snatched up his mug and threw it at Bryce, scoring a direct hit on the man’s face. Not that Mark waited to see if his aim was true. He grabbed Clancy’s shoulder and hauled her behind him, sending her stumbling back toward the entrance. “Run!”

Hot coffee dripping off his face, Bryce snarled. It had an inhuman, howling edge.

Mark shoved the nearest table at Bryce, blocking him for an instant, turned and pushed Clancy with him out through the maze of displays to the front of the museum. Objects hurtled through the air: old cellphones, chunks of meteorite, anything Bryce could find to throw. And all the time, that infernal howling continued.

As Clancy and Mark burst out of the front door of the museum, the howl became words. “Eat her heart, eat her heart. Take her soul!”

Clancy spun around. Her soul? The Earth rumbled under her feet as her magic stirred to save her.

Bryce ran at her. His face was a terrifying rictus of rage. He seemed to lock onto her, aware of nothing else. Not the pedestrians scattering, then turning to watch, many raising their phones to record the scene. Not the delivery van squealing to a halt on the road just inches from Clancy. And not Mark, who sunk his center of gravity, took one powerful step forward, and tackled Bryce.

Flesh hitting flesh had a
thwack
sound, ugly and painful. Mark absorbed it and kept on going, driving Bryce back toward the shop.

His friend clawed at Mark’s face. Mark flinched, and Bryce broke free.

I can do this. I can protect myself.
Clancy shifted into her fighting stance.

The delivery driver and his co-worker got out of their van, big men both, and hurried to her side.

Bryce howled, spun, and rammed himself at the glass front of the museum. The window shattered.

Mark grabbed his friend and hauled him back.

No blood. Clancy couldn’t see any blood. But Bryce was fighting Mark, struggling to get free.

The two men from the delivery van hurried to help Mark. The three off them restrained Bryce, one of the men dashing back to the van to return with duct tape. They secured Bryce’s wrists.

At that point, Bryce ceased fighting and sank to the ground. His eyes rolled back in his head and he was unconscious.

Mark straightened slowly, leaving the two men on guard, and crossed to Clancy. “Are you okay?”

“I’m shaking.”

He wrapped her in a hug. “Me, too.”

He lied. He was rock steady, strong, and reassuring. Capable. The police arrived, and he handled them. He thanked the delivery men who hadn’t driven on past. He got their names. And he kept an arm around Clancy.

An ambulance loaded Bryce, the paramedics hesitating to shut the door as a female cop emerged from the external door to Bryce’s apartment.

“Psych meds.” She handed over a plastic bag full of rattling pill containers.

“Damn,” Mark said softly under his breath.

It was incredibly sad.

“We’ve contacted his family,” the cop said to Mark, her gaze including Clancy who stood beside him. “They’ll be here soon. They’ll close up.”

They watched the ambulance drive away.

“You can go home,” the cop said to them. “We have your details if we need to contact you.”

Mark dragged his attention from the vanishing ambulance. “Thanks.”

The cop nodded and strode away to confer with her partner.

Clancy and Mark headed for his car. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Bryce was throwing things. Some must have hit you.” He’d shielded her.

“I’m fine.” His pace quickened, then slowed. “Not fine. Not physically hurt.”

She knew what was worrying him. It scared the heck out of her. Neither of them had quoted the actual words of Bryce’s ravings to the police.
Eat her heart, eat her heart. Take her soul!
And Bryce’s eyes had flashed red just before he attacked.

Bryce hadn’t had a psychotic break. That had been demonic possession.

She waited till they were inside the Rocinante and Mark was reversing it out of the parking bay. “I believe in your demon,” she said. “It was in Bryce.”

“But how?” The question burst out of Mark. “Bryce is such a sceptic. He’d never have sought out a demon, never have invited one into his heart. The demon must have targeted him because he’s a friend of mine.”

As the adrenaline rush of the confrontation faded, Clancy wanted a hot bath, warm clothes and hot chocolate. With extra marshmallows. But the guilt and self-blame in Mark’s voice roused her. “How would the demon even know you would visit Bryce today? Ours was an impulse thing. You said Bryce is a sceptic. A sceptic could treat a grimoire as a plaything and commit himself to a demon without believing that the words he said would be binding. Maybe that’s what Bryce did.”

Mark shook his head. “The demon watched us. It wanted to see if you were important to me, then it attacked
you
—not me.”