Stones Unturned (15 page)

"What is it, Danny? What's happened?"

She expected him to snap at her, to cut her with the typical thoughtlessness of teenaged boys. Instead he took a deep breath and turned slowly to look at her again, and she saw that this was not the belligerence and sullenness natural to boys his age. Of course it wasn't. Julia made that mistake constantly, but only because she wished so desperately that her son were ordinary, that he was anything at all like other kids.

He wasn't being a wise guy. He was just shut down, distant, and hard, as though something had gotten under his skin and made him afraid, and he didn't want her to see his fear.

"Danny, what's —"

"Nothing," he said, more firmly this time. The red gleam in his eyes grew wider, and he glared at her. "Nothing is wrong, Mom. In fact, the last few days have been pretty fantastic. Look, it's . . . I'm glad you came by, but I can't stick around. Mister Doyle's got something he wants us all to help with."

Julia nodded. "I figured as much. The house is empty."

"Not really. Everyone's just busy. Gathering things to hunt the . . ."

His eyes flashed darkly, as if she'd caught him at something. Julia wasn't sure what it was.

"To hunt what?"

He sighed. "I know you worry, Mom. I'm fine. I will be fine."

"You don't seem —"

Her son snarled at her and leaped across the room. He grabbed her arm hard enough to hurt, and Julia cried out in shock and pain as he pulled her close to him. The brimstone stink of him was in her nose, and she stared into his eyes and for the first time she was not afraid for her son, but
of
him.

"I told you, it's nothing!" he snapped, and he released her.

Julia withdrew, rubbing her arm where he'd clutched her. Where he'd bruised her.

"I've got to go. The others will be waiting. We've got a demon to kill."

From the open door came the sound of a man clearing his throat. Danny and Julia both turned, and she felt a wave of relief wash over her as she saw Mr. Doyle standing in the hall outside the door. His expression was stern and unrelenting.

"Julia, are you all right?"

She stopped rubbing her arm, though it throbbed painfully. "Yes, of course. I'm . . . we're fine."

The irony of the hollow sound of her lying voice was not lost on her.

"Perhaps you are," Mr. Doyle said, studying Danny gravely. "And perhaps not. Regardless, it's clear to me that something is indeed troubling young Daniel. That makes my decision much simpler. I need someone to remain behind and keep watch over the house in case someone should use our absence to try to attack —"

"Oh, bullshit!" Danny snapped. "Don't you start, too!"

"Hey," Julia said. "You don't talk to —"

"I'll talk to anyone any way I want. You don't have a fucking clue what I'm going through, neither one of you. So why not stop trying to make out like you're all concerned and sympathetic? Just stop! This is bullshit. I'm fine. The rest of you are going out to hunt that thing down, and I should be there, too!"

"Danny, you know that in the past my enemies have drawn me away from this house as a prelude to attacking it. You've seen it with your own eyes. I assure you, this is hardly 'bullshit.' In fact, I'd hoped that you and your mother could stay together and keep an eye on things."

The way Danny glared at Mr. Doyle and took a menacing step toward him made even Julia back farther away.

"I'm not house-sitting. Can't you get Squire to do it?"

Mr. Doyle did not waver. Instead he lifted his chin, staring down at Danny over his long nose and mustache. When he spoke, his voice seemed to fill the entire room, though he did not shout, and his English accent, usually subdued because of the time he had spent living in the States, grew strong.

"Boy, if you're going to come at me, you'd better bring a friend, because I eat two for breakfast."

Danny faltered, blinking as though coming out of some trance and realizing what he had been doing.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching up to drag his hand over the rough skin of his scalp, touching the tips of his horns as though to remind himself they were there. "It's been . . . not the best of weeks."

Julia crossed her arms and stared at him. Danny avoided her gaze.

"Apology accepted," Mr. Doyle said. "But you will stay here, Daniel. As for your suggestion that Squire remain behind, there is a great deal to be done, and I need operatives whom I can trust to do what they're told without question. For all of his grumbling, Squire is loyal. He has earned my trust over many, many years."

"So I'm not trustworthy, now?"

Mr. Doyle stared at him. "Watch over my home, Daniel. I am entrusting it to you."

Without waiting for a reply, the man nodded to Julia and turned on his heel. He strode away, and mother and son stood together listening to the sound of his retreating footsteps.

When the house had fallen completely silent again save for the creaks of age, Julia took a step toward her son.

"I wish you'd talk to me, Danny. Normally I'd say if you didn't want to confide in me, you should talk to Dr. Graves. I know you two have gotten close. Is it . . . are you upset because he's gone off for a while?"

"Oh, please," Danny sighed, rolling his devil's eyes. "Don't project onto me. I'm not the one who misses him. You're the one in love with a fucking ghost. You're so wet for a dead guy it's disgusting."

Julia couldn't catch her breath. She stared at her son in horror, searching his eyes, trying to make some sense of his behavior.

She slapped him as hard as she could across the face. His skin felt tough as leather, and he barely flinched.

Danny snickered and walked past her.

"Where are you going?" Julia demanded. "Mister Doyle told you not to leave."

"You house-sit," he sneered without a backward glance. "I've got better things to do."

Then her son was gone, and Julia Ferrick was alone.

She sat on the edge of his bed, tugging at the sleeves of her blouse as though she might withdraw down inside of it and hide. Her face felt hot, and her eyes began to burn with tears. She did not bother trying to wipe them away.

My boy
, she thought.
What's wrong with my boy?

Baalphegor stood in front of the Beacon Street townhouse, staring at the dark brick building, awash in the preternatural emanations that drew him there.

Something wasn't right, and the demon held back, watching the building for signs of danger. This world could be a dangerous place for the likes of his kind, and he did not want to chance an encounter with one of the realm's protectors if it wasn't really necessary.

Finally deciding that there was no actual threat to him, Baalphegor approached the front entrance, taking the doorknob in his flesh-covered hand. The door was locked, but it was nothing to break the fragile mechanism that sought to prevent his entrance, and he pulled open the heavy, wooden door and stepped into the warmth of the foyer.

The demon closed his eyes, feeling out where he needed to go. What he sought was located somewhere in the upper levels of the structure, and he moved toward the stairs.

Baalphegor stopped short at the sound of a jangling chain. A canine came down the steps at a very quick clip, growling menacingly as it reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Daisy, no!" a human voice ordered from somewhere on the level above the lobby, as the dog's owner began his descent.

Baalphegor watched the animal slowly stalking toward him, its fleshy jowls pulled back to reveal sharp, pointed fangs. The beast was far more intuitive than the dominant species of the planet, knowing at once that he was not what he pretended to be.

That he was a danger.

The demon bared its own fangs, pulling back its mask of human skin so that the animal could see what exactly it was challenging. The dog was certainly intuitive, but far from intelligent, and sprang at him, its open maw aimed to tear out his throat.

Baalphegor caught the beast in his arms, just as its owner reached the bottom of the stairs. The rotund male with the receding hairline had arrived in time to see the demise of his beloved pet.

The dog had done what it had intended to do, ripping at his throat, but its bite had torn away only the fleshy costume that he wore, the demon's own skin beneath untouched. The animal thrashed in his grasp, a flapping swath of skin hanging from its bloody muzzle. Baalphegor lowered his mouth toward the struggling beast. The flesh mask on his face began to rip as his jaws unhinged, and he shoved the animal down his gullet.

The human let out the most pathetic of whimpers, falling back onto the staircase, clutching at his flabby chest.

Baalphegor continued to feed, drawing more and more of the animal inside him, its bones snapping and popping as they were crushed, until at last the dog ceased its useless struggle. The long, fluffy tail was the last thing to be consumed, disappearing down his throat as he stood in the hallway, feeling the fullness of the animal in his belly.

The demon turned his attention to the human lying prone on the stairs. The man was dying. Baalphegor had no doubt of that. The stink of a human body on the verge of death tickled his nostrils as he loomed over the man. He considered killing the thing, ending its suffering, but then thought better of it. He had far more important things to do with his time than performing acts of mercy on the local wildlife
.
Instead, he stepped over the man's body and began climbing the stairs.

At the top of the third flight, he felt it. For a moment he listened to the sound, inaudible to the human ear, and then moved down the corridor to an apartment door on the left. He knocked, noticing that the skin covering his hands had torn, revealing his own, scaled flesh beneath. This particular suit was proving to be far less durable than others he had worn in the past.

"Yes?" said a woman's voice from the other side of the door.

He could feel her watching him through the small hole in the center of the door. Baalphegor placed his own eye against the hole, attempting to look at her.

"I need you to open the door," he said.

"No, I'm not going to do that," the woman said, her voice frantic. "I suggest you go away, or I'll call the police."

The demon stepped back, raised his foot and kicked the door open. It struck the woman, and she cried out as she fell backward.

"No, I don't think so," he said as he entered the human dwelling.

The woman screamed in terror and scrambled backward, rising to her feet and holding up her hands to defend herself.

Baalphegor fixed her in his dark gaze.

"Silence," he commanded, and she did exactly as she was told. "Close it," he ordered, pointing at the open door, and she scuttled to the door, pushing it closed against the broken frame.

She was terrified, staring at him with huge, fear-filled eyes.

"Take anything you want," she told him, playing with a golden chain that hung from her neck. "Please, just don't hurt me — or my son."

Baalphegor strode closer, and the woman stumbled back against the wall. He could feel her eyes upon him, gawking at the areas of flesh on his disguise that had been torn away.

"Your son," he said, still listening to the psychic emanations coming from somewhere within the domicile. "Take me to him."

The woman shook her head frantically. "No, please," she begged. "He's suffered enough — please."

He was about to pluck out one of her eyes, when he was interrupted by another woman entering the short hallway.

"Mrs. Hoskins, is everything all . . ."

The woman, dressed in white, locked eyes with him and then immediately ran toward the phone on a nearby wall. Baalphegor reacted instinctually, springing across the room to land in front of her. She ran directly into his arms — the stink of her fear arousing his hunger again. He unhinged his jaws, engulfing her head and biting it away at the neck.

The headless body dropped to its knees, a geyser of blood erupting from the stump of the neck with such force that it covered the ceiling in a spray of red.

The older woman had started to scream again, he had to silence her once more with a steely look and a threatening wag of his finger. She then lost consciousness, sliding down the wall in a broken heap. For a moment he believed she had expired, but then he heard the sound of her breathing and knew that she had only fainted.

Softer than before, he heard the psychic cries from somewhere at the back of the dwelling and went in search of the source. In a room awash with sunlight, the demon found what he had been searching for. He stood in the doorway, staring at the large bed in the center of the room, and the small, curled figure lying upon it, hidden beneath a blanket.

"What is this?" he asked, stepping into the room, the sharp, antiseptic aroma permeating the space causing his senses to recoil. Equipment used for the care of the sick was positioned around the bed, and Baalphegor realized the unthinkable. He reached down and pulled the blanket away, wanting to see, yet dreading the revelation.

"What have they done to you?" he hissed, gazing down at the sight of a boy, his body pale, withered and thin, curled into the fetal position. His eyes were open, staring off into nothingness, a thin trail of saliva leaking from his mouth down to the pillow beneath his head.

"He did it to himself," said a voice from behind him, and the demon spun around to see the woman standing in the doorway, her eyes fixed upon the figure lying on the bed. "An overdose — three years ago. He's been like this since."

"How . . . unfortunate," Baalphegor growled, and as the words left his mouth, the child slowly began to move, writhing upon the bed, as if aroused by the sound of his voice.

"He was always such a sad child," she said. "Different. But he never wanted for anything, my husband saw to that, God rest his soul."

The woman stumbled into the room, her movements stiff, erratic, there was the spark of madness in her eyes. His arrival, the revelation of his existence and what it meant for the world, often had that effect on humans.

"I know you, don't I?" she said blearily, pointing to him. "You don't look the same . . . but you were there, at the hospital, the night Charlie was born."