Throne (38 page)

“You were a journalist?” There was a certain incredulity in her voice.

“Look, if I was going to lie I'd tell you I used to be a fireman. But yes, I was a journalist, mostly freelance, gunning to break in with a big story. And, being a genius, I decided to do some hands-on investigating. I'd gone back to a place by the docks where he'd dumped one of his bodies, and he jumped me, knocked me out.”

The memories came flooding back. They always did, which is why I tried to think about those days as little as possible. The sudden flare of pain in the back of my head. The darkness, and then waking up in that chocolate brown basement, tied down to a bed frame, filament bulbs burning orange around me.

“Anyways. He was going to kill me like the others. Started to cut me up, and then he stood back and this spiral began to cut itself into the flesh over my heart. When it was done, I blinked and suddenly saw the demon standing before me. Watching me as I freaked out.” I paused, took a breath. “That was when the cops broke in the front door. They'd tracked me using my cell phone. The sick freak was arrested, and I was taken to a hospital.”

“And the demon?”

“Nothing. Nobody else saw it. I didn't tell anybody either. I thought I'd just been hallucinating. Two months later I saw my second one, perched up on the corner of a building watching a playground. I kept blinking and pinching myself like an idiot, sure I was seeing things. But it wouldn't go away, just sat there watching those kids. So I went into the building and made my way up to the roof.”

I stopped again. My mouth was dry. There was no point in trying to convey the terror I had felt as I'd gone up through the stairwell. Unsure if I was going mad. Hoping that I was.

“And then?”

“Then, well, I got to the roof. Yelled at the demon like it was an overlarge pigeon, sure that it would disappear at that point. But it didn't. It turned and looked at me. Did that horrible smiling thing they do when they pull their lips back from their fangs.”

“Oh Jesus,” said Twain.

“You're telling me. It nearly gutted me before flying off. I went back to hospital, raved to everybody about demons, and was told to take an extended break. When I refused to change my story, my girlfriend tried to have me committed. That's when I ran away. Been running ever since.”

Twain sank back into silence, gazing blankly out at the empty highway ahead of us. “Is that… is that what's going to happen to me?”

I shrugged. “I don't know. What's your girlfriend like?”

“Ha,” she said, unable to resist a smile.

“What kind of name is ‘Twain', anyways?” I asked, smiling and looking back at the road.

“I picked it. My real name is Samantha, and I was Sam all through school. When I started my band, I picked a new name to go with it.” she said quietly.

“Really?” I shot her a look. “What, like a local band or something?”

“No,” she said, still looking out at nothing. “We're touring out of New York. Electric Joke Cascade, we're called.” She turned to look at me, checking for recognition. “Heard of us?”

“Nope. Should I have?”

“We played on Letterman last year.”

“Damn. So you guys have released an album and everything?”

Twain smiled, amused once more. “An album and everything.”

“Wow.” I couldn't think of anything particularly brilliant to say, so simply focused on staying in our lane.

“The guys are going to kill me,” she said quietly, “They're going to think I got drunk and skipped out on last night's gig.”

“Yeah, might be tricky explaining this to them,” I said.

“Tricky?” she turned to stare at me. “I don't see why. I mean, how badly could it go? ‘Hey, guys, yeah, sorry about last night. I was kidnapped by a demon, dragged out into the desert and tortured until two random guys showed up with shotguns and saved me by chasing the demon down into an abandoned church which they then set on fire, one of them dying in the process. But yeah, I'm back, so where were we? And oh, if I freak out every now and then over nothing, it's because I can see demons now, so don't worry, just run like fucking hell.'”

I laughed bitterly, and the anger that had been building up in her throughout the speech hesitated, wavered, and then she laughed too, sinking her head into her hands and shaking it.

“Yeah, I don't see why they should have a problem with that. Being kidnapped by demons is probably the best get-out-of-jail free card there is.”

“It better be,” she said.

We drove in silence for a minute. Nothing but faded yellow lane markers disappearing past us in the center of the road. “Look,” I said, “Talking about shotguns, do you want Josh's gun? I'm no good with it, and you might need it at some point. Actually, where did you put it?”

Twain twisted in her seat and leaned into the back, revealing an expanse of pale thigh as she did so. I tore my gaze back to the road. She fell back into her seat, Josh's Desert Eagle huge in her hands.

“Well, thanks for the offer,” she said, and pretended to take aim at the windshield, closing one eye. “But I think this thing would shatter both my wrists.”

“Probably,” I said. “I kept telling him to take a shotgun. But he insisted. At least he didn't drag his stupid samurai sword along with him this time.”

Twain lowered the gun to her lap. “Yeah, I saw that back there. Is it real?”

I nodded. “Josh said it was. Stole it from his uncle's house when he hit the road. Said that's why he could never go back. His brother's uncle-in-law or something was old school Japanese, inherited it. Family heirloom. But Josh never used it. I wouldn't let him. With his luck he'd 've cut his leg off.”

I smiled, memories stirring up. The lessons he'd given me in a broad field in Texas on how to fire a gun, how proud he'd been of his skill as a natural sharp shooter. How despite his skill his rotten luck had nearly gotten him killed each time the gun jammed, or that one time he'd shot out our tire by accident. The ridiculous way he'd make up training routines with his samurai sword, getting up early each dawn to dance around, waving it like some ninja from a television show.

“What are you going to do now?” asked Twain, her voice suddenly somber.

I didn't answer at first. The highway stretched out before us. It would be a couple of hours before we hit Reno. Endless highway. For the past two years Josh and I had lived on the road, never staying in any town longer than a couple of weeks. Motel rooms and camping grounds and nights spent sleeping under the pickup or next to it. Meals in cans, meals in diners, meals stolen from supermarkets. Siphoning gas out of other cars, working part time jobs and hustling pool games till our instincts told us to get out of Dodge. An endless blur of small towns, big cities, and always the highway, stretching out before us.

The thought of continuing that lifestyle alone made me completely and unutterably exhausted. Though I was feeling strangely alert, on edge almost, I knew I didn't have the mental reserves to keep crusading alone.

“I don't know,” I said. “I've got no idea. Maybe do ambient lighting for military installations.” Twain snorted, and I grinned at her. “I'll drop you off at your place in Reno, and then figure it out from there.”

“Well,” said Twain carefully, as if measuring her words even as she spoke them, “Maybe—“

“Hold up,” I said. Stared at the rearview mirror. Something was following us. A distant speck, but gaining fast. Not a car though. Something with wings.