Night of the DemonBy: Alice Bell
(Devon Slaughter Book 2)
“DEMONS CAN be dangerous if they are in the human world illegally. Wayward demons who manage to find their way from the demon realm into the human world, of their own volition, revel in their godlike powers, using them for their own pleasure and debauchery.” —The Guardian Spirits, Sarah Rose (Psychic, Medium and Channel)
SHE SWAM as if her life depended on it, though she had no life. Not yet.
It was like before, when she was swallowed by the lake, and died. Only this time she was coming up, and up, her inhumanly strong legs kicking, her powerful arms pulling through the dark water.
Nausea hit as soon as she gulped air. Such a terrible sickness, cured only by a warm human body, she remembered.
The volcanic lake and its strip of white sand, the clouded sky overhead, was so timeless, she couldn’t tell if she’d gone backward or forward in time. Fat raindrops pelted the water around her. Mist swirled.
It must be evening, she thought.
The beach was deserted, except for a couple running toward the shelter of trees that once hid thatched roof casas and a tiki lit bar.
Her clothes were in tatters and she had kicked off her slippers light years away.
Of course, she had no idea how far she’d traveled.
She crossed the sand, holding her arms over her exposed breasts, shivering and trying to think past the throbbing pain and cold raindrops.
The path was familiar and rough, and there ahead were the casas, as if no time had passed at all.
Hope surged inside her, a raw human emotion, kept alive by a love she couldn’t forget.
Light came from a window, and she slid into the shadows, too weak to make herself invisible. She kept going, her bare feet scraping over rocks and thorny tree roots.
She stopped to rest and peered through the trees. One casa caught her eye. It was set back from the others. It had a purple door, red trim. An orange sarong hung over the porch railing, along with a black string bikini and men’s swim shorts.
She stared, wondering: Could this be it? Where she had held him in her arms for the last time? The clothes weren’t hers, and yet, they were the type of thing she would have worn. Her fingers twitched.
She was like a cat, a jungle predator, silent and graceful, even while ravaged by fever and weak with hunger.
Her actions were instinctual. She peeled off what was left of her clothes and snatched the sarong, and wrapped it around her long body. Her hair was a white flame in the bruised twilight.
She threw open the door.
He was the first person she saw; his bare back, tawny skin, broad shoulders, the curl of dark hair at the nape of his neck. His Bermuda shorts had slipped low on his hips.
Her memory of him was carnal, more lust and possession than love, but she didn’t know the difference. Anymore.
And then her gaze landed on the girl who gaped at her. “What?” the girl’s voice was light and fluttery, nervous. “Who are you?”
They had been embracing, she realized, before she entered and ruined the moment. A smile curved at her lips.
But when the man spun around, it wasn’t him.
This man was crudely made by comparison. “Whoa, hey,” he said, a twist of humor in his voice, as if it was funny. “Wrong casa.” Like he thought she was high. Or stupid.
Pain scalded her vision. She advanced.
The girl screamed, and the sound hurt Zadie’s ears. She lashed out, sending the girl careening across the room. The girl’s head smashed into the edge of the table. There was a thunk.
And then beautiful quiet.
The man lunged at Zadie. His breath was tinged with beer. The scent of terror wafted from his pores. He tried to pin her arms but even in her weakened state, she was too strong. She slammed him against the wall.
And then she was on him, kissing his neck, and his mouth. Her hands moved down his body, inside his shorts.
In a burst of ecstasy, she bit his neck.
He whimpered. God, he was sweet.
* * *
It was too bad about the girl.
She would have to hightail it off the island before the authorities got involved.
She wore the man’s clothes because the girl was a tiny thing. His jeans were loose but the right length. She knotted one of his T-shirts (red) at her waist, and slid her feet into a pair of flip flops that were only slightly too large.