Linda Welch - A conspiracy of Demons Read online

  I sat up, drew my knees up to my chin and twined my arms around them, pulled in a huge breath and let it out with a puff. “It kills me. Thinking of Lynn all alone, stuck in the same place, watching the world go by without her.” I turned my cheek to rest it on my knees. “But there’s this horrible, horrible part of me which doesn’t want to find her because then I’ll be all she has, like Jack and Mel. She’ll want to cling to me. And I’ll have to keep going to her. I won’t want to, but I’ll feel small and selfish if I don’t.”

  I closed my eyes. His fingers smoothed up my spine.

  Snippets of the past two days circled in my head. My mind drifted to other dead people, so many of them. And I could no longer contain the long-held fear I kept locked inside for years.

  I’ve looked in Death’s eyes. In the bowels of Morté Tescién at the hands of Royal’s brother Kien. In my backyard when I fought Phaid. In an old, abandoned plant below the High House when I went one on one with the ancient Dark Cousin Dagka Shan. The bombs in Royal’s apartment and my house. In the tiny English village of Little Barrow, and when an assassin tried to run Royal’s truck into the lake. Not to forget the black pickup which tried to push my car in the river.

  “I don’t want to end up like Lynn, like the rest of them.” I tried to swallow, but my throat had closed.

  A heavy silence settled over us. Royal sat up beside me. His voice rumbled in my ear. “I want to say that won’t happen to you, I’ll protect you, no one can harm you. But I can’t promise you that.”

  “I know,” I whispered.

  He hugged me fiercely with one arm. “I can promise this. If someone takes you from me, you will not linger long, because they will not see another sunrise.”

  Now I’d made him feel bad. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to lay that on you.”

  “I’m here for you, Sweetheart.” He cupped my chin to lift my head so we looked in each other’s eyes. “I want you to tell me what bothers you. Don’t shut me out to spare my feelings.”

  He lay back, taking me down so I rested on his chest. His hands began to stroke rhythmically up and down my spine. Drowsiness made my eyelids droop. His fingers moved to my neck and pushed into my hair to massage the base of my skull. I dropped my face to his sculpted chest.

  His hands stilled, his breathing changed to the slow, deep inhalation preceding sleep.

  I hoped I would not dream.

  Chapter Eight

  Nothing like starting your day with a long, refreshing shower when your shower-buddy is tall, built and lusciously hot. Cold water finally drove us from the cubicle and we had fun rubbing each other down - nothing like a thick terry towel to create friction.

  By the time I left my very satisfied guy drowsing in bed, the water had warmed up enough for me to take another shower, but alone this time. I insisted; we would be here all day if I didn’t.

  I went in the bedroom wearing my robe. “I’m sending you my next water bill.”

  Royal chuckled as he sprawled naked on my bed in a tangle of sheets and duvet.

  Tempting. Yeah, very tempting.

  But I resisted, and kept my robe tightly belted as he used the heat of his hands to dry my hair.

  I looked through my closet and decided on a lavender tee, navy corduroy pants and black tennis shoes. Two Banks and Mortensen T-shirts hung side by side, but a guy in the supermarket asked which was Banks and which Mortensen the first time I wore one. I told Royal I’d wear the shirts if the names were not plastered across my chest.

  I came downstairs feeling and no doubt looking rosy. I felt better today, not about Lynn, but my fear of ending up as one of the lingering dead didn’t have as much weight when shared with Royal.

  I should share more with him.

  We knew relatively little about each other. The important things, yes, our likes and dislikes, little quirks, how we felt about each other. But not our lives before we met. When you have clung to your privacy all your life, like I have, you do not casually share the dark days of your past with another person.

  I didn’t talk about my youth because remembering childhood and the teen years made me feel dirty. Maybe I should. Not everything back then was horrible.

  Maybe, if I talked about my past, Royal would talk about his. Royal, his mom, dad and older brother lived in Eau Clare, Wisconsin, where Royal was born, until they were called to Bel-Athaer to take over House Morté Tescién when Royal’s uncle died. How did he feel being taken from everything he knew to another dimension, which must have been as alien to him as to me? How did he come to terms with the odd, semi—modern/semi-medieval lifestyle? His parents died in the fifty-year war in Bel-Athaer after the High Lady’s assassination. What was his life then with the mentor who, in the end, betrayed him?

  “Been working out?” Mel asked, ripping me from my musing. Her tone told me she didn’t mean on the treadmill.

  I admit I am easily embarrassed, and I do not discuss my sex life with my roommates, but I must have had a devil in me. I plopped on a kitchen chair, propped my chin on tented hands and half-lidded my eyes as my tongue ran slowly over my lower lip. I held her gaze for a moment, then breathed, “Oh, yeah. You wouldn’t believe … well, use your imagination.”

  I widened my eyes. “You still have an imagination, right?”

  “I have.” Jack stood in front of me with hands clasped at his chest. “Last summer, out in the backyard, shirtless, mowing your grass, those slippery, sweaty muscles flexing.” He brought one hand up and pushed an index finger below his bottom lip. “Then he came inside to shower. All I could think about was how the water must sheet over that body. I could see him with a soapy sponge. Mm. Mm.”

  “Was Tiff in there with him?” Mel asked.

  “The shower’s not big enough for three.”

  I retaliated. “I’m gonna have to tell Dale you’re cheating on him.”

  Jack flipped one hand. “Oh tush, I’m dead, I can’t cheat.”

  “Partners cheat in other ways.” I hunched my shoulders. “It isn’t only a physical thing.”

  “I imagined it!” Jack whined.

  I continued relentlessly. “You’re cheating in your mind when you wish you were with another person.”

  Then I recalled my little peccadillo with Christopher Plowman. I didn’t invite him to hold and kiss me, but I can’t deny I enjoyed it.

  I half expected Chris to pop out of the woodwork just because I thought of him. It was the kind of thing he’d do. I saw his lazy hematite eyes and heard his drawling voice in my head.

  “Tiff, why is your face red?” Mel asked.

  Grateful they couldn’t distinguish temperatures, I fanned my face. “It’s warm in here.”

  A nudge on my ankle reminded me I had not seen to my boy’s needs. Glad he used his nose and not his teeth, I fed Mac and let him outside. The usual routine, but dogs love routine when it involves favorite activities.

  I went to the coffeemaker, put a new filter in and filled the reservoir with water. Which blend sounded good this morning? Behind me, Jack grumbled to himself. I decided on my good old Columbian, spooned some in the filter and pressed the on switch.

  Royal came downstairs wearing a soft, vanilla-colored, brushed-cotton shirt, brown jeans and boots.

  “Coffee?”

  “I’d love some.” He came to me and sniffed at the coffeemaker, where the first few drops of hot water on the grounds already sent aromatic tendrils through the kitchen.

  “I’ll fill us travel mugs and we can leave.”

  “Not until after breakfast.”

  I leaned one elbow on the counter. “You offering?”

  His head poked in my 1950s bubblegum-pink refrigerator. “Ah. Eggs. And eggs.”

  “I like eggs.”

  He looked at me over his shoulder. “I mean, all you have is eggs.”

  “Wrong, mister,” I pushed up from the counter. “There’s cheddar, and milk.”

  “Scrambled eggs?” Mel enthused as she zoomed in on the refrigerator. “Chee
sy scrambled eggs, really cheesy, so they’re thick and stringy with melted cheese?”

  “Bread?” Royal asked, at the same time opening the bread bin. “French bread, perfect.” He took out the long, thick loaf.

  In England, I learned the supermarket French bread we buy here is nothing like French bread in Europe, and I suppose in France. Our French bread is not as chewy and does not have the crisp crust. The only thing the two versions share is the shape. My mission, every time I saw a bakery I had not before explored, was to find real French bread, and this loaf from a German bakery in Logan came close.

  I poured coffee in a mug, added milk from the bottle Royal had already taken from the refrigerator - I had run out of liquid creamer - and sat at the table while Royal took over my kitchen. He moved from cabinet to stove to refrigerator to kitchen drawers, shadowed by my enraptured roommates.

  He settled a loaded platter on the table fifteen minutes later and went back to the cabinets to get dishes and silverware.

  First, slice a loaf of French bread in thick slabs and pull some bread from the middle of each slice to leave a hole. Pop them in a hot skillet sizzling with butter, crack an egg in each hole and cook until the underside is crisp, golden-brown and the egg is starting to set. Carefully flip each slice over and repeat. Last stage, sprinkle shredded cheddar over the slices and put them under the broiler until the cheese bubbles.

  “Why don’t mine come out like this?” I shoveled two slices on my plate.

  Royal put a tall glass of milk at my elbow. “You are too impatient. You use a high heat and the bread browns before the eggs are ready.”

  “Hm.” I did end up tossing my charred attempts in the trash can more often than not. “But I’ve come up with a foolproof method - you make them and they’ll always be perfect.”

  He slid the other four slices on his plate. We clinked glasses and dug in.

  “It would be perfect with two slices of bacon on top,” Jack observed.

  “Grilled tomatoes,” said Mel.

  I scraped melted cheese off the plate and offered it to Mac, then checked I still had four fingers and a thumb. “How can you eat so much?” I asked Royal.

  “It’s a guy thing.” He held up his plate. “Want one of mine?”

  I shook my head and took another mouthful of milk. “Not if I want to keep my svelte figure.” It is not fair how much food a man can put away and not gain weight, while we women look at certain foods and the pounds accumulate.

  He wiped milk off his upper lip with a napkin. “I’ve seen how much you tuck away at Audrie’s.”

  “Eating out doesn’t count.”

  We lapsed into silence as we demolished Royal’s culinary creation.

  Royal stood up. “Shall we go?”

  “Nope. Not till you do the dishes.” I pulled his plate across the table and stacked it on mine.

  He scratched his head. “But I cooked.”

  “You made the mess, you clean it up.” I upended my glass to get the last drop of milk.

  “There’s gratitude for you,” Jack commented. “You’re a hard woman, Tiff.”

  I almost spat milk when Royal said, “You’re a hard woman, Tiff.” His eyes lit up deviously. “I think you need softening up.”

  I gave him a firm look as he edged around the table. “Nope. Won’t work. The sooner you get those dishes done, the sooner we leave.”

  Royal didn’t give me a chance to activate the alarm, he did it for me. Outside, he stowed his overnight bag behind the truck’s seat and got in the driver’s side.

  Breakfast with Royal left me feeling cheerful, as if we held the real world - including murders and shades - at bay for a few hours. I settled in the seat, fastened my seat belt and waved at Jack and Mel as we drove away.

  The mountainside looked bare; when would the first snow arrive, a dusting or a thick, white blanket? We usually had some snow by the end of October. It could be the only snowfall until January, or storm after storm hit Clarion all the way through until March and snow layered the valley until May.

  We took the same route to Provo but avoided the road—works, and arrived outside Provo Police Department a little over an hour later.

  I pointed down the street. “There, on the corner.”

  Carrie stood on the curb bare inches from the street. She saw us coming and waved. I held my arm out of the window as we pulled over so she could connect with me. She blinked out and reappeared in the rear seat.

  “Whew!” she exclaimed, hands moving as if she dusted herself off. “What a lark. Your face, when you saw me with Detective Stirland! But I got to meet your Captain Mike Warren. Well, not meet, but you know what I mean. He’s rather a gruff character, isn’t he. Were you really in Portland?”

  I made a noise in my throat. “Of course not.” I didn’t care if she knew about Bel-Athaer, the Gelpha, the Ways and the Gates, since she couldn’t share it with a living soul, but her tongue would wag about it all the way till next Sunday if I told her.

  I imagined trying to explain the Ways. They were a mystery to the Gelpha, how could I explain? I walked the Way from Clarion to Bel-Athaer in fifteen minutes when I went there to ask the High House for help finding Royal. Royal used demon speed along them to cut down on the time. But they were not roads of a fixed distance.

  The Ways are one of many things I have experienced which defy logic. Any attempt to rationalize ends in failure.

  “Is Haney back?” I asked.

  “He’s flying here as we speak.” Carrie fussed with her frizzy hair. “Poor man, the stress of his job must be affecting his brain. He thought he saw you halfway across the country. Fancy that.”

  I watched her in the rearview mirror as Royal drove away from the precinct. “Well, did you learn anything new about Lynn?”

  “It was quite an education. I hope I’m never interrogated. Some of them were horrible. The ones where detectives questioned people, normally, you know what I mean, they were all right. But some of them - they had already decided the suspect was guilty, and spent hours doing nothing more than try to break down the poor sod. I felt sorry for some of those people, I did.”

  I coughed out a small, frustrated noise. “Carrie, you won’t be interrogated. What about Lynn?”

  Her head jerked back. “What if you get to heaven and the first thing they do is interrogate you? They’re supposed to have a huge book, aren’t they, with all your life in it and they tell you everything you did right and wrong.”

  If she were flesh, I think I would have reached back and throttled her. “Forget what else you saw in Provo, tell me what you found out about Lynn.”

  She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Are you sure you want to hear this, dear?”

  Which told me I wouldn’t like what I heard. “Yes. Go ahead.”

  She sighed and flopped back. “They didn’t bury her very deeply, so when the workmen started pouring concrete, the weight hit her body and it shifted. The foreman saw something and called a halt. It was her foot, sticking up.”

  I closed my eyes. “Go on.”

  “Let me see. Lividity - is that the right word? - lividity indicated the body had been moved, and the temperature of her liver indicated she died somewhere else about four hours before she was found.”

  “I already knew that. At least, I knew she didn’t die at the building site.”

  “You did, did you?” She sniffed as if offended. “And did you know a very strong person broke her neck. They think it had to be a man because women don’t have that strength in their arms. They had to be terribly strong to break her neck from in front of her. I saw photos, the awful, awful bruising. The detectives are in a right pother.”

  I tried to envision what she described. I couldn’t. “You mean someone faced her and did it?”

  “Isn’t that what I said? As if they put one hand on the front of her neck and the other on her jaw and … well, twisted.”

  I’d only seen it on TV, when a villain stood behind the victim with one arm around t
heir neck and the other arm clamped around their head, twist and snap … but what Carrie described… . “My God,” I murmured. “Just their hands? How can anyone be that strong?”

  “Do you know they can get fingerprints off a dead person’s skin if the conditions are right? But it wasn’t right, it wasn’t all there.”

  “Do you mean they got a partial?”

  “I suppose. Still odd, though.” She looked at the fingers of one hand. “Didn’t have as many squirly things.”

  “Did they get anything from it?”

  “Not yet, but they’re still looking at national databases, then they’ll start on the international.

  “They found a hair caught under her fingernail, but the DNA results weren’t any help either. They found multiple DNA patterns, a sequence with the genetic materials of human beings and something they couldn’t identify.”

  I repeated what Carrie said to Royal, then asked, “How did they get DNA results so quickly?”

  “It’s a basic investigation technique nowadays.” He indicated and headed right to merge with I-15. “Many PDs have their own DNA labs, but Provo sends out to U of U. The university lab gives priority to homicide cases.”

  Although he stared ahead as if concentrating on driving, his voice sounded tight and his knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel.

  “Hey, we’ll crash if you break that.”

  His fingers loosened but his expression was stormy.

  “Gonna tell me what’s got your panties in a bunch?”

  “You do not want to know.”

  I let a minute pass as his tension, palpable, filled the cabin. “I think you have to tell me.”

  “An abnormally strong person killed Lynn. She sees our true appearance. I am sure you can put it together.”

  A dark window opened in my mind. I swallowed, hard. “Gelpha?”

  His gaze remained on the road, but I knew his mind must be in turmoil. “Goddamn, Tiff.”

  A lump formed in my throat, my voice sank a decibel. “Could you … could you do that?”