The Demon Hunters Read online

  The Demon Hunters

  Whisperings book two

  Linda Welch

  Whisperings: The Demon Hunters

  Linda Welch

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2010 Linda Welch

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system without prior written permission of the owner of this book.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  October 2010

  Smashwords Edition

  Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave’s disguise.

  Exhortation: Summer, 1919 – Claude McKay.

  Chapter One

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of co . . . not bleeding sure . . . illy cow! All I said w . . . kitty box . . . effin . . . bin . . . food . . . Don’t y . . . isten stupid bi. . . .”

  The big old green neon sign was on the fritz and so was charming Freddie Conroy. As it spluttered and spat and frizzed on and off, so did Freddie. I could just make out what he said, although his voice came as a whisper and the Cockney accent didn’t help.

  I did not linger in Fresno to bring Freddie’s killers to justice; I couldn’t care less about the disagreeable little man. Anyway, they had already been apprehended and were doing time in California State Prison. I couldn’t do a thing for Freddy - not that I’d want to - but he could do plenty for me.

  You would think he’d be glad to finally have someone to talk to after being stuck up there for years, but the Brit was as unpleasant in death as in life.

  In May 2000, Freddie’s two business partners took him on the roof of the pharmacy and shot him in the back of the head. I doubt they meant to leave him there, but Freddie uncooperatively pitched over the side of the building and got hung up on the big neon sign, which is where Fresno PD found him the next morning.

  Unknown to the residents and visitors to Fresno as they walk the old district, Freddie’s still there, up above their heads, likely cussing them out.

  My demon lover and I stopped in a downtown café on our way back to Utah, and overheard two elderly women at the next table. Apparently, their friend Gertrude Hackenbacher - seriously, it is her name - lost her best friend and companion of eleven years, her cat Pussywillow. Worse, Pussywillow didn’t just wander away from home, he was catnapped. My heart immediately went out to the woman. I’d be devastated if my black-brindle Scottish terrier MacKlutzy disappeared, and enraged to the point of committing murder if someone harmed him. Then the ladies mentioned the magic word: reward.

  “A cat?” Royal said as he stirred a ton of sugar into his little demitasse coffee cup. I ask you, why get a seriously potent espresso and make it glutinous with sugar?

  “I don’t care if it’s a cat. We’ve had two assignments since we opened the agency. Five hundred bucks is five hundred bucks,” I reiterated.

  Royal sounded bemused. “We use our powers of deductive reasoning to discover the whereabouts of a cat?”

  I swallowed my mouthful of muffin. “I don’t mean we spend days here. I just thought, since this Hackenbacher woman lives nearby, we could take a walk through town, starting at her place, ask a few passersby if they saw anything suspicious.”

  “Sweetheart,” Royal said, reaching for my hand, “who would see anything suspicious in someone toting a cat kennel?”

  Royal is the first and only person to call me sweetheart, ever. Royal is first with a lot of things. He’s the first and only demon I’ve ever dated, the first to pick me up in his arms like I weigh no more than a couple of pounds, my first partner in my first detective agency. I could go on and on. . . .

  Need I mention he’s handsome? He’s one of those men to whom every woman’s eyes are drawn when he walks in the room, and they see him as a human male. I see him as he is. His copper and gold streaked hair reaches his shoulder blades when unbound, and when he’s excited it swirls and emits sparks, as if full of electricity. His eyes are deep copper-brown, like new pennies, and glint when he moves. He has a demon’s angular face and high cheekbones, his skin the palest copper, like a nice tan.

  Royal is not human, but neither is he a demon. I just call him that, but not often to his face. I called his people demons long before I knew their true name. They are Gelpha, and they inhabit a world parallel to ours, but only the Gelpha and a few people like me know. They have shared our world for centuries, blending with the human population, running businesses, forming relationships, having half-Gelpha, half-human children.

  I knew they existed, but a year ago I never thought I’d take one as partner and lover. Royal is an enforcer for the Gelpha High Lord. He keeps an eye on Gelpha activities here in my world, although he now spends more of his time keeping an eye on me. When I met Royal, I thought he was my enemy, but he turned out to be the best friend I ever had.

  I didn’t hold out much hope of tracking down the cat, but it was worth a try. Royal had plenty of money, but I insisted on paying my share and could no longer help pay for advertising, which so far didn’t seem to be doing us any good, anyway.

  We could take a few hours to wander Fresno and still get back to Clarion in good time. The catnappers had stuffed Pussywillow into the bright-pink kitten-sized carrier they found on Gertrude’s porch. Pussywillow had fit it long ago, but had grown into a massive, overweight, orange ball of long hair.

  I rubbed my thumb over the knuckles of Royal’s hand, grinning at him. “Well no, a cat in a carrier would not stand out, but maybe a pink kitty carrier with the orange fur of a fat enraged cat poking through might grab the attention.”

  And that’s how we came to be watching an apartment above a small florist in downtown Fresno, and how I came to be talking to nasty little Freddie Conroy.

  ***

  Freddie was the third dead person I spoke to in a roughly three-square-mile area. He might be the one to prove my theory behind opening our detective agency: although not all our cases would involve a violent death, my ability to talk to the dead could still be valuable. The dead see a lot, they’ve nothing else to do but observe the world going on around them.

  But it’s not a good idea to put words into their mouths, or ideas into their heads. There can’t be many people like me, who see and talk to the violently slain, and the odds of a dead person getting to talk to one of the living are poor. They tend to say what they think I want to hear, just to keep me there. I had to ask the three in Fresno a particular question and the first two obliged by sending me off on a wild-goose chase. But Freddie was mean and irritable and didn’t want me here, so maybe he would tell the truth to get rid of me. Kind of like reverse psychology.

  “Shall we?” I asked Royal.

  He led the way across the street to the shop, the hot California sun beating down on our heads. July, and Fresno already baked. Next month, the trees lining the streets of the old part of town would start to look sad and store owners would have to water their curbside planters daily. The florist shop had wide, deep awnings along the front to protect the floral displays clustered at the door.

  Royal looked pretty hot too, by which I mean the way he filled his white T-shirt and worn navy Levis. Mm mm.

  The door in the alley could be a side entrance to the shop, but I bet it opened to stairs leading to an apartment. Freddie said he saw the occupan
ts take a bright-pink cat kennel from their car and through the door. The orange cat inside was huge, obviously much too big for the little carrier. He also said in the past three days they’d bought cans of cat food, dry kibble and milk from the market a block over.

  More than one fat orange cat in a pink kennel would be one hell of a coincidence, but we would be cautious. Freddie could be lying to me.

  Royal gave the door an authoritative knock. We waited.

  Demons have supernatural hearing. “Someone is in there.” Royal grinned at me. “And so is a cat.”

  I beamed back. “I hope it’s Pussywillow.”

  “Not to mention we will feel like idiots if it is not.”

  We could see up a staircase through the narrow window in the door. Nobody appeared, but a male voice spoke through the intercom: “Yes?”

  “Termite inspection,” Royal said. “We have a report of termite infestation in this block. We need to check your building.”

  A brief pause, then the man replied: “Did you speak to our landlord?”

  “I’m on the phone to him now,” Royal lied.

  “Then you can tell him we don’t have termites.”

  Royal cocked an eyebrow at me. “You sound positive.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m a carpenter. I’d know if we had termites. Thank you for calling. Bye.”

  And the intercom clicked off.

  Royal frowned. I heaved a sigh. We leaned against the wall either side of the door. How were we going to get in the apartment now?

  Why didn’t we call the police? First, I doubt catnapping placed high on their case list, so response would be slow. Second, as Royal said, we would feel like idiots if the cat in the apartment wasn’t Pussywillow - which would not be the first freak coincidence I’ve run into - and look like idiots to the local PD. That is bad for publicity. Third, the reward was for the return of Pussywillow, not for providing information leading to his return. Maybe Gertrude Hackenbacher would use the technicality to weasel out of paying us.

  Then Royal smiled. “I have a plan.”

  ***

  “I don’t like this. He could take off and get in traffic.”

  “I won’t let him get that far.”

  “Maybe the guy hates dogs. What if he hurts Mac?”

  “I won’t let that happen either, Tiff.”

  I squinched up one side of my face. “I don’t like it, Royal.”

  “So you said. Any ideas?”

  We were in the deeply recessed entry to the florist shop: me, Royal and Mac. Royal unthinkingly reached out to touch Mac’s head. Mac’s lips curled off his teeth. Royal took his hand back. “Nice dog. Nice Mac.” To me, he said, “I’m going to make him like me if it kills me.”

  “Well good luck with that. As far as I know, I’m the only person Mac tolerates. I don’t think he actually likes anyone.”

  MacKlutzy is the aforementioned Scottish terrier. He’s a bumbling, crotchety little animal and has a streak of determination unrivaled in the doggy world. The first time I left him alone in the house, when he was a puppy, he chewed a huge chunk off the bottom of the bathroom door, trying to escape. If I hadn’t come home when I did, he would have done it, too. Royal thought Mac’s determination could work in our favor.

  Now or never! I carried Mac to the side door, put him down and squatted next to him. I pointed at the door. “Mac! Cat!”

  Mac thinks cats would be tasty treats if he ever got hold of one, but he didn’t see any cat. He laid his ears back on his skull and glared at me.

  “Honest! There’s a cat in there, Mac!”

  He sniffed at the doorstep and his ears perked a little. He must have found the scent.

  I kept urging him, trying to get him excited. “Cat, Mac! Big cat!”

  After a few minutes, he was whining at the door.

  “Yes! Cat, Mac! Get the cat!”

  Little yips interspersed the whining and snuffling, and he started scratching. Not one of those painted metal types, but good old-fashioned wood, the door didn’t stand a chance. Tiny slivers of paint and wood peeled off under Mac’s attack. The more I encouraged him, the louder and more frantic he got until he made quite a racket. I hoped the guy upstairs would not turn on his intercom and hear my voice, but there’s a specific sound to an active intercom even when no person speaks, a dead-air sound, and I didn’t hear that.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened and a pair of feet in gray slippers appeared on the top step. I backed away across the alley, into the doorway of a corner boutique in the next block.

  I didn’t like the next stage. Mac was on his own. Sure, Royal could do the speed-demon thing, whip in and take Mac out of here, but I don’t like to take chances where my dog is concerned.

  Peering around the corner, I watched as the door opened and a man came out. Five-eight, long red hair and a goatee, he wore a pair of blue and white checkered pajamas. Mac tried to get past him, but he blocked the dog with his foot. “What the fucking. . . ?”

  Mac pushed his head between the legs and doorframe. The guy stepped away, edging out in the street, pulling the door ajar behind him. “Get out of here, you little rat!”

  Mac took no notice, the guy might not have existed. He focused on the cat he believed to be his legitimate prey. He lunged at the door.

  The redhead stepped back, bumping the door open a little more. He yelled at my dog. “Get the fuck out of here, you stupid mutt!”

  If there’s one thing Mac hates worse than cats, it’s being threatened. He recognized the tone. Terriers are fearless. They literally do not perceive any distinction in size or bulk. Something stood between him and a cat and that something threatened him. Mac didn’t hesitate, he attacked.

  “Oh my god, I am so sorry!” I exclaimed, trying to sound sincere as I rushed across the alley. “I only took my eyes off him for a second!”

  The guy clung to the doorframe with both hands and Mac attached to his ankle, wobbling as he tried to keep his balance, swearing up a storm. He tried to shake Mac off. That must have hurt.

  “Get it off me!”

  “Calm down and hold still. I can’t do anything with you shaking him around.”

  I squatted next to Mac. “Mac, bad boy. Let him go.”

  Mac didn’t know what I talked about. Tell him “drop it!” and he’ll eventually open his mouth, but he didn’t hear those words from me. He snarled, a deep throaty snarl muffled by the guy’s thick socks.

  “Get him off me you stupid bitch or you’ll both be sorry!”

  I anticipated anger and I’ve been called a lot worse, so my affront was pure pretense. I straightened to my full height and put ice in my voice as well as my eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

  He calmed a little and stood still. “No. But if I have to hurt him to get him off, I will,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have a right to defend myself.”

  Something went between me and the redhead. If you saw a demon move at full speed, it would be just a blur, then you’d tell yourself you imagined it. The door banged open and the guy staggered. I swayed a little.

  I squatted beside Mac again. “You’re right, and I apologize. If you stand still I’ll get him off.”

  I talked to Mac, who still took absolutely no notice of me.

  Another waft of air. I glanced over my shoulder. Royal stood across the street holding a Day-Glo-pink cat carrier.

  “Mac, drop it!”

  MacKlutzy slowly opened his mouth. I scooped him up in my arms.

  The guy backed in the doorway. He hoisted his leg by the ankle and peeled back the sock. “I could sue you.”

  I picked tiny bits of sock fluff from out of Mac’s teeth. “Oh, sorry, did he ruin your sock?” I didn’t try to sound apologetic. I didn’t care how angry he was. Royal had the cat.

  He glared at me. “Keep your fucking dog on a leash, lady!” Then he backed in and slammed the door.

  I walked across the street with Mac in my arms. I didn’t hurry. Any second now the redhead would d
iscover his prize missing, but what could he do, report a stolen, stolen cat to the cops? Come after us? Yeah, bring it on, baby.

  I stopped beneath the sputtering neon sign.

  “Thanks, Freddie.”

  “Up yours y . . . fuck. . . .”

  I looked up and presented my finger before I walked away. To think, I was going to talk to the pharmacy about getting that sign fixed. . . .

  ***

  I ruffled the wad of bills. One thousand, in cash! Ecstatic to see Pussywillow, Gertrude Hackenbacher doubled the reward. And she took half a dozen business cards, and swore she’d refer us to her friends and acquaintance.

  Not a bad morning’s work.

  Chapter Two

  I watched Royal’s big red pickup drive out of sight as it rounded the bend, and took a moment to look out over Clarion, the town filling half the mountain valley I call home. Clarion is technically a city, but “town” sounds homelier. House lights were blinking on all over, and traffic made glittering lines along Madison. The fading daylight let me see a few small boats speeding over Long Meadow Lake, their wakes making patterns in the distinctive turquoise-blue water, and I could just make out the narrow sandy beach surrounding Hangman’s Point. The Black River wound a gleaming trail across the valley, in some places the banks just a mile apart where it contorted like a sidewinder.

  I turned my back on Clarion, pulled a sheaf of mail from my mailbox and walked the concrete path to my front door. My house is a square of red brick, as plain outside as in. The front door and wood window frames needed a new coat of white paint, the grass either side of the house needed mowing and would die if I didn’t water soon. I don’t worry about my half-acre of land out back because the surrounding high brick wall hides it from the street. The most I do out there is get the weed-whacker to the grass and weeds now and then. I leave the wild flowers alone. If they go to the trouble of seeding themselves back there, they deserve a chance at survival. I do spray my fruit trees, because an apple or pear every now and then is nice, and I love the Bing cherries. My neighbors are happy to take what I don’t use.