Page 6 of Lure of a Demon

ILSA

Whoever she was, this mystery redhead, she was a strange mixture of chaotic and organized. If she had a plan before she strolled into and decided to destroy these places, I couldn’t find any evidence of it.

Yet, her error lay in her selection of locations. I’m no detective or private dick, but if television has taught me anything, it’s to map out the locations and search for patterns. So, I did exactly that, starting in the most logical spot for me to get my head around this.

And fuck me, as I tracked her and my information increased, it was glaringly apparent she was moving in a fucking spiral. Not a perfect spiral, mind you, but there was a definite pattern there. I had no idea if she was even doing it consciously, but it hardly mattered. I spent an unreasonable amount of time on the internet and even more time wandering the area and asking questions of anyone who would talk to me. Not many were willing because let’s face it, I looked like law enforcement. Relaxing my posture had done nothing. It was written all over my face—authority—and the locals in this area could see me coming a mile away. Now, I had reduced it down to three places for what I suspected her next targets could be, and three was certainly better than an entire city full of potentials—another biker clubhouse, a bar well known for the distribution of illegal substances well beyond the small-time exchange of a few tablets for a few hundred dollars, and a church.

I almost didn’t choose the church, but she’s a demon, after all, and I took my chances she’d want to destroy a religious icon. It made sense to me. As far as I knew, she hadn’t crossed paths with a significant building of spiritual merit in her previous wanderings. They certainly weren’t overly abundant down this end of the city, and maybe she’d be in the mood for some irony.

Or maybe they burned her flesh if she stepped foot on hallowed ground. I had no idea—this was all unknown territory for me.

The next issue was when she would strike because there was no clear pattern at all. Sometimes there were only a few days between attacks but other times, weeks. Her means and method constantly changed, and this is why the authorities were skeptical these were the acts of one person.

Although she did seem to favor fire.

Irony.

One person couldn’t possibly have done it alone because, of course, one person couldn’t take out a room full of bikers, surely.

But they hadn’t seen her move like I had—the way she twisted and flexed, discarding people to the side as though they weighed nothing.

It must be exhilarating to have that power. What I wouldn’t have given to have some of her supernatural strength and mobility in my corner during my deployments.

Maybe then I’d have been fast enough to move out of the way of the shrapnel.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I subconsciously rubbed my leg where, underneath my cargo pants, the large scar now resided. It was a stupid thought to have, and I pushed it to the side.

No one could’ve protected me from the injury, least of all myself.

Maybe I even deserved it for the part I played in the situation.

Shrugging, my move now was to simply wander my suspected area in the evenings and hope I lucked out and was there when she was. It’s not like I had anything better to do anyway. While I was quite capable of getting a job, I hadn’t bothered, and I didn’t need to with the funded retirement I was offered after the medical discharge. While I hated feeling as though I was somehow mooching off the system, nothing seemed worthy after what I had seen and done, the images of which still haunted my mind every time I closed my eyes. But this, potentially saving innocent people from a rogue being, this was worthy, and I was going to throw my all into it.

Perhaps if I could stop her, it would ease the feeling I was now a burden to the very society I had tried to help. Did anyone else see me the way I saw myself? Unlikely—with the exception of perhaps my family.

Did knowing that help? Not in the slightest.

So, I had wandered the streets at night and slept throughout the day, as much sleep as I could muster anyway. It didn’t bother me. It felt good to have a mission again.

Humming absentmindedly, I kept my hands shoved in my pockets, the fingers of my right hand sliding up and down the handle of the silver knife I had picked up. One of the things I had learned while researching online—silver and salt—two basic things you could use to deter demons. Since I didn’t fancy throwing a handful of salt at an enemy during a fight on the off chance I was completely wrong and she was simply a normal human, I had opted for a blade. A silver knife would stop humans or demons. I wasn’t bad with a blade but preferred a handgun myself, or even better, a sniper, but a blade I could handle well enough to protect myself.

A lone woman walking the streets on this side of the city was a target, add to that the limp which I couldn’t disguise no matter how hard I tried, and I might as well have had a flashing sign above my head saying mug me.

I wore my army pants, combat boots, and a tight black t-shirt to show that while one of my legs may have given up on me, my arms were still sculpted enough to fuck someone up. I simply hoped the ensemble coupled with the get-fucked expression I kept plastered on my face would be enough to deter any would-be attackers.

It worked.

Mostly.

A small group slowed as I approached them, and my shoulders tensed. I could tell they were going to be trouble before the sneers even crossed their lips as their eyes raked my body, lingering on my weak leg.

Shit.

One of the women grabbed my forearm as they passed, and I spun, twisting my arm from her grip and sliding the knife from my pocket in one smooth motion. The group laughed, an unsettling mixture of the high-pitched tingle of giggles and throaty chuckling.

“What’s that? Your grandma’s knife?” one of them sneered.

My eyes flickered to the silver blade. It wasn’t designed for protection by any means, the handle and blade itself were carved with ornate patterns. It was probably designed to cut cheese or some shit. But any blade could do damage if you knew where to use it and what pressure to apply.

“Yeah, it’s my grandma’s, and it’d be a shame to sully it with your blood,” I replied.

They were snickering again. But they weren’t attacking, and I took that as a good sign. Perhaps they were weary enough of me to think the better of it. Maybe they realized anyone who would wander these streets alone—with a limp, carrying a cheese knife—had some serious shit going on, and perhaps they weren’t the sort of person you wanted to antagonize.

Maybe they were all bark and no bite and were only showing off to each other.

Our little soiree was broken up when a gunshot rang out.

They all ducked, instinctively throwing themselves to the ground before pushing back to their feet just as hastily and bolting down the street.

Straightening, I listened. I guess my luck was changing.

If you consider almost getting shot lucky, then I was rolling in the pot of gold at the end of the proverbial rainbow, and not only because I was almost shot. But because of sheer willpower, by wandering the streets for weeks—the same four city blocks over and over again—I think I had finally stumbled across her next target at the right time.

Dumb luck wasn’t how I liked to work, but it had saved my ass more than once before, so I guess I shouldn’t question it so much.

Turning, I faced the bar across the street, the front of another biker clubhouse. It seemed incredibly ballsy to take on two such places in such a short period of time. Surely, they would be on high alert given the incident at the other clubhouse only a few weeks ago. But even so, I don’t think they would be on the lookout for someone who looked like her.

The window shattered as another shot rang out, and I zigzagged across the road, dropped to my stomach and crawled the last few feet to the front door, still sitting ajar. Pushing it open with my fingertips, I slid my way up the outside wall, my back pressed against the bricks, and snuck a peek inside.

It was her.

Of course, it was.

Her eyes practically glowed with the glee adorning her face as she took down the biker with the gun, bending the metal barrel in her palm and laughing as he cried out in terror. There was nothing I could do to save the men in the room from her, and more than I probably should I was relying on her past pattern of not killing. But like clockwork, she didn’t kill them. She only took them down one by one until the remaining fled, taking their fallen comrades with them.

Despite the detachment with which she attacked, as though her body moved on instinct alone, and the pleasure she seemed to take in the fight itself, I’d admit it only to myself it was impressive to watch. She moved with a strange grace, considering the violence of her actions, as though this was nothing but a dance to her, a playful flirt between her and her victims.

Cursing, I pressed my back flat against the bricks again. My eyes had been wandering over her body, taking in her curves, the pinch of her waist, everything down to the dimples on her cheeks.

I’d chosen partners poorly in the past, but checking out a demon was a new low even for me.

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