Thanks so much for the reviews, so love reading your feedback!

Note to Anon reviewer: You're dead right, 35 is not old. I didn't quite mean it the way I wrote it! I've rephrased that line in chapter 5, hope you approve :)

KAIMONI (Demon)

CHAPTER 7

Awareness returned to Danny slowly, in fitful, disorienting waves. He was lying curled on his side in the foetal position, hands now bound in front of him. He wanted to move but he was too shaky, too weak. He occasionally opened his eyes and could see clearly for a few seconds each time before the world would spin and the demons would show themselves again, leering at him from the shadows, red eyes glowing.

Deep inside he knows it's the stuff they've made him drink doing this to his mind, he knows it's just aftershocks of the hideous trip, but it feels so real. It's terrifying in fact. Between bouts of hallucinations his mind fixates on remembering the hallucinations and he shakes with fear.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the interludes of clarity lengthened. His leg hurt badly. It helped in a way- it was one thing that let him know when he was really awake. It seemed to pulsate and it felt so hot. The rest of his body was cold, the kind of bone-deep cold that told him he had lain here, unmoving, for hours. The heat in his injured leg was stark in contrast. It had to be infected. If the green slime had been intended to help, it had failed miserably.

Eventually, he managed to keep his eyes open for more than a few seconds and began to take in his surroundings. He could see his hands on the dirt in front of him, bound together tightly. He could see a rope attached to his wrists, tethering him to a wooden post. He could see the wall of a drystone building behind the post, an open entrance way into it a few metres away from him.

He moved his head a little then shut his eyes, fast. There was a second post, its position mirroring that of his own on the other side of the doorway. Poor, dead Selena was there, hair and clothes filthy, face partially pecked away. He could smell her, he realised. That was one thing he hadn't hallucinated.

He groaned, feeling a deep aching pain in his gut way beyond that the toxic drink had left him with. He should have come sooner, he should have tried harder. He should have saved her. She was a just a kid, really.

Then he remembered the cube. He had to try to get home, back to Grace. He had to try to take Selena home.

Will to fight re-awakening, he looked at the wall behind him trying to orient himself. The wall was straight with a door in the centre. Straight. Only one building at Ness of Brodgar had straight sides, that he could remember at any rate- the cathedral. Surely, surely, he couldn't get that lucky. He couldn't be right beside the door into the building where the quartzite cube had been found.

He looked at the dark void of the doorway. Something moved in the darkness and he froze. The motion intensified into a swirling vortex then a snarling, disembodied face rushed at him, screaming manically. He cried out in fear, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling his arms towards him to cover his face.

"Not real. Not real. Not real," he murmured frantically.

When he dared to open his eyes again, it was gone. He turned his gaze back on the doorway with trepidation. The vortex remained, sparking and glowing. "It's. Not. Real." He spat through gritted teeth.

He tried to focus on what he thought was real, studiously blanking the craziness which persisted in the dark doorway, his breaths coming short and fast with the effort. He made his eyes follow the line of the heather rope that bound him to his post. It was attached high up, probably beyond his reach even if he managed to stand.

He had to get free. He had to brave the entrance to the cathedral. He had to try to find the artefact. He repeated those directions in his head, over and over, as he tried to move. First his feet, then his fingers, then his legs. Shit that hurt.

Slowly, slowly, his body re-awakened. He looked up at the post again, calculating, determined to try. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, gasping at the distortions the sudden movement produced in his vision, like ripples in the ocean. His good leg was under him and he bent his knee so he could use it to push himself along the ground. He shuffled closer to the wall, moaning in pain as his injured leg protested mercilessly. He persisted, shuffling and turning until his back was braced against the building. He looked up the post again. He had to try to stand.

Then he heard approaching footsteps. He jerked his head sharply towards the sound, heart filling with dread. Not now..not yet.

From behind another building, a column of heavily armed men two a-breast marched towards him. Danny watched, helpless, as the column divided, one line of men moving to surround him to the left, one to the right, forming a semi-circle around him where he sat, back to the wall. They halted with military precision and turned towards him as one.

They had left a neat gap in the centre of their formation and now another man stepped through it, his walk lordly and arrogant. His clothes were different. His tunic was made from woven cloth but it wasn't plain brown like the others Danny had seen. It was decorated, a garish dyed pattern adorning the front. A circular shape dominated the patterns, depicted in glowing yellows and reds. It looked like the sun, Danny realised. He stared at it, mesmerised, until the colours began to move and swirl and red eyes glowed at him from within it, watching and laughing. He gasped, trying to tear his eyes away but somehow captivated.

Before he knew it, the man was in front of him.

He knelt down, glaring into Danny's eyes. His expression was ferocious, dark eyes boring into him without pity. But there was more. Danny could almost feel it. The man was scared of him.

Fancy-clothes man laid a neatly folded cloth on the ground in front of Danny, then unfolded it with hesitant fingers, as though it contained an unexploded bomb. Job done, the man pointed at the contents and barked a short sentence at Danny in his unrecognisable language.

Danny looked down. And he laughed. He couldn't help it.

Tucked neatly into a carefully constructed nest of wildflowers were Danny's 5-0 badge, his wallet and his cellphone.

The man was apparently unimpressed at Danny's reaction. He bared his teeth, just a fraction, then picked up the badge gingerly, holding the very edges. He stood and raised it high into the sky, towards the sun. He spoke loudly, as though addressing the sun itself, before he laying the badge gently back in its nest.

It was ridiculous. But even in his befuddled state, Danny got it. The objects must have looked like they had come from another planet to these people. His badge was shiny and gold in colour, decorated with an eagle and what looked like beams of sunlight. It looked good. Factor in that it was metal – metalworking hadn't been invented yet so they would have no idea how it had been made. Maybe they even thought it was magical.

Steve would have loved that one- magic badges, no cop should be without one. Danny giggled, high-pitched and out of place, before his attention snapped back to Fancy-clothes guy. The man- some kind of leader presumably- was addressing Danny again, loud and demanding. Danny blinked, confused.

His silence seemed to anger the man further. He leant forwards and shouted in Danny's face, spittle hitting his cheek. Danny opened his mouth, searching for something to say. But it was pointless. He shut it again.

Fancy-clothes guy snarled, then turned and barked an order.

Two of the men surrounding them passed their spears to their neighbours and stepped forwards, one to each side of Danny. They took hold of him, gripping his shoulders, grabbing him by the hair. A third figure appeared in view. Danny recognised this one- it was Blue Eyes himself, his youthful, beard-free face making him stand out a mile.

He was carrying a bowl. He put it in front of Danny's face and the familiar acrid smell of the liquid inside hit him.

Danny fought then, renewed fear rising in his gut. He struggling futilely against the iron grip he was held in. "No, no! Fuck you!" he tried to shout, voice coming out cracked and uneven.

Fancy-clothes man was barking questions again, gesticulating at Danny's things and shouting, louder and louder.

Danny had had enough. He snapped, yelling right back at him, furious "I. Do. Not. Understand. You. What the hell is wrong with you, you murdering bastard?!"

Fancy-clothes froze, then began to shake with rage. Apparently he was not accustomed to people answering back like that. He snapped an order, pointing at Blue Eyes, his own eyes never once leaving Danny's.

Danny held the challenging gaze for a moment, before feeling the bowl of the dreading liquid pushing at his firmly closed lips. He looked up at Blue Eyes. The cold expression he had seen when the youth had speared him was gone. The uncertainty, the hesitancy, he had shown before, all too briefly, was back. But a growl from Fancy-clothes had him moving and he pressed the bowl to Danny's lips harder. Danny tried to twist his head away, but then more hands were on his face, holding him still, pulling at his jaw.

Fancy-clothes, still glaring at Danny, took a spear from one of his men. He lifted it a little, then brought it down sharply, butt end first, onto Danny's injured leg.

It felt like he was being speared all over again, renewed pain reverberating around his body. Danny couldn't help it. He cried out and then choked as the vile liquid was poured into his open mouth.

They released him then, stepping back and watching, just like the first time. Chanting broke out amongst the assembled warriors, quiet at first but ever-building in volume.

Danny scrabbled at the dirt with his good leg, trying to back further away from them, gagging and spitting. But his back was already against the wall and he could go no further.

He knew what was coming this time, still not fully recovered from the first crazy, pain-filled trip, and it made it so much worse.

Fear and adrenaline helped him fight it for a few precious moments, forced him to his feet despite his injury. He pushed himself up the wall, yanking wildly at his bonds, desperate to escape. Desperate to reach that artefact, to just go home.

He fought, he fought so hard, knowing his body was about to fail him and he would be trapped inside it, unable to move, while the demons swarmed around him, taunting him, hurting him, twisted and merciless.

The chanting around him reached a crescendo and then they came, the demons. They came faster than before because this time they already knew where he was. They knew him. They danced round him, chanting his name, poking and teasing and cutting and burning. And then one came at him, grabbing his face with its burning claws and forcing itself in. In his eyes, his nose, his mouth, he couldn't breathe.

Danny screamed and screamed, because the demon was inside his head, screeching and tearing and trying to control him. He had to get it out. He tried to strike back, to hurt it, scratching and punching at his own face, desperate.

It laughed at him.

….

Steve sat perched on the edge of the big, soft bed in his pleasantly proportioned, four star hotel room complete with panoramic view of the picture postcard Kirkwall Harbour. But his surroundings, generously booked and paid for by Police Scotland, were irrelevant.

He stared straight ahead blankly, focused on nothing, hands gripping his thighs hard enough to leave bruises.

He had successfully turned McGill into a quivering wreck in the interview room before Miller had thought it prudent to send him away before he started doing actual damage to their prisoner. On camera. The Orcadian had instructed him to go and get some rest. It was still easier said than done. He was beyond exhausted, eyes bloodshot, hands shaking, but he had found every way he possibly could to procrastinate before he had finally found himself in the general vicinity of a bed.

At least they had something now. McGill had admitted to the thefts of the artefacts-that meant they could arrest him and charge him. They could keep him locked up for just a bit longer. A few hours in a cell might just help to loosen his tongue.

McGill had told them where the artefacts were- he apparently had them in a locker in Kirkwall Library- Miller had dispatched a unit to investigate.

Whilst stalking out of the police station, adrenaline still ramped up and furious fantasies of ripping McGill apart a piece at a time spinning round his mind, Steve had passed the room where the press conference had happened just the previous evening.

The chairs were gone but once more it was full of people. A search team was mustering, he realised. He had gone in, keen to keep up with progress. He stood at the back of the room as the team was briefed- it turned out they had been tasked with re-checking farm buildings near the camp site.

"It may seem like a pointless exercise," the team leader had said, "but it wouldn't be the first time someone has been injured in an accident and has eventually found their own way to shelter. It is always worth re-checking."

Looking around the room of on and off duty police officers and ordinary members of the public, all giving up their time to search for the two missing people, he had felt deeply touched. He had thanked a few individually before feeling overcome, over-emotional and at the point of tears.

Breaking down in front of a room full of people was not an option. He left, hurriedly.

So Steve had gone to find Grace, to hold her and hug her and smell her and try not to cry in front of her too, because he was so damn frustrated and so damn sorry that he hadn't found her Danno yet.

Grace and her grandmother had spent the day walking the hills with a search team. She was tired too, her bottom lip quivering with emotion. He didn't tell her about McGill, not wanting to upset her further until they knew. He fully expected her to be inconsolable at the lack of progress but she had, yet again, taken his breath away.

When he had sat down beside her on the bench in the little garden behind their hotel where he had found her, lost in thought, she had hugged him tightly. After a long moment she had drawn back and put a hand on his chin, pulling his face towards hers. She had looked deep into his bloodshot eyes and smiled sadly. "I love you Uncle Steve. I know you'll find him. You just need more time. You'll do it, I know you will. But Danno would want me to look out for you too. You need to sleep now, okay?"

He had laughed then, in shocked disbelief. He had gone to comfort her but it was her that was providing comfort for him, her brown eyes swimming with warm compassion.

Danny had so much to be proud of.

So now there Steve was, alone on his bed, everyone around him and every bone in his body telling him to sleep.

He felt a bottomless pit of grief tugging at him, trying to draw him into its depths. He so wanted to believe Danny was alive, but now he was as good as sure Allan McGill had done something bad to him. It seemed most likely Danny had uncovered something incriminating about the disappearance of Selena and had been taken to keep him quiet. And by the same logic, without a doubt the sensible move would have been to dispose of him as fast as possible, to leave no witnesses behind.

It seemed ridiculous, though, the idea of that weaselly little man managing to hurt Danny. His partner was tough and had kicked the asses of men way bigger than himself. He should have been able to pound McGill into the ground blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.

McGill must have taken him by surprise. If that had happened…

If that had happened, Steve would see that justice was done. And he would find Danno and return him to Grace so she would at least have a graveside to mourn at. He knew it helped him, having a place to visit where he could feel close to his father.

An image of Gracie holding a bunch of flowers and weeping silently at Danny's graveside came to him like a punch to the gut and his face twisted in pain. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying desperately to push the grief down again.

No. This couldn't be the end. There had to be another answer. Something less obvious. The spurned archaeologist? But her motive was weak and her background was clean. A simple accident? Possible but he should have been found during the searches, dead or alive. Unless he had been near the sea and it had taken his body, of course.

Steve thought of McGill and his nervous, almost apologetic ramblings about time travel. He snorted. No…just no.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to think about Danny anymore because it just hurt too much. But it was impossible.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialled a familiar number, waiting for the answering service to kick in.

"Hi Danny, it's Steve again…I just wanted to let you know we've got everyone out there looking- police, coastguard, the locals have been out on foot too. We're gonna find you, OK? And Gracie's fine, she's with her Grandmother- who is so not as bad as you made out, by the way. Grace is one brave kid, Danny. She misses you." He ran a hand down his face. "I miss you. And I'm not giving up. Just….just hang on, OK partner? I will find you. I promise." His voice broke on the last word and he hung up abruptly, throwing his phone down on the bed.

Steve flopped back onto the bed, hands covering his face again. He had been consciously compartmentalizing the counter-productive feelings of worry, frustration, fear and, worst of all, loss, for so long. Now those carefully suppressed sentiments hit him like a freight train. Returning home without Grace's Danno, without his own best friend, would be so catastrophic it might just finish him.

A loud sob slipped out, then another. Then the dam broke.

Exhausted and alone, he wept for Danny, for Grace, for himself.