Chapter Eleven: The Final Dream
Rating Warning: Mild Sexual Content and Disturbing Imagery.
# # # # # #
Dante stood under the shed and listened to a cacophony of sounds that rushed to him. There had been no murders in the past few days and the weather was clear. He was right: the demon did need the rain. But what kind of demon was it? Why was it draining these women dry? And why was Salome dead, yet so alive and beautiful?
He let out a loud sigh. She had disappeared again. Her house was empty. No one knew where she went. If he did not know any better, she could be involved in all of this dirty mess—just a pretty face to throw him off guard. He clenched his fingers inside his pockets. There was that spurt of lust again. How he hated that, his damn hard-on, his one-sided lust. If only she knew! The things he wanted to do to her were enough to give seven Bible-thumpers full and final heart attacks.
He lifted his head and stared up at the blinding light of the sun. It was red, blazing like a ball of fire so far up in the sky. There was not a single stray cloud in sight to give any shade from the sun. It was so hot today. His face was sweaty and the traffic and all that smoke were not making it any better. Police cars blared and rushed past him, giving him unwanted headaches.
He had been standing outside the police building for about fifteen minutes now. What good will it do? he stubbornly thought, frowning. This was not police business, anyway. They would only waste his precious time. The time he could use to catch this notorious demon, and then, maybe then, he might just bed that impossibly-hard-to-get beauty. It was a cheery thought!
"You should've come inside." Trish suddenly appeared behind him with a stack of files in her hands.
Dante looked from the files in her hand to her face. "What for? I'm not your chauffeur," he said in an annoyed voice.
"Whatever, let's just go back to the office," she said and tucked golden hair behind her ear. Today, she had finally decided to look decent and felt strangely content that nobody stared at her.
"You know," he said and wrinkled his nose, "you better have more than 'whatever' to tell me."
"They don't know much," she said and clutched the large stack to her chest.
"How did I know—how did I know!" he said and rolled his eyes. "Those witnesses had more information. We should've at least talked to the first victim's father. But no! You just had to waste our time."
"Shut up, Dante!" she said curtly and raised a finger when he opened his mouth to retort. "I've been telling you from the start to be serious. And besides, we came here to get the full details on your school-boy crush. I just decided to pick up extra files on the case that may end up helping us. It's not like you've been much help, anyway."
"It's not a crush. I just want to do her in a very mature and adult manner," he said lazily and turned around to open the car's door; and quietly, they left the busy city behind them.
# # # # # #
Dante flicked through the over-used pages of Emma's diary. So many pages were left empty. Almost half of the diary was left untouched without a single word. Trish said the police found it hidden in a cheap Chinese vase after they searched her home. He did not like her crazed writing. She was almost obsessed with this 'L' fellow. Scribbles of trembling sentences ran over the pages—numerous and without much of any meaning.
"I love you. I miss you. I want you. I will die without you." The words were repeated over and over again on so many pages. It looked like the writing of a madman. Teardrops dotted the page, appearing dry and muddy on the clean white pages. He turned another page and read some more.
"How I miss you, how badly I want you . . . you don't know. You just never know. Why don't you leave her and come to me?" Page after page of the same unrequited lines of obsessive love. It was starting to give him a headache. "I hate S. All she has ever done is take things from me. But I will change that. And see? You are now mine. We will be together . . . always." The last entry ended.
He closed the diary. S and L? He smiled to himself. It was not that hard to guess: Salome was the ultimate rival and Leon was the love of her life. "Feels like a freaking Sunday-night soap-opera," he said slowly and threw the diary on the table. That was enough drama for one day.
"What do you think, then?" Trish asked and looked down at her new shoes. She had been shopping nonstop for the past few days. It was sales' season.
His eyes left the flame of the black candle sitting on his table and turned to her. "What do you mean? I think we've already gone over this," he said with a wave of his hand.
"These people are probably being delusional. I think we need more facts," she said and then looked a little puzzled at her own words.
"Great, a demon agency talking about scientific facts," he said and flicked his right wrist like he was whooshing a fly away. "You know what I run here, don't you, honey? It's our job to be delusional!" He threw her a fake smile and then wore that same irritated look again.
"It doesn't make any sense," she spoke again and folded her arms. She still looked very unsure.
"And you being a carbon, but a very, very fashionable, copy of my mom makes so much sense," Dante said and leant back into the big chair. "I think this detective crap has ruined your clear-thinking head. We hunt demons. End of story." He waved his hand and looked at her pursing her lips.
"The hotel manager said that he saw the first victim taking the last murdered girl into a room," she stopped, her eyes running around the room to find some meaning, "but then . . . she disappeared. The room was empty and the body was tossed out of the window."
"Hot lesbian action!" He winked and blew a whistle.
"And then, the woman we visited about two blocks away—" she said and pointed her hand at the door, "—she said she saw this Salome woman's sister. I don't understand. A shape-shifter?" She wrinkled her forehead and looked over to him for an answer.
"Maybe, but I couldn't sense anything that's for sure," he said in an honest manner, thinking. He was unsure himself. He had wasted shape-shifters before and they always left a signature demonic scent behind, something he was always able to pick up. Rain or no rain, no scent or demon aura had ever escaped his senses.
"Maybe is not good enough," Trish sighed. She looked tired and lost. "If we don't find this thing soon, it's going to kill again. The weather news says there will be more rains in the coming days. Who knows who this demon will kill next." She slapped the sides of her hips and looked up at the ceiling rather dreamily.
"How many girls are left in this—" Dante broke off, trying to think of some sarcastic remark to fit in with the situation, "—sorority-girl lesbian-band? Except for Salome, of course."
"Lesbian-band? Really, that's the best you can come up with?" she said, looking stern.
"What do you want me to say?" he said and raised his hands. "Who knows what kind of relationship these chicks had. Renting rooms, hanging out at restaurants—and—and shopping?" He looked almost shocked.
"Yeah, who does that, right?" she said, forcing sarcasm into her flat voice. "And why the special treatment for that girl, Salome? You are acting very weird, you know that? Asking for her details, day-dreaming about her. Is there something on your mind?"
"First," he paused and pointed up a single finger, "it isn't special treatment. I just think I can change the lesbian in her. One night with me and she'll just forget that girls even exist. Second, yes, there are plenty of things in my mind about that girl, but I'm not sharing them with you!"
"Whatever—can we get back to the important stuff?" Trish said and raised her eyebrows high. "By the way, why did you say maybe? What else could it be?"
Dante inhaled sharply and put his hand to his cheek. "I didn't sense anything. I think I have told you that—about a million times before!" he said and put on an annoyed expression. "It could be a skin-walker."
"A skin-walker?" she asked, her features tightening in confusion. "How's that possible? None of the women were missing their skins." She narrowed her eyes on him. A thought prodded her: he's hiding something!
She's got a point, Dante thought. Was Salome really dead? But he could smell her virility, her palpable beauty, her flowing scents—how could she be dead and alive? He knitted his brow and cast his gaze on the floor. "I don't know. Just a thought," he said after a long interval of silence. "Maybe that Emma is the killer? That woman saw her, but no one's been able to find her body. She could be the one changing into girls, screwing with them, and then sucking on them. Somehow, that came out wrong, but that's what I think."
"The other girls are still missing, too," she wondered and cupped her chin. "But you can sense skin-walkers, can't you?" She met his grey eyes and held her gaze.
He bent his head down in disappointment. "Yes, I can," he sighed out in a whispery low voice, looking almost lost and defeated. "But we can't be sure. Maybe, this is a different kind of demon. Maybe, it's found a way to mask its scent. I mean, why does it always kill in the rain?"
Trish placed her chin on her curled fingers. "The woman in that masked queen manor used to do a ritual," she shared her thoughts aloud, "she always used to do it in the rain. Always. But not much is known about it. What I've read is that she used to play with . . . I can't even explain it."
Dante titled his head to one side. "What? Play with women, men, fake Victorian phalluses, dogs, babies?" he asked rather nonchalantly and then turned his eyes away when she created a horrified expression at his last few casually chosen words.
"With snakes!" she breathed out loudly. "Honestly, Dante, you are just disgusting."
"I didn't mean it like that! What's wrong with you? And that was my last guess. But what did she do with those things? I've heard some women have quite the fetish for them—if you know what I mean," he said cheekily and grinned at her.
Forcefully, she changed the look on her face and spoke again, "like I was saying, nothing much is known, but she used to do this ritual with snakes whenever it rained in the falls." A look of fear hovered over her calm face. "The faces she used to steal . . . no one is sure if she even did that or not."
"A corruption of the story, then?" he asked and lifted his eyes to meet hers.
She nodded. "The faces were simply cut off, and the strange thing is, people swore they saw the dead girls' years after they buried them. I'm just not sure why she used the snakes." She spread out her fingers in thought. "I can't help but think that this could be—"
"Skin shedding?" Dante pointed out and drummed his fingers on the table. "But this is just a wild guess. I haven't come across anything like this before."
"But you've been able to trace their scents, too. This could be something different," Trish guessed and watched a slight shift in his blank expression.
"I don't know. I think we just don't know enough yet," he said and got to his feet. "Can I see her details?"
She directed her suspicious gaze to the files scattered on the pool-table. "Here," she said and held out the files. "Tell me if you find anything useful."
He did not say anything and picked up the file from the table. He opened it and ran his eyes down the details of Emma. Height: five feet five inches, complexion: fair, hair: light brown, eyes: light brown . . . almost yellow. Age: twenty-six, and the rest was unimportant. He turned the page and looked intently at Salome's picture.
She was a good four inches taller than her sister. Age: thirty-five, hair: black, eyes: dark brown; the only thing that caught his attention was her marital status. She was widowed about a month ago. That struck him as odd. When he looked down, he was not all that surprised: his name was Leon. So the murders began not long after? he thought to himself, trying to remember her eyes. He could not!
He tried to remember her again, and a second later, he saw her in his mind, beautiful and inviting, naked under the moonlight; but her eyes, he just could not remember them. Only in his dreams they glimmered through the airy mist like two sparks of ember. Why did he see her that way? Why did she have her sister's eyes? He tightened his jaws; who was it? Salome or Emma? Were they both dead? Was it someone else who had eaten into their bodies and was now flaunting them in front of him?
His throat constricted under the pressure of his scattered thoughts. Salome, dead—no, alive—his eyes widened and his head began to spin like an out of control merry-go-round. He clutched the side of the table and slumped against the wall for a moment. His heart was beginning to skip beats again. It was close.
This damn scent again! Dante thought and controlled his ragged breaths that were threatening to escape his throat. A shroud of haze over his eyes obscured his vision. He closed his eyes and counted, taking each breath with care until they were normal. His heartbeats stopped racing, and soon, only a small thud of his heart resonated through his whole body.
"Are you a'right?" Trish asked, standing close to him. A look of concern enveloped her fair face.
He rubbed at his eyes and opened them. "Yeah, I'm fine. This case's just givin' me a huge pain in the ass," he said off-handedly and slapped the file on the table.
She stared at him for a few seconds as if trying to unmask a hidden lie. "I'm going to check the barrier outside the agency," she said and walked out of the office.
His eyes found the sun again. It had dipped a little below the horizon—red and fiery against the sky. He could only see about half of it behind Love-Planet. A splash of orange had spilt out from behind it, stretching out for miles. It would be dark soon. It was about time he checked those things again. He walked around the big table and opened the last drawer. There it was, the ugly looking doll, still lying safely under the knick-knacks and women magazines.
He took it out and looked at it. "What an ugly doll," he said to himself and examined the last bit of dirty pink flounce still hanging by a couple of threads to its tattered gown. A swirl of scents surrounded it, but this would be the first time he would actually try to separate them. He brought it close to his nose. His nostrils flapped, and when the scent crept into his nose, a stabbing pain thundered in his head.
Dante's fingers trembled around the doll and his hand shot for his temple. He clenched his teeth, feeling his strength leave him; but then the sensation was suddenly gone. He breathed loudly, keeping his eyes closed. The doll rolled like a rod in his loose grip. When he opened his eyes, the room swayed into view. "The barrier . . . " he whispered and looked around with hazed eyes. The barrier was keeping the scent at bay.
When the feeling receded, he brought the doll close to his nose again. The same three scents. The doll was buried not that long ago! He placed the doll on the table and opened the first drawer. The black pearls looked shadowy on the white papers. He picked them up and watched as they dangled back and forth like a swing, looking beautiful and new.
A mixture of familiar scents lingered around it: Emma, Salome, and her dead body. As he stared at it, he could feel his head getting lighter. It was as if he had plunged underwater and was drowning. He forced his eyes open and looked at the blackness of the pearls react to the blue light in the room. They were charmed with something!
She charmed the pearls? Dante thought and put them back into the drawer. He just had to be sure. She used two objects to bind this place . . . to make the scent stronger? No, it had to be more than that. His thoughts came to a sudden stop when Trish walked through the front door. Her cheeks were flushed with the rising cold.
"It's fine," she said and closed the door. "Did you find anything important—like her bra size?" She gave a soft laugh and grabbed the files again.
"Sadly, no," he said, looking sad. "But I need you to do something for me. You've been practicing magic, right? Take a look at these." He took out the pearls and threw them at her.
She caught them in her right hand. "Why?" she asked and carefully examined them when she saw the light reacting with the pearls. "What—aren't these?" She lifted her eyes to look at his sober face.
"Yeah," he said and grabbed the doll from the table. "Why do you think it's doing that?" He positioned its torn old dress over the black candle Trish had left burning on his table and watched as it quickly caught fire. She said this morning that the candle was for protection or something. He really was not paying much attention then.
"What're you doing? Is that a doll?" she asked, taking a few steps to look at the doll that was starting to melt.
"I guess it is," Dante said in a calm voice and turned it around to see its eyes and face sag like an over-cooked pie. "Anyway, any ideas?" He placed it back on the table and returned his attention to Trish.
"I don't know—and what the hell, Dante! You're not telling me something. I know it!" Trish said angrily and bent forward to look into his eyes.
He sighed. "I found this doll the day we went to see that woman. The one who had a daughter—remember?" he said and stared down at the doll that crackled and sizzled on his table. "I thought it smelled funky."
"Smelled funky? What the hell does that even mean?" she asked, looking irritated and puzzled.
"It means that I thought it smelled like some kind of a demon. I guess I was wrong. So I burned it just now. Happy?" he lied and looked down at the doll that was now reduced to a pool of melted rubber and wax.
She cast one quick glance at the doll and then pulled her gaze up. "I'll have to go back to my office to try some spells to see if it reacts to anything. I can't say anything right now," she said honestly and looked down at the pearls. "They look ordinary to me. I can't even smell anything odd."
He narrowed his eyes. She really could not smell anything. He could not either. It was definitely a skin-walker. "Anything else on that skin-walker legend?" he asked and put on a calm face.
Trish slipped the pearls into her jacket's pocket and zipped it up. "The woman used to worship an ancient snake demon. I don't know anything about it, so don't even ask. The place was robbed a couple of months back, anyway. Who knows where the important books are now. The thief probably took 'em. Anyway, the basement of the manor—where they discovered several bodies in the police raid," she paused and tapped her forehead, "it had this giant circle drawn on the floor. I bet that's the place from where the demonic energy used to leak out."
"And you don't think anyone can go down there again?" Dante asked, shocked.
"After several disappearances took place there, the police sealed it off," she explained and folded her arms.
"We could've checked it out," he said and turned his head a little to look out the window next to the entrance door.
"What, break through concrete?" she said, throwing a wry smile at him. "We were standing directly over the basement in that giant hall."
"The basement?" he whispered, lost in thought. He heard something there: the slithering of a thousand snakes. There was something down there!
"Yes, they sealed it off completely. I'm guessing that the snakes I saw were just some demonic aura left behind when the summoning was stopped. And by the way, your potential girlfriend did her Ph.D. in local folklore and was studying this masked-queen manor legend," she said and saw the expression on his face flicker with doubt and guilt.
"Sneaky girl," he said and stretched his lips to give a half-hearted smile. "Since you have gone through the files already at the police station, mind telling me how her husband died?"
"He killed himself by drinking rat poison. Suicide, apparently," she said and stretched her arms to relax her back.
"Babe's just full of awesome surprises. Sister gone—husband dead," he stopped, "she must be so lonely."
Trish smacked his forehead. "Your head is always in the gutter, isn't it?" she teased with a cheeky smile. "I'm going back to my office to check the pearls. Want to come along? You should be safe there." She winked and walked to the entrance.
"No thanks, I can take care of myself," Dante said, sounding annoyed. His gaze followed Trish through heaps of fog until it could follow her no more. He dropped his eyes to the table. The doll had melted away and so had the palpable tower of scents. His head was free of that invisible force, but he was still so tired.
He dragged his body upstairs and fell down on his bed in a sprawl. Sleep snared him so fast that he did not even see the last twinkle of the evening sun. He opened them at the sound of gentle trickles. A long corridor stretched before him like the twisting body of a serpent. He was there in that manor again, lost and alone.
It was night. The moon was full in the sky. It was always full in his dreams, and by his feet, many snakes twisted around in a mating frenzy. It was that same dream again and the smell of sex and her wild scent were hanging in the air. He turned a little and opened the first door to his right. A mist of longing from his body took a strange form here. There on the bed lay Salome—naked and beautiful. He could see himself relishing her.
He stood there watching himself make love to her. His face was buried in her neck, and slowly, he trailed kisses down her neck. He sucked at her skin and touched her breasts. His lips closed on her tight nipples and she moaned, closing her eyes. Dante could feel his lust rising. His lips trembled, and his heart thudded against his ribs like a wild animal. Slowly, he moved lower and gently moved her legs further apart.
He lowered himself between her legs and laid kisses on her core. She arched and her back became a perfect bow. Her ribs poked out and her naval stretched into a thin line. A look of ecstasy came over her beautiful face and she closed her eyes, relishing the pleasure vibrating through her pliant body.
She was so beautiful. He desired her. It was hard to believe that it was just her scent that made him so weak and pathetic. A part of him wanted to break through the mist and kill his own image to taste her. His legs were starting to tremble from arousal and he was getting really hard. The scent of her was just suffocating. He stifled a groan and breathed out a loud sigh instead.
It was as though they heard him. Salome flicked her head up and so did his own image. Both of them stared at him with blank faces. He looked back at her. Her eyes appeared brown in the dim light. He could not understand why. He always saw her differently in his dreams. He stepped back, feeling prodded by their unflinching stares, and turned around to find her standing close to him now. Her mirage in the room had vanished . . .
She looked at him with wild amber eyes now. "Dante," she whispered in such a wild, untamed voice that was so unbecoming of her; but it excited him and stirred his loins in ways that he so wished it was not a dream.
She stepped closer and he waited for her to embrace him. She stood silent for a moment, smiling mischievously. And then she moved her hands over her face. Slowly, she peeled her whole face off. Her torn ugly skin hung down from her chin to reveal Emma's bloody face. He did not understand. Then her features rippled and her mouth tore open.
She lunged at him and locked her teeth on his throat. Dante crashed to the floor and his whole body ached as if something heavy and thick was being sucked out of it. He struggled to move and his eyes began to reject the dream. They trembled open, and he found himself looking back into glowing amber coloured eyes swimming with lust and hunger. Something was in his room.
He threw it off of him and it crashed into the wall. Things clattered to the floor and a loud shriek filled the dark room. He grabbed his gun from the side table and ran after it barefooted. It moved fast like a hazy shadow and ran out of his office. He chased it and raked the walls of the tight alleyway with gunshots. It screeched in pain and disappeared, leaving an eerie human aura lingering behind it.
Dante puffed and panted for breath. The damned thing had almost sucked him dry. He stood under the dark night sky, standing alone out in the open. He looked around and saw nothing. It was gone. The street was wet and cold and a stale odour of nightlife filled his nose.
Slowly, he made his way into the alleyway. He saw a single streak of blood running along the wall. It was injured. He picked up a few drops of blood on his fingers and tasted them. It was then he realized two things: this blood was filled with his own demonic energy, and he finally knew who the demon was!
# # # # # #