I Spy A Demon

I Spy A Demon

A Demon Hunter Novella

By

Keta Diablo

Chapter One

“We therefore commit Calder Sizemore's body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ..”

The cloying aromas of damp earth and lilies spiraled up Cecily's nose. Overhead, a pitiless sun bore down on the mourners gathered around her brother's casket—familiar faces she’d known forever, lived with and loved. She fought back the bile rising in her throat and prayed the minister would come to the end of the service before her knees buckled.

To her left, stood Mae Frost, her mother's best friend and the woman who had raised her and Calder after their parents died. As if Mae could read her thoughts, the woman squeezed her hand, an unspoken sign of moral support and unconditional love. She would expect nothing less from Mae, and had received nothing less for the past twenty years. If Mae's husband, Gus, were here, she would receive the same outpouring of love from him. In essence, Gus was in attendance, not above the ground but below. And now Calder would rest beside the man through all eternity.

“And so, shall we ever be with the Lord.”

Dear God, when will he say 'Amen?

She stared at the burgundy coffin with its hideous spray of red roses, yellow lilies and white orchids while a thousand questions tore through her brain. How could she go on without Calder, the other half of her soul, her womb mate, the one person who had always been there through the highs and lows of her life? What was he doing in St. Louis when he died and who was with him at the end? She had to know what kind of an accident had taken his life.

That's the word Mae used—accident—when she called her in Minnesota to deliver the dreadful news. “We've booked a morning flight to Des Moines,” she'd said. “The ticket is in your name and waiting for you at the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport, Delta Airlines ticket counter.” Numb with shock and grief, Cecily had pressed Mae for details but the woman circumvented her question. Why should she be surprised? The entire Frost family held Masters’ Degrees when it came to dodging and ducking topics they didn’t wish to discuss. “We’ll be waiting for you at the airport when you arrive,” she’d said and then ended their conversation.

Zombie-like, Cecily had packed her luggage and drove through the night from Gull’s Landing—the picturesque resort town where she lived—to the Minneapolis airport. During the three-hour drive, she'd saturated an entire box of Kleenex with a gazillion tears and relived every precious moment of her and Calder’s childhoods—the death of their parents, the extravagant Christmases after the Frosts took them in, the luxurious summer vacations, but most of all, the cross-your-heart-hope-to-die-secrets no one but twins would share.

Her gaze wandered from the casket to the pallbearers standing opposite her— Chad and Will, friends from high school, Travis and Chris, college buddies, and, of course, Elliott and Marcel Frost, Mae and Gus' sons. And the boys she and Calder had shared a home with most of their lives. The brothers stood over six-feet tall now with broad shoulders and rock-hard bodies. Gym rats Mae called them. Anyone with sight could see they were no longer boys, but hot-blooded, virile males most men envied and every woman on God’s peachy earth drooled over.

Her pseudo-brothers shared the same grey eyes and midnight hair, but there the similarities ended. Elliott, two years younger than Marcel, was leaner than his brother and kept his dark hair short and neatly trimmed. He looked more like Mae with his oval face, round, inquisitive eyes and soft, full lips.

Marcel was the mirror image of his father, Gus, in the man's younger days. Marcel's hair, gleaming now beneath the hot rays of sun, fell in a wild tumble of ebony waves to his white shirt collar. His features were sharp, all angles and planes, from the high cheekbones to the straight nose, to the strong jaw with a cleft smack dab in the middle. Cecily's gaze lingered on his mouth . . . that wicked, wicked mouth she'd kissed so many times and had tried so hard to forget.

Their eyes met and held. His reminded her of a storm-tossed sea, dark and turbulent. He couldn't look into hers right now, thank God. The sunglasses she'd donned this morning—after crying all night—hid the red rims and the swollen lids that made her cousin to a pufferfish.

She looked away from Marcel when a veil of pain descended on his beautiful face. She couldn't deal with his anguish and hers’ right now. Nor could she trust him, had never wholly trusted him. The man harbored secrets, deep, dark secrets only a select few were privy to, and she and Calder were not among the privileged.

Marcel must have thought her dimwitted not to notice the late-night trips, some that lasted for days. Did he think she hadn't noticed the cuts, scrapes and bruises on his sculpted body when he joined her in bed? For a long time, she thought he belonged to an underground fight club, but why would he hide that from her? No, she'd concluded long ago; he didn't spend his days and nights in a boxing ring. Locked rooms in the house, covert phone calls and whispered conversations had nothing to do with boxing.

Elliott was involved, of that she was certain, but what about Calder? Surely, he would have told her, boasted about solving the mystery of the locked doors, the secretive getaways and low-voiced discussions. She had remained close with her brother, albeit by phone, after she moved to Minnesota two years ago, and yet . . . a niggling sense of unease washed over her thinking back on their conversations now.

When she asked about his life, why had he glossed over details, filled their conversations with meaningless tidbits of banal activity? “I picked up my dry cleaning today”, he would say. Or, “I washed the car and hit the gym tonight.” When she pressed him about work or his recent love life, he slithered around her questions with vague responses. He’d become just like the Frosts in this regard. “There's nothing too exciting about driving limos, and as for my love life, I'm not ready for a white picket fence in the burbs.” Her heart cried out for answers. She had the distinct feeling Calder's death and the Frost brothers' secrets were connected. Her hope fell like sails caught up in a squall if she thought to get those answers from Marcel. She had a better chance of winning the lottery. He'd always held his cards close to his chest, walled his emotions from the outside world. It would take a great deal of cunning and perseverance on her part to get to the truth. If he thought to put her off again, shoo her back to Minnesota without as much as a plausible explanation, he was wrong…dead wrong. She wouldn't run this time, not until she found out the truth about how and why Calder had died.

The minister's voice broke into her dismal thoughts. “And so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words. Amen.”

With heads bowed, their hands still clasped together, the mourners dispersed. Elliott still stood beside Marcel and visibly winced when his brother reached out and touched the coffin for the last time. Cecily’s heart fractured for the thousandth time that day.

“Come along, dear.” Mae still clutched her hand. “Everyone will be at the house soon for refreshments.”

“You go ahead, Mae. I'll meet you at the car in a moment.”

Elliott's eyes darted left to right and Marcel lifted his head when she stepped forward and spoke. “What was Calder doing in St. Louis?”

Elliott lowered his voice. “Why don't we talk about this later?”

Her answer came hard and fast. “No, let's talk about it now.”

Elliott put his hand on his brother's shoulder. “I'll wait in the car for you, bro.”

She waited until his footsteps faded before she pinned Marcel with a lethal glare. Too bad he couldn't see it behind her shades. “Enlighten me, Marcel.”

“It was just a weekend getaway.” He ran his hands through the hair at his forehead. “St. Louis hosts several fourth of July celebrations every year, Riverfest, Fair St. Louis . . ..” His voice dwindled on a heavy sigh.

Lord help her, could she even say the words? “What happened, how did Calder die?”

“Car accident.” He blew air through his lips. “Calder made a late-night beer run and-and, the sheriff said he spied tracks from a deer sprinting at top speed across the dirt road. Calder must have swerved to avoid the animal and hit a tree.”

“The irony is perverse, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Irony?”

“Oh, come on, Marcel. Our parents died in a car accident and now Calder?”

“Call it perverse, coincidental, whatever you want, Cecily. I don’t think about how he died; just how much I miss him, will always miss him.”

She couldn’t bear the grief dwelling in his eyes, his voice. Calling on every ounce of her buried composure, she tossed another question at him. “Was he alone in the car?”

Marcel gave a slow nod, but the flicker in his eyes contradicted the head motion. He must not know she'd memorized his body language, his every nuance, ages ago. A tug at the corner of his mouth meant a semblance of joy, a tic in his jaw, anger. But truth and lies walk a thin line and both resided behind those luminous orbs at the moment.

“Who made the decision to seal the casket before I arrived?”

“Me. I didn't want to put you through . . . wanted you to remember him in life. Both Mom and the coroner concurred.”

She blew a huff of air. “Yeah? Well, you, Mae and the coroner are not his next of kin.”

Anger laced his words. “I did it for you, Cecily.”

This time, his eyes didn't lie. “So, who identified—?”

“Me.” His face blighted by pain his voice guttered like a candle flame. “I identified him for the mortuary in St. Louis, before they shipped his body home.” The seconds ticked by while he held her stare. At last, he spoke. “You got something to say, Cecily, say it.”

Every bone in her body ached, not like when she had the flu, but rather a dull pain in the deepest part of her marrow. If she lived to be one hundred, she'd never get used to the aberrant discomfort that took flight in her bones when something in her world was off. “I do have something to say. Call it intuition, but something reeks here.”

Palms up, Marcel’s hands came out at his sides. Translation—a defiant stance that meant she was getting under his skin. “Look, I don't know what your internal truth compass is pointing to, but it's like I said. Now, why don't you run back to your cozy little life of tea leaves and tarot cards in that quaint little resort town you live in and get on with your perfect little life with your perfect little boyfriend?”

How the hell does he know about Leif? Mae, of course. Mae must tell him everything. “You'd like that, for me to just go away, wouldn't you? Not this time, Marcel, not when every short hair on my arms and at the nape of my neck is standing at attention, not when my gut roils in protest at the words coming out of your mouth. Twins know things about one another, things others can't possibly understand because they've never known such a bond. My soul would be at peace if I thought Calder died from a freak accident.” She lifted her chin. “So, tell me, why is it so restless?”

Resignation laced his words. “I don't know what your soul thinks any more than I know what your heart thinks. I'm pretty sure we established that when you left for Minnesota, you know; when you walked away from me without as much as a backward glance.”

His words stung because he spoke the truth. She had run, away from him, away from everything they once shared, but now she was back and she wouldn't leave until she knew the truth about Calder—knew the truth about Marcel and Elliott. “I'm not running this time, not until I know what happened to my brother. I don't care how long it takes or what I have to go through to get the truth.” She pivoted on her heels, speaking over her shoulder, “Get used to seeing me around, Marcel.”

* * *

A dozen cars lined the large circular driveway when Cecily and Mae arrived at her childhood home. The limo came to a halt and Cecily prayed to the ceiling. It’s almost over. Please help me hold it together. The driver opened her door. She stepped out, scanned the old Victorian and a montage of memories flooded her brain.

A different cemetery, another time. A throng of people dressed in black surrounded her parents’ graves. Snowflakes fell from the sky causing her to shiver. She gripped Calder’s hand tighter and asked where they would live now. He pointed to a tall man with wide shoulders and a kind face. The woman standing beside him was adorned in black, hat, dress, even the long veil covering her face. Two boys with dark hair, not much older than her and Calder, fidgeted beside the man and woman.

When the service ended, the adults walked over to them. He spoke first. “My name is Gus and this is Mae. We’re friends of your mommy and daddy.” The woman smiled like an angel and knelt in the snow. Cecily wondered if her knees would freeze. “How would you like to come and live with us now?” Her sweet, soft voice reminded her of Glinda's, The Good Witch of the North, from The Wizard of Oz. A wink competed with her smile. “I’m a little outnumbered with all these boys and I could use a little help keeping them in line, Cecily, dear. Hmm, what do you say?”

“Why won’t they let me see Mommy and Daddy?” She had said. “I want to kiss them goodbye.”

Gus cupped his hand and held it before her. “Close your eyes and think of the best memory you have of them. Can you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Good, good. Now open them. We’re going to capture that memory and put it in here.” He nodded toward his hand. “Ah-ha! I have it now. When we get to our house in Des Moines, I’ll put it in a box for you. Then all you have to do is lift the lid whenever you miss them and the memory will appear.”

Sometime during the long drive to Des Moines, she had fallen asleep. She awoke the next morning in a strange bed, in a strange room in a very strange, enormous house.

Mae’s voice brought her back from her childhood memories. “Charles, put the car in the garage and do come in for a bite to eat.” She turned to Cecily; her eyes misty. “You look more like your mother every day.”

“From the pictures I’ve seen, I’ll take that as a compliment.” She paused and looked at the clouds. “I wish I'd known her better, and yet, so often, I still feel her near.”

“She’s here, I’m sure of it, and she was very beautiful. Her hair wasn’t as blonde as yours, and her eyes were blue, sky blue.”

A stab of pain pierced her heart. “Calder used to say my hair was almost as white as cotton and my eyes . . ..” The pain returned at the mention of his name. She stumbled on the words. “He said, he said I was part chameleon; sometimes my eyes were purple, sometimes blue.”

Mae took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Only a man would call violet purple. You going to be okay, darling?”

She nodded. Yes, but I’ll be better when this day ends.”

“Me too, dear, me too.”