Demon Demon Burning Bright: Whisperings Paranormal Mystery, #4

Whisperings: Demon Demon Burning Bright.

Nordic Valley Books

Cover by Flip City Books

Tiff photo by Jeffrey Banke / dreamstime.com

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.

CopyrightÓ 2011 by 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.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Books by Linda Welch

Acknowledgements

Meet the Author

Demon on a Distant Shore

Prologue

Demon, Demon burning bright

in our rituals of the night.

What immortal cast of die

did shape thy soul to yearn for mine?

In what distant deeps or skies,

turns your world of funeral pyres?

On what wings does death conspire?

By whose cloaked hand will we expire?

What did smolder to make your start,

twist such fetid sinews into a heart?

And as that corruption began to beat,

why turn your hand to chain my feet?

Why the scythe - to secure my bane?

In what furnace burns thy brain?

Whose poor soul did you first grasp

within your ravenous evil clasp?

And when you did withdraw your skewer,

why mount their heads upon a mirror?

Did you smile, your work to see?

Did he who made hellfire make thee?

Demon, Demon burning bright,

in our rituals of the night;

What immortal court up high

finds me so cursed that I should die?

Kenneth Paul Jones

Facing the window, the big man stared directly into the blazing yellow orb balanced on the rooftops across the street. His long hair was an inferno of copper and gold against the backdrop of the setting sun. The crisp white T-shirt emphasized his skin tone so it gleamed like pale, polished copper. Legs apart, hands braced above shoulder height on the vertical wood of the window frame, his posture stretched the already tight shirt so it clung, and drew attention to well-defined muscles in back, arms and wide shoulders.

The street was quiet this Sunday afternoon with only a few coffee shops open for business. No traffic spoiled the silence. A melancholy guitar riff from The Club rode the air, softened by distance.

I had the feeling of standing on the edge of a precipice, he said softly in a smooth, melodic baritone. If I took one step I would fall into her glacial blue eyes, or shatter at her feet. There was no mistaking her. The pale, luminous skin. The silver-white hair. And those eyes. Her silver-white brows arched as if she constantly questioned all she saw.

His friend sighed histrionically. His cultured accent spoke of the rain-drenched streets of London as he drawled, I felt the same way when I met her, old chap.

Two inches shorter than the big man’s six-six, elegantly attired in a dark gray, silver pinstriped three-piece suit over a white silk shirt, he lounged on an office chair, one gray leather-shod foot propped on his knee as he buffed it with a white handkerchief. Rather than looking at odds with his lean young face, his long, shimmering silver-gray hair stranded with glistening black, pale skin and smoke-gray eyes with pupils like glossy hematite complimented an air of sophistication. He was slimmer than his friend, but padding did not bolster his jacket’s wide shoulders. The perfectly tailored ensemble clothed a body ropy with muscle.

My smile set rigidly under her withering regard and slipped when she spun away and stormed from the Squad Room. She was. . . .

Discombobulated?

The copper-haired man sounded amused. That, and angry. The flush on her face and neck fascinated me.

Ah, that beautiful, rosy blush. The gray-haired man studied his handkerchief, glanced around the small office, then tossed the slightly soiled object in the trashcan under the desk. And she blushes so easily.

The big man swung, putting his back to the window. A broad smile revealed even white teeth. His copper eyes seemed to have captured the sun’s light for they shone as if burnished. "And I can think of so many ways to make her blush."

His friend hiked an eyebrow. I must say, I’m not accustomed to that smug expression on your normally melancholy countenance, Royal.

Royal Mortensen shrugged. Did you know they call her the Ice Queen?

His friend frowned thoughtfully. "The Ice Queen? I admit, she can be slightly cool when one first meets her."

They mean her height and coloring, but she is inclined that way toward certain people, Chris, Royal said dryly.

Christopher Plowman coughed couthly into his hand. Myself not included.

That’s quite an ego you have there.

What do you mean? Tiff adores me! And no, you may not frown at me.

Am I frowning? Are you sure it’s not my normally melancholy countenance?

Chris flipped his hand dismissively. Pray continue, dear fellow. So, you were drooling over Tiff in the Clarion Police Department?

She was magnificent, Royal said, the memory briefly evoking a smile. I followed her outside. She did not walk; she stamped down the steps, braid beating her spine, swinging on a neck pale and slender as a marble column. I was behind her in a second. I caught her on the sidewalk, where she said she saw me as I truly am, not my human glamour. I asked what she thought I was.

He smiled again. She said, ‘I don’t know what you call yourself, Mister Pointy-Teeth. You tell me.’

You don’t have pointed teeth.

She assumed I did.

They were born on Earth, but belonged to another dimension. Royal flashed bright, white, even teeth. Chris’ teeth were slightly pointed.

She did not wait for my reply, Royal continued as he walked around the desk, then leaned his hip on the edge and folded his arms over his chest. She jumped in her car and sped away, leaving me thinking, of course, but do you know why you see us as we are? His brow creased as he lost his smile. I went to her home later. Our conversation was . . . interesting. It quickly became apparent she knew nothing of her heritage and little of mine. I decided to stay close to her. Her talent could help me find Lawrence, and when Caesar and Phaid came after her, I became afraid for her safety.

Chris’ eyes narrowed. But you didn’t tell her the truth, he accused.

To what avail? Royal stood and flung his arms out like exclamations. Would the knowledge make her happy? No. She would chew at it as a dog on a bone, but unlike a dog, never crack the bone to reach the delicacy inside. If clues to her origins existed, they were buried deep in Bel-Athaer; how could she find and decipher them, a woman to whom our world and people were alien? And the edict is in place for good reasons, my friend.

Edict, schmedict, Chris responded contemptuously, sounding more Brooklyn than British. It does not apply to Tiff.

Royal lapsed back on the desk again, supporting himself with the heels of his hands. I did not know that, and neither did you. I’m surprised, give the strength of your feelings, you did not tell her.

"It was in my mind, but I had a Dark Cousin breathing down my neck. I’m fond of this head; I wanted to keep it on my shoulders. But that’s beside the point. You, she trusted. You should have told her."

Royal glowered. You think I did not know that? Believe me, I agonized over telling or not telling her. But she distrusted our brothers and detested our Dark Cousins. Emotion darkened his copper eyes. I supposed the truth would appall her. I could not bear to see horror and self-loathing in those beautiful eyes, or frustration when she asked questions for which I had no answers.

He dropped his gaze. "Time passed, spinning me farther from any possibility I could disclose what I knew. I feared the knowledge would drive her from me, for by then I was deeply in love with her. She was in my blood and bones.

"I told myself I had no choice, I must obey the edict. It was an excuse. I knew she would ask why I kept the truth from her for so long when I knew she craved it. She would say my secrecy made a lie of our relationship.

But my love for her was never a lie.

His voice fell to a few decibels above a whisper. I did not mean to fall in love. It was not love at first sight. But the first kiss - I tasted her on my tongue and was lost. I wanted to see her pale hair loose and feel it stroke my skin. I wanted to mold my hands to every part of her body. More than that, I wanted to know her soul.

He fell silent. Chris cleared his throat, which sounded dry. "Ah. As I’m sure you know, I have kissed many women, but Tiff. . . . When I felt her lips - glk!"

Chris found himself pinned to the chair by Royal’s big hands on his shoulders. Gleaming white teeth set in a kind of rictus-smile were level with his eyes.

"You kissed Tiff?" Royal asked softly.

Appearances can be deceptive. Chris looked lighter, leaner and less dangerous than Royal, but he was still a powerful man and could have broken away. However, when he rolled his eyes up to meet Royal’s, he deduced Royal was perplexed rather than enraged. And he had stretched the boundaries of their friendship when he kissed Tiff.

And Royal pinned him to the floor by standing on his feet.

Royal, have a care. This jacket is pure silk. And those shoes you’re flattening are Italian leather, hand-crafted by my man in Piedmont, he said nonchalantly, to all appearances totally unconcerned by the fingers digging in his shoulders.

Then don’t move - you’ll scuff them on my soles - and tell me about this kiss.

A peck of farewell and brotherly affection, I assure you.

I don’t have a problem with you seducing other women, but Tiff is unavailable, and you knew when you kissed her.

"I told you, a peck. For mercy’s sake, Royal, stop reading more into it."

Royal released Chris’ shoulders, and his shoes, but still loomed, looking down thoughtfully.

Chris briskly straightened his cuffs one after the other. I will never understand why a Gelpha lord is ridiculously possessive with his women.

Royal turned away. I am not possessive and it has nothing to do with my position in Lawrence’s Court. I treasure Tiff, but perhaps that’s a foreign concept to you.

His back was to Chris as he settled in the office chair reserved for clients. He did not see the wistful expression which slid over his friend’s face, here and gone in an instant.

Royal’s tone deepened ominously as he swiveled the chair to face Chris. I did not know she is so much more than she seemed, until Orcus came to me. What I knew, or thought I knew; what I could have said – all became irrelevant.

Chris’s eyes changed, seeming to become a flat, darker, murky gray. The Burning Man.

Every child’s nightmare, Royal said. "I lay on my belly as they carried me on the gurney through Bon Moragh. I was paralyzed from the neck down and raged at my helplessness. From her voice and eyes and posture, I knew the fiend hurt Tiff, but I could not go to her.

"The gurney stopped. From my prone position, seconds passed before I realized the bearers had left me.

I was alone with Orcus.

Chris licked his suddenly parched lips as he decided whether now was a good time to ask about the defeat of the ancient Dark Cousin Dagka Shan in the bowels of the High House. He knew Royal was seriously injured, and Tiff shot the Cousin. He dearly wanted to hear the grisly details. But Royal looked inward, remembering, and would not appreciate an interruption.

"Flame flickered over him, white, and the glacial blue you find inside crevasse of ice. The color of Tiff’s eyes. As I watched, he flared brighter, higher. I could not see what hid inside that pale pyre. He asked if I knew him.

"Close as he stood, I felt no heat on my face. His fire was cold, like the chill of deep winter. I tried to make my voice strong as I acknowledged him, but sounded like a bronchial child.

He asked me if I would listen, and obey, and I agreed. But my sight blurred, my heart thundered when he instructed me. Royal’s voice rose slightly on a note of anguish. "What choice did I have? Obedience to the Burning Man is drummed into our heads and hearts.

"After that day I struggled to maintain my role, the otherworldy lover of a human woman. You cannot imagine how difficult it was, to smile and laugh, and love, as if I had no care in the world. As if we would go on forever. I cherished each moment we were together for I knew the end approached. She would go beyond me to where I could not follow. She would no longer want me. Orcus told me this and he was never wrong. It was as if my heart thrust through my ribs.

My phone woke me in the middle of the night. An encoded text from Lord Lawrence. A slight, fond smile replaced his agonized expression. "That boy will make a fine High Lord one day.

I watched Tiff as she slept and decided not to wake her. I could not lie to her again, I could not tell her the truth, so I left. He fell silent for a moment, before continuing with evident distaste. "Orcus, feared and revered throughout our world. Had I known. . . .

I could not let her fall into his clutches. So I went to him.

As I know to my cost, Chris said wryly. He looked at Royal with slit eyes. "What did you hope to accomplish?"

I approached Lawrence first, but a monarch is never alone. His valet sleeps in his suite at night; his guard stands fast outside his door and accompanies him through the day apart from when he is with his advisors. He looked alarmed when I presented myself. I think he feared I would publicly ask him about his text. I made a pretense of a social visit to the Court, and texted him when I left to say I would ply my trade and investigate Orcus. I thought if I could gain admittance to his lair. . . .

Chapter One

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way - "

I punched another station.

"We wish you a Merry Christmas! We wish you a Merry Christmas. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a - "

Good grief. Couldn’t a single radio station play anything but Christmas carols? I viciously clicked off the radio.

I brought my green Nissan Xterra Pro-4X to a slithering stop, hauled my butt out, slammed the door and trudged through the snow to the front of the plant. Alone on the hill, the hulking place loomed against the backdrop of the western desert. The windows had blown out and flame-blackened bricks surrounded gaping holes. Part of the roof had caved.

Artie beckoned me from inside the loading bay, a shape made hazy by the pale afternoon sun. Come on, then!

Fire Marshal Withers handed me a pink hardhat. Pink? Grimacing, I settled it on my head. Do I need this?

No, but them’s the rules. He indicated the open bay doors. Stay on the ground floor, don’t go poking around and you’ll be fine.

Officer Yales gave me a nod, but didn’t suggest accompanying me. Clarion PD knew better.

I nodded and walked up the sloping ramp into what remained of the plant and stood in the half-gloom, sinuses assaulted by the unmistakable reek of burned timber, sodden ash and melted plastic. Part of the second floor had collapsed. I looked up at the jagged hole in the roof where the blackened bones of charred rafters punctured the sky. Melted snow from the heavy fall last night still dripped from the rafters and puddled on the floor. The interior was a chaotic mess. I couldn’t identify anything except the huge, fire-blackened furnaces.

Waiting for me, Star and Jerry stood with Artie.

Her mother called her Star, her bright one, her light in a dark night. Unfortunately, mom had a thing for babies, but no patience when they grew older. She kicked Star out of the house when the girl was thirteen. Star died in the factory at nineteen.

Jerry had five siblings and a divorced mother who worked two jobs to provide for her children. He graduated from Clarion High and hired on at the factory, proud to contribute a meager wage to the family’s upkeep. He died in the basement a month before his nineteenth birthday.

The site has an interesting if macabre history. A sugar factory stood here until it burned down in 1889. Walther and Sons built a smelting plant on the site in 1902. According to the newspaper archives, one of Asher Walther’s grandsons had a mental breakdown in 1951. The plant’s din covered the noise he made as he chained and padlocked the back and front exits. He tossed Molotov cocktails through four windows as the night shift signed off. Most employees escaped through other windows.

Star and Jerry were in the basement locker rooms, primping for Friday night fun, readying to join their friends and cruise the ‘Vard, then hang together at Fuzzie’s Drive Thru. Artie worked as night custodian. He went to the basement to chivvy Star and Jerry so he could lock up the building. Fire engulfed the perimeter of the ground floor, smoke choked the air when they came up. They might have stood a chance had they gone back down to the basement and sealed the door. They died of smoke inhalation.

Arthur Winegar is in his sixties, a pale-skinned, bald old geezer in threadbare gray dungarees and a cloth cap. He feels responsible, so tries to mother the youngsters, but you cannot tell a dead person to wrap up in cold weather or remember to wash behind their ears. He was born into another era, so his mothering consists of gruffly telling them to respect their elders, mind their manners and watch their tongues. He means well, but Star and Jerry laugh at him.

I get a kick out of seeing Star and Jerry in their fifties finery. Star wears a tight, white pencil skirt, pink sweater worn backward so the buttons fasten down her spine, black ballet slippers and dainty white socks. Her shining black hair has a pronounced pouf where it meets her shoulders and brows above dark-blue eyes are delicately filled in with black pencil. Jerry looks smart in tailored tan slacks, a cream sweater vest and brown suede shoes. His bright auburn hair stands up in a lacquered wave, freckles spatter his nose and cheeks and he habitually fingers the ends of his sparse sideburns.

I wondered how Artie, Jerry and Star would take to having the fire-blackened ruins razed and replaced with a brand spanking new manufacturing plant when the Humphries family built it three years ago. They were delighted. They were every employee’s unseen family, relishing their triumphs and pleasures, mourning their failures and losses, delighting in the gossip.

Unlike Artie, Jerry and Star are not stuck in the Fifties. They wholeheartedly embraced the twenty-first century and enthusiastically discuss what they hear about sex, TV and movie stars. Artie mourns the days of his youth when men were men and youngsters called you sir. He threatens to wash their mouths out with soap and water, which of course sends them into gales of laughter.

Now it was gone. Three fires destroyed three factories.

My friends will not have to wait long till they pass over. Peter Walther pleaded temporary insanity so escaped the death penalty, but his family declared him incapable of caring for himself and admitted him to an expensive, discrete sanatorium in Colorado. He’s ninety-eight now; he won’t last much longer. When he goes on his way, so do my spectral buddies.

But they were going to moan like the devil now they’d lost their friends, the plant’s eighty-two ex-employees.

Artie jabbed his hand at me. You took your time.

Told you she’d come, though, didn’t I, said Jerry.

I peered into the depths again. Where are they?

Artie cocked his thumb at the west wall. I spotted them in the gloom, a nude man and two nude women sitting on the floor of what was once an office.

Clarion PD neglected to tell me the victims were naked.

The fire was arson and killed young Will Humphries and two employees. Clarion PD asked me if I could discover who lit the fire and killed Selene Humphries’ son. I told them I possibly could.

Will, Janice Stacey and Velma Torrence should not have been in the plant. Definitely not in their birthday suits. The fire did not touch them; in the manner of my old friends, they died of smoke inhalation. Smut faintly filmed their skin and hair. They lay face down on the floor as they drew in their last breath of air.

I picked my way over a collapsed girder and a mess of unidentifiable debris between me and the office. They stood when they noticed me, their postures awkward and Will fidgeted his hands, then dropped them to cover his groin.

A scrawny little dude with spindly limbs and rounded shoulders, Will stood shorter than the girls. He turned his head away and stuck his nose in the air. A little on the heavy side and in her late thirties, Velma kept trying to drag her long, straight, red-brown hair down to cover breasts which were already beginning to sag. Her green eyes would not meet mine. Janice wore her ash-blond hair shoulder-length and curled, but her eyebrows were brown, as were her eyes. She had a pouting mouth and cheeks round as apples. Mascara ran down her cheeks. She wept as she died.

Will, I said. Janice. Velma.

They didn’t ask the usual questions: what happened, why am I here? Artie already told them what they needed to know about their situation, and about me.

Knowing they were alive when ash filled the air gave me a sick feeling. They were terrified, trapped back here by the smoke and flames.

Did you see who did this?

Velma took a step toward me. It was -

Will’s head whipped up and he snapped, Be quiet!

Velma flinched.

They knew who killed them, but Will wanted to keep it quiet? Hm. I don’t welcome visions of a shade’s last moment, but one would be handy right about now.

Ignoring Will, I spoke to the girls. You can tell me and he can’t do one damned thing about it.

I can make their lives miserable, said Will.

My eyes dropped to his shriveled genitalia. "Yeah, I