Daimon by DANIELLE BOLGER (e reader .txt) 📖

bleach. I then strode into my bedroom and ripped the disgraced carpet into shreds with my bare hands. These scraps—plus the previous day's attire, bed linen, and the hand-printed curtains— were promptly transported into the lounge room in the center of the house and shoved into the fireplace. I found a bottle of vodka, took a big swig of it and coated a good portion of its contents onto the various fabrics. With a flick of a match, the fireplace came alive in a mighty display of flames. I edged my hand inside, to open the flue, and was tickled by the warmth of the fire. I withdrew my hand, covered the fireplace with the grate, and took a seat in front of the comforting sight. I rubbed the ash from my right hand and flexed the vibrant skin taut.

I smiled as I praised myself for eradicating the evil from my home. I could do it. I could still be me, be human. I was not going to allow that monster to come out again. Even if I had to starve her dead, she would not have her way, not ever.

With that last thought, my stomach growled. It was persistent.

I ran from the lounge room, back through the foyer and into the kitchen. Dipping into the fridge, I pulled out a container of two-day-old pasta and placed it in the microwave. As I waited for the dish to heat, I tapped my foot impatiently. Then when it was done, I pulled it out and drove a heaped fork into my mouth.

It tasted horrible! Vile! Against my tongue, it was like ash mixed in rotten eggs and curdled milk. Disgusting. Was I sure that this was only two days old? It was, though, made just the night before my...reinvention. I had made the meal as I listened to my favorite radio station from my ancient CD player. I sang and danced as I made the pasta, and the flavor it graced me with as I ate it was blissful.

This pasta tastes amazing, I lied to myself as I forced a swallow.

I took another mouthful. My taste buds screamed in disdain, but again I ignored this sense. I forced myself to finish the bowl. It was terribly difficult, and I felt sure that I was about to get food poisoning in a few short hours. So many times I thought of abandoning the dish, but then the craving of that warm pumping organ invaded my mind and my resolve to finish the meal was suddenly renewed.

Proud of myself, I smiled wanly and breathed, “I'm normal.”

I turned back to the lounge room so that I could watch the fire, but as I passed through the foyer, I heard a high-pitched skitter and realized that I had kicked one of the tile pieces from its place and sent it across the floor. Looking down at my feet, I saw a gap in the broken tile where gray concrete showed through.

I fixed it. It's not allowed to do this; it's fixed. It's fixed! At that moment, my stomach groaned.

Who was I kidding? The tile was a mess. It looked like a child had attempted a repair, trying to evade retribution from her parents. I knew nothing about tiles or about handyman fix-its. My father filled that role, not me. My father, my brother, they were the brave ones, the fighters, the ones that would repair the world. I tried to fill that role. I tried to make my father proud of me, be tough like him, but I was just a girl, too weak and ruled by my emotions. My mother said it did not matter if I cried at times, but my father knew better. He knew that sentimentality could be crippling in a damaged world. He told me that so many times before they died: “Tears only fuel the floods; it is only through tall dam walls that a city can be protected.”

I balled my hands into fists as I fought against the new tears welling in my eyes. It was not fair; I did not want this. “I wanted to make you proud, Dad,” I whispered. “I wanted to save the city, but I lost. Instead, the monster gobbled me up and spat me out as one of its own. No, not one of its own; worse. I am the thing that will destroy the Blue Coast.”

Then clarity swept over me more acutely than I had felt all day, as I managed to put the pieces of a far grander puzzle together. There was a victim last night that lost her heart, fifteenth in a line in fact. That victim fit the profile—young, female, reasonably attractive—but that victim was different. That victim rose like a zombie off the stone she was murdered on. She sought out company, and when she found it, she passed on her defect to a stranger. With that action, her own infirmity was rectified. She healed and had continued to heal from all insult since. The girl was changed so that her dark desire continued to intoxicate her thoughts whereby she fantasized killing all those around her. Her killer was of the serial sort; always performed in the manner of a ritual, always collecting an undiscoverable heart. It was for this reason that the killer was termed Valentine, because he always stole their hearts. The latest victim was a reporter who was in the clutches of some very disreputable people who ordered her demise. Putting two and two together, I realized that I had probably discovered the greatest break in the case to date—Valentine was a member of the Foxes.

I squatted down at the broken tile in the foyer and ran my fingertip along the void's margin. Valentine had taken a very important piece from each one of his victims. I deemed that it was only fair that he should experience the same romantic gesture.

Chapter Six

I spent hours that afternoon contemplating my revenge. I kept reliving the night my life was taken, trying to decipher who my killer was, but when I was placed on that stone slab in the middle of the forest. I was blindfolded. I had not caught his name or his face, just his voice. It was soft, youthful, and it held an English accent. I wondered how old the man was, with that voice I did not think he would be beyond his twenties, and then I wondered what he was. With what he did to me, did that mean he was just like me? Was he a monster, too, infecting me with his own demonic plague? Yet there was that voice, it was so gentle. It did not fit the voice of a killer.

I struggled to recall other voices that I heard in my semi-conscious state prior to my murder. There were a couple names I remembered there: Mack, my interviewer; Freddie, my captor; and mention of a Rose, who sounded like the leader. These were my leads. These were the ones that would have to die, but not before they divulged all they knew about Valentine.

The doorbell broke through my thoughts and brought me back to the present. I had been pacing in my living room, too agitated to sit; incredibly frustrated with my struggle to formulate a plan for vengeance. I was a reporter who wrote about spine-tingling stories of murder if I was lucky, but that left me ill prepared for what I was embarking upon. I had been turned into some sort of invulnerable-zombie-monster seeking to destroy whoever put me in this position, who just happened to be a member of the most powerful gang in the city and was likely to be an invulnerable-zombie-monster himself. How would I even start?

Again, the doorbell chimed, and I finally glanced around. Twilight had set in and the room was given a golden glow from the lights overhead. All was silent in the house bar the ticking of the wall clock in the adjoining kitchen. I focused my senses and realized that I could hear shoes being scuffed at the front door, and someone clearing their throat. I knew instantly that the sounds were emanating from a man. Was that him—Valentine? Or a Fox come to collect me back in their dirty paws? Surely, the fact that I survived that heart removing process must have meant some significance to them.

The doorbell rang again, more earnestly this time. Whoever it was, he was losing patience.

I crept as silently as I could over the tiles to the ash poker by the fireplace and grasped it. Gripping it tightly with both hands, I mustered the courage to venture to my front door.

Whoever it was suddenly began banging against the wood. “C'mon Kirra, open up!” A man's voice resounded over his heart's heavy thumping.

Go time. Well, I was not about to let myself die a second time. No, this time, I was going to be the one doing the killing.

I unlocked the door, yanked it open swiftly and speared the fire poker down. Just as the man cried out in alarm, I held back, inches from his forehead.

“Christ, Jane! Am I not allowed to make a little house call?”

I was breathing hurriedly. My arm was shaking as I realized how close I had come to attacking an old friend. I dropped the poker to the side. “Ryan, you scared the hell out of me! What are you doing here?”

He was in a defensive stance with his arms above his head, leaning back, obviously a self-defense tactic that had become second nature to the police officer. At the abandonment of my weapon, he lowered his guard.

“About to be assaulted by the look of things.” He laughed, but when I did not join, he continued. “Look, I was just checking up to see how you were doing after your stumble into the crime scene today. I, ah, I pawned you off pretty fast to Kev back there. Well, we go way back with your brother and all, I mean before your parents, you know...stop looking at me like that. Let me come in, okay?”

I realized that I was still huffing and glaring at Ryan. I composed myself and forced a wan smile. “Why don't you come in, then?”

He smirked. “Don't mind if I do.” He slipped through the narrow gap I left him, brushing me aside slightly. As soon as that contact was made I felt his glowing heat and the sound of his proud heart began to call out to me.

Regretting my admittance of the detective, I closed the door with a strained sigh.

“Whoa. It's tidier than I remember it.” Ryan exclaimed as he strode through the foyer and into the living room. “You got a fire going, in summer. Of course, you've always been a weirdo.” He collapsed on a sofa.

I stared towards the fireplace where little more than embers remained. “I've always liked their ambiance,” I responded quietly, as I came into the living area myself. I remained standing.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, his chest beckoned.

“Yeah, I believe that. Nice décor, I see you've changed the curtains.” He motioned behind him to the rear of the house where plain beige curtains veiled by sheer grass-green georgette obscured the river view.

“What are you here for, Ryan?” I grumbled.

“What? I really do like the curtains. I mean, the river view is okay, but hell, look at those curtains. You must have them pulled across all day.”

“What do you want?” I reiterated bluntly.

His sly smile evaporated and he turned serious. “Sorry. I thought I could just pretend it was like old times. I'm an idiot.” He leaned forward. “Jane, I do care about you. I know it might not have seemed like it today, but...frick, we go way back okay? You're like a little sister to me; a long lost little sister. Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that even though you are who you are, a dirty stinking reporter, I should have looked after you today instead of palming you off to Kev.”

He paused for a response, which he didn’t receive. “I'm bloody sorry, okay? Stop giving me the guilt trip with your eyes; they're freaking me out. Ah, Christ, you didn't make it easy for me either. I had to do a shit load of paperwork this afternoon, which only just begins to scratch the surface, and that's because you got your reporter claws all