James Swain - Shadow People

Garrison and the local cops stood nearby, exchanging information. Garrison’s back was turned, and Peter drew up next to Ray, who shrank in his chair.

“Something the matter?” Peter asked.

“You’re the guy that Doc Munns was supposed to kill,” the tattoo artist said.

“Didn’t work out that way.”

“Is Munns dead?”

“Yes. I killed him.”

“But he was possessed by Surtr.”

“I still killed him.” Peter let the words sink in and dropped his voice. “I want you to tell me what you know about the elders of the Order of Astrum.”

Ray shook his head fearfully. “I do that, they’ll snuff me for sure.”

“You need to cooperate with the police. It’s the only chance you’ve got.”

“Right,” Ray said.

One of the cops said, “Son of a bitch was going to pour kerosene on the walls right when we came into the store, probably planning to burn the place down, destroy evidence.”

“What did you find in the van?” Garrison asked.

“We found a hunting rifle with a telescopic scope lying on the backseat, along with a box of ammo,” the same cop said. “We think it’s the same rifle that killed Chief Burns.”

“Then let’s charge him. We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Once the cops charged Ray, they’d take him to the station to be processed, and Peter would lose his chance to question him. He drew closer to the barber chair, and Ray cowered like a frightened dog. “You had to know you’d get caught,” Peter told him. “What did the elders do? Make you an offer you couldn’t refuse?”

“You know about the elders?” Ray squeaked.

“We’re old friends. Now what did they offer you?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

“Tell me, damn it.”

Ray clamped his mouth shut. Peter was not planning to leave empty-handed, and he stole a look inside Ray’s mind. It was filled with troubling images, but one in particular stood out. A sinister figure wearing dark flowing robes covered in astrological signs commanded a stage not unlike the one in his own theater. His spiked hair and dark fright makeup were pure Gothic. Plucking a succession of black silks out of the air, he bunched them together, and made a half dozen screaming vultures magically appear. With a mad explosion of feathers, the carnivorous creatures flew into the theater to pluck at the faces of the unlucky patrons sitting in the first row.

“Who is he?” Peter asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the tattoo artist said.

“The man on the stage with spiked hair and the vultures. I want to know who he is.”

Ray gulped. “You know about Dante?”

“Is that his name? Dante?”

Peter felt a hand come down on his arm, and he spun around. Garrison pulled him away from the barber chair to the other side of the room.

“I told you to stay in the car,” Garrison said angrily.

“Just give me another minute with him,” Peter pleaded.

“That’s out of the question. We have an investigation to finish. Now go outside, or you’ll end up getting in trouble.”

“There’s something else going on here, and this guy knows what it is.”

“You heard me. Leave. Right now.”

Peter bit the words about to come out of his mouth. The expression “devil got your tongue” took on a whole new meaning. He pointed an accusing finger at Ray. “You’ve got to make him talk.”

“We’ll do that. Now vamoose.”

He started to leave and heard an odd popping sound. The noise reminded him of a soda can being punctured and the air escaping. Against the wall, the five-gallon kerosene tanks that Ray had intended to torch his studio with had mysteriously punctured themselves. The smelly liquid was pouring out, and racing across the concrete floor, where it puddled at the base of the barber chair, and climbed up its sides. Ray was talking to one of the cops, not having a clue.

“Get away from the chair,” Peter said.

The Pelham cops looked at him, not understanding.

“Why should we?” Garrison asked.

“Because it’s going to explode.”

“Is he serious?” one of the cops asked.

The rules of physics did not hold in the psychic world. An ashtray with a dead cigarette sat on the table where Ray kept his tattoo needles. The cigarette sparked to life, rolled out of the ashtray, and landed on the floor in a stream of kerosene. The stream caught flame, and did a mad dash toward the barber chair. In a split second, the chair was engulfed in flames along with the man chained to the arm. It was like watching a bomb go off.

Ray screamed.

The cops ran for the door.

Peter rushed toward Garrison. The arm of Garrison’s sports jacket had caught fire, and he pulled the FBI agent out of the building, found a patch of grass, and rolled him around until the flames were extinguished. The cops stood in the parking lot coughing and hacking but otherwise no worse for wear. The elders had spared them. It was Ray they wanted silenced.

The Blue Devil burned like a tinderbox, the flames licking the sky by the time the fire trucks and ambulance pulled in. As the building’s walls started to crumble, Ray’s final screams could be heard above the wailing sirens. The elders had kept him alive so they could torture him. It was the price you paid for striking a deal with the Devil.

Peter drew closer to the burning building and strained to hear Ray’s last words. He was trying to say something before he died, his voice rising above the din.

“Dante… will… kill you all…”

Peter still had no idea who Dante was. Only Ray knew the answer to that question, and as the fiery building collapsed, he guessed the secret would follow the tattoo artist to his grave.

“You can go upstairs, Ms. Adams,” the uniformed guard said.

Holly crossed the lobby and punched the elevator button. She had been coming to the Dakota for so many years that security knew her by name, yet the guards still called her aunt before allowing her to go upstairs.

She rode the elevator wishing she’d heeded her aunt’s warning. Milly had told her not to scry on Peter any longer, that she would end up getting hurt if she did. There were rules to being a psychic, and she’d broken every one of them. What an awful mistake she’d made.

The elevator doors parted and she walked down a hallway to Milly’s apartment. She wiped away her tears before pressing the buzzer. The image of Peter twisting the head of the serial killer from side to side would not go away. He had not seemed human.

She raised her hand to knock on the door. Before she could, it opened wide, revealing her aunt in the foyer along with Max, Lester, and Homer. Their collective faces were filled with sorrow. Had they continued to scry on her while she scryed on Peter? Something told her that they had. She entered the apartment, and the door was shut behind her.

“I’m sorry I disobeyed you,” Holly said to the group, her voice cracking.

“Peter is not like us-you understand that now,” her aunt said.

“He’s a monster. How could I have not seen that before?”

Milly gripped her niece by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Peter is not a monster. He is of both worlds, both good and evil. He can make choices, which purely evil people cannot. Do you understand the difference?”

Holly shook her head. All she understood was that there were two Peters: the one she loved, and the inhuman one she’d seen in the vase that terrified her. She had no idea how to deal with her feelings, so she’d run to her aunt’s apartment for help.

A tiny sob escaped her lips. Milly put her arms around her niece, and gave her a hug. Max, Lester, and Homer circled around her, and placed their hands consolingly on her as well. It made her feel better, and she told herself that somehow, she’d get through this.