Kelley Armstrong - Personal Demon

ANOTHER CAB TOOKme to my temporary apartment. The driver made me for a tourist from the first word and tried to “treat” me to the scenic route. I might not know the layout of Miami, but I spotted that trick after two blocks and ordered him back on track.

As we neared my apartment, I marveled at a wrecking ball tearing through what looked like perfectly good single-family homes-big houses, luxurious even. But houses nonetheless, on valuable property that could hold a hundred times that many in luxury apartment condos. One glance over the Miami skyline, dotted with cranes and skeletal high-rises, told even the newest visitor that this was a city on the move. Out with the old, in with the new.

My apartment was what I would call new, though by Miami standards, it might be a few scant years from the wrecking ball. It wasn’t to my taste-small, antiseptic and cold, painted in grays, whites and blacks, with spare modern furniture-but was in a trendy South Beach neighborhood and, for a girl like Faith Edmonds, location was everything.

I got back to the apartment just in time to change my clothes and place a few calls.

I phoned my editor first. Benicio had provided me with the details of a werewolf cult in Fort Lauderdale that I was supposedly investigating, possibly linked to the murder. His people would give me more later, so I could write the article. He’d booked a room at a Fort Lauderdale hotel in my name, with the phone forwarded to my cell. He was even having a young female employee drop by the room daily, to establish my alibi.

Normally “I’ve taken off to Florida chasing a story” isn’t something you tell your editor, not without getting permission first, but I had a good relationship with my boss. I liked my job, gave it 100 percent and had no intention of vanishing at the first offer from a more respectable paper. In the world of tabloid journalism, that’s employee-of-the-year material.

Naturally, he chewed me out. Then “get your ass back here” became “fine, but this is on your dime, Adams.” By the end of the call, it had changed to “save your receipts, but if I get a bill for the Hilton, you’re on proofreading duty for a year.”

The next call I made was a dozen times harder. I hate lying to my mother, though it was nothing new. We’d always been close, and still talked for twenty minutes a day and met once or twice a week, but there were days when I felt like an impostor who’d replaced her youngest child. There was just too much I couldn’t share with her.

She didn’t know she had a half-demon for a daughter. She didn’t know such a thing existed. I wasn’t even sure she realized her ex-husband wasn’t my biological father. My parents had separated around the time of my conception and everyone-my dad included-thought I was his. Did my mother have a postbreakup fling and kept it a secret? Or did she temporarily reunite with my dad after that fling and presume he’d fathered me? Or had Lucifer taken my father’s form and returned for one last night together? All I knew was that I’d been raised as the youngest Adams child, treated no differently than my two brothers and sister.

But I had been different. As a child, I’d walk through a museum and stand transfixed before the weapons displays, seeing glorious visions of war and destruction. I’d stare at auto accidents, undoing my seat belt to turn and watch them until they disappeared, then pepper my parents with questions. They chalked it up to a vivid imagination and a taste for the macabre and, since I’d never done anything violent myself, they believed it was just a harmless personality quirk.

By the time I started hearing chaotic thoughts, I was a teenager, and smart enough to know it wasn’t something to tell my parents. But it wasn’t easy. After a breakdown in my senior year, I’d spent weeks in a private facility.

When I’d gone looking for answers, I asked enough questions in the right places for a group of half-demons to find me. I learned what I was and, with that, found some peace. As far as my family knew, though, I’d simply outgrown my problems. There were friends and extended family members who disagreed-I was a tabloid reporter in a family of doctors and lawyers, and after a brief stint in Los Angeles last year, I’d returned to the same small college town outside Philadelphia where I’d grown up, and lived in a condo owned by my mother. Not exactly a “success” by Adams family standards. But to my mother, I was happy and healthy and after the hell I’d gone through, that was all that mattered. And if she was satisfied, then there was no need to burden her with the truth.

So I called, gave her my story, canceled our lunch date and promised to phone again the next day.

DRESSED IN Adeep orange cowl-necked top and flouncy tiered miniskirt, I strolled up to an ugly rear service door and rapped, ready to present myself to my new associates.

Getting their attention wasn’t that easy, as it turned out, and my knuckles were raw by the time the door swung open. But it was worth the wait.

I’ve never been one to swoon over hot guys, and I blamed it on elevation sickness from my new three-inch heels, but when that door opened all I could do was stare. He was average height, average weight, average build…and above-average gorgeous, with collar-length black curls, copper skin, deep-set, hooded green eyes and a grin that sucked my rehearsed introduction right out of my head.

I recovered after a split-second of gawking, fast enough to realize he hadn’t noticed my reaction. He was too busy doing his own appraisal, that gorgeous smile making me as giddy as any chaos vibe.

“I hate to say it,” he said, “but the club doesn’t open for another hour, and you’ll need to go in the front entrance.”

“I’m here to see Guy.”

“Oh?” Another notch on the smile. “In that case, come on in.”

He moved back. As I stepped forward, though, he blocked my path, stopping so close I could feel his breath on the top of my head.

“Almost forgot. I’ll need the password.”

I looked up at him. “Password?”

He leaned against the open door. “Or handshake. I’m supposed to get the password, but I’d settle for the secret handshake.”

“Let the girl in, for God’s sake,” said a voice behind him.

A woman appeared. Her tight black jeans and Doc Martens clashed with her Donna Karan blouse. Dyed black hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Nostril and lip holes with no jewelry in them. Simple makeup, but a heavy hand with the eyeliner. She looked like a Goth trying to play it straight, and failing.

She waved me into the darkness beyond. “Ignore him. He’s practicing for a new career as a comedian, which will come in handy when we kick his ass out of the door.” She turned to him. “Go get Sonny and track down Rodriguez. Guy wants to talk to him.”

His gaze hadn’t left me. “Do I get an introduction first?”

“Later. If you’re lucky. Now move.” She led me through a curtain into a lit storeroom. “Speaking of introductions, you are…?”

I thought she’d know, but presumed she was testing me. “Faith. Faith Edmonds.”

“The Expisco? Thank God. Guy almost had a fit when he learned we had a shot at an Expisco and might get a witch instead. But rules are rules, and the girl was the niece of a contact, so we had to give her a shot.” She extended her hand. “Bianca, Guy’s second-in-command.”

She opened a door and we stepped into the club.

I know horror films always take place in dilapidated old mansions with creaky stairs and hidden passages, but for spooky places, I’d nominate a dance club before the doors open at night.

When the music’s playing, clubs have an energy that’s undeniable-the heat of strangers crowding together, the pulsing beat interrupted by the occasional squeal of drunken delight, the sometimes sickening blend of perfume and sweet drinks and hastily wiped up vomit. If you’re not in the mood, it can seem like the ninth pit of Hell, but you still can’t deny the life of it. Walking through this club now was like creeping through a cemetery.