Chapter Two.
******
Demon woke up to the sun rays creeping into the room. He moved and regretted it as something pulled at the hairs on his skin. Dried blood on the bed had attached itself to his skin. His hands were crusted with it too. The sheets were rumpled but he was alone.
The girls were gone.
His head throbbed. He tried to remember how much he had drunk but everything was a blur. The only thing he remembered was getting to Gomorrah and getting with the girls but everything else was gone.
He sat up slowly so as not to make his headache worse and then stared at his hands. The blood was fresh enough to still smell like copper. It was thick. Must have come from a severed artery. He flexed his fingers and watched the way the dried flakes broke apart.
What the hell happened last night? Why is there blood everywhere?
His memories were scattered. He remembered the brothel. He remembered the blonde, even the near mistake, and then… nothing.
Nothing.
Panic rumbled in his stomach and he felt an icy cold finger trail down his spine. He had never lost time like this. Not outside his apartment. Not away from the hole.
He turned his gaze to the room and tried to find signs of violence. No bodies. No blood aside from what coated his hands and stained the sheets. The bed was unmade but that meant nothing. The girls were simply gone.
Did he kill them?
No. No, that wasn't his style. He was in control. He'd never killed without a reason. He chose his targets with purpose. He didn't lash out. He didn't get sloppy.
So where had the blood come from?
Demon stood there resisting the urge to tear at his scalp. Thinking too hard about the gaps in his memory made his skull ache. He hated how things weren't adding up. He was always in control but this…this wasn't being in control.
He needed to leave before anyone started asking questions.
He moved quickly stepping into the bathroom. He scrubbed his hands under hot burning water. The blood left his hand and was gone like it was never there.
Just like the girls…
When he was done getting the blood off, he stepped out of the room and pulled his hood up. The city was already alive with activity. He could hear them. People moving like insects scurrying through their pointless lives. He walked fast with his head low but luck wasn't on his side.
"Hey, man! You look like hell."
Demon clenched his jaw before even turning around. He knew that annoying voice and swore under his breath.
It was his neighbor, Owen, from the apartment building. He was a man-child who was always cheerful. Demon saw him as a fucking pain.
"Rough night?" Owen grinned. Demon noticed his hands were stuffed in his pockets. His hands were always in his pockets.
Demon exhaled sharply through his nose. "What do you want?"
"Nothing, just saw you coming in late. Or early, I guess? You party much?"
"Yeah," Demon said flatly. "Big party guy."
Owen laughed like he thought Demon was joking. "You should slow down. You always look like you're about to murder someone in the morning."
Demon forced himself to smirk. "Maybe I am."
Owen chuckled, oblivious to the fact he had hit the nail on the head. "Man, you crack me up."
Demon felt a pulse of irritation. This conversation was a waste of time. He could still feel the phantom stickiness of blood on his fingers. The voices echoed in his skull like sharp whispers. He needed to be alone.
Owen started rambling about something irrelevant. It might have been about his cat but Demon had stopped listening. His eyes moved past Owen's shoulder as he scanned the street. He waited for the right moment.
Just then a car sped down the block. Owen flinched as he glanced toward the sound.
Demon walked away before Owen could say something stupid.
After a long, hot shower he felt almost human again. Almost.
The memories didn't return but the absence of them no longer burned quite as much. He was worried about what really happened in the hotel room. He was dressed in dark clothes before he left the apartment.
He needed coffee. Most people's go-to was meth, coke, even chocolate but Demon's was coffee.
The cafe was his favorite for two reasons: the coffee was the most decent in the city and it had a perfect view of the street. He could sit in the corner and watch everything. He could listen and plan unnoticed.
Or at least he used to be unnoticed.
The door jingled and his gaze moved up just in time to see him walk in.
Detective Adrian Wolfe.
Demon didn't tense nor did he react. He simply lifted his cup to his lips and kept his expression neutral.
Wolfe was methodical in everything he did. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing. He was the head of the task force hunting Demon but he was sure they had nothing to work with. No evidence. No trail.
They were fools thinking they could stop what had already begun. They were playing cops.
Demon ignored him and turned his attention to Jackson who lounged across from him spinning a spoon between his fingers.
"You're brooding," Jackson said with a smirk.
Demon huffed. "Shut up."
Jackson laughed as he tapped the spoon against the table. "Careful. They'll start to think you actually have emotions."
The cafe was where he got 97% of the information he used. Demon rolled his eyes and tuned into the conversation happening at the table next to him. Two elderly women spoke in hushed voices.
"—just vanished," one was saying.
"Margaret Grasse?" the other whispered.
Demon's fingers tightened around his cup.
Margaret Grasse. The blonde.
The one from two nights ago.
She was still out there. Unfinished.
That wouldn't do. He had almost forgotten about her. He smiled to himself as he heard them talk about his work.
He finished his coffee in one long sip and stood. He didn't offer Jackson a drink. Jackson didn't like caffeine.
"Where to?" Jackson asked, grinning.
Demon smirked.
"Shopping."
The hardware store smelled of new wood and oil. Demon walked the aisles slowly with his fingers brushing over tools as he considered his options.
Duct tape. A hammer.
Simple. Effective.
Al, who was the shop owner, gave him a nod from behind the counter. "Back again, huh?"
Demon smirked. "Guess I just love fixing things."
Al chuckled. "You must be one hell of a handyman."
Demon grabbed a pack of zip ties just in case. "Something like that."
He paid in cash and left. He always paid in cash. He felt Jackson's presence beside him as he walked into the city.
The city was filth.
People moved like rats contributing absolutely nothing to society. Their minds are filled with meaningless distractions. Sin was everywhere he turned. It was crawling through the streets like a diseased old man and they all loved him.
They were drowning in their own corruption. And they didn't even know it. The ones that knew didn't care because they were getting rich off it.
Demon adjusted his grip on the bag and took another detour. He had to be careful. He had taken so many detours he almost lost his way.
He looked over his shoulder. No one.
Another turn. Another check.
No one.
The paranoia never left but that was good. That kept him alive. He would be stupid not to be paranoid and careful.
Eventually, he reached the apartment building. It was an old structure tucked away in the forgotten part of the city. The kind of place where no one asked questions. The kind of place the cops didn't look at twice.
He climbed the stairs taking them two at a time. When he got to the third floor, he walked to the end of the hall and then stopped at a door.
He pulled out a key. One of many.
The lock clicked and he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He was sure he hadn't been followed. The only way he could have slipped up was if whoever had tracked him had clairvoyance.
He could hear her low sobs coming from the basement. The girl was still there.
Margaret Grasse.
She was tied to a chair. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess and her face streaked with dried tears. She looked up and her wild eyes met his darting between him and the hammer in his hand.
Demon smiled.
"Hello."