Daimon - DANIELLE BOLGER (best fiction novels TXT) 📗

you to produce a follow-up piece by Friday afternoon. See if you can get more out of that detective you interviewed,” Frank ordered, before glaring at Sandra for being away from her desk.

“I'll never forgive you for this,” Sandra spat before turning heel and returning to her desk across the other side of the room.

“Sandy!” I called out as all eyes on the office watched us earnestly. “I'm sorry. It's really complicated, but please let me explain!”

Of course, she didn't and reclaimed her desk chair, swiveling it so that the full-back was facing me.

“I want more details of this victim, though,” Frank continued as if oblivious to the heated situation taking place. “Wriggle some statements from that cop. A name would be valuable.”

I diverted my attention back to my squat boss. “Hold on,” I mused with a smug smirk. “I thought you had fired me. I was just getting ready to pack up my things and sell that story you're uploading without my permission. Why, I haven't heard contrary to the negative, I think I have grounds for a lawsuit against you.”

“Stop being such a drama queen,” Frank huffed. “What do you want, Jane?”

“I'll do a follow-up, but in my own time. Next week sometime, I'm thinking. Oh, and a bonus for the piece of course.”

“Piss off.”

Well, it was worth a try.

“Get a name, then we'll talk.”

“A name, sure, no worries.” Of whom? Valentine's victim or the corpse found out in the middle of nowhere? My name, or that of the man I killed?

When Frank left, I exhaled. Could have been worse, I thought. I may have pissed off my best friend beyond repair, but at least Frank bought my fluff piece and I could remain relatively anonymous to the Foxes for another day.

I decided that things were better this way. Sandra's anger at me, her sudden avoidance, would protect her from me. Protect her from when I might finally lose control and mutilate the nearest person in search of their heart. This way, I would not kill my best friend.

Hours passed as I sat at that desk hashing out my plan for the night, bouncing my heel off the floor with erratic speed. I hoped it would all work out, but if it didn't, I didn't want to know about it. I was set: I had to learn more; I had to understand what happened out in that forest; I had to discover what I had become, and somehow I had to make this hunger that boiled in my stomach go away before I gave into the dark desires that kept flitting into my mind.

I would not be her. I refused to be that grotesque monster I saw in the woods.

You were her, a callous voice hissed in my mind, You are her.

Chapter Eight

Someone is going to die tonight.

This was it, my night of truths, my night for revenge. There were no large press releases of my extracurricular activities, just a few smaller ones that used the same quotes and references I had constructed. It seemed that no other agency really had much more to go on than to use my article as its reference. The police had yet to release any public statements, and no leaks had managed to surface yet. Even Sandra's report was withheld, since mine actually pointed to credible claims as opposed to groundless speculation.

The number of dirty looks she threw me that day in the Coastal Horizon was countless, but it had to be this way. The city had to think another girl was killed Tuesday night. The Foxes and Valentine had to believe I was dead or they would surely come for me. Even so, I did not think I would remain elusive for long from both the Foxes and the police. I had no doubt that the days were ticking down, perhaps even the hours, until my involvement in Tuesday night's events would be revealed. Depending on which party discovered me first, I would either be killed or prosecuted. I quickly decided on the former as preferable.

I did have some time though, however short, to do some uncovering myself and maybe, if I played it right, I would be able remain anonymous indefinitely. I had just one plan to achieve this: stay hidden, get answers, and eradicate all traces left behind. This plan frightened me terribly. I knew it was brash, but a part of me liked it, was excited by it, was hungering for it. There was a silent promise of blood tonight and it caused me to shiver with glee.

I pulled out my hand-mirror and checked that my wig was fastened tightly. The snug-fitting blonde bob obscured my brown locks, and the lightly tinted glasses gave my face a look that was foreign even to me. I was dressed in a loose gray top, long black tights, and black patent ankle-high boots. I hoped the attire contrasted enough to my last choice in “undercover gear.” Anonymity was more paramount than ever before. I snapped the mirror shut, placed it back into my clutch, turned my gaze just a fraction upward to the fluorescent Minx sign and gulped.

I approached the bouncer—thankfully one who did not seem to be present two days ago—and he let me in at once. For an attractive female there was no identification required, no entry fee. The next girl in line went through with as much ease and brushed past me brusquely.

I stared at her violently and wondered whether any of the bored door-clerks would notice if I ripped this girl's heart from her torso. I gasped at the dark thought.

Even though music boomed from the entrance of the club, the small utterance was enough to grab her attention. Her head turned back, and when her eyes found me they became wary.

“Suz! You gorgeous doll,” a man called out. Our gazes were drawn to a tall, tanned man, who dripped heavily in gold. It was the doorman who let me into the Minx two days ago—Jase.

I pulled in a deep breath when his eyes locked with mine, and I ran hysterias in my head that he recognized me and was about to send the Fox's goons to finish what they started. Then his vision slipped across, like I was no more than a piece of furniture, and fixed on my would-be dinner.

The girl galloped up to him with haste. “Jase, hun. You're here! I wasn't sure I got the right joint. Wow, it's amazing, though.”

He slinked an arm around her so smoothly that it made me think that groping women was a nightly venture for the man.

“Come in, babe, I'll show you the many wonders of the Minx.”

As they walked off, Jase's hands caressed her body, blatantly, and she only smiled in response, not even feigning hard to get. When I lost sight of them, I stalked down that same hall; the hall that led to the den of my enemies.

The sight at night was far different from that of the unoccupied daytime. Now, darkness swept the room, with numerous small spotlights planted at intersecting and various angles throughout the main club room. Over to the left, were the few low tables set with conveniently cushioned lounges that black-eyed youths sprawled over languidly. The center held the bar I poured a drink from during my interview. This was chock-a-block with desperate drunks and druggies looking for more substance that would statistically kill two or three of them tonight. The right side of the room had a line of the short and skinny, overweight and elderly, and, of course, the forties-to-sixties business crowd who were the regulars. They grinned happily as they waited, rapacious eyes selecting women they planned to sleep with that night. Further ahead, was one of the main dance floors. There, the clubbers had no feet as smoke clouded the floor, giving the area an otherworldly atmosphere.

I walked on, slipping past the corseted girls carrying trays full of inebriating substances, and moved right for the back. I saw a familiar door titled Staff Only and with a snap of the doorknob let myself inside. Pressing the door shut behind me, I entered the noisy, yet muffled, hall.

It was the same one I had ventured just two and a half days earlier, and that memory caused my confidence to waver. As I walked through the narrow space, I felt as if I was walking the path to my execution. The drumming of the bass was louder than any other sound and vibrated with such magnitude that my heart's own rhythm was sent to gallop alongside it. I could hear the calls of clubbers from the other side of the wall, as if they were cheering on to watch my promised death. My feet continued forward, but slowly, as if they really did anticipate that soon they would reach the stairs of the scaffold. I felt a tingle on my neck as if it were against the cool wood of the guillotine block, and my hair flew back behind my head from the gust of the axeman's swing.

Get a grip of yourself, you wuss. You're in control here. This time, you have the power.

I was unsure of what exactly that power was and even more terrifying, its limitations. As I walked through the unguarded hall, I ignored the assiduous thought that I was walking straight into a trap.

There were a few rooms here; most were locked. I did not force these doors; I knew I had no reason to. Focusing my attention, I was able to soften the sounds of the dance floor and instead hear the buzz of a solitary light left on in one room; the ticking of a wall clock in another; the scurrying of a cockroach on hard ground. I listened for human sounds too: pen scratching; weight shifting in a chair; a steady breath; a heartbeat, but came across naught. Something else grasped my attention, a familiar hum of electrical equipment. I broke the lock and let myself inside.

I was in the security control room, where dozens of computer monitors displayed, in black and white, the erratic movement of the club. One of these screens showed strobe lights sending a room into a fit of seizures. The tightly pressed dancers, flashing seen and unseen, made the floor resemble a mindless beehive.

I scanned through these digital displays, searching for a familiar face; searching for a lead. I saw Jase rubbing up against a heavily intoxicated girl in a side lounge, a different girl to the one he greeted just minutes earlier. Then the other girl entered the scene as she carried a martini glass and half-fell onto his lap. Jase then shared his interest between the two women.

I wondered whether their stupor had to do with a substance other than alcohol. The girls' droopy eyes indicated as much.

I kept panning across the screens, hoping to find a hint of that blurry figure that attacked me from behind. It was a futile attempt. Even if he popped up on one of these screens, my recollection was not enough to allow for recognition. He was not overly tall, not overly built, but then strong, so strong. I could not be sure, but I thought I heard his voice—I gave it the slippery one that promised to take care of me.

As I gazed over dozens of security displays, I wondered whether, at any time, my eyes fell upon the elusive Valentine. For him, there was no blurry outline, just a voice. It was so gentle, one incapable of harm, and yet he murdered me. I wondered if his body would be befitting of that voice; I wondered if I saw a kindly looking person, whether it would strike me as my fated foe, but no man in the thick of the club took my attention. Valentine was either not there, or not as distinctive as I imagined.

I broadened my scope to survey rooms that were not so heavily populated: the prostitution rooms on the levels above, the kitchen and drug manufacturing areas. There were a few offices, one of which was very close, judging by the map situated on the wall. This was labeled Finance, and just one person occupied it. A smile crept onto my face.

“Well, hello, friend.” I could only see his back, but I had no doubt who it was. I decided it would be rude not to reacquaint myself.

I deleted all recordings of my past movements and switched off