Demon Road

“I don’t …”

“What? What was that?”

“I don’t feel well.”

Her knees started to buckle and she reached out to steady herself, grabbing the front of Dan’s shirt. He grimaced and pushed her hand away and she stumbled, and then Brandon was there, grabbing her, straightening her up—

—and then he hit her.

The pain was nothing compared to the violent storm in her head, but his fist rocked her, sharpened her, and she saw him look at his own knuckles, like he was surprised that he had done it, and then everything was moving very quickly and when she felt a hand on her face she bit down hard and heard a howl.

Her vision cleared. Brandon’s horrified face swam into view. She hit him back, as hard as she could, and his jaw came apart around her fist.

A moment stretched to eternity.

She watched her fist.

It was weird – in this gloom, her skin almost looked red.

A deeper red than the blood, though, the blood that exploded in glorious slow motion from the wreckage that had been Brandon’s face. Was she doing this? Was this happening? In that moment, that luxurious moment, Amber found the time to wonder if she was imagining this part. Surely this was some sort of bizarre hallucination, brought about by adrenaline and those increasingly painful headaches.

There was no headache now, though. There was no pain of any sort. Instead, she felt … wonderful. She felt free. She felt …

Powerful.

Time started to speed up again. Blood splattered her T-shirt and Brandon hit the ground and, now that she could perceive normal sound once more, Amber registered his gargled screaming. Both hands were at his face and he was crawling frantically away, leaving a trail of blood as he went. Dan backed off, staring at her, his face white and his eyes wide and utterly, utterly terrified.

She had done that. The blood and the screaming and the shattered bones. It had been no hallucination. She had done that.

She raised her blood-speckled hand. Normal skin again. That was good. Normal was good.

Something in her mouth. Something that tasted of copper. She spat. Brandon’s finger hit the ground.

Amber turned and ran.

THERE WAS BLOOD ON HER HANDS.

Not in a metaphorical, figurative sense, although of course there was that, too, but in an actual, physical sense, there was actual blood on her actual hands, and it was proving surprisingly difficult to wash off. Amber scrubbed furiously, looked at the result, and then scrubbed again. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that her hands were quite small. If the rest of her body could have been in proportion with her hands, then maybe she wouldn’t have been such a target. These were the thoughts that occurred to her as she was scrubbing the blood away.

“Amber?” came her mother’s voice from beyond the bathroom door.

Amber looked up at herself in the mirror above the sink – wild-eyed and panicked. “Yes?” she called, keeping her voice as steady as possible.

“Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Amber said. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

Amber listened to her mother hesitate, then walk away down the hall.

She turned off the faucet and examined her hands. For one ridiculous moment, she thought they were still bloodstained, but then she closed her eyes and shook her head. The frantic scrubbing had turned them both red-raw, that’s all it was. No need for her imagination to be going into overdrive on this one. There was enough to freak out about as it was.

She put the toilet seat down and sat, taking deep breaths, and examined the facts. Yes, she had seriously injured that guy, but she had been acting in self-defence and she had been outnumbered. She really couldn’t see how the cops wouldn’t be on her side about this – if only she hadn’t injured him quite so dramatically.

Amber frowned. What was his name? The name of the guy whose face she’d destroyed?

Brandon, that was it. She was glad she remembered it. For some reason, it felt important that she remember his name after what she’d done to him.

She hadn’t meant to do it, and she hadn’t a clue how it had happened. She’d heard stories about adrenaline, about what it could do to the human body. Mothers lifting cars off toddlers and stuff. It was, she supposed, possible that adrenaline had granted her the sheer strength to shatter bones on contact, and anyway how much strength would it really take to bite through a finger?

The very thought made her want to throw up again.

She stood, and examined herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale and blotchy and her hair was a tangled, frizzy mess. Her eyes – hazel, with flecks of gold, and the only part of herself she didn’t hate – were red-rimmed from crying.

She went to her room, changed her blood-splattered T-shirt for a top that the lady in the store had said would flatter her figure. Amber wasn’t so sure she believed her, but it was a nice top, even if it didn’t look especially good on her. She realised her hands were trembling.

She sat on the edge of the bed. Of course they were trembling. She was in shock. She needed help. Advice. Comfort.

For the first time since she was a kid, she needed her parents.

“Ah hell,” she muttered. It was worth a try.

She heard them in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to dinner. Amber crossed the hall, walking with heavy, leaden feet. The house was filled with the aroma of duck, cooked to perfection, and usually this would have her belly rumbling. But the only thing her belly was doing now was housing a whole load of fluttering butterflies. She tried to remember the last time she’d talked to her parents about anything important. Or the last time she’d talked to them about anything.

She couldn’t.

Her mouth dry, she stepped into the kitchen. Bill was checking the duck in the oven. No sign of Betty. Amber could feel her courage begin to falter. She needed both of them in the room at the same time. She couldn’t do this with only one. Could she? Or was this a condition she was setting for herself purely to have an excuse to back out?

And, just like that, her courage deserted her.

Relief sapped the rigidity from her joints and she sagged, stepped backwards without Bill even realising she’d been standing there. She walked back to her room. Maybe she could bring it up over dinner, provided there was a lull in the conversation. The two-way conversation, of course, as Amber was only rarely asked to contribute an opinion. There probably wouldn’t be a lull, though, but even if there was this was hardly an appropriate topic. After dinner, then, or later tonight, or—

Amber stepped into her room but Betty was already in here, the blood-splattered T-shirt in her hands.

“Whose blood is this?” her mother asked.

Amber searched for an answer that wouldn’t come.

Betty dropped the T-shirt on the bed, crossed over to her, and took hold of Amber’s arms. “Are you hurt?” she asked. “Did someone hurt you?”

Amber shook her head.

“What happened?” Betty asked. “Tell me, Amber.”

“I’m fine,” Amber managed to say.

Her mother looked deep into her eyes, like she’d find the truth locked away in there.

“It’s not my blood,” said Amber quietly.

“Whose is it?”

“At the Firebird. Some guys.”

Betty let go of her and stepped back. “How many?”

“Two. They followed me. They attacked me.”

Betty had a funny look on her face. “Amber, sweetheart, what did you do?”

“I did nothing,” Amber said, her words suddenly rushing out. “I defended myself. I did nothing wrong. They were abusive customers. We asked them to leave. I saw them when I was walking home and they chased me. They attacked me, Betty. Two against one.”

“You defended yourself? Are you okay?”

“I’m … I’m fine. Really.”

“And how are they?”

Now Amber squirmed. “Um, I don’t … I don’t know. One of them, I … I think I broke his jaw. And bit his finger off.”

“You bit his finger?”

“I bit his finger off.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Betty said, taking Amber into her arms. Amber stiffened. She didn’t know when her mother’s arms had last embraced her. “And you’re sure you’re not hurt?”

“I’m sure. The adrenaline just … I’m fine.”

“Has this happened before? This surge of strength?”

“No,” Amber said, wondering how long she had to stay like this. “First time.”

“How are you apart from that? How are you feeling? Headaches? Nausea?”

“A … a little. How did you know?”

Betty broke off the hug, and looked at her daughter with actual tears in her eyes.

“Betty?” Amber said. “Mom? Are you feeling all right?”

Betty laughed, a nervous laugh that she cut off sharply. “I’m fine, Amber. I’m just … You’ve been through a traumatic experience and I’m … I’m relieved you’re okay.”

“Are you going to tell Bill?”

“Of course.” Betty smiled, then, the most beautiful smile Amber had ever seen her wear. “Don’t you worry. He’s going to want to hear about this. So are the rest of them.”

Amber frowned. “The others? Betty, no, please, I don’t want anyone to—”

“Nonsense,” said Betty, waving Amber’s objections away with one hand while the other took her phone from her pocket. Her slim fingers danced lightly over the keys and in mere moments a group text had been sent.

They sat on the bed while they waited for the others to arrive. Betty asked Amber about school, about her friends, about her job at the Firebird, and she listened as Amber spoke. It was a new sensation for Amber, talking about these things to her own mother. For the first time since Amber could recall, Betty seemed actually interested in her and the life she was leading. She nodded and smiled, probed deeper where needed, and, when they heard the first car pull into the driveway, Betty came forward and kissed the top of her head.

“You make me so proud,” she said softly.

Tears came to Amber’s eyes, unbidden, like a burglar breaking into her home, and proved just as shocking.

“You let the others in,” said Betty. “I’ll help Bill with dinner. Good thing we chose a big duck.”

Amber waited until Betty had left before rubbing her eyes. Her knuckles came away wet. There was a curious tightness in her chest that made her breathe funny. She stood up, took a moment to calm herself. She couldn’t be sure, but she suspected that this was what it meant to have a loving parent. It was proving to be an unsettling experience.

The doorbell rang and she answered it. Two of her parents’ closest friends, Grant and Kirsty Van der Valk, lived only five minutes away, so she wasn’t surprised to see them arrive first. What did surprise her was the smile that Grant wore, which was as broad as his chest.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said, giving Amber a hug. He’d never called her kiddo before. Never hugged her before, either. He smelled of expensive aftershave, applied with restraint.

He stepped back, still smiling. He had hair that had always reminded Amber of Elvis Presley’s in his later years – though the sideburns were not quite as ridiculous. “How’d it go with that principal of yours today? Your dad told me you spared her job. You’re a better person than me, you know that?”

“That was never in any doubt,” said Kirsty, taking her turn for a hug. If Grant was Elvis, then Kirsty was Pricilla – beautiful, red-headed and so wonderfully vivacious. Today that vivaciousness was directed solely at Amber. “How are you?” Kirsty asked softly, like this was a conversation just between them. “Are you feeling okay? How long have you been having the headaches?”

“Not too long,” Amber mumbled, starting to get a little freaked out by all this. Did she have a brain tumour that everyone knew about but her?

Then Kirsty’s eyes widened. “Good God, that smells amazing. Did you help them cook?”

Amber tried a smile. “They don’t let me near the oven,” she said, and led them into the living room, where they were soon joined by Bill. As they chatted, he stood by Amber’s side with his arm round her shoulder like the proud parents she’d seen on TV.

Then the doorbell rang again, and Amber excused herself. Neither of her parents had any family, so this tight group of friends had long since become a substitute. She supposed, in a way, they were her aunts and uncles, though they treated her with the same cool detachment she’d grown used to.

She opened the door and was immediately swept off her feet.

“Hello, beautiful!” growled Alastair.

Amber didn’t know how to react to this. Her feet dangled.

Alastair laughed and set her back on the ground. Like her parents and the Van der Valks, Alastair Modine was older than he looked. He had an easy, smiling face behind all those bristles, and was more casual than the others, preferring jeans to suits and rolled-up shirtsleeves to a collar and tie.

“Heard you got in trouble at school,” he said, whispering it as though it was a secret. “I knew you were a troublemaker from the first moment I saw you. You were only a few hours old, but I knew. I knew.” He took a moment to look at her. “You look more and more like your mom every day.”

Amber smiled politely, even though she knew this was an outright lie. Betty was beautiful. Amber was plain. Betty was statuesque. Amber was not. These things she knew.

A third and final car pulled up in the driveway. “The others are in the living room,” she said.

Alastair glanced back at the car, then gave Amber another smile and went to join his friends.

Amber stood in the doorway, watching Imelda walk up as the rain started to fall. Her blonde hair was styled and immaculate. Her clothes were perfectly coordinated. Her make-up was flawless. This was all to be expected. Imelda Montgomery was a living, breathing example of a woman who had every box ticked. All except for the smile. Imelda had a pretty face that begged to smile – and yet Amber had never seen her genuinely happy. Not even when she’d been married to Alastair.

“Amber,” Imelda said as she stepped inside.

“Hi,” Amber said, and that was the extent of their conversation. It was all Amber expected. Imelda made even her parents look affectionate.

They moved into the dining room, and Amber ate dinner with her parents and their friends. They drank wine and she drank Coke. The last time she’d eaten with them had been three months earlier, on her sixteenth birthday. Until tonight, she’d never seen them in such a good mood. Well, apart from Imelda who, in fact, had looked even grumpier than usual. But that was Imelda. She was a special case.

Amber hadn’t invited any of her friends to her birthday. Her true friends, her real friends, were all online anyway, on fansite messageboards and forums. She didn’t need to meet any of them in the flesh. Online, she could pretend to be popular and funny and interesting, and she didn’t have to worry about disappointing anyone when her smile didn’t light up the room. Online, nobody cared about the wattage.

She endured questions about the possibility of boyfriends and the casual drudgery of school and she was just beginning to enjoy herself when she remembered the taste of that boy’s blood in her mouth. Her appetite vanished abruptly, and she pushed the food around on her plate while the others talked on. Despite what Betty had said earlier, they didn’t discuss the burst of violence that had darkened Amber’s day. She was grateful for this.

“You look tired,” Betty said, leaning across to her.

Amber nodded. “I think I’m going to have an early night, if that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” said Bill. “Leave your plate – we’ll clean up. You get to bed – you’ve had a big day.”

“The biggest,” said Grant.

The others nodded and smiled their understanding – only Imelda appeared annoyed. More than annoyed, actually. Practically agitated.

Amber was too tired to care about that now. She stood, noticing for the first time that no one else had even touched their dinner, and smiled and said, “Goodnight.”

She got a hearty chorus in response, and she went to her room, closing the door behind her.

Rain pelted the window like machine-gun bullets. Outside it was hot and wet, but here it was air-conditioned cool, just the way she liked it. She wanted to go straight to bed, even though it was just after ten, but she also needed to talk about what had happened to her today. She logged on to the In The Dark Places messageboard.

The Dark Princess said …

Hello? Anyone on?

Mad Hatter99 said …

Princess! Where u BEEN, girl?

*snuggles up closer for a hug*

The Dark Princess said …

Been busy with school n stuff. Having a REALLY strange day.

You seen BAC recently?

Mad Hatter99 said …

Me too! U missed the convo yesterday. What u think of Tuesday’s ep?

She was on earlier. Had some role-play stuff going on. Y?

The Dark Princess said …

Just need to talk to her. Nvr mind. Too sleepy to wait up. Nite nite x

Mad Hatter99 said …

Nooooooo! Don’t leave me!

Amber logged out of the messageboard and lay back on her bed. Taking off her clothes was far too much effort. Brushing her teeth seemed a ridiculous waste of energy. She could barely keep her eyes open. She heard her parents and the others talking, but couldn’t make out the words. There was laughter. Excitement.

Her phone rang, buzzing against her hip. With numb fingers, she pulled it from her pocket and held it to her ear.

“It’s me,” said Sally. “Just got a call from Frank. Two cops came into the Firebird ten minutes ago asking about you.”

Faint alarm bells rang in Amber’s head. “What’d they want?” she asked groggily.

“You,” said Sally. “They said you attacked those guys from earlier. Did you? They said one of them’s in the hospital.”

Groaning, Amber sat up. “Did Frank tell them my name?”

“Of course he did, Amber. They’re cops. What happened?”

The doorbell rang. Amber hung up, slipped her phone into her pocket while she stood. The room spun for a moment. When she was sure she wasn’t going to fall over, she walked with Frankenstein feet to the window.

There was a patrol car in the driveway.

THE CHATTER IN THE house died away, replaced by a new, unfamiliar voice. A man’s voice. Official-sounding. Amber wished she wasn’t so tired. If she could only get her brain in gear, she’d be able to explain herself. She was sure she’d be able to make the cops understand. She took a few deep breaths to clear her head, and walked unsteadily to her door. She opened it. If they wanted her to emerge with her hands up, they were going to be disappointed. She was far too tired to lift her arms.

From the sounds of things, the others had stayed in the dining room, and Bill and Betty had taken the cops into the living room to talk. Amber stayed close to the wall as she moved, in case she needed the support. She got to the family photo in the hallway – the only framed photograph of the three of them – and stopped. From here, she could look across the corridor, through the open door.

Two officers of the law stood there in full uniform, talking to her parents. The cops were saying something, but Amber couldn’t focus enough to make out the words. She didn’t know why she felt so tired. They all stood in the centre of the room, watching each other. Amber shuffled her shoulder along the wall, then stopped again, concentrated on what the cop was saying.

“…just need to speak to her, that’s all.”

“Amber’s not feeling well at the moment,” Bill said. “Maybe if you come back tomorrow she’ll be strong enough.”

“Mr Lamont,” the cop said, “I understand what you’re doing. Please don’t think I don’t. Your daughter may be in trouble and you want to protect her. I get that. I do. But you’re doing her no favours if you don’t let us speak to her.”

Despite her drowsiness, Amber felt her insides go cold.

“My husband isn’t lying,” Betty said, sounding upset. “If you’d just call Chief Gilmore, I know he’ll vouch for us and for Amber. Whatever you think happened I just know didn’t happen.”

“We’re not calling the Police Chief, we’re not even calling this in, until we’ve had a chance to speak with Amber,” the cop said. “We have two young men who swear that she assaulted them.”

“One sixteen-year-old girl assaulted two men?” Bill said. “And you’re taking them seriously? You’re actually wasting your time with this nonsense?”

“We’ll get this whole thing cleared up if you’ll just let us speak to her.”

Bill put his hands on his hips and shook his head despairingly. Betty looked at him.

“You are such a perfectionist,” she said. The upset she’d briefly displayed had disappeared.

“I just like it when things are neat,” said Bill. “This … would not be neat.”

“I’m sorry, what wouldn’t be neat?” one of the cops asked.

But Bill and Betty ignored him.

“This is a special day,” Betty said. “A wonderful day. For sixteen years, we have waited for this day. What’s happening now is a minor inconvenience. That’s all it is.”

“Mrs Lamont,” one of the cops began, but Bill talked over him.

“It’s already in the system,” he said to his wife. “Already logged.”

“No, it isn’t,” Betty answered. “That one said they haven’t even called it in yet. Gilmore will make it go away. He’s done it before, and for the money we’re paying him he’ll certainly do it again. You might have to drive their car into the marshes later on tonight, just to confuse their colleagues, but why not?”

The officers glanced at each other.

Bill looked at his wife and smiled. “You’re serious, aren’t you? You really want to do this?”

“Yes,” said Betty. “I really do.” She took a coat from the back of the couch and put it on, pulling the sleeve down past her wrist and wrapping it around her hand.

“Uh, excuse me?” said the cop.

“So which one do you want?” asked Bill.

Betty nodded to the cop closest to her. “That one.”

“Fair enough,” Bill said, shrugging. “I’ll kill the ugly one.”

“Hey,” said the big cop, but his next words were muffled by Bill’s hand covering his face.

Only it wasn’t Bill’s hand. It was red, and tipped with black talons. Bill’s face was red, too, but different, altered, and he was bigger, taller, suddenly towering over the cop, a red-skinned monster with black horns curling from his forehead, like a ram’s horns.

The demon that had taken Bill’s place slammed the cop’s head against the wall. The head crumpled like an empty soda can.

The cop’s partner jumped back in shock, scrabbled at his holster for his gun, then remembered Betty and turned just as she changed. One moment Betty. The next a monster. Tall. Red. Horned. Her fist went right through his chest, popping out the other side in a spray of blood. The cop gurgled something that Amber couldn’t make out. Betty opened her hand, letting go of the sleeve, and withdrew her arm from both her coat and the cop’s torso.

Amber ducked back as the dead cop collapsed.

“Well,” she heard Bill say, “that’s done it.”

Betty laughed. It was her laugh, all right, but it was coming from the mouth of a demon.

The door between the living room and the dining room opened, and Amber inched forward again to watch Grant lead the others in. They stared in shock at the carnage.

Kirsty covered her mouth with her hand.

Bill turned to them. “We can explain.”

Kirsty rushed forward. “That’s my coat! What the hell, Betty?”

Amber’s knees went weak.

“Can we talk about your coat later?” said Grant. “Right now can we talk about the two dead cops on the carpet?”

“I’ll call Gilmore,” said Bill. “We’ll get it all smoothed over. This is not a big deal.”

“They’re cops!”

Bill-the-demon waved a hand. “We got a bit carried away. We shouldn’t have done it. Happy? It’s low key for Betty and me for the rest of the night, we promise. We kill Amber, and that’s it. No more killing for the week.”

Amber’s stomach lurched and suddenly she was cold, colder than she’d ever been.

“I really am sorry about your coat,” Betty said to Kirsty. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

Kirsty shook her head. “It was limited edition. You can’t get them anymore.”

Amber slid sideways, forgetting how to walk, forgetting how to breathe. Her feet were heavy, made of stone, dragging themselves across the floor towards her bedroom while the rest of her body did its best to stay upright. She fell through her doorway, down to her knees, turned and reached out, numb fingers tipping the door closed. Her mouth was dry and her tongue was thick. Something was happening in her belly and she fell forward on to her hands and knees, throwing up on the rug she’d had for years. She didn’t make a sound, though. She heaved and retched, but didn’t make a sound.

Her parents were monsters. They had grown horns. They’d killed cops. Her parents – and their friends – were going to kill her.

Betty had drugged her. That’s what she’d done. A sedative or something, served up in the food. No, the Coke. Amber looked at the mess on her rug and wondered how much of the drug was congealing down there.

She reached out, hand closing round the bedpost, using it to pull herself up, steady herself, stop herself from toppling sideways. She had to get out. She had to run. She started for the window and the room tilted crazily and she was stumbling towards it. She threw herself to one side before she smashed through the glass, instead banging her elbow against the wall. It hurt, but it didn’t bring her parents running. She was so thirsty. There was a bottle of water on her nightstand, but it was all the way across the room.

Dumb, numb fingers fumbled at the window. Stupid, dumb thumb jammed against the latch. Dull teeth bit down, drawing blood from her lip. The pain was sharp, sharpened her for a moment, and her thick, stupid, unresponsive fingers did what they were supposed to do. The latch squeaked, moved, and she braced her forearm against the sash of the window and pressed in and up, using her whole body to slide the window open. Then her legs gave out and she fell, cracked her head against the sill on the way down.

Amber lay with her eyes closed, blood pounding in her ears like drumbeats, like footsteps, like knuckles on a door.

“Amber?”

Eyes opened.

“Amber?” Betty said from the hall. “Are you okay?”

No answer would mean the door opening, Betty looking in.

An answer, then. An answer.

“Yeah,” came the word, awkwardly, from Amber’s mouth. More followed. “Tired. Sleeping.” Each one clumsy on her tongue.

The door. The handle. The handle turning, the door opening. Bill’s voice from somewhere else. “Where do we keep the stain remover?”

The door, closing, and then Betty’s footsteps, walking away.

Amber turned on to her side, then got on her hands and knees. Stayed there, breathing, gathering her strength. Without raising her head, she reached for the sill. Grabbed it. Hauled herself up until she got an arm out. Grabbed the sill on the other side. Pulled herself up off her knees, got her head out of the window, into the heat and the air and the rain.

Amber fell to the grass, her legs banging off the window frame. They’d find her like this. She hadn’t escaped. She couldn’t rest, not like this. She had to get away. Had to keep moving.

Amber was crawling now, along the wet grass, through the dappled shadows of the trees. She had to get away. She had to crawl faster. Had to get to the road. Get to the road, get into a car, drive away. Escape.

The ground beneath her changed, got harder. Not grass. Not anymore. Darker. Harder. Smoother. The road.

Approaching footsteps, hurrying through the rain. They’d found her. They’d found her already. Her arms were weak, no strength left. Her body lay down. Her mind … her mind … where was her mind?

Shoes. High-heeled shoes on a wet road, right in front of her. A voice. A woman’s voice. She knew that woman’s voice.

“Hello, Amber,” said Imelda.