Deadtown

returning night after night after night.”

“What about the other kinds, the”—Hagopian consulted her notebook—“the Eidolons and the Drudes?” Her voice had diminished to a croak. Costello shot her a questioning look, but her eyes were fixed on me.

“Eidolons attack from the inside,” I answered, “like you’ve got some huge, venomous parasite gnawing on your bones. Guilt brought to life. Some victims can see their Eidolons; others just feel unbearable agony. Drudes are unpredictable, like dreams, and they’re the source of most nightmares. If you’re plagued by horrible dreams, swarming with everything you fear, you’ve got a Drude infestation.” I glanced at Detective Hagopian, who’d closed her eyes and was breathing shallowly through her mouth. Yep. Drude victim for sure. I turned back to Costello. “Demon attacks are terrifying and painful. Hell on earth. But they’re not fatal. When a victim dies, that person’s demons cease to exist. That’s why demons don’t kill.”

They chewed on that for a moment, and I had a thought. “It’s not uncommon for demon victims to commit suicide. Could George have—?” Even as I asked the question, I wondered why Funderburk would kill himself. He’d been in such a terrific, disco-dancing mood.

Costello shook his head. “He was . . .” He shuddered. “Cooked. From the inside out. The body looked perfectly normal, even felt cold to the touch like you’d expect in a corpse. But when the paramedics lifted the victim onto the gurney, his mouth fell open. A jet of steam shot out and scalded one of the EMTs. The EMT ended up in the burn unit.” Oh God, I was thinking. This can’t be. Costello didn’t see the expression on my face, because he kept on talking. “Ice-cold skin but, well, boiling inside.”

The roaring in my ears drowned out his voice, and my vision shrank to a pinprick. Something squeezed all the air out of me, and I couldn’t catch a breath. I closed my eyes and pushed everything away: the detectives, George Funderburk, this whole goddamn conversation. No, I thought. No. Not here. Not that.

A hand rubbed my back, and something pressed against my lips. A voice drifted down from the ceiling. “Vicky? Are you all right? Do you want to stop?”

I opened my eyes to see Kane’s face hovering inches from my own. He was trying to get me to take a sip of water. “Drink this.”

He was too close. They all were. I couldn’t breathe. Damn it, I wanted them all away from me. My arm tingled. It was a warning. I tried to push down the feeling, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. The tingle intensified to a burn, the heat racing through my veins. And then it hit me like a tsunami—the rage. Pure, white-hot rage. I wanted to crush the cup Kane held to my lips. I wanted to tear apart the goddamn room and everything in it. I wanted to pound and kick those detectives, both of them, and even Kane, over and over, until they were nothing but a bloody pulp on the floor. Smash everything—just smash it. My fists clenched so hard that my nails cut into my palms, drawing blood.

The sharpness of the pain brought me back a little. I remembered who I was—me, Vicky. I remembered that the others in this room weren’t enemies, weren’t ants to be crushed and flicked away. No. Kane—I knew Kane. Those cops—just humans trying to understand a death. No more deaths, I chanted mentally, no more deaths. And I fought down the urge to destroy; it was like trying to tame a gale-force wind into a gentle breeze. How easy, how satisfying it would be to slaughter them all. No. I had to fight it. Inch by inch, I did. Inch by inch. The burning subsided; drew back gradually until my arm was my own again.

“I’m okay.” I pushed the cup away, gently, then thought better of it. Putting both my hands around Kane’s to keep the cup from shaking, I took a deep swallow. The water soothed me, and I drank it all.

When I spoke again, my voice was clear and steady. That surprised me, because I was still quaking inside. “I was wrong, Detective Costello. From what you describe, a demon did murder George Funderburk.”

“But you said demons don’t kill.”

“Most don’t. But we’re not talking about an ordinary demon.” I hesitated, not wanting to say the words, as if saying them would make it real. But it was real already. Whatever I might wish for, it was real. “George died of a Hellion attack.”

Hellion. As I said the word, a tingle teased my arm. I ignored it.

“Oh, Vicky,” Kane murmured, still rubbing my back. “I’m so sorry.”

The detectives glanced at each other. Hagopian, her face drained of color, looked bewildered and scared. “What’s a Hellion?”

“It’s a demon, but nothing like the kind I was telling you about.” I wished I had another cup of water. “Those are personal demons. If you want to get technical, they’re of the genus Inimicus. Hellions are a different class altogether, genus Eversio. They exist to destroy. Usually, they don’t bother with individuals—they’re a lot more interested in wreaking havoc in society. Whenever something really nasty happens, you can bet Hellions are there.”

“Like what?”

“Earthquakes, wars, genocide. Anything that causes massive suffering and destruction.”

“Like the plague.” This came from Hagopian.

“Yes. Events like that attract Hellions by the legion.”

Kane cut in. “Right after the plague, when we realized Hellions were massing, the witches of Boston put up a shield to keep them out.”

“So how did a Hellion get to Funderburk?”

“The shield protects Boston itself. It forms a circle that reaches as far as Somerville, Cambridge, Brookline, Dor chester, and the harbor,” Kane said, drawing a circle in the air. “The larger the area, the weaker the shield. Besides, the plague was localized in town.”

“In a legion, Hellions are a terrifying destructive force. Individually, though, they’re usually not tormenters,” I said. “Instead, they find somebody with a crack in their moral armor, somebody who can be tempted by evil. They incite. They whisper, insinuate, nudge.”

Costello looked confused. “So you’re saying that a demon, a Hellion, talked somebody into killing Funderburk? But—the way he died . . .”

“No. I wasn’t quite finished. Even though they’re inciters, Hellions are also violent themselves. Brutally so. Sometimes a sorcerer will try to bind a Hellion into service.”

“Bind it?”

“It’s a dangerous thing to do. A powerful sorcerer can force a Hellion to do his bidding. But the Hellion doesn’t like it one bit. A bound Hellion is surly, rebellious, and difficult to control. It’ll kill its master if it gets the chance. But if you can keep it under your thumb, a Hellion in bondage is a powerful weapon.”

“Let me get this straight. Somebody, some sorcerer, called up a Hellion and used it to kill Funderburk.”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I do.” Kane patted my back and moved to the front of the room. “It’s the election.”

We all turned to him. Detective Hagopian spoke. “The victim wasn’t involved in politics. He sold used cars.”

“That’s the point,” Kane looked angry. “Just a normal citizen. An ordinary, law-abiding citizen killed by the monsters.”

“Not monsters,” I said, surprised to hear Kane use that word, “a Hellion.”

He shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

“PAs have independent existence. Demons are conjured entities—”

“You know that. I know that. Even the good detectives here know that now. But the average voter has no clue. To them, anything that isn’t human is a monster. They’re not going to waste time on fine distinctions. When this hits the news . . .” Kane turned to Detective Costello. “Who called the police?”

Hagopian answered. “His neighbors, reporting loud noises from his house. They described the sound as”—she flipped back a few pages in her notebook—“ ‘repeated banging, like hammering.’ Officers arrived at oh-seven- twenty. The front door was open, so they went in. They found the victim in his bedroom. There was no sign of a struggle. The body was tangled in the sheets, nothing more.”

“I locked it,” I said. Everyone looked at me. “The front door. I always double-check that all doors are locked