Claimed by the Demon

By then Mac had lifted the knife he now held between them—that big clip-blade Bowie he couldn’t possibly have been carrying all this time. Couldn’t possibly—

He said, “I don’t think you heard me. This place is closed to you. And by the time you cut me with that little knife of yours, I’ll have you gutted.” He smiled; it sent a shiver between Gwen’s shoulder blades.

It wasn’t a bluff.

And they knew it.

But it was written there on their faces—the awareness that the odds were against Mac, that they were losing face, losing fun. Run, whispered Gwen’s instinct. Oh, run!

Instead, Mac moved a step closer. “And here’s the really fun thing,” he said. “Your faces and your knife are on the security camera. Mine,” he added, smiling again, “aren’t.”

Gwen could lip-read the curses from where she stood, even if the snarling made them almost unintelligible. “You won’t always be here,” one of them said, stepping back stiffly, his blade snicking closed; the Bowie knife glimmered revealed and...eager, Gwen would have said. Since when did that make sense?

“Security camera,” Mac said. “Your faces. Images set aside for the police, should anything happen to this place.” He smiled again. Not nice. “And I mean anything.”

“Hey,” the second guy protested, his sneer sliding over to indignant protest. “We can’t control what happens to this place! It’s run by a buncha spic fags! Plenty of reason for people to—”

“Anything,” Mac said. The blade glimmered. “So maybe you don’t want to be around here, huh?”

Maybe not. Seething, out-maneuvered, out-bladed, and for that matter without nearly the necessary mojo, they backed away—wary steps at first, and then pivoting out to a jog.

And Mac, standing there, still lost in dark thoughts...

Gwen checked her impulse to go to him, but instead pushed through the entrance to the station storefront. There she found a slight and neatly turned out Latino who might very well have triggered the hateful response of the young men outside—and he knew it, too, his face tight and worried. “Hey,” she said. “They’re gone. If that security camera works, save the tape. But I think Mac scared ’em off for good. He told them they’d be blamed for anything that happened here, thanks to this big fail of theirs.”

Relief flooded his features. “They been working up to this,” he said. “This city...there’s something going on...” He shook his head. “Hey...soda or something? On the house?”

She brightened. “Oh! You know, I was really thinking about a cherry crushed ice—”

He held up a hand. “Please. And one for your friend?”

She glanced out at Mac. “I don’t think he’s a cherry crushed ice sort of guy. Who knows? We really just met.”

The station attendant scoffed, filling a large cup with more crushed ice than she could ever finish off. “The way he is with you? ?Si se puede!”

Gwen laughed. “Points for best use of inspirational phrase. And thank you!” She took the proffered cup and straw. “But seriously...get that security tape, okay? Just in case. Those guys were ugly.”

He pointed at the phone. “Owner is on his way. I’m sure he’d like to meet—”

But Gwen stopped listening, swallowing that first sweet slurp of crushed ice and flavor, suddenly too cold as it hit her stomach. She felt the trickle of uncertain feeling, the wash of it over her skin, crawling and repulsive. “Do you feel—?”

The man shook his head. “Just the way the swamp cooler always feels—”

But he’d known what she meant. And he stopped, just as uncertain as she.

And Mac no longer stood out in front of the store.

Mac, who’d been so vulnerable to this inexplicable wall of hatred.

“Gotta go,” Gwen said. “Be careful!”

“Y tu, chica,” he said as she pushed out the door, his voice nearly lost in the jingle of the bells there. “Y tu.”

She stood outside in the bright world again, the heat washing against her so strongly that it momentarily overwhelmed that subtle sensation of...something. Two cars at the pumps, everyone minding their own business, no one happy. She squelched an urge to call for him; wherever he was, he wouldn’t want that.

Like you know him so well.

Well enough. And he couldn’t have gone far. Wouldn’t have, surely—

As if she was confident, she headed around the side of the little station, where the lot grew weedy and untended, an adobe wall angling to cut it off nearly at the back corner of the station and not even enough room for a trash bin.

Mac stood, back to the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed—his face was tense, jaw tight, hands flat against the building.

“Mac!” She ran to him, dodging the stickery weed clumps and stuttering to a stop at the look on his face, the way he turned from her—understanding the message of it. Don’t come any closer.

As if she had a choice. As if she could leave him like that.

As if she would.

Chapter 6

Run away, Gwen. Please run away.

“Mac,” she said, determination lacing her voice—penetrating even the darkness. “I feel it, too. Not like you do, but I can tell. Whatever it is, let me help.” Her hand on his upper arm and he couldn’t help it—it came on him like a lightning reflex, knocking her hand away, snatching her in his own grip—a cruel grip, fingers tight, eyes never even opening.

She cried out—nothing more than a sharp gasp, as offended as she was frightened—but she didn’t even try to break away. She stepped up to him.

He lost track, then, as the blade pounded him.

“Dammit, Mac, I need some help here! Come on!”

Bright light flashed through his mind, reflected through his body...slicing mirror-bright shards, bouncing and multiplying and the blade—

—wail fury desperation kill you kill her no no no—

The stucco wall of the gas station grated against his skin, lifted the back of his shirt as he slid, legs no longer holding him—but Gwen was right there keeping him from falling outright.

Gone.

It was gone.

The tarry darkness, the blade’s fear, its fury. Light flickered within and became soothing dapples, and Mac gulped air—a gasp profound enough to be his very first breath. He found himself sitting on his heels, his back still to the stucco, an unexpected crouch.

And still he held Gwen’s arm. She knelt before him, and her eyes sparked determination, a bold light blue in a freckled surround. One hand pressed up against his chest, there where the unbuttoned henley gapped to show skin; one hand clutched the pendant that fell just below the notch of her collarbones. “Mac,” she said, and only then did he hear the fear lurking behind the determination.

What did you do? He meant to say it out loud, but his breath hitched on new realization.

The blade was gone.

Oh, still in his pocket. Still warm with fury.

But not in his mind.

Not feeding him trickles of feelings, of emotions that weren’t his. Not ramping up what he might otherwise