“Someone help!” one of the business women calls. “He’s trying to mug us!”
“I don’t think he is,” I say, but I’m too late. The man lets go of my arm and darts away, running into oncoming traffic. A Silverado truck hits him, and his body goes flying forward. There’s a collective silence followed by screams.
I stand there, stunned, just looking at the spot where the man was standing. There was something dark and familiar about his aura. It was something almost demonic. Shaking myself, I rush forward and spring into action.
“Call 911!” I tell one of the business women. One of them already has her phone out, but she’s too shocked to move. “Now!”
The driver of the truck—an older man with a full head of thick, gray hair—gets out and slowly walks over.
“He jumped in front of me. I couldn’t stop.” He clutches his chest and leans against the hood of the truck when he sees the man on the pavement, unmoving.
“I know, I saw the whole thing and so did all the CCTV cameras around here,” I say to soothe him. The last thing I need is this old man having a heart attack. Dropping down to my knees, I check the man for a pulse, though by the unnatural angle his head is twisted along with the gash on his forehead, I don’t think there’s a point. His arm is broken, with a bone tearing through the skin, and most of the flesh has been torn off the left side of his face from skidding along the rough pavement.
Yeah, this guy is dead as a doornail, probably killed from the impact and died before he even hit the ground.
Suddenly, he reaches up, wrapping a bloody hand around my wrist. His eyes are wide open and the inky lines that crisscrossed them start to fill in.
He’s a demon.
Going on instinct, I put my free hand on his chest and zap him with magic. The blackness fades from his eyes and a rush of black smoke leaves through his open mouth, disappearing into the air. The body flops back, unmoving. What the fuck?
I pry the man’s dead fingers from around my wrist and notice what looks like defensive wounds on his arms. There are little cuts on his face from maybe a week or so ago, reminding me of ones you get when you’re running through the woods, crashing through low-hanging branches. I know because I’ve chased—and been chased by—enough demons through the Appalachian wilderness to last a lifetime.
“What did you get yourself into?” I whisper to the man, shaking my head.
“There’s a cop!” someone shouts, and I look up to see them flagging down an officer. Shit. I was hoping to get out of here unnoticed. Wanting to look this guy over before the cops roll in, I gently push his head to the side and look for vampire bite marks on his neck.
There’s none.
Scanning the rest of him, I notice dirt on his fingers and under his nails. The knees of his pants are dirty as well, and his once white running shoes are brown and caked with dried mud. He smells like urine, which is typical in demonic possession cases where the demons either don’t know how or don’t care to control basic bodily functions.
He’s wearing a watch, and I hurry to get it off and shoved into my pocket right as the officer comes running over.
“He ran into traffic,” I say, doing my best to look as horrified and shocked as a normal person would. I make my eyes go wide and slowly shake my head. “There was nothing we could do to stop him.” I purposely take in a ragged breath and pull my arms in, shaking.
“It’s all right ma’am. I’ll take over from here,” the cop says and I back away. His partner comes over, ready to question us before I can get away.
“He was trying to take my bag,” Business Woman Number One tells him. “She stopped him and then he just…he just ran into the road.”
“You stopped him?” the cop asks, looking me up and down. I love it when men underestimate me. Gives me a chance to prove them wrong.
“I did, but I don’t think he was trying to mug us.”
“What makes you say that?” The officer gets out a pen and pad.
“He didn’t try to take the purse.” I shake my head, replaying it all. “He ran up and said something, but he looked rattled, not violent.”
“Not violent?” Business Woman Number Two scoffs. “He attacked you both.”
“Hang on,” the officer starts. “What are your names?”
“Florence Malus,” I say, forgetting the weight the Malus name carries until I see the cop look up at me, unblinking for several seconds. “Xavier’s wife,” I confirm.
“Have you been hurt, Mrs. Malus?”
“I’m fine. He’s not.” I make a face and look at the dead guy in the street.
The officer nods, turns away from us, and says something into his radio. Great. I don’t want special treatment. He takes down the names of the business women and more cop cars roll up. A female officer comes out and hurries over to me.
