Kelley Armstrong - Personal Demon

The eighth book in the Women of the Otherworld, 2008

As usual, I need to thank those who make me look goodor at least do their damnedest with the material I give them! A huge thank you, once again, to my agent, Helen Heller, and my editors, Anne Groell of Bantam Spectra, Anne Collins of Random House Canada, and Antonia Hodgson of Warner Orbit.

This time, I want to offer a somewhat belated thanks to some people who helped me whip up a series bible I kept moaning about needing to write. Thanks to Ian ONeill, Yan Ming, Genine Tyson, and Jennifer Thompson. I hate continuity errors and, with your wonderful help, Ill avoid (most of) them. And a big thanks to my beta readers, Laura Stutts, Raina Toomey, Xaviere Daumarie, and Danielle Wegner, who helped me avoid some of those nasty continuity errors with this one.

There was a time in my life when the prospect of watching a man die would have filled me with horror. Now, as I shivered beside the cenotaph, knowing death was coming, what I felt was very different.

Only knowing it was too late to stop what was about to happen kept me from screaming a warning as I clutched the cold marble.

Did you bring the money? the first man asked, his voice tight with an anxiety that strummed through the air. He wore dress slacks an inch too long, hems pooling around scuffed department store loafers. His old leather jacket was done up against the bitter March night, but misbuttoned. I could picture his fingers trembling as hed hurried out to this midnight meeting.

The other man was a decade older, his jogging suit hood pulled tight around his red-cheeked face. Beside him, a Chow panted, the chuff-chuff filling the silence, black tongue lolling as the dog strained the confines of its short leash.

Did you bring the money? the younger man asked again as he glanced around the park, his anxiety sharp against the cold rage blowing off the other man.

Did you really think Id pay?

The older man lunged. A blast of fear, so intense my eyelids quivered. Then a gasp, rich with shock and pain. Chaos rolled over me and moonlight sparked red against the knife blade. The stink of voided bowels filled the air as the younger man staggered back into a spindly maple. He tottered for a moment, propped against it, then slumped at its base.

The killer pulled his dog closer. The Chow danced, its chaos fluttering past me, confusion warring with hunger. The man shoved its head to the wound, steaming blood pumping. The dog took a tentative lick, then-

The vision broke and I reeled, grabbing the cenotaph. A moments pause, eyes squeezed shut. Then I straightened and blinked against the bright morning sun.

At the foot of the cenotaph, a shrine had started, with plucked daffodils and scraps of paper scrawled with Well Miss You, Brian and Rest in Peace, Ryan. Anyone who knew Bryan Mills well enough to spell his name was still at home, in shock. The people hugging and sobbing around the shrine were only hoping to catch the eye of a roving TV camera, say a few words about what a great guy Ryan had been.

As I circled the crime scene tape, I passed the fake mourners, and their sobbing roseuntil they noticed I wasnt carrying a camera, and fell back to sipping steaming coffees and huddling against the icy morning.

They might not have made me for a reporter, but the closest cop guarding the scene did, his glower telling me not to bother asking for a statement. Im sure Hey, I know what happened to your dead guy would have been a guaranteed conversation opener. But then what would I say?

How do I know? Um, I had a vision. Psychic? No. I can only see the past-a talent I inherited from my father. More of a curse, really, though Im sure he thinks otherwise. Maybe youve heard of him? Lucifer? No, not Satan-thats a whole different guy. Im what they call a half-demon, a human fathered by a demon. Most of us get a special power, like fire, telekinesis or teleportation, without a demons need for chaos. But that chaos hunger is all I get, plus a few special powers to help me find it. Like visions of past trauma, which is why I know how your victim died. And I can read chaotic thoughts, like the one going through your head right now, Officer. Youre wondering whether you should quietly call for the ambulance or pin me to the ground first, in case my psychotic break turns violent.

So I stuck to my job: reporting the news, not becoming it. I found a likely target-the youngest officer, buttons gleaming, gaze following the news cameras, shoulders straightening each time one promised to swing his way, then slumping when it moved elsewhere.

As I approached, his gaze traveled over me and his chin lifted to showcase a square jaw. A smile tweaked his lips. When I took out my notebook, the smile ignited, and he stepped forward to intercept me, lest I change my mind.

Hello, there, he said. I havent seen you before. New at the Gazette?

I shook my head. Im national.

His eyes glittered, envisioning his name in Time or USA Today. I always felt a little bad about that. True News was a national publication, thougha national supermarket tabloid.

Hope Adams, I said, thrusting out my hand.

Adams?

Thats right.

A flush bloomed on his cheeks. Sorry, I, uh, wasnt sure I heard that right.

Apparently, I didnt look like this officers idea of a Hope Adams. My mother had been a student from India when she met my dad at college. Will Adams, though, was not my biological father, and half-demons inherit their appearance from their maternal DNA.

As I chatted him up, a man lurched from behind the cenotaph. He peered around, his eyes wild behind green-lensed glasses. Spying us, he strode over, one black-nailed finger jabbing.

You took him, didnt you?

The officers hand slid to his belt. Sir, you need to step back-

Or what? The man stopped inches from the officer, swaying. Youll shoot me? Like you shot him? Take me away too? Study me? Dissect me? Then deny everything?

If you mean the victim-

I meant the werewolf.

The officer cleared his throat. There, uh, was no werewolf, sir. The victim was-

Eaten! The man leaned forward, spittle flying. Torn apart and eaten! Tracks everywhere. You cant cover it up this time.

A werewolf? said a woman, sidling over as she passed. I heard that too.

The officer slid a small can you believe this? smile my way. I struggled to return it. I could believe that people thought this was a werewolf; thats why True News had sent their weird tales girl to cover the story. As for werewolves themselves, I certainly believed in them-though even before the vision Id known this wasnt one of their kills.

Sorry about that, the officer said when hed finally moved the conspiracy theorist on.

Werewolves? Dare I even ask where that rumor came from?

The kids who found the body got all freaked out, seeing dog tracks around it, and they started posting online about werewolves. I have no idea how the dog got involved.

I was already mentally writing my story. When asked about the werewolf rumors, an officer on the site admitted he couldnt explain the combined signs of canine and human. Thats the trick of writing for a tabloid. You take the facts and massage them, hinting, implying, suggestingAs long as no one is humiliated unfairly, and no sources are named, I dont have a problem giving readers the entertainment they want.