The Witch and the Englishman (Page 16)

At the time, I could do nothing more than watch passively. It was terrible, and I wouldn’t have wished the experience on my worst enemy.

I had done nothing to invite the entity in. I had simply had the misfortune of being a distant relative of a family who was very, very cursed.

However, Billy and his daughter weren’t cursed. The house was cursed. The land was cursed. And Lord help anyone who came into contact with either, let alone anyone who lived there.

I didn’t know what to do for either of them. That they were both on a path of destruction, there was no doubt. The blackness that invaded their auras wasn’t the demon. It was looming death. Imminent death.

I walked faster, tucking my hands in my jacket pockets. My friend, Samantha, had destroyed that demon last year. But that had been different. So different. An ancient family member had invited the demon in…a family member who had lived on until it had decided to take on Samantha.

No, I thought suddenly. It hadn’t been a demon. It had been a highly evolved dark master. It had been someone who had once been human, but no more. Someone who had elevated their status through wicked means.

Not a demon, I thought. A human who acted like a demon. There was a difference.

The thing I had seen in Billy’s house had never been human. I was sure of it. Its very essence was so…foreign.

I shuddered and continued on, wondering what to do about Billy and Liz, and who to speak to, but knowing the answers would come soon.

They had to.

Time was running out.

* * *

A half hour later, lost in dark thoughts, I rounded a corner, and stepped onto Rodeo Drive. I admired shop after shop, window display after window display, of some of the most famous brand names: Gucci, Valentino, Versace, Ralph Lauren, Jimmy Choo, Giorgio Armani, Cartier, Bulgari, Chanel, Prada, Fendi, and so many more.

I sighed heavily, as I usually did.

And, as usual, a sense of despondency overcame me. And not just because I had seen my first demon. These shops weren’t for me, I knew that. They were for other people, rich people, successful people. People who’d figured out the money enigma.

Not me, I thought. No, I had just enough to get through the week, until my next check.

I knew that money didn’t just magically grow on trees. Millicent had said it was a process of abundance coming to me. Not necessarily money. She’d also said for me to have faith. To keep that door open, and to not shut it firmly.

“Easier said than done,” I mumbled, as I passed Céline’s storefront, sighing at the rows of shoes and handbags.

Yes, I knew that my attitude, even now, was shutting that door firmly. But how to open it? That was the question.

I took in a lot of air, and did what I had read in one of those Law of Attraction books on money. I visualized myself spending imaginary money. I imagined walking into these stores and spending money that I didn’t have. Mostly, I imagined what it would feel like to have money. And for a few minutes, as I stopped before the Jimmy Choo shop and gazed at the latest shoe offerings, it felt heavenly. And, I had to admit, for a few brief minutes, I was about to capture that wonderful feeling of having abundance…and having exactly what I wanted.

Then I sighed…and continued on.

Fat lot of good that did me.

The shoes were still in the shop and I was still barely making it. I sighed again, and continued home.

I did, after all, have the evening shift at The Psychic Hotline.

My life.

Chapter Sixteen

I cut short my shift when I got a call from Detective Smithy.

No, my bosses at the Hotline wouldn’t be happy that my line was busy. They could also suck it.

Now, we were in my apartment. I was having wine, and plenty of it, especially after the day I’d had. Detective Smithy declined, saying he never drank when on duty. I told him we were talking about demons and possessions and were in my apartment, and tried to convince him that he was hardly on official duty. Smithy mentioned that he was never off-duty, and that he was always working cases, even in the shower. I thanked him for that visual.

His arrival at my house had been unexpected. I hadn’t bothered to straighten my house after buzzing him in. Anyone with a mustache like his wouldn’t care about dishes in my sink, or jeans over the backs of my dining room chairs.

Now we sat in my living room. He was on the couch. I was in one of my straight-back chairs. He was still wearing his cop uniform; that is, the long-sleeved shirt and boring slacks. He was rumpled, of course. Always rumpled. I was in jeans and a tee-shirt, and not so reumpled.

“They have Liz Turner under a suicide watch,” he said.

“A good idea, but I don’t think it will work.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s going to kill her, Detective.”

“When you say ‘It,’ do you mean the demon?”

“Yes.”

“And how would ‘It’ kill her?”

“My guess? Probably creatively.”

“And how…” Smithy struggled for words. He sat forward on the couch. His shoes were mostly unpolished and scuffed. “How on earth could it kill her?”

“It has complete control of her.”

“But how?”

“Possession. You’ve seen the movies.”

He stood suddenly, ran his fingers through his thick hair. He was a short man with thick legs. He paced before the couch. “But this isn’t a movie, Allison. Demons don’t possess people in the real world.”

“Then you don’t live in the same world where I live, Detective.”

“But how is it possible? I don’t understand.”

“There are worlds layered over ours. Higher and lower dimensions. Whatever you want to call it. But there is an unseen world that mostly stays unseen. Unless…”

“Unless what, dammit?”

“Unless someone opens a doorway of some type.”

Smithy digested this, and then sat on the couch again. “We have Liz Turner’s psychiatric test results. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. She’s one of the most extreme examples the jail psychiatrist had ever seen. You name it: delusions, paranoia, hallucinations.”

“Or possession,” I said, cutting him off. “I wasn’t talking to the girl. I was talking to the thing that possessed her.”

“A demon?”

“It called itself ‘the devil’ at some point, but I think it was being melodramatic.”

“Oh, God. This isn’t happening.”

“Denial doesn’t suit you, Detective.”