Demon 2

By Samantha Lee

Once bitten – forever dead.

Wesley could have had it tattooed on his forehead – Victim First Class. He’s convinced that Camp Copperhead is going to be hell on earth and he’s not wrong – by the time he’s on the train he’s already been singled out by the smart-set bullies as the token loser.

But then the Dreamcatcher turns up in his back pack, and shortly afterwards Louella makes her entrance. She’s the coolest thing Wesley’s ever met and, unbelievably, she seems to like him too. As if by magic his tormentors start to get their comeuppance. But vengeance comes with a price. Will Wesley be willing to pay it when it comes to the final countdown?

Because in return for making all his dreams comes true, Louella wants them to be together not only ‘til death do us part’ – but afterwards as well...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha Lee
• Release date: Dec 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301352951

Samantha Lee

Samantha Lee began writing while she was still a professional performer. Her output is as diverse as it is prolific, covering both fact and fiction and including novels in the sci-fi and dark fantasy genres, self-development and exercise books, short stories and articles, TV series and movie screenplays, literary criticism and poetry. She writes her romance strand under the pseudonym Petra Webb. Her work has been translated into French, Dutch, Spanish, Swedish, Italian, German, Croatian, Greek and Chinese. Of her eighteen books to date five feature in Scholastic's best-selling imprint 'Point Horror'. A regular columnist for 'Work-out Magazine' for five years and 'The Marbella Times' and 'Viva Espana' for three, she has had over two hundred articles published worldwide. Seventy-eight of her quirky short stories have featured on radio and TV as well as in various best-selling anthologies and popular magazines. Her black comedy screenplay 'The Gingerbread House' has been sold twice, first to 'Niagara Films' then to 'Random Harvest Productions'. She has also written for Thames TV's children's series 'Rainbow'. Sam has taught creative writing workshops in libraries and at literary Festivals all over Britain and acted as Master of Ceremonies at Fantasycon 11. In the Year of Literature she was writer in residence during the 'Welcome to my Nightmare' weekend in Swansea. In 2008 her team 'The Frankensteins' won both the jury and audience awards in the '24 hour challenge' at the Marbella International Film Festival for their five minute short 'Death Dancers'. Sam wrote the screenplay and played the villain, Mamma Sam, a loan-shark with an eyepatch and a bad attitude. She was a jury member at Malaga University's 'Fancine' Fantasy Film Festival the year it was chaired by actor Antonio Banderas.

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DEMON 2

Samantha Lee

* * *

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Samantha Lee, 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The right of Samantha Lee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

First published as an e-book in 2012. Originally published in paperback in 2004 by Scholastic on their Point Horror imprint.

This e-book has been produced by Ryan Thomas.

Cover artwork Copyright Dave Carson, 2012.

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

For Des Parry – who provided the inspiration.

Demon 2

Ouch, he said. You bit me.

Sorry, babe, she smiled slyly, sliding her glasses back up onto the tip of her tiny nose. I don’t know what came over me. I guess I just got carried away. Then she put out her tongue and ran it over her lips, licking off the blood.

Wesley felt the goosepimples rise on his flesh. He knew he must be imagining it, knew it couldn’t be, but just for a second, in the semi-darkness under the tree, it almost looked as though the tip was forked.

Prologue

You got a visitor. The guard waited for Harley to stick his wrists through the bars to be cuffed, before triple unlocking the cell door.

Who is it? I ain’t expecting nobody.

How should I know? The guard applied the ankle restraints, prodding his prisoner into the corridor with his baton. Probably the IRS.

Very funny. Harley shuffled past the clutch of hopeless faces. Death row. End of the line. Pardon me if I don’t split my sides.

Death and taxes, said the guard with a grin. Only two things you can be sure of in this life.

The kid waiting in the visiting area couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Same age as Donny Maguire. Good looking in an ethnic sort of way. Native American cross. Olive skin. Blue eyes. High cheekbones. A young Johnny Depp with a touch of Lou Diamond Phillips thrown in for good measure. Red bandanna holding back shoulder length black hair. Stone washed jeans and a plain white T-shirt. Leather jacket draped across the back of his chair.

Harley had never seen him before in his life.

Miguel Coyote appraised the thin youth as the guard led him in. He had never seen Harley before either. Not in the flesh anyway. Seen him on the new-casts and in the papers, of course. Who hadn’t? But felt he knew him. Could smell him. Or at least the residue that the Demon had left behind. It often worked that way. When it was hungry, wanted a quick fix. Instead of entering the dream, turning it into a nightmare, it would sometimes infiltrate the subject direct, inciting it to some sort of savage and frequently atypical act, before withdrawing and leaving its victim to face the consequences.

But once in the system it never totally went away, always left a trace of evil behind. Hibernating. Waiting for another opportunity to break loose. Little drops of wicked. Dotted round in the most unlikely souls. Lost souls - like Harley Smithers. Make up artist. Would be actor. Assassin.

Just one more reason for Coyote to catch it. Stop it. Put it out of action permanently.

He thought he’d done that. Until he’d got the phone-call from Lori to say it was on the loose again. Lori was doing great. She really taken the ball and run with it. He would’ve been worried if he didn’t know the Dreamcatcher was somewhere else. Obviously the kid had the talent to make it on her own. Good luck to her.

She’d mailed the Dreamcatcher to him in downtown LA but Coyote had already moved to a new address and so it ended up in the hands of the next tenant, a young hopeful called Donny Maguire, who was working in a Pizza place to make rent.

Ten minutes. The guard withdrew, locking the door behind him.

Who’re you? Harley sat down and rested his cuffed wrists on the formica table-top, weighing up his visitor under hooded lids. What do you want?

Name’s Miguel Coyote. Doing Criminology at UCLA. Like to ask you a couple of questions if you don’t mind? For my thesis on ‘Motivation’.

Do I get a credit?

A credit?

Will my name be mentioned? Guy co-operates, he oughtta get a credit.

Sure. If you want one.

I want one. Shoot.

Coyote winced. Harley raised his eyebrows then laughed. A nasty sound. Hollow. Humorless. Slip of the tongue, he said.

Before you...before the incident with Donny Maguire, did you see anything unusual? Touch anything? Sign anything?

Sign anything? What? Like a seven year contract, I wish? No. Touch anything? See anything? What are you talking about? What sort of thing?

A lucky charm of some sort. Coyote leaned forward, lowering his voice. Do you know what a Dreamcatcher is?

Oh that? Harley nodded. You mean those round things with the feathers and beads? Sure. There was one hanging from the mirror when I was doing Maguire’s make-up. His face took on a bleak, vicious look. Uppity little swine, you know? he said. Had it coming. Treated me like I was nobody. Like I was dirt. Treated everybody that way. Would’ve got worse. I could’ve been where he was if I’d gotten the breaks. I mean, go figure. Delivering pizza to a Director who just happened to be looking for his sort of face. Only in Hollywood.

Is that why you did it?

Harley’s face clouded, confused. I don’t know. I think so. I mean where’s the justice? Here’s me been taking acting lessons, five years. Doing make-up to earn a crust. Spending it all on classes. Making all those famous faces look their best. Hiding the wrinkles, camouflaging the plukes. Networking like crazy. For what?

He paused, the bitterness of frustrated ambition creeping into his voice.

Who notices a make-up man? You might as well be invisible. And there he was. Little smart-ass. Little swine. One part. One movie. And the Oscar for best newcomer. Bang. Just like that.

Harley grinned. His face feral, like a fox.

Seemed like dramatic irony. You know? At the ceremony. Bang. Just like that.

But you had the rifle with you. How come?

Always had it with. Everybody carries a gun in La La Land. Protection. Place is fulla wierdos. Anyway I was on my way to a shooting lesson. You gotta take all sorts of extra skills in Hollywood. Riding. Swimming. Skydiving. Anything that’ll look good on the CV. Anything that’ll get you noticed at a casting. Some hopes.

He paused again. His eyes had taken on a vacant, far-away look. I suppose I thought it would be a way to get me noticed at last.

Five minutes of fame, said Coyote, eyeing the cuffs. Hardly worth it.

What do you know? Harley burst out savagely. What it’s like? To work your guts out. To eat your heart out. To be overlooked. Rejected. Time after time after time. And usually for some loser with less talent, less dedication, who just happens to know somebody who knows somebody. Sure. I had the gun with me. And suddenly it all seemed so simple. A way to make people notice. To get my name in the papers. Finally everybody would know who I was. Harley Smithers. The man who shot Donny Maguire.

Time’s up.

Want to know something funny? said Harley, as the guard dragged him away. They’re going to make a movie about it. And I don’t even get to play me. I don’t even get my name on the goddamn billboard. They’re going to call it ‘The Donny Maguire Story.’ Shee-it.

The Dreamcatcher, said Coyote urgently. What happened to it?

Search me. Took it for evidence I guess. Who cares? Who cares about anything in this lousy world? His expression was pure vitriol. He had it coming you know? Didn’t deserve to live. Donny Maguire. Stuck up little swine. Given the chance – I’d do it again. Hear me? I’d do it again.

The echo of his voice drifted down the corridor as the guard led him back to his cell. The scent of evil hung heavy in the airless air.

Miguel Coyote sat very still, trying not to breathe in. Harley Smithers would pay dearly for his five minutes of fame. This State still carried the death penalty. He would fry. He had shot Donny Maguire in cold blood. Murder one. No matter how long the lawyers managed to drag the thing out with appeals he would still end up strapped to a couch with the lethal injection dripping into his veins.

The frying would come later.

And would go on for a very long time.

1

The old man waited in the station concourse, close enough to the exit to beat a hasty retreat if the Fuzz turned up. Not that he was doing anything jail-worthy. Just trying to keep the wolf from the door. Selling a few trinkets. Beads, tooled leather wrist-bands, wooden peace-pipes carved in the shape of running deer. Cheap stuff. Nothing worth more than a couple of dollars.

Except for one item. The Dreamcatcher. That was worth a good deal more. Although you couldn’t tell by its appearance. It had obviously been in the wars. A round wooden ‘O’ covered in faded orange cloth and decorated with beads and feathers. A spider’s web center woven from cat-gut. A leather loop at the top.

In these days of animal welfare and political correctness, it was more usual to construct the middle part of such good luck charms from plastic or twine. But this particular Dreamcatcher dated from before the introduction of such niceties.

Way before.

So the old man waited patiently for a buyer, sitting cross-legged in a corner, out of the way of traveller’s feet, with his meager wares displayed on a grubby blue cloth. Waited and waited. Not just for any buyer. But for the right one to come along.

Wesley came into the concourse with his mother trotting behind.

Mrs. Stark was a nervous sparrow of a woman who fussed over her only son continually and talked incessantly about nothing at all. As if, should she pause for breath, the thoughts that rushed in to occupy the vacant space might frighten the wits out of her.

Now don’t forget Wesley, she said for the umpteenth time, You take your allergy pills in the morning, for your hay fever, and your pink medicine at bedtime to keep your chest clear. And I’ve put in insect repellent and sun lotion. Factor sixty. Make sure you use it. You know how sensitive your skin is.

Wesley, white and weedy, tall and thin as a string bean, nodded absently. He needed factor sixty sun lotion like he needed a hole in the head. He already looked like the answer to every bully’s prayer. A tan might at least have camouflaged the fact that he was a walking victim.

For mercy’s sake Donna, stop mollycoddling the boy. Wesley’s dad, newly arrived from parking the car and exasperated at his wife’s constant fussing, interrupted her barrage of instructions. He’s not going to die from a mosquito bite or a touch of sunshine. It’s the Blue Ridge Mountains he’s going to, not the wilds of darkest Africa.

Nathan Stark was a hard-boiled policeman. He had worked his way up from the beat by sheer guts and force of personality. Currently chief of the city’s prestigious Detective Squad, he had seen enough gruesome sights in his time to leave him with very little faith in the goodness of humanity. It was he who had insisted that Wesley go to camp this summer. To get him away from a mother who did him no favors by treating him like a permanent invalid. He suspected that his son was being bullied at school. A couple of weeks in the wilds was exactly what the kid needed. Teach him some survival skills. Toughen him up a bit.

Go get ‘em tiger, he said, slapping Wesley on the back.

Wesley staggered, his skinny frame bent almost double with the weight of the backpack that contained, not only a sleeping bag, hiking boots, enough clothes to last a lifetime and assorted cooking utensils, but the brand new hunting knife that Nathan had bought him as a going away present.

The inmates of Camp Copperhead were to be housed in wooden huts on the shores of Lake Sinister. Deep in the forest. Campfires and outdoor living. It was the sort of experience that Nathan, brought up in the big city slums, would have given his eye teeth to have had as a teenager.

Wish I was going with you, he said.

You and me both, said Wesley, who would have much preferred to spend the next fortnight in his room. Surfing virtual reality. Safe from the too real reality of insect bites and horseplay and the unwanted attention of his peers.

Bring me back a trophy. OK?

Sure, Dad, Wesley, smiled feebly. Just don’t hold your breath.

A glance at the Camp Copperhead brochure had been enough to make his blood run cold. Water-skiing, tennis, team-games, hiking, wood-craft, communal sing-songs and survival in the wild. The schedule consisted of everything that Wesley was not only hopeless at, but detested and attempted to avoid at all costs. This time he hadn’t been given the option.

It’ll be great, his dad said. Trust me.

Wesley, trying hard to appear convinced, only succeeded in looking more morose than ever. As to bringing back a trophy, he’d knew he’d got more chance of being struck by lightening.

I’ll just see him to the platform, said Mrs. Stark, gripping her handbag nervously.

Her husband grabbed her arm, maneuvering her towards the exit.

Lands sakes, Donna, will you leave the kid to make his own way? he said. He’s sixteen. Not six. Now let’s go. The car’s in a restricted zone. Look great, wouldn’t it, if I got a ticket?

"Wear your T