Demon Road

  MILO WOKE AMBER BEFORE five, stirring her from a fitful sleep. She had dreamed of demons and horns and the castles of hell, and she had dreamed of her parents chasing her. She had dreamed of herself as a monster, drenched in blood.

  She turned over in her cot and cried silently.

  When she had showered and dressed, she joined Milo in the kitchen. He’d made himself a coffee, and poured a juice for her. They drank in silence, listening to the soft sounds of snoring that drifted from Edgar’s bedroom. He had gone to sleep like an excited schoolboy after quizzing Amber about everything she had seen and heard. Her entire experience was now on paper, told through the crazy scribbles and hieroglyphics that was Edgar’s handwriting.

  Everything except the time limit, the number that was now burned into her wrist. She wasn’t going to embark on this journey with Milo already viewing her as a screw-up. If she could come away with only one thing from all this craziness, it was going to be the respect of the people around her.

  Her wrist ached slightly, and she glanced at it. The numbers now read 500.

  Four hours gone already.

  Amber pulled her sleeve down quickly to cover it, as Milo laid the map he was perusing on the countertop. “Wisconsin,” he said, tapping the old, creased paper. “And right here is Springton, Dacre Shanks’s old hunting ground. It’s about fifteen hundred miles from here. We’ll be taking I-75 for some of it, but we’re going to be doing our best to stay away from traffic. Your folks will be pulling out all the stops by now, and we don’t want to be spotted by any of their people.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Twenty hours of driving, maybe twenty-two, if we were taking the quickest route. But because we’re not … I don’t know. Add another six hours on at the least. Twenty-eight hours on the road, driving eight hours a day, is a little over three days.”

  “We can drive more than eight hours a day,” said Amber. “I’ve got my learner’s permit: we can alternate.”

  “We won’t be alternating.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m the driver,” said Milo, in a tone that suggested finality, “and we’re taking my car, and, while I’ll be able to travel longer at the start, it’s going to quickly average out at eight hours a day of driving time. You don’t have to know why. You just have to know that those are the rules.”

  “Whatever,” she muttered. Three days to get there, maybe a day to find Shanks and talk to him, which would leave her with seventeen days to find the man they was looking for and deliver him to the Shining Demon. Plenty of time.

  “We’ll need to change vehicles before we leave Miami, though,” Milo said.

  Amber frowned. “You think my parents know what we’re driving already?”

  “It’s not that,” Milo said, shaking his head. “For a trip like this, we need a special kind of car.” He took her empty glass, and washed it and his mug in the sink. “I’m also going to need an advance on the money, by the way.”

  “How much?”

  “Five grand ought to do it.”

  “Right …”

  He looked back at her. “You think I’m going to abscond with it?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “No, not at all, it’s just—”

  “You don’t know me,” said Milo, putting the mug and glass down to drain. “Imelda does, but you don’t. You don’t know if I’m trustworthy.”

  “She trusts you.”

  “But you don’t. And why would you? I’ve done nothing to earn your trust. Handing over five grand to a guy you’ve just met and whom you don’t yet trust would seem to be a stupid thing to do.”

  “So I shouldn’t give you the money?”

  “No, you should,” he said. “I’m just pointing out the corner you’ve been backed into. Trust me or not trust me, you’re going to give me the money because you don’t have a choice.”

  “I’m confused,” said Amber. “Is this a life lesson I should be making a note of?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that lesson is, are you?”

  “You’ll never learn it if I just tell you,” Milo said. “Ready to go?”

  “Uh yeah, OK,” she said. “Should we say goodbye to Edgar?”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “Because that’s what people do. They say hello, how are you, goodbye, and they say thanks for your help.”

  “Edgar doesn’t need any of that.” Milo folded the map, and Amber watched how it shrank into a neat little packet. She’d never have been able to do that so cleanly.

  It had stopped raining. They got into the SUV, and she passed him a money roll. He flicked through it, counting the five thousand, and nodded. She lay across the back seat, the blanket over her once again. Milo turned on the headlights and they got back on the turnpike. The roads were still quiet.

  It was warm under the blanket. Amber yawned, closed her eyes. She wasn’t going to sleep. Sleep meant bad dreams. Sleep meant monsters. But when she opened her eyes and sat up they were pulling up outside a dark house somewhere in outer suburbia, the sky only just beginning to lighten, birdsong threading the pale air.

  “Grab your stuff,” Milo said.

  They got out and took their bags from the back. Amber stood holding hers while she watched Milo go round to the passenger side. He opened up the glove compartment, took out a gun, and clipped the holster on to his belt. Then he closed the door, pressed the fob, and the SUV beeped and locked.

  “Are you a cop, or something?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  He walked into the darkness between two houses. He didn’t tell her to follow him or to stay, so she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and she followed. They came to the side door of a garage. Milo took out his wallet, searched inside it for a moment, and came out with a key. He opened the door and went inside. Amber waited a few seconds, then followed.

  He shut the door after her, and locked it. Amber stood in complete darkness. The window had been boarded up. Milo moved around her.

  “Is there a light in here?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered.

  She dug into her shorts, came out with the matchbook that Edgar had given her. She struck one and light flared.

  A long table against one wall contained all manner of tools and engine parts. She could suddenly smell oil, like the curiously sweet aroma had been holding itself back until she could see what she was smelling. A car covered by a tarp took up most of the space in the garage.

  “You took his matches, huh?” Milo said, putting his bag on the table.

  “Oh. Uh yeah. I forgot to give them back. I didn’t think it’d be a big deal.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Milo said. “I took the powder flask.”

  Her eyes widened. “He paid a lot of money for that. Isn’t he going to be mad when he finds out?”

  “Don’t see why he would be,” said Milo, moving to the tarp. “It works for you and you’re going to need it again, with any luck. Why would he be mad about that?”

  “Because it’s not mine.”

  “Edgar doesn’t care about things like ownership. He doesn’t even own the condo he’s living in.”

  “He’s renting it?”

  “He’s stolen it.”

  Amber frowned. “How can you steal a condo?”

  “By pretending to be the son of the elderly owner so that you can ship her off to a home for the infirm.”

  She gaped. “That’s horrible!”

  “Not really,” said Milo. “The owner used to be a nurse who mistreated her patients. Edgar made sure everyone in the home knew about it, too.”

  “Oh,” said Amber. “Well, I guess that’s okay, then.”

  Milo pulled back the tarp, revealing a black car, an old one, the kind Amber had seen in movies, with a long hood and a sloping back.

  “Nice,” she said.

  He looked at her sharply. “Nice?”

  She hes
itated. “It’s pretty. What is it?”

  “It’s a 1970 Dodge Charger, and it is a she.”

  “Right,” said Amber. “She’s very nice, then.”

  Milo walked round the car, looking at it lovingly.

  “The reason we can only travel eight hours a day,” said Amber, “is it because your car will fall apart if we go longer?”

  “You see any rust?” Milo asked, not rising to the bait. “Storing an old car in this humidity is not generally a good idea, not for any length of time, let alone twelve years. But she’s different. She is pristine. Under the hood there she’s got the 440 Six Pack, three two-barrel carburettors and 390 horses. She’s a beast.”

  “Yeah. Words. Cool.”

  His hand hovered over the roof, like he was unsure as to whether or not he should actually touch it. Then he did, and his eyes closed and Amber wondered if she should leave him to it.

  “You, uh, really love this car, huh?”

  “She was my life,” he said softly.

  “Yeah. This is getting weird.”

  He opened the door, paused, and slid in. Sitting behind the wheel, his face in shadow, he looked for a moment like just another part of the car. She heard the keys jangle and she backed away from the hood. If the car really hadn’t been started in twelve years, she doubted anything was going to happen, but she didn’t want to be standing there if it suddenly blew up.

  And yet, when Milo turned the key in the ignition, the garage reverberated with a deep and throaty growl that rose through the soles of Amber’s feet and quickened her pulse. It was impressive, she had to admit that.

  Milo flicked the headlights on and they shone blood-red for a moment, before fading to a strong yellow.

  “Cool,” she whispered, and this time she meant it.

  THEY STUCK TO RESIDENTIAL roads as much as they could on their way out of Florida, staying off the expressway and I-95. Like she’d done in the SUV, Amber had to lie on the back seat, covered. She closed her eyes, but didn’t sleep – not at first. Instead, she listened to the Charger. It creaked when it turned. It seemed heavy. There was no confusing it with its modern counterparts, cars that acted as cocoons against the world around them. To ride in a modern car was to ride in a deprivation tank – to ride in the Charger was to ride in a streamlined behemoth of black metal. A beast, as Milo called it.

  Amber examined her hand, tried to remember what her claws had looked like. She was a beast, too, of course. A monster. Not a monster like her parents, though. They were predators – heartless and lethal. No, Amber was the prey, all innocence and vulnerability – except when she had her claws out.

  The way she had punched that boy – Brandon, his name was Brandon – hadn’t been weak. She probably would have killed him if she’d hit him any harder. She wondered if she could have hit him harder. She wondered how strong she was. She wondered what she looked like. Imelda was more beautiful as a demon than as a person. Her parents, too, had been taller and stronger and more beautiful. Amber wondered if the transformation would have the same effect on her, and found herself wondering what she’d look like taller, and slimmer, and prettier. She hoped her eyes didn’t change, though. She liked her eyes.

  She woke when they reached Homerville, across the state line in Georgia. Milo gave her a baseball cap and told her she could sit up front if she pulled the cap low over her brow. The further they got from Miami, he said, the safer she’d be. It was midday now. They passed through Pearson, and then Hazlehurst, and then Soperton – all brown grass and tall trees and identical houses with mailboxes by the road – and not one word was spoken the whole time.

  “Thanks for doing this,” Amber said to fill the silence.

  Milo nodded, didn’t say anything.

  “I know I’m paying you, and this is just a job, but I didn’t thank you earlier. I should have.”

  He didn’t say anything to that, either.

  A few minutes passed before she said, “Is this what it’s going to be like the whole way?”

  He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What is this like?”

  “You know,” said Amber, “the silence. The awkward, heavy, awkward silence.”

  “You used awkward twice.”

  “It’s very awkward.”

  “I like to drive in silence. It lets you think.”

  “What do you do when you’re done thinking? Or if you’ve got nothing to think about? Does the radio work? Maybe we could put on some music.”

  “But then we wouldn’t be in silence.”

  She sighed. “You’re really not listening to me.”

  “I like to drive in silence,” said Milo again. “You’re paying me, but this is my car and, since I like to drive in silence, we drive in silence. That’s just the way it is.”

  “Even though it makes me uncomfortable?”

  He shrugged. “If you can’t stand to be alone with your thoughts, maybe there’s something wrong with your thoughts.”

  “Of course there’s something wrong with my thoughts. I’m going through a very tough time.”

  “We all go through tough times.”

  “My parents are trying to kill me.”

  “We all have issues.”

  “Maybe I’m suffering from post-traumatic stress. Did you think of that? Did Imelda? No. She just offloaded me on to you and now here we are. I probably need major psychiatric attention and you won’t even let me listen to calm, soothing music. I could have a breakdown at any moment.”

  “You seem fine to me,” said Milo, not taking his eyes off the road. The endless, straight, monotonous grey road.

  “I’m a demon,” she said.

  “Like I said, we all have issues.”

  Amber glared. “Talking to you is like talking to a … a … Whatever.”

  She folded her arms and directed her glare out of the window. She didn’t intend to go to sleep.

  She woke to farmland and trees, a full bladder and a rumbling stomach. “Where are we?”

  “Outside Atlanta,” said Milo. “You can go back to sleep if you like.”

  She sat up straighter, pulled her cap off. “No. If I sleep any more, I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” The thought struck her. “Where are we sleeping tonight?”

  “We’ll find a motel.”

  “It better be a nice one. I’ve seen motels on TV and they look horrible.” They approached a gas station. “Can we stop here? I’m starving. And thirsty.”

  “There’s a bottle of water in the glove box,” said Milo, and didn’t slow down.

  She gaped as they drove by. “Seriously? Why didn’t you stop? I need food!”

  “We’re going to be stopping in an hour or so to fill the tank – you can eat then. It’s going to be the first full tank she’s had in twelve years.”

  “Is that so? Well, isn’t that lovely? I am really, really happy for your car, Milo, but what about me?”

  “Your parents and their friends, with all their vast resources, are searching for you. I’m not going to stop this car unless I absolutely have to. Now drink your water.”

  She punched the release for the glove box. It popped open and a bottle of water rolled off the stack of maps into her hand. She looked at the gun in its holster, sitting quietly in the light cast by the small bulb, and closed it up.

  “I also have to pee,” she said, twisting the cap off.

  “Hold it in.”

  Right before she took a swig of water, she scowled. “I’m not sure I like you.”

  Milo shrugged. That annoyed her even more.

  The water soothed her parched throat, but she didn’t drink much of it – her bladder was full enough as it was. “We must have driven more than eight hours by now, right?” she asked. “We’ve been on the road since before seven. It’s almost five now. That’s, like … ten hours.”

  “It took you a disturbingly long while to add that up.”

  “Whatever. So why can you only drive for eight hours?”

  “On average.”
/>
  Amber sighed. “Why can you only drive for eight hours on average?”

  “Because that’s my rule.”

  She looked at him. “You’re not a sharer, are you? Okay, fine, let’s keep this professional. Let’s keep this employer and employee. Let’s talk about, like, the mission. What do you know about this Dacre Shanks guy?”

  “Just what Edgar told us.”

  “What do you think he’ll be like? Do you think he’ll be nice?”

  “There are no nice serial killers.”

  “Well, I know that,” said Amber, “but he’s not going to kill us on sight or anything, is he?”

  “Don’t know.” Milo took a small iPad from his jacket. “Look him up.”

  She grabbed it off him. “You’re allowed to have internet access, but I’m not? How is that fair?”

  “Because your parents have no idea who I am, whereas they’ve undoubtedly got their eyes on your email account.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh yeah.”

  She tapped on the screen for the search engine and put in Shanks’s name.

  “Dacre Shanks,” she read, “the serial killer known as the Family Man. Oh God, do you know what he did? He kidnapped people that looked alike to make up a perfect family. Then he killed them all and started again. Says here he killed over three dozen people before he was shot to death, most of them in and around Springton, Wisconsin. We’re actually going to try to talk to this guy?”

  “All we need him to do is give us the name of the man who cheated the Shining Demon.”

  “And why should he give it to us when he didn’t give it to Edgar?”

  “Because Edgar posed no threat,” Milo said. “Whereas we do.”

  “Do we? He’s a serial killer who, like, came back from the grave. I know you’ve got your guns and you’re really good at being horrible to people, but do you seriously think you can threaten him?”

  Milo frowned. “I’m not horrible to people.”

  “Really? You really don’t think you’re horrible to people?”

  “No,” he said, a little defensively. “I’m nice. Everyone says it.”

  “Oh man,” said Amber. “People have lied to you. Like, a lot. But even if we could threaten him – is that a good idea, to threaten a serial killer who’s come back from the dead?”