Slayer (Slayer 1)

“Oh, thank you.” The demon breathes in deeply, sighing out contentment. He sits up straighter. “At least someone in here is happy.”

Cillian shrugs defensively at my accusing glare. “Can I help it if I look forward to seeing my boyfriend? We’re gonna watch Eurovision.”

“What did you think of their decision to have Australia back?” the demon asks. “Because I thought it was bullocks. I don’t care how good they were. It’s Eurovision, not Anywherevision!”

“It did sort of ruin the whole ‘guest event’ concept when they kept letting them come back year after year.”

“Hello?” I wave in front of Cillian’s face. “You do know he’s eating your happiness, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like anything.”

The demon shifts position again with a clanking of chains. “I can’t take away his happiness. It’s like if you spray perfume and I smell it. Just because I’m inhaling the scent doesn’t mean it leaves you.”

“Yeah, but smelling someone’s perfume is a little different from consuming their emotions.”

“Says you, a person who has never consumed emotions.” The demon shifts again. “Listen, it’s been, what, three, four days? Can I at least get a chair? Or a pillow?”

Cillian nods amiably. “Sure, mate! I mean, demon. I mean—do you have a name?”

“Doug.”

Horns. Black teeth. Virulent yellow skin cracked like desert ground.

“Yeah, you look like a Doug,” Cillian says, then turns and leaves.

I sigh, leaning against a table. “Details, then. It kills in the victim’s sleep. Bradford didn’t seem to be upset or in any pain until he just sort of . . . died. I didn’t really see the demon. There was more of a sense of it. Darkness. Shadows.”

“Interesting.” Doug breathes in through his teeth, making a strange whistling noise. “You’re sure it’s demonic? Not a vision?”

“Both.”

“Hmm.” He plays with one of his delicate gold hoop earrings. “Why would the demon kill this man, specifically? He the only one there?”

“No, there are a bunch of us.”

“If I were a demon who ate people, I wouldn’t pick an old man. I’d pick a tender young thing.”

“Gross! You’re awful!”

“You’re the one asking me to figure this out! Stop being so speciesist. I’ve never killed anyone in my life. I don’t even eat meat. I exist to make people happy. That’s it. That’s all I want. To be free and make people happy and also get backstage passes to a Coldplay concert. Think of how much I’d have to eat around Chris Martin. Doesn’t he seem like the happiest bloke?”

“Can we focus, please?”

“Fine. Think of why your man would be a target. Why a demon would show up now.”

“I mean, you did.” I pause, pieces moving slowly into place. “Actually, we’ve never had a demon problem until you showed up. Is it possible this is connected? To the hellhounds?”

“I’ve never heard of Sean employing something like what you described. It’s not really his style.”

“Something else hunting you, then? Or some other group?”

Doug’s eyes dart guiltily to the center of the floor. I follow them, but it’s just junk. A jumbled pile left from Cillian’s dad’s box.

“Look at me,” I say.

Doug drags his gaze back up to meet mine.

“What aren’t you telling me? Somehow you’re connected to this.”