Hunting the Demon

On Sale fall 2007

Prologue

N ic Diavolo stood in the dark place, hundreds of clawed hands reaching for him. They tore at his clothes, raking at his skin, the creatures’ voices like a cacophony of humming bees. Now the buzzing grew louder, a chant of triumph as they surrounded him.

They’d finally won. All these years the monsters had chased him, and he had always run. Run as hard as he could, always slipping and falling, but he’d always stayed ahead of them. Always escaped.

This time, he had slowed down. Stopped. Turned and let them catch up, watched as five turned to ten. Then twenty-five. Then a hundred or more of the creatures. Horrifying in appearance, with their red eyes and long fangs, their dirty, claw-like fingernails reaching out to him.

When they reached him, he expected to scream.

This was it. The moment he had spent a lifetime fearing.

They touched him, their nails raking over his naked skin. He shuddered at the first touch, revulsion and dread filling him.

But they didn’t shred him to pieces, didn’t sink their dripping talons into his flesh, didn’t growl as if they wanted to tear him apart.

They stared at him in awe, touched him with reverence, bowed their heads.

He was their king.

At that moment, Nic realized something monumental.

He felt no fear.

And that was the most frightening thing of all.

Take your place.

He heard the voice, but didn’t understand, couldn’t see anyone around him.

You’re home, son.

Recognition struck. It was his father. But Nic was confused, didn’t understand the command.

These are your people, Dominic. You belong to them, and they to you.

Nic shook his head. Something wasn’t right. He didn’t belong here with these creatures.

“Dad?”

All he heard was soft laughter.

“Dad!”

The laughter faded, and he was once again alone with the beasts. They beseeched him wordlessly with their groping hands, their mumbled adoration. He began to suffocate as they closed in, unable to breathe as they pressed against him.

No! He didn’t want this! He wanted answers, goddamit!

“Dad! Where are you?!”

The shrill alarm blasted Nic into an upright position. Covered with sweat, his heart hammering his ribs, he slammed his hands onto the mattress and blinked against the darkness, fighting for breath.

What. The. Fuck. Disoriented and shaking, he struggled for time and place.

His bedroom at the house in Sydney. No monsters. Not real.

Dreams.

Man, that was some weird shit.

Always the same. Okay, maybe this one wasn’t exactly like the others. But still the same theme as the rest of them. Monsters and him and wandering around in the dark in search of…something. Seemed to be every night lately. Would they ever end?

He leaned over to the nightstand and punched a button, watching the slow crawl of the drapes as they opened, revealing a semicircle of floor-to-ceiling windows connecting him with the outside world again. With reality. It was still dark outside, but at least he had the comfort of the lights from the harbor, boats in the water.

Sydney was alive and breathing, even at five in the morning. And that was good enough for now. Sunrise would come soon, banishing away the last vestiges of the dream from the recesses of his mind.

He rubbed his temples, sucked in air, and shook it off. So he had dreams. So what? Too much partying is what he attributed it to. And not enough sleep. In every respect, Nic was normal. Healthy as can be for a thirty-three-year-old male.

Right.

“Fucking freak of nature, is what you are,” he mumbled as he slid out of bed and grabbed his board shorts out of the suitcase he hadn’t bothered to unpack yet..

The waves were supposed to be kickass right now. They were the only things that would have brought him home. Not that anyone was here anyway. His father wasn’t, which was typical. And even if he had been here, he wouldn’t have noticed Nic if he’d paraded naked into the kitchen with a girl under each arm.

He smirked at the shock value of that visual. He might have to try that sometime to see if it got a reaction from his dad or his uncle Bart.

Probably wouldn’t.

With a loud yawn, he stretched, then slid into his shorts and shirt, went into the bathroom to brush his teeth, ran his fingers through his hair and splashed water on his face, hoping to shake off the nightmare.

One would think he’d downed enough booze on the plane from Singapore last night to sleep like he was in a coma. But oh, no. Sometimes he was lucky enough to remember the dreams.

Or cursed. He wished he couldn’t recall them with such clarity.

The dreams terrified him. And he was too damned old to be scared of monsters in the dark.

As he came out of the bathroom the first line of dawn slipped above the horizon. He grinned, adrenaline pumping blood into his booze-soaked veins.

Time to catch a wave.

And forget about monsters.