Daimon by DANIELLE BOLGER (my miracle luna book free read txt) 📕

I flashed the time on my phone again: 3:05. I decided that enough time passed contemplating my dilemma and action had to finally be taken. Gray-haired had to die.

I slinked off the roof, keeping as quiet and out of sight as possible, and slipped into the neighbor's backyard. Jumping the side gate, I entered the street footpath and turned next door. I reached out to press the doorbell with a finger, but then used a knuckle instead. Alex had claimed that she would protect me, so long as I followed orders. I believed the Foxes would, but that would all change in the future, as soon as I went back to plucking off their members; just as soon as I learned how to kill a daimon. When that time arose, I did not want to give them any evidence that could be dredged up against me. I would have to learn the art of invisibility very soon, since the Foxes were not the only possible enemies that the near future could hold for me.

The door had not opened. Anxiously, I pushed the button again, and held it down, though the decibels did not increase. Finally, I heard some footsteps in the hall. A little hard on hearing, Grandpa?

I stole a quick glance at the time; 3:10.

“Hello?” the man enquired through the half-open door. While clearly in his fifties, it was interesting to view him from this vantage. He did not appear as meek as he had just prior. He was my height, quite toned for someone his age, and there was a hardness to his eyes, like he had seen a century's experience, not half that.

“Hi, oh, I'm so glad your home,” I stated sweetly. “I tried next door but they seem to be out. I hate to be an inconvenience, but I was hoping I could use your phone? My car broke down just over there and I'm meant to meet up with my friend who lives near here, but as I turned the corner here the engine just cut out. I'm so close too, it's silly really, but at least it's not on a major road or anything. Anyhow, I was hoping I could borrow your phone to call her and get her to pick me up? I have my cell.” I brought it out from my pocket and displayed the blank screen. “It died on me, too. You know what they say, when it rains it pours.”

He eyed me suspiciously for a moment. “They also say tragedy occurs in threes.” He returned my smile. “Let's contact your friend before something else happens then. Come in, this way.”

I followed him down the hall, breathing slightly heavy after the dribble I just served. I had used that one a couple of times in the past, when I wanted to get a look into some politician's, or other person-of-interest's home, and it always worked like a charm. People can be so trusting of a damsel in distress; it's laughable.

As I walked through the hall, I eyeballed the pictures on the walls. There was one of the gray-haired man with a gray-haired woman, and another where the couple was with a little girl. Then there was a picture of just the girl herself. She had a toothy smile with a space between her two front teeth.

I was brought to the kitchen, where the man picked up a cordless landline from the wall and handed it out in front of him. Just as my hand made contact with it the man introduced himself. “My name is Greg, by the way. Gregory Fletcher. Do you mind telling me who you are?” He had not let go of the phone.

“I… I...” I stammered, surprised at the introduction. “I'm Jane. Jane Kirra.”

He nodded and released the phone. “Do you mind if I make myself some tea? I find it quite soothing. Would you like one, too? I have a few different assortments: Earl Gray, English breakfast, green, and chai.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

As he made his way through the kitchen he continued, “I never used to really care that much for them when I was your age. To me, they tasted bitter and the chamomile effects cancelled out the benefit of the caffeine, making the drink seem pointless. You see, I was always so busy with my work and my many clients, but my wife—she loved them. Claimed they were healing tonics for the body and the mind. She drank them all the time, and it seemed like they did really work for her, since she was always so relaxed and calm. They worked for her mind, anyway, but when it came to the body, no tonic was strong enough.”

I grasped the phone tightly in my hands, unsure how to proceed. I knew I was running out of time, the clock on the wall said 3:19, but sentiment stopped me from interrupting his speech.

“The doctors say it was cancer, but it wasn't. I killed my wife.”

He paused at the sound of the kettle reaching a screech. Unloading it from the stove, he poured the water into a cup, which steamed violently.

“Others may have considered it ironic, that it was cancer that claimed her life, but they and the doctors only knew half-truths. Though I never struck her, it was me that was responsible for her death. It was through my neglect, my absence.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I only had to notice the signs earlier: her failing strength, her dizzy spells, her long naps. I missed them all. I was too busy in the midst of my work. Still, even through all the chemotherapy, it was tea that soothed my dear Betty. It was about the only thing she could keep down. Then, just when I had learned to enjoy a mug with her, it proved to be her last.”

He indulged in a gratified sip. “I enjoyed that cup with her as we sat hand in hand in this very home because I knew that her life would be the last I would take from this world. I retired from my profession the day my love retired from life. I told them I would not kill again; I could not bear to have anybody else harmed. I did not assassinate Betty as I had countless others, but one's identity will always infect those around them, whether intentional or not.”

A moment of silence lingered as Greg stared into his steaming mug. “Thank you, for letting me tell you my story, and for telling me your name. It has always been something that I believed very passionately in; that a target should know the name of their killer.”

There was a clatter of glass as the teacup shattered on the tiled kitchen floor. Warm red drops joined the scolding brown liquid. They drenched his soft suede slippers and threatened to douse my own ballet flats that were just a foot from his.

Greg coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. “So, you are one of their toys? I thought you were, since you're not carrying any weapons.” He raised a white hand limply to my face. His touch was ice. “The moment I saw your eyes I knew, but then there was that smile. You're just like them, but then somehow...you seemed human, too.” He coughed spasmodically, this time spraying blood into my face.

My hand tightened around his heart, enjoying the small force it made as it continued its pitiful writhing.

“The monster has been slain, only to give way to a greater one,” he husked, barely managing to maintain his consciousness. “Please, don't let her see...Don't let her know this, I'm begging you. It's all I care about in life anymore—it's my dying wish. Just let her be.” His eyes rolled towards the back of his head. “Betty, forgive me for what I have done.”

The blood spilled forth from the gouge in his chest swiftly, as life drained from his cooling body. The heart was beating fast, then slow; it was losing its rhythm. With a yank, I retrieved the organ and consumed it. Before I let Greg fall to the ground, I saw the life whimper out completely, like a suffocated flame.

Again, it was tasty; brilliant, happy; erotic, heavenly; but for the first time, there was a hint of bitterness to it. The effect of the tea, I wondered? I did not really think that was it; perhaps, it was his calmness, his expectedness, his acceptance. He was ready to die. He believed he deserved it, and so he welcomed death with a cup of tea. This concept awakened uneasiness in me. Was it the suggestion that all killers deserve to be killed? I glanced over by the teapot where another mug was poured; I could just see the faint steam rising from it. It was an invitation for me to give up my killing as well.

I picked up the cup and poured it down the sink before wiping the handle with a tea towel. “I wish it were that easy, Greg.”

“Dad, is that you?” The voice of a young woman drifted from just down the hall. Then his words hit me: Don't let her see. It was not his dead Betty he wanted to hide from, but to keep the girl, his daughter, from seeing his violated corpse.

“Dad?”

With not even time for one of my quick dashes, I ducked under the counter, crouching over Greg's limp form. I stole a quick glance at the wall clock behind me: 3:41. This was the reason for the deadline; to escape before the girl returned home. That left only a ten-minute gap, meaning the cleaner was either incredibly efficient, or that the girl was meant to see her father desecrated. Was that it? Was that the message the Foxes wanted to send? Was that my purpose, to create a horrific mess of the sole parent this girl still had?

“Dad!” she called out again, voice coming from just outside the kitchen. “I swear I heard somebody just now,” she muttered. “Where is he? He should be here.” She breathed deeply as something caught her attention.

I looked around my side frantically, trying to discover what gave me away. The body was tucked behind the counter, I was completely out of sight, and even the pool of blood and shattered teacup were hidden. The extra mug likewise was placed in the sink. There was nothing to expose me, not so soon anyhow. The only thing that was touched was the damned teapot, but that was hardly out of place. Then I saw it from above me; the steam that still drifted from its spout.

Her footsteps quieted as they neared my side of the kitchen bench. She sensed something was amiss. She was not a target, and I very much doubted that she would be a hit man like her father. She was just a young woman who was too punctual in returning home. It was a shame that such a simple behavior would lead her to be murdered.

She neared closer, and finally her footsteps stopped just before the corner of the kitchen counter. She gasped.

It was the blood that she saw, first. Then, as she took another shaky step, I knew that a slipper would be revealed. She let out a whimper; she recognized the red-stained shoe as her father's.

“No, Dad!” she cried as she rounded the full corner where I greeted her face on. Her face was frozen in horror as she realized that she would soon follow her father's fate. With her mouth gaped open, I could see her incisors, just a couple of millimeters showing from the edge of her top lip. The space between her two front teeth was as present as in that photograph framed on the wall.

I too was frozen. An inch apart from the girl, so close I could feel her body heat from the air alone, so close that I could smell her fruity deodorant. I noticed the school uniform that she wore, and the unruly couple of pimples that blemished her skin. I also could not miss that look in her eyes; that breaking point of fear, hatred, and despondence. I saw the innocence die from her, swiftly and painfully. She was no longer a child.

Panicked, I shoved her furiously to the floor, but