Boyfriend From Hell (Falling Angels Saga) (15 page)

As I ran, the questions raged:
Drug dealer? Gun runner? Philanderer? Imposter!
Armando was not the man my mother believed him to be. And the familiarity between him and Señora Marisol wasn’t son to mother, or housekeeper to master. This was something different altogether. The thought of it set my heart racing.

By the time I reached the familiar street, my lungs ached, my breath coming in short ragged bursts.  I stopped, bent over, hands on knees, welcoming sweet fresh air into my lungs.

Ahead of me stood the house where I’d met Señora Marisol and helped Armando with the art. The street was quiet… well, almost. Armando’s house was lit up, lights in every window. A party was going on. A couple or small group arrived every few minutes. Some of them I recognized from the art opening.

As I regained my composure, I came up with a plan. I was about to become the uninvited guest. I’d crash Armando’s party, and when he saw me, he’d have no choice but to come clean.

I swallowed hard, realizing if I was wrong about Armando, I’d seriously be grounded forever. But I wasn’t wrong. I knew he wasn’t who he pretended to be. I just didn’t know what he was up to.

I was moving  toward the house when I heard someone call my name. I recognized the voice instantly. Guy Matson. I turned.

He was walking  toward me out of a shadow. He had on a snug-fitting, light blue hoodie and jeans. The hood was pulled up and cinched around his face. The blue hoodie bathed in the yellow of the street lights gave his complexion a swarthiness that made him handsomer than ever.

“Guy? Where have you been?” The ache in my stomach eased just a bit. Not because I knew he was my boyfriend, but because I knew he was all right.

He smiled his smile, and I nearly forgot why I was there. “It’s complicated,” he replied. “I’ll explain later.”

He pulled the hood back off his head. His hair was deliciously disheveled. I wanted to run my fingers through it.

“I thought something happened to you,” I said. My shoulders tightened as I waited for his response. His smile widened.

“You worried about me?”

I could feel my cheeks redden. “Of course I’m worried.  But I can’t imagine why,” I added, trying to hang on to a bit of dignity.

He continued moving  toward me until we were inches apart. I looked down at his left wrist and saw the braided-paper bracelet was still there. The ache in my stomach eased a bit more. My eyes moved to his lips. I could almost taste his sweet kisses in the back of my mouth.

“Isn’t it kind of late for you to be roaming the streets?” he said. “What are you doing around here?”

Oh, right. Armando.

My reason for being on the street came flooding back. As we stood under the street lamp, I told him everything, which was difficult considering I was staring at his lips the whole time. But somehow I got it all out. He listened patiently, never once interrupting me with a surprise kiss.
Darn him!

“So, you’re going to crash this creep’s party and bust him, huh?” There was a devilish smile teasing the corners his lips.

“That’s the plan. Hey, why don’t you come with me? Two party crashers are better than one.”

“I’m not much of a party crasher,” he said. “You sure you want to go in there?”

Of course I wasn’t sure. It was the last thing I wanted to do. But I knew I had to. I nodded.

“Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll be waiting for you when you come out.”

“You’re going to miss all the excitement,” I said in a playful sing-song. I was trying to make it seem like fun, when in reality I was wondering if I could muster the courage to confront Armando. Guy’s presence could provide the confidence boost I needed. “You sure you don’t want to come?” I said in my most flirtatious voice.

“This is
your
thing. The real fun begins when you get out.” He winked at me, and my heart jumped.

Knowing Guy would be waiting for me with nibbles and kisses would have to be incentive enough to continue with my plan. For the first time in a week, the pain in my stomach was gone. But there was something new churning in the pit of my stomach—fear. Yet knowing that I hadn’t been dumped gave me courage to deal with it.

Guy escorted me to the stoop.

“Give him hell,” he said, patting my shoulder gently.

“You bet I will.” A few arriving party goers walked past us and up the steps. I noticed they let themselves in. It was my turn.

Before I could chicken out, I climbed the stairs behind them, turned and waved to Guy who had an odd look in his eye. No time to wonder why. I pushed open the door and entered.

The hall was lined on both sides with brightly burning candles, giving the place an eerie sense of gloom. The smell of incense was stronger than ever. The couple ahead of me continued down the hall toward the rear, where many voices could be heard. They turned right, their footsteps moving away from me  toward the voices.

This place is bigger than I thought.

I was alone in the corridor. I could see candlelight spilling from the rooms that lined the hall. What I hadn’t realized from the outside is that the entire house was lit by candlelight. Again the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. This was not a party I was crashing. This seemed to be a séance, or some kind of cult thing.  

The front door behind me opened and closed. Someone was coming. I pretended to admire one of the large paintings that hung on the wall. From the sound of the approaching footsteps, two people were moving  toward me.

Could Armando and Señora Marisol just be arriving?
I angled my face away, hoping they wouldn’t recognize me.

“Don’t dally, sweetheart,” a female voice said from directly behind me. “You won’t want to miss it. Nights like this don’t happen very often.” It was a kindly voice. Definitely not Señora Marisol.

“I’m coming,” I replied, dutifully.

I allowed the pair to pass. Two women, both in their early forties and well dressed. I waited until they moved to the end and made the right turn.

Nights like this don’t happen very often.

The words teased at my confidence. Maybe this was the wrong time to confront Armando. Maybe I was in danger. If this is the lair of some maniac cult, I was very much in danger.

At that moment, I wanted to run from the house and into Guy’s waiting arms. But if I told him what I thought was going on in here, he’d think I was crazy. Anyone would. Armando was in some kind of cult, maybe he was even their leader. It did sound crazy.

I’d been staring at the large painting for several minutes, but until then I hadn’t actually looked at it. It was one of the paintings I’d seen on my earlier trip to the house. An empty field. But in the candlelight I could now see the field wasn’t empty. The outlines of ghostlike people frolicking in the field was suddenly clear. The people were naked.

Quickly my eyes darted from painting to painting as I took in all the landscapes that hung on the walls. None of them was empty as I had thought. All of them contained ghostlike, frolicking, naked people.

The chatter down the hall quieted. People began whispering: “He’s coming. He’s coming.”

As afraid as I was, I couldn’t leave now. I had to know exactly what Armando was up to. If I didn’t find out now I might never find out. I knew I might be in danger, but Guy was outside waiting for me. If I didn’t come out, I was sure he would notify the police.

That didn’t exactly make for a warm and comfy feeling, but under the circumstances, it was the best I could hope for. I sucked up every ounce of courage I could muster and headed  toward the voices.

#

When I made the turn in the corridor, I spotted an open door at the end that led to a basement. Candlelight streamed up the stairs. My heart leapt into my mouth. In every horror movie I had ever seen, when a lone woman went into a darkened basement, she did not fare well. But this basement wasn’t dark. It was well lit. And it wasn’t empty. It was filled with people.

Nothing bad can happen here,
I told myself.

I tried convincing myself this was different from some old horror movie.

My self-convincing worked. I started downstairs.

The basement was wall-to-wall people, men and women of various ages, all standing shoulder to shoulder. The only open space was the area around an altar at the front. The altar, illuminated by the light of a hundred tall, thin candles, was adorned with grotesque demonic drawings in red and gold. Traced on the floor before it was a large circle containing a five-point star.

An ornate door beside the altar opened. Armando and Señora Marisol stepped into the room. A reverent hush settled over the crowd. In the bright light, I could see that Señora Marisol’s expensive-looking coat was actually a long hooded black robe. The hood was now up, encircling her face, her graying hair jutting out from the sides. Armando wore an identical robe. A pendant with an all-seeing eye hung around his neck.

They entered, Armando stepping into the center of the circle, Señora Marisol by his side.

“Followers of darkness, the year is one.” Armando’s melodious voice resonated throughout the room. “The time for darkness is once again upon us.”

An exalted cheer rose from the crowd.

“Hush,” he breathed, and they quieted.

Satanists, I thought. Armando is a Satan worshipper. Worse. He’s their satanic leader.

He stepped from the circle, careful not to touch the crudely drawn edges. Señora Marisol was now alone in the ring. “Witness the omnipotence of my power,” he called, his booming voice rising, ricocheting off the walls. “My human servant for fifty-ought years, Señora Marisol, shall feel my grace. And you shall bear witness to my almighty power.” He turned to her. “Kneel,” he commanded. Slowly she knelt before him, her head bowed.

“I shall have no other gods before me but Thee, Oh Master,” she cried.

These people
are
crazy. Lunatics. What have I gotten myself into? I’ve got to get out of here.

I took a step backward, inching toward the stairs.

Kneeling before Armando, Señora Marisol made a reverse sign of the cross and waited.

“For your years of service, I shall bless you...” Armando’s sentence trailed off as he touched one finger to her forehead. At that moment a surge of energy shot through the room. Señora Marisol screamed. It was a bone-chilling scream that shattered the silence.

She keeled over onto the floor, writhing in pain, yet never leaving the circle. “OHHH!” She moaned loudly.  “Please! Oh, Master! PLEASE!” she screamed. It was as if she were being murdered.

I peered into the faces of the followers. No one moved to help. All seemed delightedly consumed with her pain. I looked at Armando. His eyes were transfixed on Señora Marisol. They glowed bright, luminescent red. It was as if electricity was emanating from within him.

An illusion,
I thought. They’re performing some kind of carnival trick for the crowd. They really are crazy.

I had inched my way to the staircase. Everyone’s attention was on Armando and Señora Marisol, so no one noticed me moving away. I took one step up, away from the madness.

The stair creaked.

The writhing and moaning on the floor abruptly stopped. Señora Marisol lay motionless.

For a moment I thought I’d been busted until…

“Rise!” commanded Armando.

As soon as he spoke, she began moving again, rising from the floor with catlike grace. Armando reached out and threw back her hood. “YOUTH!” he cried. “I bless you, my loyal servant, with eternal youth.”

Señora Marisol was now young and beautiful. Her once graying hair was now a thick, raven mane of luxurious curls that flowed to her shoulders. The creases that once road-mapped her face were gone, her complexion clear, flawless, and youthful. She stood erect, a gorgeous twenty-five year old.

I rubbed my eyes. What I had just witnessed was impossible. Unless… No.  I didn’t dare think it.

The crowd began to chant. “The year is one, welcome Satan… The year is one, welcome Satan,”the chanting grew to a fever pitch. Señora Marisol now joined in: “The year is one, welcome back Oh, Master,”she cried, her voice rising above the others.

Armando looked over his satanic followers, a tight smile on his lips. His pupils narrowed to slits, his eyes suddenly glowing a fierce, iridescent yellow. He raised his hands, miraculously levitating several inches off the floor.

“The year is one!” he cried. “We shall not be UNDONE!” The final word boomed off the walls. No man could make his voice behave that way. But by then it was clear to me Armando was
no
man.

There was more show to come, but I didn’t see any of it. I was up the stairs and running down the long corridor for my life. My mind was a tangle of thoughts, blending together into one incoherent jumble. Yet through the fog that clouded my mind, one thing was crystal clear—Armando, my mother’s boyfriend, was the devil.

When the knock came at my bedroom door, I’d been at it for hours. How could I sleep knowing what I knew.

“Come in,” I called.

Matt and Erin entered, looking around, trying to make sense of what they were seeing. I had called them both earlier, asked them to come over and let themselves in. “An emergency,” is all I said.

It was morning, yet the drapes were drawn tight, keeping the sunlight at bay. Dimestore crosses and crucifixes were everywhere, in every imaginable size. Several cardboard crosses I made myself dangled from long strands of electrical tape from the ceiling. A large circle, similar to the one at Armando’s, had been drawn on my bedroom floor in charcoal. My desk and computer had been dragged inside the circle. I now sat at the computer working away.

“What’s going on here?” said Matt. He appeared stunned, as he took it all in.

“Why are the drapes drawn?” asked Erin.

I looked hopefully over at the window. Daylight has a way of turning things imagined in the night to dust—boogie men in the closet, monsters under the bed. But daylight did nothing to diminish what I’d witnessed the night before.  My fear was as strong as when I ran from the house. I was scared to death.