Deamhan (2 page)

And that’s when she saw her first Deamhan.

In the writhing crowd, a woman tossed back her head and laughed. She twirled her pale hands above her head as she danced, her long brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. A true professional at mimicking human movements, she’d made a flawless attempt to hide her true identity. The darkness hid the most visible signs, but her razor-edged teeth could not be masked. “She’s a Deamhan Ramanga,” Veronica whispered into the deafening din. Even as she said the words, she felt her heartbeat pick up its pace.

A baby-faced guy dancing with the Deamhan seductively snaked his arms around her tiny waist and ground his pelvis against her. Is he crazy? The boy had to see those teeth up close and personal. He had to know she could sink them into his tender flesh at any moment. Why didn’t he run?

Every child who grew up in The Brotherhood knew the tales of the Deamhan. Teenagers in the organization played pranks and blamed their stunts on these creatures, whether or not they believed in their existence. Every tale described the Deamhan as being bloodthirsty as starving wild dogs. These ruthless creatures didn’t think twice about killing anyone, including researchers and those they sired. They maintained their secrecy by hiding, remaining unknown to the world around them. They weren’t as old as the vampires but even the vampires feared them. But here they stood, in a vampire club, doing what they wanted without anyone to tell them otherwise. They walked, talked, danced and conversed with their human food.

Alert to their presence now, Veronica scanned the crowd. Deamhan, it seemed, popped up everywhere. Many danced in groups, though some danced alone. Others danced with a single partner, human and Deamhan alike. Yet fear didn’t exist, except in Veronica’s fluttering chest. No one else cared.

The cities of Minneapolis and Saint Paul had turned into a breeding ground for the Deamhan. The cities had to deal with progressive but painful development stages, and Veronica had noticed these changes immediately upon her return to the city. The downtown skyline had undergone transformation by skyscrapers. Condominiums had popped up on any land that could support them. The Mall of America—an oversized mega-center supporting the habits of shopping addicts who could spend a month’s salary in a day—had expanded in the years since she’d left. As if it needed to be bigger. The new attention the city earned also affected the Deamhan. Minneapolis no longer fit its moniker of “Mini City.” The Deamhan adapted to its growth and changes to survive. Dark Sepulcher served as an excellent example of how well—and fearlessly—they’d adapted.

Still, one thing about Minneapolis remained the same. Its seasons never changed. Always—forever—would come winter, spring, summer, and Veronica’s favorite, fall. Autumn brought relief in cooler weather, longer nights, and colorful trees spreading their blanket of decaying leaves across the ground. A sudden memory of her mother raking the yard, stuffing leaves into orange bags painted with jack-o’-lantern faces sprang into Veronica’s mind. She remembered how they decorated their house with cardboard cutouts of Frankenstein, ghosts and vampires. Now here she stood, walking among their kind.

“Yep. Minneapolis has definitely changed,” she whispered to herself again. “And so have I.”

She pushed the recollections to the hindmost part of her mind. She had to focus, couldn’t let her guard down, even for a moment. This place was theirs. Here, the Deamhan walked without fear.

But so did the humans.

To her right, a large crowd had gathered at the bar, cheering on a man who chugged a full bottle of vodka. A cadaverous woman with blonde dreadlocks stood behind him, caressing his shoulders with red-tipped fingers. Her formal black dress accentuated svelte curves, and her crimson lips formed a perfect “O” as she cheered on the drinking man. Even from several yards away, Veronica could see the bright white contrast of the woman’s spiky teeth.

When the man downed the bottle’s last drop, fists and shouts pierced the air, and the bartender passed another bottle to the blonde Deamhan. She suggestively licked the neck of the bottle, revealing her pointy canines and passed the bottle to the man, who thrust it over his head, then resumed his guzzling.

Veronica shuddered and turned away, immediately spotting two Deamhan males. They ogled the dancing crowd with lusty eyes as they moved like liquid throughout the club, indifferent of being known and unhindered by any repercussions it might cost them.

Veronica felt a gentle tap on her right shoulder and jumped. She whirled around, coming face-to-face with a young waitress with a tray tucked under her left arm, her right hand perched on a pillar.

“You want anything?” she screamed above the music.

Veronica only shook her head, startled by the woman’s bizarre appearance. She wore a black wife beater, faded black pants, and her mascara was smeared and smudged. She winked and smiled a welcoming smile, then turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd.

The music thundered even louder now, and Veronica returned her attention to the dance floor. Two dancers clad in sheer white shirts, micro-minis, and fishnet stockings gyrated on a raised stage in the center of the dance floor, while the horde of men below them at floor-level clawed at their feet. One of the dancers placed the spiked heel of her knee-high boot against a man’s forehead and shoved him backward. Like shamans in a ritual trance, the men and women twirled their hands and moved their hips from side to side.

Veronica stared at the performance until the rapidly blinking dance lights caused vertigo to set in. Feeling nauseous, she turned and leaned against the railing that separated the dance floor from the rest of the carpeted venue. She swallowed back bile, resisting the urge to regurgitate the ham and cheese sandwich she’d wolfed down earlier.

The tiny hairs on the back of her neck danced. She felt the waitress standing behind her and stiffened. Veronica knew it was vital to hide her thoughts from the Deamhan, and she did her best to make her mind a blank slate by imagining a brick wall.

She’d heard the stories from her best friend Sean Fechin about researchers in The Brotherhood having their thoughts invaded by a Deamhan. It was just one of their various abilities. They couldn’t control humans like vampires could with the sounds of their voices. Instead they forced themselves into a human’s brain, scouring it for any information they desired. Each of the researchers told Sean it hurt like hell.  

“You okay?” The waitress tapped Veronica on the shoulder.

Veronica slowly turned around, trying to envision a blank wall.

“You sure you don’t want anything?”

A bottle of Jack popped into her mind. “Whiskey.”

“Whiskey?”

“Yeah, just whiskey.”

The waitress twisted her mouth into a wry smile. “Whiskey it is, then.” She headed for the bar.

Veronica turned back to the dance floor, appreciative that the music had changed tempo and volume. A slow song oozed throughout the club. One of the dancers left the stage, men trailing behind her like hungry pups. She stopped just outside the bathroom door, and the men jammed into one another like cars at a traffic light. The dancer graced them with a sultry smile, blew a kiss, and closed the door behind her. As if the spell she’d held over them had broken, the men glanced at each other in confusion, then each headed back toward the dance floor.

The waitress seemed to appear out of nowhere again, and she placed a shot of whiskey on the table in front of Veronica.

Veronica handed her a five. “Keep the change.”

“Thanks.” She folded the bill between her fingers with one hand, and tucked it in her cleavage. “Anything else I can do for ya?”

“Yeah. How long has this place been open?” Veronica glanced around, feigning awe. She didn’t expect hiding her thoughts to be so difficult.

The Brotherhood had Goliath-sized manuals about dealing with the Deamhan, if you encountered one. All new researchers were required to read and study the book prior to their first honorary mission into the world of the Deamhan. But Veronica refused. Instead, she took the route of the non-professional. She practiced the “How to Control Your Mind” exercises from Dummy books she’d loaned from the library in San Diego. Sean also helped by smuggling copies of affidavits from field researchers that explained how they’d reacted when they were in the presence of a Deamhan. She relied on these stolen copies to help her survive in this new world. Now, she hoped she’d studied enough.

The waitress rolled her coal-rimmed eyes to the ceiling and tapped her chin. “It’s been here forever.” She shrugged.

“It’s always packed like this?”

She smiled. “Oh, yeah. Everyone comes here. There’s nothing else to do in boring Minnea-snore-a.” She gave Veronica an once-over appraisal. “You here by yourself?”

“No, I’m with a friend.”

“Well, have fun. It’s a kick ass club.” She waved and walked away.

Veronica tossed back the whiskey and gagged as it stung the back of her throat. The volume of the music increased again, and the crowd’s jollity changed with it. They cheered, pumping their hands at the DJ booth in unison. The DJ whistled into his microphone in response, nearly deafening Veronica.

She finished the rest of her whiskey, sipping slower this time, as she scanned the crowd. Her stomach gurgled a complaint against the harsh liquor. She sought the bathroom door again and noticed a crowd of women pushing in. Better go get in line. This could take a while.

Veronica excused herself through the crowd, passing another group of scantily dressed teenagers. Her eyes settled on an older couple nestled quietly in a corner booth. Their arms wrapped around each other in a quiet embrace, watching the dance floor. How odd.

Cautiously, Veronica pushed open the bathroom door. A group of women stood in various poses in front of the cracked and broken mirrors near the far wall. She stepped over the clumps of matted hair and wet, crumpled toilet paper on the bathroom’s white-tiled floor, noticing the wet garbage lining the sinks and stalls. The toilet in the last stall overflowed, spilling its nasty contents onto the floor. The bathroom’s filth contrasted the rest of the club. Dozens of different conversations overlapped one another, and the sound of the running toilet grated Veronica’s nerves. A few of the women glanced up, then continued pasting on make-up in blotches of cherry, amber, peach, tan, purple and black.

Not all of them were human. One woman, particularly ghostly, applied a heavy layer of face powder to give her skin a normal hue. She painted her eyes, lips, and cheeks to eliminate her Deamhan markings. Veronica saw the dancer, now standing in front of the mirror brushing her hair. She chatted freely with the Deamhan woman, giving her tips on what kind of makeup appealed to men.

A chill snaked up Veronica’s spine.

The dancer shoved her hand into her red backpack and pulled out more cosmetics to add to the many bottles and tubes littering the sink.

Veronica approached the sinks, her steps tentative. The dancer watched Veronica’s silent approach in the mirror. In one swift motion, the female Deamhan scooped her belongings into an oversized handbag and pushed her way out the door. The other women followed, leaving Veronica and the dancer alone.

Veronica adjusted the water temperature to cool and prepared to splash her face, but was afraid to take her eyes off the dancer. She knew she should say something, but “Hello” might sound bold.  “What a nice night” seemed silly. “You’re a really good dancer.” Nah. The woman would think she was hitting on her.

 “You have to wait a minute,” the dancer said as she stared at Veronica’s hands.

Veronica glanced down and then jerked her hands from the milky water gushing from the faucet. In a moment, the water ran clear.

“Thanks,” Veronica said. “I nearly put that on my face.” She noticed a healing scar above the dancer’s collarbone, slightly discolored. A scab wound extended from the middle of her back down to her cleavage, stitched together with dried blood. Healed bite marks covered her neck.

The Brotherhood called them minions—humans who spied and reported to their Deamhan owners the details of who, what, when and where. They were mentally unstable, dangerous, and they vied to be sired by serving their masters well. They dreamed of becoming powerful and immortal like the vampires they’d seen in movies or read about in books.

“How did you get those?” Veronica asked, pointing to the dancer’s scars.

The dancer glared. “That’s really none of your business.”

Veronica dropped her head and murmured an apology. She snatched a paper towel and dried her hands. “Sometimes I don’t think before I open my mouth,” she added.

The dancer’s shoulders relaxed and she returned to brushing her hair. “It’s okay. You aren’t the first person to ask.”

Veronica knew she wouldn’t be the last, either.

The dancer turned to her again. “I’ve never seen you here before. You a first-timer?”

“It’s obvious, huh?” Veronica appraised her own clothing in the mirror. Her faded black shirt revealed its age and tiny holes. Her blue jeans were ripped at the knees, but that was fashionable, right? She looked down, noticing the fraying cuffs and her scuffed shoes. Fashion had never been her thing.

The dancer coughed a laugh. “No, not really. Anything goes at Dark Sepulcher.” She struck a pose in the mirror, pursed her fire engine red lips, and blew herself a kiss. “See ya, toots.”

As she strutted out the door swinging her tote behind her, two women rushed in, nearly knocking the dancer down, but she never spoke up nor broke stride.

The two shoved into the nearest bathroom stall together, slamming the stall door behind them.

What the hell?

A loud bang echoed from the stall, rattling the adjoining booths in domino effect. Following loud and furtive whispers, a fit of giggles erupted from behind the wooden door. A leg covered in bruises and welts jutted from under the door.

As Veronica tiptoed to the exit, the stall door flew open and slammed the wall. A tall, dark-skinned woman stood up, straightening her black leather mini skirt. Completely naked from the waist up, her small breasts sported erect nipples. She grinned knowingly and lifted her skirt, flashing Veronica with black, boy-cut underwear with the word “sexy” glittering in red.