Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) (9 page)

Scott could barely speak, could hardly find the words. “Y-you get o-out of here,” he managed, his face going a shade paler as I slowly approached.

I showed him my palms, glancing around the store confusedly. There was no one else in there, no other staff or customers to speak of. It was just me and him, and the two of us had no beef with one another, had always gotten along fine. Why was he so scared of me?

His next bit of stammered speech made it clear.

“Get... g-get the fuck outta here, Lucian.” When I appeared incredulous, he continued. “D-don't gimme that look, like you don't remember coming in here. I don't k-know what you were on, but you aren't welcome here anymore, a-and if you don't get the fuck out now, I'm calling the cops.” He reached for the bat, clutching it to his chest and backing up against the wall. “I-I'll hit ya, bro.”

 
I took a step back, hands still raised. “Whoa, now. What the hell are you talking about?” My memories of the prior night were fuzzy, bordering on non-existent, but I felt pretty sure that I hadn't visited a record shop in my demon-driven haze. “I wasn't here last night, Scott. I... I...” Turns out I couldn't really tell him
where
I'd been the night before, so I just let it drop. “Put down the bat, man. I'm not going to hurt you.”

 
Scott shook his head fervently, his brow dotted in sweat and his ordinarily rosy cheeks glowing like hot coals. His chest was heaving beneath his vintage Blondie T-shirt, and his thin wrists were flexing as he gripped the Slugger afresh. “Y-you came in here last night all kinds of fucked up, man. You assaulted me, threw me down onto the counter in front of all the customers and demanded to know where we kept the Stooges records. Said you were... were gonna...” He trembled at this part. “Said you were gonna kick my head clean off my shoulders if I didn't give you
Raw Power
and
Fun House
on vinyl. After I gave you those, you literally ran out the door, faster than I've ever seen, and knocked a few displays over on your way out. Y-you need to leave. Now.”

 
A lot of bizarre shit had gone down in the past twenty-four hours, but this one was too out there to believe. The Stooges? The gritty, proto-punk band fronted by Iggy Pop in the 70's? I stood there and started laughing in Scott's face. “Dude,” I said, “that's a good one, but you know I'm not into them. I hate that kind of shit, it's too loud. For stoners. Has no structure.” My smile fell away pretty quick after that, because Scott was still holding onto the bat and was slowly leaning over the counter like he intended to bean me across the head with it. “Look, man...” I started, “I don't know what happened here last night, but... I, I mean... you
know
me, Scott. I'm not... this doesn't add up!”

Scott took a feeble swing, knocking over a small case of nicknacks and strewing them all over the floor. “Get out!” he shouted.

 
“Fuck, fine!” I backed out of the store, bumping into a young woman who was coming in, and then quickly beat it across the street. Unsettled by the exchange, I jogged all the way home, wondering just what I'd gotten up to the night before. The cops
had
been after me. A demonic, late-night visit to the record store wasn't completely out of bounds, but I had a hard time believing that demon-possessed Lucian had stormed in to search for some shitty 70's rock records.

I scrambled up to my apartment and locked the door behind me, wondering if I wasn't going to hear the peal of sirens in the distance. Would the Veiled Order take care of everything for me? Kubo had gotten the police death squad to back off in the abandoned house earlier, but he wasn't here now to beat them off of my doorstep. I looked out the peephole for a while and then edged my way into the living room.

“I don't believe it,” I muttered. “Scott's a friend. I wouldn't just march in there and do that. And of all the records to steal... It was probably some junkie that looked like me.”

I rummaged around in my cabinets for my bottle of Johnny Walker Blue, still mostly full and reserved for special occasions, and poured myself three fingers' worth. Then, palming at my forehead, I ambled into the living room to my turntable. I was developing one hell of a headache.

There, atop the glass cover, were two records I didn't recognize. I picked them up and glanced them over before throwing them to the ground the next instant, as though they were blisteringly hot.

 
Raw Power
and
Fun House
. Stooges records.

“Aw, shit.”

THIRTEEN

I spent that evening cooped up in my apartment, standing by the window on the lookout for flashing lights, in my underwear.

I mean, what else is a gun-toting, demon-hearted badass supposed to do with his time?

 
Fixing myself drink after drink, I couldn't seem to enjoy my usual buzz. The stuff was hardly touching me, its sedating effect completely absent, so that around midnight I finally hung it up and put my collection of bottles away. Over the course of hours I tried watching movies.
Die Hard
was on, and I sat through the first ten minutes before trying some home improvement show on for size. A little later I tried reading a few chapters of
The Picture of Dorian Grey
, except that I couldn't focus on the prose. My eyes skipped around the page so that virtually nothing sank in.

I couldn't stay still.

I know a thing or two about what it feels like to be on drugs, and this was as close to a combo of speed and cocaine as I could imagine. Fidgety, hyper-aware and hyper-paranoid. Not the best feeling in the world.

Pacing around my apartment like a madman, I decided to give music a try.

 
From my stacks I pulled an old favorite of mine, an original pressing of Coltrane's
My Favorite Things
. It was a masterpiece, a record I'd had a hell of a time hunting down, and I'd paid a pretty penny for it. The minute it'd come across Sam's desk I knew I had to have it. The old softie had saved it for me before putting it on the shelf, knowing I'd been looking for it. I felt bad as I loaded up the record. I'd fucked up last night, and now my favorite haunt in town was off-limits. Demon-possessed or not, why had I decided to go to Sam's? Why had I roughed up Scott and stolen merchandise that I didn't even care for?

“My Favorite Things” came on, the familiar piano sounding, accompanied by scarce splashes from the cymbal. Then the soprano sax kicked in, Coltrane's melodious lines weaving slowly into improvisational territory. This was a hell of a track, a dynamite opener, nearly thirteen minutes long, and it never failed to cheer me up. The soothing effect of the album was always doubled by the time “Everytime We Say Goodbye” came on. I flopped across my couch and listened with closed eyes.

But I felt nothing.

Blinking confusedly, I sucked in a deep breath and focused hard on the meandering piano solo that was firing up just then.

Nope.

This music sounded like straight-up garbage.

 
“What the hell?” I muttered. That couldn't possibly be right. It was possible I just wasn't in the mood for jazz, but a complete dislike for the record was unfathomable. I'd listened to
My Favorite Things
after breakups, after failed exams, awful days on the job. It was my stress-relief record, and a hell of a lot cheaper than valium. So, why wasn't it working? Why was the searching, complex soprano making me suddenly upset? In that moment, I wanted to bat the record off of the player and stomp it to pieces.

There was no accounting for the anger that spilled through me half-way into the opening track. I sat up, red in the face, heart pumping with vigor, and looked to my turntable with a grimace as though it'd just betrayed me. Clawing at the ratty armrest of the sofa, I forced myself onto my feet and sauntered over to it, turning it off. The resultant silence was a welcome change, but the anger remained firmly in place.

Flexing my fists I stalked around the living room like a caged animal. Heat was radiating off of my body and sweat was marking the armpits of my t-shirt. I took it off and threw it over my shoulder, into the kitchen. Peeking at the thermostat, I found it set to a comfortable sixty-eight degrees. Why the sudden rush of warmth, then?

 
The left side of my chest throbbed, the pounding of my new heart sending wave after wave of raw heat through me. It was the demon, probably. Shaking my head, I walked to the fridge and pulled out a water bottle. I pressed it to my forehead, relishing the coolness, and sighed. “I dunno about you,” I said, “but I just want to relax. What's the matter? Not into jazz? I pictured demons as real cultured, sophisticated types. Is that just a stereotype in the movies?” Cracking the lid off of the bottle, I took a long gulp. “You could stand to be a little more like Al Pacino in
The Devil's Advocate
, you know that? He was evil, but seemed pretty fun. You? You're just a
dick
. I feel like I'm going into menopause over here.”

The warmth persisted, intensified. It felt like I had a fever, except the fever was somehow sentient and attempting to crawl out of my skin. I peered down at my bare midsection, surprised to find the skin red and dotted in sweat. Returning to my turntable, I rifled through the rest of my collection, trying to find something else to listen to. So, the demon wasn't into Coltrane. Perhaps Tchaikovsky would calm it down.

 
I loaded up an old record full of classical pieces, the first of which was Tchaikovsky's
Marche Slave
.

You wouldn't know it by looking at me, but I'm quite a fan of classical music. In college, I was in with the student orchestra's social circle, and maybe that was where I'd first developed a taste for Chopin, Beethoven and others. Or, come to think of it, maybe it was those horny orchestra chicks, whose hours of practice on the cello allowed them to do things with their nimble hands you wouldn't believe, that first spurred my interest...

 
Either way, I had a decent-sized collection of classical works, both on vinyl and digital, and listened to them with frequency. It only took me a few bars of impatient listening to realize that
Marche Slave
, also a former favorite, sounded like complete shit. With a good deal less care than I usually afforded my records, I reached into the player and yanked the thing out, tossing it across my living room like a frisbee. The fever was growing. I felt like my insides were slowly melting, pooling in my gut. The heat made me feel lethargic, and yet a profound anger surged on, seeing me stomp across the room in circles.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, kneading at my chest. The left side was getting sore for the thumping of my heart. I balled my fist and gave my left breast a hard tap, trying to quiet the active organ down, but it only seemed to writhe harder in protest. “I just want to relax, goddamn you. Let me relax!”

 
On the floor, where I'd left them, were the two Stooges records I'd apparently stolen from Sam's the night before. “What, you want me to turn on this shit?” I stooped down and picked up the first, called
Raw Power
, and tore off the thin plastic wrapping. With all the finesse of an angry kindergartener, I removed the record from its sleeve and put it on the turntable, adjusting the volume so that I wouldn't annoy my neighbors. “Here you go, you asshole. Enjoy.”

The record started turning and the first track began.

From the very first note, I was released from my fever.

A charging guitar broke through the air at once, accompanied by thumping, hypnotic bass and a thick wall of drums. I stood there, stunned at the sound. It was gritty, grungy, unlike anything I'd ever heard. Scanning the sleeve, I found the name of the song, “Search and Destroy”, and even started tapping my foot along with the first chorus.

I'm not the kind of guy who listens to rock n' roll. I mean, alternative rock, indie rock, the types of rock that are popular nowadays with the artsier crowd, are all right. I'm not above listening to something on the college radio stations if it makes me more well-rounded, and I've gone to more lame gigs to watch awful rock bands in the hopes of getting laid than I care to count. But stuff like The Stooges has always been too chaotic and loud for my tastes. Low-brow.

 
That's why it was such a surprise when I found I
loved
it. Something, seemingly deep inside of me, was really getting off on Iggy Pop's frantic vocals and the fiery roar of electric guitar. There was a beauty in it, beneath all of the lo-fi grit. What I'd once cast aside as violent and unrefined was now tickling my earholes like nothing else, and I cranked up the volume further, swaying side to side as the opener heated up.
 

The heat within my body had dissipated, or else I was enjoying the music so much I was no longer cognizant of it. The anger I'd felt faded into the background, but a high energy remained. This music was amping me up like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. My limbs twitched, the muscles taut, and a great excitement coursed through me. The demon, apparently, was a big fan.

Pumped up beyond all reason, I pounded my fist to the music, my knuckles pressing firmly into the edge of my oaken writing desk.

I was startled as the desk disintegrated into splinters with a single punch. The sturdy wood gave way like an eggshell and the mass of papers and trinkets atop it tumbled to the ground along with the shattered fragments that'd once been furniture.

The music faded into the background for just a moment as I surveyed the damage.

 
No way in hell I'd punched clean through the desk. Putting a few dents in the wood was reasonable, maybe, but this was more damage than any untrained man should have been capable of. The desk had been made of thick wood, far thicker than those panels that martial artists punched and kicked through for practice. I'd broken the thing, reduced it to a jumble of splinters, and I'd done it
effortlessly
. Clenching my fist and staring at the wreck with wonderment, I picked off a few flecks of dust on my knuckles and looked to the turntable.