Page 39 of A Shade of Myself
9
According to Giulia’s intel,the demon lived just over the bridge on the North Shore in a trailer park. The residences were older but well-maintained, with personal touches like flowerpots, patio furniture, and cute gnomes and mushrooms adorning their lawns.
My eyes widened when I pulled up in front of the address I’d been given. It was like the demon’s memo on blending in consisted of one word: “flamingos.” Dozens of the pink plastic birds circled the place. Black beaks, black and yellow beaks, with sunglasses and without, hooked to a hose and spouting water, lying down, on one leg or two, the one trait they shared was watching me with vacuous eyes while heat shimmied up from the asphalt pad I’d parked on.
Shuddering, I walked up the front stairs, avoiding the railing that was one sneeze away from collapsing, but no one answered when I knocked.
“You looking for Kirby?” The pot-bellied neighbor watering his tomato plants spat a glob of phlegm into the dirt. “Try the playground. Likes to jog there.” He jerked his chin at a narrow road that wound through the trailer park. Sure. Exercise. That’s why the demon hung out there.
My stomach in knots, I thanked him and hurried back to my car. Finding my phone still dead due to a wonky connector cable, I cursed, unable to alert anyone that this fiend was cruising the playground like it was an all-you-could-eat buffet. I forced myself to obey the signs reminding drivers to slow down, while itching to slam my foot on the gas.
When I arrived at the playground, I wrenched the car into park, relieved to find the place empty. Then I took a second glance and almost broke into hives. The long metal slide would burn kids’ legs in the relentless August sun, the swing set listed precariously to the left, and the partially rusted merry-go-round was, quite frankly, a death trap.
It was the land that time forgot, a 1970s throwback, all sharp edges and splintering wood. The demon could just sit back and let kids tenderize themselves.
“Get back here!”
At the sound of the growly woman’s voice, I ran into the forest to my right, making eye contact with the demon for one moment.
It was glamoured as a young goth of Asian descent, with dyed black hair cut in a severe bob with short bangs. Black tattoos with intricate shading blossomed up her left arm and across her collarbone, clearly visible under her black tank top. She had a metal barbell piercing in one eyebrow, a ring through her septum, and studs in both cheeks where her dimples would be, as well as in the Cupid’s bow dip above her full purple lips.
She was quite striking and more in line with what a glamoured demon should look like, in my opinion, than the dapper Chester, former owner of a curio shop, had been.
There was a snap of twigs from up ahead, and I caught a flash of a boy with red hair. The demon slashed a hand across her throat at me and took off after the child, crunching dry leaves under her thick-soled knee-high boots with their heavy silver buckles.
“Stop!” My magic scythe slammed into my hand and I sprinted after the pair, trying not to trip over roots or lose my footing on the uneven ground as we ran in a wide circle back to the playground.
Even though my sides were burning, I wasn’t as fast as them and could only watch helplessly as the demon grabbed the child and shoved the struggling youngster into a black van, which peeled out.
“Fuck!” I took off after them, weaving through traffic, not bothering to try to be subtle about following. My dead phone was as useful as a brick. I was on my own with this kid’s life in my hands.
That poor boy. From his height I guessed he was about nine or ten. Was he Sapien? Ohrist? Could he fight back? Did he understand exactly how much danger he was in? Leaning on my horn, I swerved into the left lane, running through the light as it changed from yellow to red. I couldn’t let that van get away.
We crossed back into Vancouver over the Lion’s Gate Bridge, and I frowned as the demon-mobile turned into Stanley Park. Why would a demon take an abducted child there? The Sapien park was jammed with tourists and families while the Ohrist version was the Lonestar headquarters. I honked repeatedly at a truck that cut me off, making me momentarily lose sight of the van.
I rammed my sedan into a space barely bigger than it was between two cars, earning me the finger from the driver behind me. My heart was pounding because I never drove this aggressively, and my hands shook with adrenaline and the thought of failure. I shot into the exit lane, catching sight of the van’s brake lights as it took a curve up ahead, but by the time I rounded the treelined street to the long, straight stretch ahead, it was gone.
I pulled over. It must have gone into the Park. But how? I knew of only one entrance to access the Lonestar grounds, and it was clear on the other side. I’d never find the van if I took the long way round because Stanley Park was larger than Central Park in New York.
It would be great if I could access hidden spaces via the Kefitzat Haderech, but it didn’t work that way. Magically created destinations were a no-fly zone, unfortunately.
I eased my car back onto the road, driving slowly and scanning for a way into the hidden space.
There. A gap in the trees revealed a glimpse of the seawall, a path that curved in a ten-kilometer loop around part of Stanley Park, with the Burrard Inlet beyond. Superimposed over the opening, like a hazy phantom, was another version with towering cypress and pine and no concrete, joggers, or cyclists. I swallowed. Was I really supposed to drive toward it? If I was wrong, best-case scenario, I’d hit a tree. Worst case, I’d kill people on the seawall and then fly into the water.
A car behind me honked and I motioned for it to pass me. Gripping the wheel with clammy hands, I jerked my car toward the gap, stepping on the gas. The vehicle flew forward and I screamed, positive I was making a horrible mistake, but the sedan bounced out into the magic Park, hitting the narrow dirt road gently.
The black van was parked to the side.
I pulled up behind it and cut the ignition, bolting outside only to find that the van was locked. I peered in through the windows, but finding it empty, spun around, scanning the forest. The demon could be anywhere with the boy by now. Where in the real park did this correspond to? Everything was trees and more trees, except next to the van was a dirt trail leading down a slope to the water where a wooden dock had been built.
The blistering sun beat down, plastering my sundress to my back.
Stanley Park didn’t have a dock. Throwing a hand up to shield my eyes, I squinted at an outcropping far offshore. It kind of looked like Siwash Rock, but that made no sense. In the real park, Siwash Rock was this natural rock formation that was about fifty feet high, boasting these distinctive twisted Douglas firs on top. But it sat maybe thirty feet off the seawall in the water, whereas this one was quite some distance out.
A black boat that seemed to suck all light from the space around it, a nightmare version of Vancouver’s small rainbow-colored open-air ferries known as Aquabuses, sailed toward the rock. Except the Aquabus didn’t operate in the water around Stanley Park. It made stops along False Creek at popular destinations like Granville Island, Science World, Olympic Village, and the west end.
Was the demon taking the child to its lair? Demons did create homes in hidden spaces for themselves here on earth, but one could conceivably make use of an existing hidden space like the Park. I shook my head. That still left a lot of questions, like why the Lonestars allowed it, and how the demon had access to ferry service.
