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She pressed herself back against the wall and closed her eyes. She was breathing too loud. She was breathing too loud and he’d hear her, she knew he would. She peeked out again. He was still looking out of the window. The shotgun was still there.
She had no choice. She couldn’t go back, and she couldn’t stay where she was. She had to do something. She had to move forward.
Fighting the urge to break into a sprint, Amber took small, slow steps. She got to the side table without making a sound, then picked up the shotgun. It clinked slightly on the table and the man turned from the window. He was good-looking, somewhere in his mid-forties. His black hair had hints of grey. His narrow eyes were calm.
“You should put that down before it goes off,” he said.
“Get out of my way. Get out of my way or I’ll … I’ll shoot you.”
“Your hands are trembling,” he said. “Give it to me.” He reached his left hand forward slowly and Amber took a single step back and then there was somehow a pistol in his other hand, and he was aiming it right at her head. “Now you’re really scared,” he said. “Now you want to run screaming. That’s perfectly understandable. But I’m not going to move. You’re not getting past me.”
“Please,” she said, the shotgun shaking badly in her grip now. “They’re trying to kill me.”
“Then why aren’t you dead?” he asked. “Put the shotgun back on the table and go back inside the apartment.”
Tears ran down her face. “Please don’t make me.”
“Put down the shotgun.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“I’m not the one who’s going to explain it to you. Either shoot me or put down the shotgun.”
Amber shook her head, but found herself putting the weapon on the side table, anyway. The man slid his pistol into a holster on his belt before picking up the shotgun.
“Probably wasn’t even loaded,” she said quietly.
“No, it was,” the man responded. “You would have cut me in two if you’d pulled that trigger. Go back inside, Amber. Talk to Imelda.”
She didn’t have much of a choice. Amber walked back the way she’d come, hesitated at the apartment door, and then walked in.
Imelda saw her, held up a finger for Amber to wait.
“We’re keeping tabs on all of her friends, aren’t we?” she said into the phone pressed to her ear. “Exactly. I wouldn’t worry about this, Kirsty. We’ll find her. It’s only a matter of time. Okay, I’ve got to go. I want to check out the principal of her school.” She listened. “Because after that wonderful display yesterday, she knows for certain that the principal isn’t in league with us. Yes, I am clever. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Bye now.”
Imelda hung up. “Want some breakfast?” she asked, walking to the kitchen. She poured orange juice into a tall glass and placed it beside an assortment of croissants and pastries. Then she looked back at Amber and waited.
“What’s happening?” Amber said.
“It really is a long story,” Imelda said.
“There’s a man outside with a gun.”
“That’s a friend of mine, Milo Sebastian. You don’t have to worry about him. You have to worry about your parents.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
Imelda managed a smile. “You think they’re behaving oddly? That’s just because you don’t know them very well.”
“They’re demons. Monsters.”
“Oh, Amber … We’re all monsters. Metaphorically, I mean. The whole human race. We hate, we kill, we do terrible things to each other and to the planet. But we are also, in our case, actual monsters. With horns.”
“I really don’t understand any of this,” said Amber. “Please just tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m going to explain everything. But to start with I’ll have to show you. I’m going to change now, all right? I’m going to turn into … well, into a monster, just like your parents. And I want you to remain calm. Can you do that?”
Amber swallowed, and nodded.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to show you.”
“Okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Once again, I want you to remain calm. You’re perfectly safe.”
Imelda’s skin turned red and her teeth grew sharp and she had black horns and it all took less than a heartbeat.
Amber screamed, picked up a potted plant and threw it, but it fell short and smashed to the floor.
“You killed Henry,” Imelda said, dismayed.
“Help me!” Amber screamed.
“You’re panicking,” said Imelda.
“You’re a monster!” Amber screeched.
“This is not news to me.”
Amber sprinted for the door.
“You tried that, remember?”
A wave of pain swept through Amber, making her stagger but not fall. She pushed herself away from the door and ran for the window.
“What, you’re going to jump?” Imelda asked. “Really? We’re on the thirty-fifth floor.”
Amber grabbed a cushion off the couch and held it out with both hands.
“I’m not entirely sure what you mean to do with that,” Imelda admitted.
“You’re a monster,” Amber said, her voice cracking.
“Yes,” said Imelda. “And I hate to break it to you, sweetie, but so are you.”
Amber looked at her hands. Looked at how red they were. Looked at the black nails that had pierced the cushion she held.
“Oh my God,” she said, feeling how her tongue brushed against teeth that were somehow longer than they had been a moment earlier. Her head swam. She raised her hands, felt horns. “Oh God. Help me. Please …”
Imelda the Monster walked forward slowly. “Amber, I need you to calm down …”
Amber backed away unsteadily, leaving a trail of floating feathers in her wake. She began to cry.
“Stay away from me.”
“You asked me to help you. I’m helping you.”
“Stay back,” said Amber, voice breaking.
“Okay.”
“Help me.”
“Make up your mind,” said Imelda with a faint smile.
“Please, just … why do I have horns?”
“Because you’re like me,” said Imelda. “You’re like your parents, and Grant and Kirsty and Alastair. You’re a demon, sweetie.”
The word stuck in Amber’s mind like a bone in her throat, so that she barely registered Imelda darting towards her until it was too late to do anything about it.
“Sorry about this,” Imelda said, and punched her into unconsciousness.
(#ufbc59ab5-a287-5422-a79b-6b57fe88f674)
AMBER STIRRED FROM HER dreamless sleep, waking without opening her eyes. She snuggled down deeper into the pillow, slowly drifting off again, and then she remembered where she was and what had happened and she sat up so fast she almost fell out of bed.
Back in the bedroom in Imelda’s apartment. The curtains were open now. The day was bright and warm. She examined her reflection in the mirror on the wall. She looked normal. Her hair was a mess, but that was the full extent of the damage.
It had been real. She knew it had been real. She’d had horns. She’d grown them as her skin had turned red and her nails had turned black – just like she had before she’d pulverised Brandon’s jaw with a single punch. She’d grown them just like Imelda had grown them. Just like her parents had grown them.
But no. No, that couldn’t be right. There had to be an explanation. A reasonable, logical, real-world explanation.
She stood. She was fully dressed, in T-shirt and shorts and sneakers. That was good. She left the bedroom. The man with the guns sat on the couch, his long legs crossed, reading a tattered paperback. Milo Sebastian, she remembered. He looked up at her, then went back to reading.
“Where’s Imelda?” Amber asked.
“Out,” he said.
She waited for him to furnish her with more information, but apparently he wasn’t much of a talker.
“Out where?” she pressed.
“Out with the others.”
A wave of alarm rushed through Amber’s veins. “My parents? What’s she doing with them?”
“Pretending to look for you.” Keeping a finger on the page he’d been reading, he folded the book closed and raised his eyes. “You can wait for her here. She shouldn’t be too much longer.”
Amber hesitated, then took a few steps further into the room. “Don’t suppose you’d let me go, would you?”
“You’ve got nowhere to go to,” Milo replied. “The cops can’t help you. Chief Gilmore can only afford his luxury condo with the money they pay him. Your parents, and their friends, are very powerful people. You must know this.”
Amber didn’t reply. She didn’t mention the ease with which they’d had her principal fired.
She went to the couch across from where Milo was sitting, and sat on the edge, knees together and hands in her lap. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“I’m not the one to talk to about this.”
“So you do know. You know they’re monsters, right? You know Imelda is a monster? And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Does it bother you that you’re just like her?”
Amber shook her head. “I’m not. I’m … I don’t know what happened or what drug she gave me, but I’m not like her. I’m not like them. They’re monsters. I’m normal. I mean, I think I’d know if I were a monster, right?”
He looked at her, didn’t say anything.
“Why do you have all those guns?” she asked.
“Your parents might start suspecting that Imelda isn’t being honest with them. She asked me to make sure no harm comes to you.”
“You’re here to protect me?” Amber stood up suddenly. “So I could walk out of here and you couldn’t stop me?”
Milo opened the paperback again, without fuss, and resumed reading. “Try it and see.”
Whatever rebellious fire had flared inside her sputtered and died at his tone, and Amber sat back down. “Do you know where my phone is?”
“Destroyed.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry?”
He kept reading. “It’s the easiest way to track you.”
“But that was my phone.”
“Best not to make calls. Or send emails. Those are the kind of things that would lead your parents straight to you.”
“And how do you expect me to … to … to do anything? I need my phone, for God’s sake. I need …” She faltered. She needed her phone to go online, to talk to her friends. She needed that now more than ever.
Milo didn’t seem to care. He had gone back to reading his book. A western, judging by the cover. Amber had never read a western. She couldn’t imagine they were any good. There were surely only so many stories you could tell about cowboys and shooting and horses before it all got boring, even for those who liked such things. How many times could you describe a saddle, or a saloon, or a desert plain?
Still, it was something. He liked books and she liked books. There was common ground there.
“Ever read In The Dark Places?” she asked.
