Slate Gray

Chapter 5: Perrin Slate

The full body reveal of Linda Serrano is shockingly gruesome. I've never seen a Low-Level this busted up before. It's almost like she was purposely killed in a way that would make her terrible to behold.

A pearly white eye glows like snow under the sun and blood pours from the missing half of her scalp to coat her pale sundress in a river of red. An exposed brain twitches in her shattered skull, sending another pump of fluid from veins that only think they still work. And while she hovers above the ground, bare feet dangling and dirty, an unseen wind blows her dark hair in snaking tendrils about a feral grimace.

Ace doesn't hesitate as she takes aim and shoots the demon squarely in the chest. With a shriek, Serrano disappears in a puff of black smoke, blasted back to her own plane of existence. But salt and iron bullets are only a temporary fix. She won't be gone for long.

"The hell was that?!" the dark-haired employee hollers, bounding to his feet.

"Our mutual buddy Serrano," I answer, extracting the Magnum from my shoulder holster and rotating out the cylinder to confirm it's fully loaded.

"That's Linda?!" His voice cracks in astonishment as he brushes his floppy hair up and back. "I thought I was losing my mind."

"See?" With a flick of my wrist, I snap the chamber back into place. "Psychosis is relative."

"Alright, I'll take the east side," Dad interrupts, unslinging the AR-15 from his back. "Perrin, Ace, take the west. Stay sharp and watch each other's backs."

Ace sticks her tongue out at Terry. "Told ya I was trying to protect you," she taunts, expelling the empty shells and reloading with a stable hand. I mentally pat myself on the back at her cucumber cool competence. After all, she learned it from watching me.

Cocking the hammer, I start down the westernmost aisle, Ace watching my six. There's a bizarre scent in the air, a mixture of graveyard dirt and decay. Rotten eggs mingling with whiffs of cloying sweetness.

With a bombastic, universe parting detonation, the demon reappears, hovering over the middle aisle. Ace rushes forward but I snag her by the collar of her (my) coat and pull her back beside me as all three of us train our guns on the entity, a deadly family unit dressed in black.

Reflex has my finger curling round the trigger, ready to unload, but her expression stops me. There's an acute sadness emanating from Serrano, so powerful that it stays my hand. She peers at us, making no move to strike, tears streaming down the intact half of her colorless face. And suddenly, the energy in the room isn't as sinister as it once was. And by the minute dipping of their weapons, I can tell Ace and Dad feel it too.

"What's she doing?" Terry whispers, as if raised voices could spook a thing like that.

We shush him.

The demon tilts its head, dark crimson liquid still running down its chest, before it does the most shocking thing of all. It opens its mouth and a gravely, broken word pours out. The word itself stumps me; the voice too horrifically distracting to make it out. Low and distorted, it vibrates the very fabric of our world with its pitch. It's a human voice though, or it used to be. I'm not entirely sure what it is now.

Ace lowers the barrel of the shotgun. "I didn't know they could speak."

"They can't," Dad and I simultaneously confirm.

Ugh, I'm so over this case. Ever since we got to town, this night has been nothing but a series of complicated, frustrating scenarios. And now this? Low-Level Demons are confused, mindless things, born of violence and loss. They shouldn't have enough sentience to speak.