Page 16 of Demon Heart: The Complete Series
XAVIER
I stood at the fence around Buckingham Palace, woolly hat on, hood over my head, a pair of glasses resting on the bridge of my nose. Another body among the many gathered here in the encampments.
It reeked of unwashed human bodies, of demons, of coffee brewing, of portable stoves making breakfast. These folk were here to stay, to prove their points, to see in a new era of change.
As far as I saw it, the witches were biding their time, seeking a new solution to banish demons back to our realm. No matter the voices of peace, those in power did not want an unkillable race here. At least in my opinion. Whatever came to pass would be dealt with in time.
My present concern was with the witch.
Roman had been taken into the royal residence, hidden from view. Why? Who was he to be given such access to? The queen? Her daughter?
The demon tower cast a heavy repellent against my kind, blocking any attempts for me to follow the witch inside.
I waited, listening to the voices around me discuss politics, menial things. A bonding, a shared purpose.
“Heard Phillipe is coming down later,” a demon woman close to me said.
“For real? I’d love to see his face in the flesh,” a human man responded. “What time?”
“Not sure. Keep trying to find the details online.”
“Hope it happens. He really is the best.”
“So cute.”
“Proper adorable.”
I suppose he was.
I went for a walkabout, keeping close the fence.
Offered friendly greetings, weaving through the tents, reading the many placards calling for action.
Another group over in Green Park, separated from the encampment by police and ADU agents made their voices heard.
Protesters, the real demon haters. Get my species out.
We weren’t welcome. Lock us up. Work harder to try killing us because even if you blew a demon to pieces, they would vanish into the demon realm to heal, return here for revenge later.
After a while, the same car Roman arrived here in drove back toward the gates, the witch’s chocolate scent rife, exquisite. I drank him in, watching the vehicle pass.
Who are you, witch?
My anger piqued along with my interest. What was he up to?
A silver figure moved through the crowd with alarming swiftness to my left, aiming directly for me. Another moved behind me, a third to my right. Closing in.
I fled in a western diagonal trajectory, ducking a makeshift washing line, barely avoiding kicking over a stove boiling up some water.
“Hey!” someone bemoaned behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder. A man in silver had knocked over the water, now trapped in an altercation with a purple-faced woman.
Picking up my pace, I aimed for St. James’s Park, darting through the encampment, the distance between me and those wankers increasing by the second.
How had they spotted me? What tracking skills did they possess? Was there really a device inside my ass?
A silver-clad man stepped into my path, smothered in Lemon Drop. It kept me from ripping his head off.
I snarled at the bastard.
He grinned, his uneven mustache twitching. “Slippery git, aren’t you?”
“This silver garb really is a silly giveaway,” I countered. “Maybe you need to be more discreet.”
“We’re very proud of our uniform,” he replied, flashing me a syringe filled with Lemon Drop. “You can’t run from us, Xavier.”
The others were closing in.
“Leave me be.”
“Pathetic to hear such a glorious demon beg like a human.”
The window for escape was seconds away from closing.
“Give up,” he said. “Just give up.”
I ran, breaking through a wave of nausea brought on by the Lemon Drop, tearing across the green space of the park, weaving through startled humans and demons, startling swans.
If they caught me again, I wouldn’t be escaping a second time.
The Mustache Man was right—it was all so pathetic.
I dove into freezing waters of St. James’s Park Lake, swimming to the bottom, losing myself in the murky darkness, swimming in the opposite direction of the palace.
Ismael…
What would he make of my cowardice?
I grabbed a rock from the bottom of the lake, then swam up, breaking the surface of the water. Dragged myself out, a swan flapping in anger.
“Apologies,” I told it.
I came face to face with a hunter, his hammer at the ready.
I cracked him in the side of the head with the rock. He went down either dead or unconscious, I wasn’t sure. Hopefully the former. With no more hunters ahead of me, I ran, unleashing my great speed.
My natural internal heat rebutted the combination of the January air and being soaked through, a special insulation that worked against the cold whilst never allowing me to overheat.
Gathering speed, I became a blur, dodging bodies and traffic, eventually reaching the newly reopened Charing Cross station, hurrying across the concourse, down into the men’s toilets, locking myself in a freshly cleaned cubicle.
Caught my breath, initiated my shift to my smallest form, my clothes dissolving.
I scurried up the wall, disappearing into an air vent. A lucky escape. Now was the time to get out of London, forget the witch.
Yet there were questions I needed answers to. And I wasn’t quite ready to walk away from this strange man.
Then you are a fool.