Those Who Fight Monsters: Tales of Occult Detectives

He nodded toward the bowl. “You like the punch.”

“Yes,” I lied. Actually, I’d come into the kitchen hoping to find something in the refrigerator to drink instead. I’d lucked out, too. The punch was apparently a mixture of pink lemonade, Sprite, and some unidentifiable alcohol of the wow-is-that-strong variety. I didn’t like it. And so I’d filled my cup to the brim with plain old pink lemonade, and then had gone to the punch bowl to do a color comparison.

Yes, I know I should simply be able to say, “No, I don’t like the punch,” or, “Gee, the alcohol in the punch is making my head swim.” Instead, I was going to silently lie by carrying around a big cup of my own version of punch. Cowardly, maybe, but it would keep me sober. I might be defying Mom by staying at the party, but getting drunk on top of that? If she found out, I’d be grounded until my wedding night. Which I wouldn’t have, because she’d never let me near a guy again.

A slow grin spread across Marlin’s face, and those odd eyes twinkled as he peered at the clear plastic tumbler filled with pink lemonade that I now held — a tumbler that was about the size of four of the cups that were piled high in the foyer next to the punch bowl. “I think I have a bigger glass if you’d like.”

I lifted my chin and hoped I looked like a high school student defending her right to drink spiked punch. “No thanks. I’ve already had a lot. This is just about perfect.”

He moved closer, although his voice seemed to stay very far away. His hand touched my back, and I had the oddest sensation that his fingers were going right through me. I tried to stifle a shiver but didn’t quite manage.

“Problem?” he asked, his voice slick and oily, his breath so minty I had to assume he wasn’t drinking the punch.

“Cold punch,” I said. “Brain freeze.”

“Ah.” He put pressure on my back, and like a dutiful puppy, I moved forward. “I was looking for you. Mindy and Carson and Jeremy joined me in the study along with a few more of your friends. Will you join us? It’s less boisterous than the foyer and ballroom, but easier to talk.”

“Sure,” I said. In some part of my mind, I recognized that he spoke strangely, his words overly formal or something. But I couldn’t really think about it. I tried a bit, but the thoughts wouldn’t stick, and by the time we reached the study, I’d forgotten all about it.

The room was oak-paneled and fancy, like something out of an old movie, and I looked around, taking in the paintings in gilt frames, the ornate furniture on which my friends and a bunch of other kids were sitting, and the massive wooden desk.

I saw Carson and Jeremy on a sofa, just sitting and talking. Mindy was on an overstuffed loveseat nursing another cup of punch. She looked up at me, her eyes glassy and her smile crooked, and I started toward her, determined to cut her off.

I’d taken one step when it happened — the room changed. The formal-looking study disappeared in a snap and suddenly I was in a room filled with nothing but red and black. Blood, I realized, and it coated the walls, the scent of it filling my nose and making me want to gag.

Something squished under my feet, and I looked down to find myself tromping on maggots, their fat little bodies bursting beneath my shoes.

And right in front of me, the big wooden desk was now a giant stone slab, like the kind ancient tribes used to make sacrifices to the gods.

Oh God, oh God, oh God…

I closed my eyes and tried to breathe normally, and when I opened them again — slowly and tentatively — the room was completely back in order.

What the heck?

I glanced at the lemonade in my hand. Maybe I should have cut myself off sooner.

On the couch, Mindy was peering at me, her forehead crinkled. I must have looked freaked, because she pushed herself up and started toward me. She, at least looked normal. At least that’s what I thought at first. Then I saw the weird tentacle things that were wrapped around her ankles and wrists. She, however, didn’t seem aware of them at all. And I sure as heck didn’t understand why I was seeing them.

I blinked again, and the tentacles disappeared, but the blood was back. Then the tentacles were, and I stood there hyperventilating as I realized that the long, gray squid-like arms were attached to all the kids, and that they extended back to Marlin, who’d taken a seat behind the blood-soaked sacrificial stone. I mean the desk. The slab. The desk.

I had no idea why I was seeing two versions of the same room, one very decidedly coming at me straight from the Horror Channel. But I did know with absolute certainty that Marlin was a demon. I mean, that was the only explanation, right? And his minty-fresh breath was a big, minty clue. Too minty. I should have realized; hadn’t mom trained me to notice breath? And didn’t demons have the nastiest breath imaginable? The kind of breath that they would mask with liberal doses of mouthwash and tons and tons of minty candies.

Oh, shit.