The Demon Road Trilogy: The Complete Collection: Demon Road; Desolation; American Monsters. Derek Landy
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have done it. Happy? It’s low key for Betty and me for the rest of the night, we promise. We kill Amber, and that’s it. No more killing for the week.”
Amber’s stomach lurched and suddenly she was cold, colder than she’d ever been.
“I really am sorry about your coat,” Betty said to Kirsty. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
Kirsty shook her head. “It was limited edition. You can’t get them anymore.”
Amber slid sideways, forgetting how to walk, forgetting how to breathe. Her feet were heavy, made of stone, dragging themselves across the floor towards her bedroom while the rest of her body did its best to stay upright. She fell through her doorway, down to her knees, turned and reached out, numb fingers tipping the door closed. Her mouth was dry and her tongue was thick. Something was happening in her belly and she fell forward on to her hands and knees, throwing up on the rug she’d had for years. She didn’t make a sound, though. She heaved and retched, but didn’t make a sound.
Her parents were monsters. They had grown horns. They’d killed cops. Her parents – and their friends – were going to kill her.
Betty had drugged her. That’s what she’d done. A sedative or something, served up in the food. No, the Coke. Amber looked at the mess on her rug and wondered how much of the drug was congealing down there.
She reached out, hand closing round the bedpost, using it to pull herself up, steady herself, stop herself from toppling sideways. She had to get out. She had to run. She started for the window and the room tilted crazily and she was stumbling towards it. She threw herself to one side before she smashed through the glass, instead banging her elbow against the wall. It hurt, but it didn’t bring her parents running. She was so thirsty. There was a bottle of water on her nightstand, but it was all the way across the room.
Dumb, numb fingers fumbled at the window. Stupid, dumb thumb jammed against the latch. Dull teeth bit down, drawing blood from her lip. The pain was sharp, sharpened her for a moment, and her thick, stupid, unresponsive fingers did what they were supposed to do. The latch squeaked, moved, and she braced her forearm against the sash of the window and pressed in and up, using her whole body to slide the window open. Then her legs gave out and she fell, cracked her head against the sill on the way down.
Amber lay with her eyes closed, blood pounding in her ears like drumbeats, like footsteps, like knuckles on a door.
“Amber?”
Eyes opened.
“Amber?” Betty said from the hall. “Are you okay?”
No answer would mean the door opening, Betty looking in.
An answer, then. An answer.
“Yeah,” came the word, awkwardly, from Amber’s mouth. More followed. “Tired. Sleeping.” Each one clumsy on her tongue.
The door. The handle. The handle turning, the door opening. Bill’s voice from somewhere else. “Where do we keep the stain remover?”
The door, closing, and then Betty’s footsteps, walking away.
Amber turned on to her side, then got on her hands and knees. Stayed there, breathing, gathering her strength. Without raising her head, she reached for the sill. Grabbed it. Hauled herself up until she got an arm out. Grabbed the sill on the other side. Pulled herself up off her knees, got her head out of the window, into the heat and the air and the rain.
Amber fell to the grass, her legs banging off the window frame. They’d find her like this. She hadn’t escaped. She couldn’t rest, not like this. She had to get away. Had to keep moving.
Amber was crawling now, along the wet grass, through the dappled shadows of the trees. She had to get away. She had to crawl faster. Had to get to the road. Get to the road, get into a car, drive away. Escape.
The ground beneath her changed, got harder. Not grass. Not anymore. Darker. Harder. Smoother. The road.
Approaching footsteps, hurrying through the rain. They’d found her. They’d found her already. Her arms were weak, no strength left. Her body lay down. Her mind … her mind … where was her mind?
Shoes. High-heeled shoes on a wet road, right in front of her. A voice. A woman’s voice. She knew that woman’s voice.
“Hello, Amber,” said Imelda.
AMBER AWOKE IN A room that was not her own. Clean lines and no clutter. Heavy curtains kept the dark from escaping into the morning light. Moving slowly, she pulled the covers off and stood. She was in her underwear. Her clothes were neatly folded on the dresser. Clean and dry. She crept to the window, parted the curtains, and looked out over Lake Eola. She frowned. An apartment in the city overlooking Lake Eola. She didn’t know where the hell she was.
But she was alive. That was something, at least.
Amber grabbed her clothes, put them on. Her phone was gone. She started to reach for the glass of water by her bed, but stopped, remembering the Coke. There was a bathroom, clean and polished, looking like it had never been used, and she drank from the faucet and wiped her mouth. Then she went to the door, put her ear against it, heard nothing.
She opened it, hesitated, and stepped out.
The apartment was vast, impressive, and utterly devoid of personality. It looked like the penthouse suite of a hotel. Everything was clean and in place. Every colour matched, every curve and line complemented the curves and lines around it. It had all been designed to cohere, to fit, to belong. There was a designer kitchen to her left, all gleaming metal with a huge breakfast island, and a balcony to her right, a view of the city beyond, all glass and palm trees, and ahead of her was the way out.
She was halfway to the door when she noticed Imelda standing in the living room, her back to her. She was on the phone, listening while someone spoke.
Amber reached the apartment door, opened it silently, and stepped out into the corridor. White walls. She moved up to the corner, and peered round.
At the end of the corridor was the elevator, the door to the stairwell, and a window. Standing at that window, looking out over the skyline, was a tall man in blue jeans, black T-shirt and battered cowboy boots. On the side table behind him there was a mirror, a bowl of potpourri and a shotgun.
Amber stared at the shotgun.
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