Daimon by DANIELLE BOLGER (my miracle luna book free read txt) 📕

was smiling in delight of the anticipated flavor. There was also a picture of Frankenstein's monster; he looked awfully sad and lonely. A caption stated underneath: Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay? To mold me, Man, did I solicit thee from darkness to promote me?

As I looked upon more pictures displaying cartoons of happy, fuzzy, animated creatures, I smiled. They appeared so likable, so harmless. A blue one of these was depicted guzzling cookies with great mirth. There was quite a mess about him as he satisfied his urges.

A demon, hey? I disagree, Mack. What I am is, undoubtedly, a monster. Then, what kind of monster and why did this have to happen to me? I wondered whether it would have been better if I simply died in that forest; surely, I could not remain playing sheep for long. People would find out who I was, sooner or later, and then I could no longer pretend to be the heroine. Soon, my secret would come out and the whole city would know I’m a murderer.

What would I do then? Would I do what would be necessary to defend myself? Would I harm innocent people? Would I remove a threat even if it was from one I cared about most? I did not want to die, not again - not ever!

I looked up from my desk across to the other side of the room where Sandra was pounding away at her laptop. We both came in at the same time that morning, just slightly after nine and moving so quickly that we brushed against one another as we passed through the office's entrance. She glared at me, haughtily, apparently still unforgiving of my latest tabloid. Whereas, I felt such a powerful desire to tear my teeth into her flesh that I had to scuttle away even quicker than she had attempted.

My hold on this beast was so weak. I thought I felt a little calmer, a little more in control than yesterday, but it was still tenuous at best. I wanted to feed, desperately. After learning how succulent the flesh of a human could be, my stomach groaned all day and my mouth watered at the thought of it—but I couldn't. I was still adamant that I would not attack anyone else. That was, of course, no one unless they deserved it.

Another thing that could not be quelled easily was my anger. The more I learned about the “new” me, the more my desires consumed my mind; rage flooded through me thick and hot. I hated who I had become; I hated envisioning myself ripping my friends' bodies apart; I hated the Foxes, Valentine, and I hated how much I was loving my new power. They wanted to initiate me into their clan, but all I wanted to do was rip out their own hearts and feed on them.

“Monster? What are you searching, your mother?” It was Zach, smirking impertinently as he read the titles on my computer screen.

“Simply not in the mood for it,” I replied curtly.

He leaned over my desk so that his frame partly obscured my monitor, forcing my attention. I glared coldly up at him and read the caption on his shirt: There are only 10 people in the world: those who understand binary and those who don't. He was the embodiment of scruffiness, teeing his outfit off with jeans, runners, and unkempt mousy-brown hair. Normally, I enjoyed his laid-back attitude and quirky shirts, but just then I could see him as no more than a sloth that had somehow brought its languid form to my desk. I did not care how good his photographs were—no one had the right to interrupt my current soul searching.

“C'mon, shorty,” he coaxed. “Don't be like that.”

“I'm not short and you're not black.”

“Yeah, I guess if I were you never would have gone back, hey?” He laughed.

Okay, so I slept with him - once. It was after a Christmas party and we were both ridiculously drunk. Fortunately, we knew that it was a mistake from the moment we woke the next morning, which thankfully never interfered with our professional or personal relationships. Zach was a great photographer, a nice guy, and one of the few friends I had besides Sandra. However, at that moment, where hatred was festering hotly inside me, he was starting to feel like dinner.

His laughter quickly sobered as he changed to pictures. “So, how you been going anyhow, Jane? I've got a few new pictures from the depths of Devil's Eden you might be interested in.” He was doing his best to be enticing. “We could do a stake-out around there sometime if you like, or just hit the piss. Shit, being Friday, I think I feel like a drink straight after I leave this stinky office. You wanna join me?”

“I'm sorry, Zach, not tonight. I have a lot of researching to do still, and besides, I'm kinda off the liquor lately.”

****

“Wine?” Ryan questioned with surprise from his apartment doorway. The look on his face betrayed his stifled smile.

“Yeah.” I waved the bottle around. “I've had this sitting around in my parents’ cellar for years. Trouble is, I’ve never been able to muster up the nerve to drink it and throwing it out is not an option. My childhood shrink would say that my hoarding was “unhealthy behavior.” I mocked her voice, annunciating with perfect diction as she used to. “I bet you, she would have added that this sort of thing could lead to an “explosion of emotions.”

Ryan chuckled. “Like, screaming like a banshee in the middle of a crime scene?”

“You could have said a damsel in distress,” I replied, abashed.

“That's funny, my shrink would say that would have been healthy behavior.”

My jaw dropped in surprise.

“You're not the only one damaged, Jane,” he explained. “This whole city is full of psychopaths like us who pretend to be normal. I might only be faking that I have my shit together, but at least I still do the right thing.”

I was so preoccupied with my own agenda; it was not until then that I realized how sad and defeated Ryan appeared. His cheeks and chin displayed stubble that was, at last sighting, clean-shaven. His hair was spiked up at odd angles as if he had been gripping onto it fiercely, ready to rip it from his skull. His shirt had the top few buttons undone, with a light brown spot about midway on the fabric where a tie would normally obscure. I then detected the alcohol on his breath. Rum, I surmised.

“Wanna talk about it?” I pressed. “I’d love to deal with someone else’s crap instead of my own for a change.”

“I really, really want to, but...”

“You're a cop and I'm a reporter,” I finished for him.

He gave me a weak smile.

“What if I wasn't a reporter and you...could be whoever you wanted to be. You could say anything you wanted without consequences and I would just be here to listen. I would simply be your friend, nothing else.”

“We were never friends. Your brother was my friend, not you.”

I recoiled a step backward into the apartment hallway.

There was a darkness in Ryan's eyes that suddenly softened as they met my own. “I'm sorry, I'm an ass. You know, we're more than friends. You're the little sister I never had. Here, come in.” He disappeared inside, leaving the door open for me to let myself in.

As I followed, I was not sure which part hurt more: the dejecting comment that I was his little sister, or the part that we were never friends. I knew one thing, though— both stung more than I could have anticipated.

He wasn't your friend then, and he isn't now. The sly voice crept into my mind. He is a homicide detective who is hunting you down for murder. He is your enemy and your next meal.

It did not matter what he was to me. I reminded myself that it was his connections, his findings that I needed. I was there for two simple reasons: to track the progress he made on the woods killing, and to gain more information on the Foxes. Whatever I thought or felt for him before was obsolete now. I had a new agenda, and that involved self-preservation and the undiminished desire for revenge. Old, childish relations would have to take a back seat to that.

Following him through the door, I observed the apartment. The minimal furnishings consisted of a dilapidated lounge, a small plasma television, and a solid black rug covering up obvious stains on the carpet. The place was so void of human touch Ryan could have been confused for a squatter.

Ryan was already on the sofa sculling down a brown-colored drink. I was surprised to see two wine glasses and a bottle opener already placed on the coffee table before him. In conjunction, there was a bottle of rum with barely more than an inch of fluid remaining.

I sat by him and placed the wine bottle on the table. He grimaced. “You know, I was thinking about going over to the bottle shop and getting more booze, but it looks like you saved me the hassle.”

“Glad I can be of use,” I smirked. “Hope you like it, it's twenty-four-year-old red.”

Ryan picked up the bottle opener, about to lean across to the wine, but froze. “That’s how old you are.”

“Yeah. Bought on the day I was born, in fact.”

Ryan shot me a sympathetic look, already knowing the rest of the story. I continued anyway, “We were supposed to drink it six years ago— my parents, my brother and I.”

“For your eighteenth birthday.”

I nodded. “I remember that, on Jack’s birthday, I was allowed a glass. I didn’t much like the taste then, but being treated like a grown up made it seem like the most divine thing I ever had to drink.”

After a silence, Ryan toned in, “You should save it then, instead of wasting it on a pathetic loser who’s already drunk.” He went to place the bottle opener on the table but I clasped my hands over his hold, halting him. As we made contact, I detected a slight coolness to his touch that mirrored the blue in his eyes. These stared deeply into mine, glazed and lost.

“That’s exactly the problem. I have been saving this bottle for years, looking for a reason to empty it, whether in my stomach or in the kitchen sink, but no reason ever justified it. At first, I told myself that I would share it with Jack on my eighteenth, but he left two weeks before. So, I kept waiting. As the years passed, I thought I would never drink it because the scenario would never be complete without my family by my side. Then we bumped into each other a couple of days ago during...strange circumstances.” I smiled. “I knew it was time; time to reunite with that almost-brother from my youth— even if he is already drunk— because, I just can't let another chance like this pass me by.”

Since our contact, Ryan had been staring at me deeply. “I never realized how dark your eyes were before. I know it's dark in here, but they look like they're completely black.”

I turned away, breaking all forms of contact.

After a sigh, he uncorked the wine and poured the glasses so that they were filled almost to the rim. We sipped in awkward silence.

Ryan lowered his glass and gazed into it, thoughtfully. “We have to take our moments when we get them because before we know it some terrible crime will happen and we'll be mourning again. I used to believe that this city could change, but your brother was the smart one. He knew the fight was useless. He left a bit over six years ago, but even before then, I could tell he had given up.”

I had a sip, too, and tasted the sweet oak as I responded. “It was nine years ago when he really gave up on the Blue Coast, when our parents died. He just couldn’t leave until his dependent sister turned eighteen. He didn’t wait, though, for my birthday. He left me, and this city, to spiral further into darkness.”

“You’re right, this city is dark, so damned dark no one can see the filth. I believed though; the fact that it’s messy was even more of a reason to clean it up. There was just too much to fight for; too many people that you just can't bear to see hurt again.”

His blue eyes drew my gaze back to him and locked me within the depths of his deep ocean. So peaceful on the surface but I knew once they approached shore that they would be turbulent. Somehow I caught myself thinking that maybe that powerful water could wash away my sins.

“It sounds like you've given up, too.” My voice barely cracked above a whisper.

“Some days I have, but then others I'm reminded of why I fight for peace so hard in this corrupt city.” His heart thumped proudly. It was strong, powerful and passionate. It was a heart that was capable of so much: love, despair, rage and possibly even killing. I wondered if he did find out about me, whether that heart would be capable