Don't Go Into | the Devil's Den (Book One)

Six | Detective Meets Deception

Detective Grant froze.

He was not afraid. Rather, he found himself paralyzed by his own surprise.

He knew the voice from somewhere. He reached for the flashlight in his waistband and shined it all around him. "I'm looking for Laney." A whooshing sound darted behind his shoulder, but only trees remained as he spun. "Do you know where she may be?"

No response.

He gripped the crucifix tightly as he continued through the wilderness. The burning wood smelled closer than ever. Still no sign of a fire.

"Were you looking for this?" the voice emphasized.

Detective Grant tripped over a root. He fell opposite his dislocated shoulder and tumbled 30 yards down a steep incline. He grew frustrated with himself–how had he overlooked something so large? Perhaps his brain slowly degenerated under the fatigue. He felt like he'd disintegrate if a mere fly touched him.

The cool, damp soil locked his body in place for a while. Oh, how wonderful it felt for him to lie down. For a moment, he'd forgotten why he'd come here at all. Fortunately, he'd landed in another spacious clearing. There was no foliage, and the moonlight shimmered brightly down from overhead, giving him a small advantage.

"Oh Detective, you mustn't sleep on the job," the woman joked in a sweet tone, "that's not how mysteries get solved now is it?"

Suddenly, Detective Grant's body seized up. What is this! Everything felt numb, even as he was dragged through the mud, dirt and sticks against his will. After another fifty yards, his body shot off the ground. Hoisted in the air, he faced a statue of a beast.

"Probably a couple miles down, o'er the trees. You'll see a statue of a beast just before you get there."

"Is this what you were looking for, Detective?" The woman ridiculed. "I know it is because this is exactly where I told you to go."

Detective Grant winced, shocked by the words. He felt the presence materialize behind him but noticed no sounds of feet crunching over the dead leaves. He deduced that the presence must've been hovering as well. It was disheartening to have his head snap forward as he tried looking behind. His prickling suspicions needed confirmation.

"Ma-Mrs... Fffffin?"

"Elron appears to have banished my accomplice, Belial, for a little while," she snarled. "What a shame. Now I'm by my lonesome. Pity."

Detective Grant was spun around, only inches away from the demonic woman. Her eyeballs were black. No mouth, just four slits. Her dying purple hair fell past her feet and her nails were longer than her decaying fingers. She wore a long, tattered dress that hid the rest of her body. A purple apparition followed her as she moved.

"You're right, I am Mrs. Finn," she admitted, "I can shapeshift and possess. Kinda like what I'm doing to you."

Studying her, he'd noticed the tiniest engravement–that the average person would miss–across her neck. It read: Deception. He wondered if that was her name or just what she stood for.

"C-can y-you put me... down," Detective Grant struggled.

"Down? As you wish."

The Detective was hurled into the statue, his head bouncing off the surface. When he regained his vision, the demon hovered above him.

"So, you're looking for that poor little Laney, huh?" She giggled.

Detective Grant reached for the crucifix, but figured it was wrong timing, he needed answers. "I just want to know where she is, and I'll leave."

"Oh Jeff!" She sang. "Come out, come out!"

From the corner of the Detective's eye, a couple locks unlatched, and a door creaked open with a figure lurching out. Relief filled his heart as a regular middle-aged man came forth. No demon. His blue jeans were ripped nearly everywhere, and his tattered tank top seemed to be splattered in dirt, blood and God knows what else. "Yes, my lord." He spoke softly, his exposed skin marked with burns and oozing boils.

Detective Grant undoubtedly knew this man. He was the figure in Repentance's mural, locked in a cage. "Jeff," he mistakenly said, not wanting to draw attention to a possible alliance in the face of a demon. If she would've caught on, a grave punishment could've been in the works. "It's me."

Jeff's expression twisted in confusion, as if trying to figure out where he'd seen the Detective before. "You-"

"Hush! Enough with the yapping," the woman snapped, threatening Jeff with a piercing glare. "Jeff, you have your key, don't you?"

Interesting.  He's been imprisoned by... deception?

Jeff dug into his jeans and pulled out the same exact key that she'd given him earlier this afternoon. "Yes, my lord."

"Alright, Detective," she said, "where's yours?" Before he could reach into his waistband, the golden key whipped out and into her hand. "Oh, this is just excellent." Overjoyed, she snapped her fingers repeatedly in a melody. "Well then! Who's ready to play the game! We have two keys and two players."

Taken aback, the Detective questioned "Why not just kill us now?"

"Because, I'm just an arrogant demon that does things on my own terms," she answered honestly, "to Hell with those other demons. All they do is follow Lucifer's orders. Do you know who I am?"

Detective Grant shook his head but cheered inside. However, getting that excited was foolish. If she was smart, she'd keep her mouth closed; literally.

"Too bad," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "I know what you were trying to do Detective. Keep your tricks to yourself, or I will kill you." Her tone sharpened like the edge of a blade. "Anyways, come on, slave. I am a demon, but I do keep my promises."

Jeff's soul had been decimated by this woman. He literally walked with a small purple cloud over his head. A depressant? His body language communicated to the Detective that he was in desperate need of help. Pain was his bride. When he walked, when he talked. Just pain. Finding her name was the best option available. He could use the crucifix, but something told him that the crucifix wasn't for him, but for Jeff.

The demon directed Jeff to kneel beside Detective Grant. "Now that I have both of you in my possession, we can start now." Both men's arms darted to their sides; glued in position. "No trickery."