Demon At My Door

Chapter One

Michelle A. Valentine Books

DEMON AT MY DOOR

Copyright © 2012 by Michelle A. Valentine Books, LLC

All Rights Reserved. No reproduction or utilization of this work without written permission of the publisher, Michelle A. Valentine Books.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

For questions or comments about this book, please contact the author at michellevalentineauthor@gmail.com

Demon at My Door

(The Collectors Series)

By Michelle A. Valentine

 Chapter One

Someone in this room is about to die. The hum, deep in my bones, is undeniable. Shockwaves roll through me whenever I'm near a person who is about to bite the big one. I feel it now and I hope like hell it's not me. But it's definitely going to happen right here in the Grove City Country Club. 

Soon. 

I scoot back further in my seat and slouch down, trying to block out the incessant buzz in my skull. I hate when shit goes down where I work. This has been the best job for me while I attend college classes. The flexibility cannot be beat. Not many places would hold your spot every summer. 

It's bad enough I got arrested at my last job for possession of a deadly weapon. Thank God I was underage at the time and that whole ordeal was expunged from my permanent record. I don't need a repeat of that here. I mean, it wasn't like I was going to hurt anybody or anything last time. 

Well, I guess that's not exactly true. I had every intention of shooting the boy demon with the silver bullet I had loaded in the chamber of the revolver I scored from a local gun dealer, but he's pretty damn quick.    

The vibration in my bones increases in intensity, breaking me out of my thoughts and my teeth rattle a little. My eyes scan the area for the cause. 

It's happening. Right now. 

My heart thunders as my eyes lock on a rather plump man with salt and pepper hair with a spray tan from hell. He kind of reminds me of an over-sized Oompa-Loompa dressed in tennis whites. The heavy man curses at our newly hired receptionist that sits behind the desk to my immediate right and treats her like she's not fit to lick the mud from his boots. Every fiber in my body is drawn to him and I know without a doubt he's the one. My bones are like tuning forks for the damned and they are never wrong.

Sweat beads on his forehead and the vein in his neck distends while he growls at the girl. His protruding belly bumps against the marble counter in front of him with each labored breath he takes. "What the hell do you mean you can't find my tennis reservation in the computer?" 

He says he has one, but the petite blonde girl wearing a 'required' smile isn't able to locate his name in the computer. 

"Where is the manager? Do you even know who I am?" the fat man yells at the girl before he blots his forehead with a perfectly pressed handkerchief.  

My heart bleeds for the receptionist. I hate it when people are rude, but when the ones who are about to die are jerks, it helps lessen the guilt I feel for them when the sadistic creature from hell comes. 

The girl chews her bottom lip. Her pale skin shows a hint of red in her cheeks, no doubt caused by sheer mortification. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wellington, but my manager is out sick. Let me—"