Demon Accords 05.5: Executable

  Executable

  A Novel from the Demon Accords

  By

  John Conroe

  Dedicated to the Fans of the Demon Accords – here’s another viewpoint

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

  Copyright © 2013 John Conroe

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  The Demon Accords:

  God Touched

  Demon Driven

  Brutal Asset

  Duel Nature

  Fallen Stars

  Executable

  Cover art by Ryan Bibby.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1 - Declan

  Chapter 2-Miseri

  Chapter 3- Declan

  Chapter 4-West

  Chapter 5 – Declan

  Chapter 6 - Declan

  Chapter 7 – Declan

  Chapter 8 – Declan

  Chapter 9- West

  Chapter 10- Declan

  Chapter 11 – West

  Chapter 12- Declan

  Chapter 13- West

  Chapter 14 – Declan

  Chapter 15 – Declan

  Chapter 16 - West

  Chapter 17–Declan

  Chapter 18– Miseri

  Chapter 19– Declan

  Chapter 20 – Miseri

  Chapter 21 – Declan

  Chapter 22 – Miseri

  Chapter 23- Declan

  Chapter 24- Miseri

  Chapter 25 – Declan

  Chapter 26 – Miseri

  Chapter 27- Declan

  Chapter 28 – Miseri

  Chapter 29 – Declan

  Chapter 30- Miseri

  Chapter 31- Declan

  Chapter 32-Miseri

  Chapter 33 – Declan

  Chapter 34- Krista

  Chapter 35- Declan

  Chapter 36- Miseri

  Chapter 37 – Krista

  Chapter 38- Declan

  Chapter 39- Declan

  Chapter 40 – Declan

  Chapter 41 – Declan

  Chapter 42- Krista

  Chapter 43- Declan

  Chapter 44 – Declan

  Chapter 45 – Declan

  Chapter 46- Krista

  Chapter 47- Declan

  Chapter 48- Declan

  Chapter 49 -- Declan

  Chapter 50 – Ryanne

  Chapter 51- Declan

  Chapter 52 -- Declan

  Chapter 53- Declan

  Chapter 54 – Declan

  Chapter 55- Declan

  Chapter 56- Declan

  Chapter 57 – Declan

  Chapter 58 – Krista

  Chapter 1 - Declan

  Only the crunch and ping of loose gravel between the tires and the asphalt of our parking lot announced the arrival of the big silver car; otherwise, it was dead silent. I pulled back slightly behind the edge of the big green dumpster that sits at the end of the building, interested to observing the unknown car but not wanting to be busted as some creepy loser kid. ‘Cause, you know… the truth hurts.

  At first, the sun glinting on the windshield blocked all view of the occupants but as the car, an older model Buick, rolled to a stop in the shadow of my aunt’s restaurant, they became visible. Two females; the driver young, with short brown hair and brown eyes, the other an older version with the same brown hair but she had a different eye shape. A mother and daughter, I decided, seeing enough similarities to form that opinion.

  The driver stretched her neck for a moment, like she had just wrestled the heavy car for miles. I figured she had, as the motor wasn’t running. Most likely, she had coasted down Macomb hill, fighting through the lack of power steering to make the winding turns. That sharp left curve in front of Macomb cemetery a quarter mile up the hill must have been a bitch, I thought.

  Her head came up and she looked around the parking lot. I jumped back behind the dumpster, relatively certain I hadn’t been spotted but now slightly ashamed that I was lurking there at all. Pretty sad that my most exciting work break was taking out the garbage and spying on innocent travelers. The day was just starting, but all I had to look forward to was a full Sunday of dishes to wash before tackling three pages of Calc homework, then collapsing into bed for maybe six hours before continuing my fascinating life as a high school senior at Castlebury High.

  Entering through the back of the kitchen, I dodged around the morning cook, Chet, who was orchestrating eggs, hash browns, bacon, and sausage on the big commercial griddle while humming along to a Dave Matthews song playing on the radio. I was careful to avoid bumping him as he could get verbally abusive if you interfered with his cooking rhythm, and while his anger was short-lived and easily ignored, it was just too early to listen to any crap.

  Just outside the kitchen, floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with dishes faced a wall of stainless steel, high-temperature dishwashing equipment and long metal countertops covered with dirty plates, mugs, and flatware. My kingdom.

  I was halfway through offloading and stacking a rack of plates when one of the waitresses, Emilee, pushed open the swinging doors from the dining room and looked my way. “Hey, Toothpick. Your aunt wants you out here,” she said before picking up a fresh pot of coffee and heading back into the Sunday morning fray.

  I followed her out, wiping my hands on my apron, curious as to what my aunt wanted with me.

  The owner of Rowan West was standing at a small table talking to two women, the same two women from the Buick out front. At first, I thought that the young one had busted me for spying on them and complained to my aunt. But the rational side of my brain dismissed that as paranoia. Let’s be honest. Who was going to even notice me spying in the first place?

  “Ah, Declan, dear, would you be so kind as to help these wayward ladies out? It seems they’ve a spot of auto trouble and I’ve gone ahead and volunteered your services,” Aunt Ashling said in her lilting brogue.

  Up close, I decided that the two women were definitely mother and daughter. Same brown hair, same facial features, but different eyes. The mother’s were gray, while her teenage daughter’s were light brown. The girl’s were also almond shaped, uplifted at the corners, giving her face a slightly exotic cast. Mom was tan with freckles while her daughter had a very light brown skin color that spoke of a more mixed-up ethnicity. Both watched me with frowns and narrowed eyes.

  “That’s okay Ms. O’Carroll, we can just call a local garage,” the mother said quickly.

  “Sure, and you can be overspending and getting under-repaired, if you know what I mean. The only lads that are open on a Sunday hereabouts aren’t the trustworthy sort. If he can’t fix it, he can at least be sure to dig out the problem for ya. Trust me on this one, dear. Declan is a bit of a wizard with cars and computers,” my aunt responded. I winced a bit at the wizard part.

  “What does it do?” I asked, thinking some verbal diagnostics might move things along.

  “It doesn’t run,” the girl said, her expression flat, eyes hard.

  I felt my eyebrows raise themselves, matching the rise in my temper. My aunt was watching me, and she suddenly laughed.

  “You walked right into that one,” she said with a pat on my back.

  After a moment, I had to laugh, too. I had, in fact, set myself up, although from the girl’s expression, she hadn’t meant it as a joke. Nonetheless, my aunt had reset my attitude, so I tried a different tack.

  “Ma
’am, I’m really, really good with computers – desktop, laptop, tablet, or even car computers, so if nothing else, I can find out the problem so you don’t get ripped off. And if I don’t look at your car, then I have to go back to dishwashing,” I explained to the mom, pleading with my eyes.

  Both the mom and my aunt laughed. The girl just kept frowning. Oh well, if I had fifty dollars for every girl who looked at me like I was a freak, I’d be richer than Gates.

  “I guess I should just say thanks and let you have a look,” the mother said. “But you will be careful, right?”

  “Yes ma’am. If I can’t fix it, I’ll back right off, Mrs…” I trailed off, realizing I didn’t know her name.

  “Oh gracious. Where are me manners? Declan, this is Rachel Williams and her daughter, Sarah,” Aunt Ashling said.

  “Nice to meet you. If I can borrow your keys, I’ll just take a look,” I said, patting my right jeans pocket to double check that I had my chalk.

  “I have them. I’ll go with you,” the girl, Sarah, said, her expression still guarded.

  I turned and walked out the front, past the gift shop area which held a bizarre combination of Vermont maple and cheese products mixed with spiritualist supplies like incense, crystals, tarot cards, amulets, and herbs of all kinds. Somehow, it all worked, although most of the New Age stuff was sold via the Rowan West website that I had set up for my aunt.

  The girl was quiet as we headed toward the car, moving almost silently behind me. Something about her manner was creeping me out. The place between my shoulder blades was itchy, like I could feel her staring at it. Shaking the feeling off, I studied the car.

  “Buick Regal. Looks older?”

  “Twelve years, but low mileage,” she said, pushing the unlock button on the key fob. She opened the driver’s door and slid in before I could, inserting the key and turning the ignition. The dash lit up like a Christmas tree, but the engine didn’t make a sound. Not even the click of a bad starter.

  I dropped into a squat and reached around her leg to pull the hood release, moving slowly, as I didn’t want her to be more on edge than she was. Although she seemed relaxed—just watchful.

  Lifting the hood, I scanned the engine for any obvious problems, but it wasn’t going to be that easy. Taking my trusty chalk from my pocket, I drew Cen on my left palm and placed my hand on top of the engine.

  “Try it again,” I yelled to Sarah.

  “Why? It won’t start,” she responded in a flat tone.

  “Humor me.”

  Through the gap between the bottom of the hood and the frame of the car, I could just see her hand move as she twisted the key. Eyes closed, I relaxed and listened. Ah.

  She was already sliding out of the driver’s seat as I stepped around the front of the car, like she had been coming to check on me. She looked into the engine compartment, maybe to see if I had stolen the whole thing. I took the opportunity to slide into the driver’s seat and look over the ignition switch, letting my left hand casually fall on top of the steering column.

  I was getting back out when Sarah came back around, eyebrows raised in question.

  “Let me guess. You were driving along and the engine just shut off?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I think you’ve got a faulty security system. It keeps thinking you’re trying to steal your own car, so it shuts everything down. Probably a loose wire in the ignition switch, which is jiggly as hell.”

  “How could you know that? You don’t have any diagnostic equipment.”

  “I didn’t say that I was certain… I said I think it’s the security system, but if you know better, that’s fine,” I snapped back at her.

  “If I knew better, I wouldn’t even be here, would I?” her expression more puzzled than sarcastic. She was kind of weird. Cute, but weird. She was wearing loose-fitting jeans, a worn American Eagle t-shirt, no makeup, and running shoes. Vermont has all kinds of girls: hippie girls, fashionista girls, sporty athletic girls, save-the-world girls, brainiac girls, you name it. She must fit in there somewhere, but at that moment, I couldn’t figure out where.

  Back inside, we found my aunt and Sarah’s mother sipping coffee and chatting while Mrs. Williams looked over a menu.

  “Any luck?” my aunt asked.

  I repeated my theory about the security system and the possibility of a loose wire, although it wasn’t a theory. It was flat-out fact.

  “Can you fix it?” Mrs. Williams asked. She was a little intense. Sharp eyes set in a thin face. She was dressed in hiking pants, athletic shirt, and walking shoes. She, too, lacked any makeup and had a short, no-nonsense haircut. Absolutely no concession to beauty or fashion. Her build was lean, a runner’s body, with no spare flesh.

  “Yes ma’am. I think I have a pretty good chance, although you’ll want a dealership service department to take a look when you get to your final stop.”

  “They’re staying here in town, Declan. Mrs. Williams has taken a job at the University in Burlington,” my aunt said. She always called it the University in Burlington, rather than University of Vermont or UVM, which is what most of us called it. I studied my aunt for a moment. She was intrigued by these two, and I could sense her protective streak coming out. Hence my technical services being volunteered.

  “Well, I’ll just grab my tools, and I think it’s a quick fix. About as long as it takes you to have breakfast.”

  In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have been that specific about the duration of the job. Even a mechanic wouldn’t commit to that close a time guess. My aunt’s eyes flared a little, but she said nothing, instead asking the mother and daughter for their breakfast orders.

  “Oh, Caeco, they have a Woodsman’s special that you might like,” Mrs. Williams suggested to her daughter.

  My aunt and I exchanged a glance, then looked at them curiously. The girl looked pained and was quick to explain.

  “My middle name. Mother uses it as a nickname.”

  Mrs. Williams looked up, taking only a second to realize we were talking about her name change.

  “Yes, my own pet name.”

  I had trouble picturing this lady with a pet anything. The operative word here was cold.

  I left to get my tools, happy for an extended break from dishwashing, not really caring if the people I was helping were a little weird. Hard to throw stones at that glass house.

  My skills aren’t really of the automotive set, although I am naturally mechanical. I’m more of a computer and technology guy, but I’ve done enough work on my ’72 Toyota Land Cruiser to know my way around the inside of a car. The steering column was the slowest part, as I didn’t dare harm the old car’s cosmetic appeal in any way. The pair watching me through the window made me more than a little nervous.

  Once I had the plastic housing apart, the rest went pretty quick. Tighten one loose wire and a spot of solder to keep it in place, and the meat of the repair was done. The Buick started right up, the six-cylinder engine surprisingly smooth. Another fifteen minutes of wrestling the column housing back together with a small amount of cursing for lubrication, and I was done.

  Mrs. Williams was looking through a Burlington Free Press, an empty bowl of oatmeal pushed to one side. Aunt Ashling’s special cinnamon shaker caught my eye, tucked in among the salt, pepper, and regular table sugar dispensers. That was interesting.

  The girl, Sarah or Caeco or what have you, was polishing off a Woodsman special; three eggs, hash browns, four pieces of toast, bacon, and a short stack of pancakes. It was my personal favorite, but it was a lot of food. Wiping up the last of the egg yolk and maple syrup with a corner of toast, she made it look easy. She was five-three, maybe five-four at best, and she’d just crammed in a two–thousand-calorie meal.

  I dropped the keys on the edge of the table, but my aim was just a mite off. The keys slipped toward the floor, and I automatically went to catch them. Instead of metal, my hand encountered warm flesh. I was holding the girl’s wrist, and she was holding th
e keys. I let go like I had touched a wall outlet, the feeling of her flesh shocking to my own.

  “Fast,” was all that I managed to say, obviously not referring to my wits. My reflexes are pretty good, but she had beaten me to the catch by a country mile. She regarded me for a moment before pocketing the keys and picking up her glass of chocolate milk.

  “You play any sports?” I asked, making no progress in rebuilding my reputation for witty repartee.

  She shook her head, adding, “Homeschooled.”

  Which explained a whole bunch of things. “Declan, could you get your aunt for us? I think it’s time we settled our debt and headed on. Lots to do today,” Mrs. Williams said.

  I nodded and left the two to head back into the kitchen. Time to get back to the stacks of dishes and away from the customers.

  “Aunt Ash, your new friends are asking for their bill,” I said. My aunt was sipping a cup of tea and peering out the kitchen window at the big Rowan tree that gives our place its name. She nodded and headed out, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes.

  I finished the half-rack of clean dishes and was just starting a fresh batch when my aunt came back with a tray full of dirty dishes. She set the whole thing down and then picked up the cinnamon shaker with a clean dish rag, crooking her finger at me to follow.