Free Dance For The Devil by S. Kodejs Page A

imaginary specks from her long skirt. “Jake, your daughter... she is in serious trouble. Something happened today... I’m not sure what, but she missed school. Or rather, she is missing school, right now. I can see a lot of people, darkness... something dark and liquid.” She gasped suddenly, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. “Blood. Not hers, though. Not yet, anyway.”
    Jake was unnerved. He felt like bolting. He had to get out of here, out of this coffee shop that seemed so quaint only minutes ago. He fumbled in his pocket for some loose change and tossed it on the table. The coins scattered like marbles, some of them rolling of f and clanking onto the tiled floor. As he exited the door a gust of wind blew in, unseasonably chilly, and he almost missed hearing her final, soft words. Almost, but not quite.
    “Anytime, Jake. Phone me anytime, day or night. I’ll be waiting.”
    It wasn’t until he was several blocks away, turning her words over in his mind, dismissing them for the lunacy he knew they were, squirming uncomfortably as her prophecy played over and over, haunting his mind.
    How had she known he had a daughter?
    Lucky guess.
    Maybe.
    But how the hell had she known his name?
    He was certain he hadn’t told her, and he hadn’t taken out his wallet or anything else with his name on it. Nothing to even suggest his initials let alone his name. Jake pulled out her card and studied it again, slowing his pace slightly. As before, it looked normal. But what did he expect? Something that said , Cari Valentine, loony-tune witch? Psychic goddess with demonic warnings? Hardly. He tossed it in the gutter, as if eliminating the card would erase her words, and watched as the wind picked up, carrying it away, along with dozens of brown, dried up leaves.
    Good riddance. She was a nutcase. Had to be.
    But a tiny thought kept worming around the back of his brain, irritating him. What if she was right? What if Amy was in danger? He spotted a taxi and flagged it down.
    His earlier outrage that had dissolved into pseudo-jubilation changed once again, until his emotions were fraught with tension and twisted into a giant cauldron of jumbled feelings. At this point, he barely trusted himself to think beyond the one thing he knew for certain: he’d acquired a killer headache, and he longed for nothing more than to get home, pour a tall scotch and forget this day ever happened.
    **
    This meeting was different from the other. Amy noticed it immediately. There was tension, less of a party feeling and more of a ‘let’s get down to business’ sensation.
    The occupants in the subterranean room shifted expectantly. There were no windows, no lighting of any kind, save for a mass of black candles burning at the altar, the wicks flickering in a breeze caused by too many bodies in too little space. The wall immediately behind the altar held a cross, hanging upside down. Six rows of benches crisscrossed the room, each holding approximately ten people. Sixty people, Amy calculated, give or take a few. Sixty people all wearing robes like her own. Her heart pumped wildly.
    A call to order was made. A figure stood in front, his bare chest gleaming in the dim light. He wore pants and a mask, which Amy thought bore considerable resemblance to a goat. It seemed silly to see a grown man prancing around half-naked in a goat mask, and she had the urge to snicker until he turned around and looked directly at her. Jason squirmed and moved imperceptibly away from her.
    Goat-man began to chant. Rhythmic words which held no meaning, at least not to Amy. The congregation chanted back, at preordained intervals. Although she didn’t know the routine, she found herself chanting along, mimicking the sounds until they became second nature. This went on for an eternity, until her rear became numb from sitting on the hard wooden bench and her feet felt uncomfortably prickly. Amy started to squirm until Jason stilled her with a stern glance. At least she