#devil's minion

Early 1980s, Miami. The Night Island. Summer.

It is quiet on the beach. The wind is faint and the tide is far out. Waves fold over themselves. The endless crash spills white foam and recedes over dark smooth sand. A corner of serenity in the sheer commotion that makes up the rest of the island. The scene is almost barren in its stillness and pure nature, the walkway lights sticking out from the bushes and bending grass lonely and not making a dent against the night. Castaway on the shore. Forget the glowing villa in the distance past the thick, carefully picked greenery. Daniel lie beneath the vast expanse of deep blue sky. The sand is so cool on the backs of his arms and his neck, Amulet cold on his sternum. The cuffs of his trousers are soaked, his feet bare, shoes put aside somewhere in the darkness. More comfortable here on the ground than on any mattress fitted with satin sheets, with pillowcases that smelled like sandalwood and vanilla. In the back of his mind he knows he'll track sand inside, but cleaning remains a far away chore. Call it ghosts that keep the place spotless and Armand the necromancer.

Time fell away from him. When he opens his eyes, the sky takes up his vision. He startles. Infinite depths enclose in on him, hardly a cloud to mar the image. There are stars, yes, Daniel doesn't need fancy devices to point out a few constellations, but if nothingness had a look it would be this. A magnetizing endlessness. He has to tilt his head back and look past his glasses' frames to see the moon now, a shining coin. The full moon has its superstitions, none of which Daniel really believes, yet witches and their black cats seem more probable all the time. Armand took him to mediums before, a few odd women that tickled his palm with their long nails or turned cards. When he asked Armand of its authenticity after the fact, his middle-of-the-road fortunes, the vampire only put the question back to him. But that was years ago. Armand told him about mortals that were true psychics later. Or at least mortals that had gone mad. People that ghosts picked on. Daniel believes that when he believes nothing else, in madness. His eyes blink slowly. Hours had passed, if the moon's different position is any indication.

To think they put people on the moon an odd decade ago. Even as man turns these celestial bodies into tangible things rather than symbols, bringing pieces of them home to maybe be cracked apart- Daniel really doesn't know anything about space rock -the moon's presence still dominates the night. In a way, it has a personality. The same one, Daniel imagines, its always had. His eyes pingpong between stars, planets. Ursa Minor, Lesser Bear. Venus down there, red Mars over there. The hard beating of his heart calms, resigns itself. Daylight's as good as a myth. He never manages to stay awake past the early hours of morning. Sky barely melts orange and pink before sleep drags him down. Even on his most sleepless nights, the sky doesn't turn light blue for him. Maybe the afterlife is upside-down, afterall.

Daniel pushes himself up and looks over his shoulder. Compelled to look. His back actually hurts. His neck is stiff. But Daniel knows at once who it is, the distant black silhouette. He breathes a little quicker.

"Armand?"

He wipes sand from his cheek, adjusts his glasses. He turns back towards the waves, elbows on his knees.

"I know you're there," He calls. "Now let me read your mind. I'm not going inside."