thenoondaydemon

  The Noonday Demon

  Anastasia Rabiyah

  Published By Purple Sword Publications, LLC

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  THE NOONDAY DEMON

  Copyright © 2013 ANASTASIA RABIYAH

  ISBN 978-1-61292-087-0

  Cover Art Designed By Anastasia Rabiyah

  For Faith.

  Prologue

  Accidie, the noonday demon

  Comes at the midday hour.

  Charming with his shifting eyes

  Insistent in his pursuits.

  Dark demon of the heart

  Is greedy for faith,

  Envious of independence.

  Chapter One

  November 2005,

  Helene Farm, Enid, Oklahoma

  Abra walked among the rows of wheat, her fingers splayed to feel the soft kiss of each bulging seedhead. The sun hung at the center of the sky, its glorious rays warming her pale skin. She wore a tank top and a long, green cotton skirt with beads sewn into the seams. Her mother had given her the skirt years ago, and she still loved it. Her sandaled feet made small sounds against the earth she crossed. Far in the distance, her parents’ house stood on a flowing hill dotted with pecan trees. This is my heaven, she thought. My parents left me this paradise. What a great place to hide from the world.

  She crossed the wheat and strode along the green meadow that separated her from the porch. For days she’d read book after book in her newly made study, pored over her father’s collection of tomes and news magazines until she couldn’t take any more. When she reached the steps to the wooden porch, she realized that the stain was wearing thin on the planks. “Maybe I’ll start on that tomorrow.” Abra climbed the five steps, her fingers skimming the banister as she hurried to the screen door. She felt the strangest sensation that someone was watching her. At once, the midday heat felt too stifling. Her skirt clung to her legs, and beads of sweat broke out across her brow. She felt weary, as if she’d worked for a whole day when here it was just noon.

  Being alone never bothered her before now. She shook her head, trying to ward off the unnatural feeling. Sweeping a hand through her loose hair, she flinched when a gust of hot air blasted her face and body, sending the blonde tendrils flying across her field of vision. She turned to look into the wind and saw a lone figure walking beside the road. He crested the hill, his gait a gentle lope, the shape of him unclear through the waves of heat in the air. She squinted, staring as he ambled along. A quell rose in her chest. Is he going to stop here?

  She backed to the wicker chair her mom favored when she was alive, and sank into the cornflower blue cushion. Picking at the corner of it, she waited. His voice carried on the ill-wind, a basso that thrummed out a lulling, manly tune. He crossed the ditch that separated the road from the fence, and ran his hand along the barbed wire, lifting his fingers every time a metal thorn might prick his skin.

  Abra thought she ought to ease back, maybe even close her eyes against his approach. He’ll pass by. No one stops here. No one has any reason to. There’s nothing to see or find in this empty old house except…me. The thought startled her. Did she want to be found by him?

  He moved like a panther, a shadowy man with tanned skin and jet black hair that fell in straight locks around his face. The wind tousled it, and Abra decided that the wind did so at just the right time. He wore a white t-shirt, simple and clean beneath a black dress shirt that flapped in the breeze. His blue jeans looked a little worn in the knees and his leather hiking boots made a deep crunching sound in the dry November grass.

  At the gate by the drive, he stopped. The stranger held one hand to his forehead, his gaze searching even from such a distance for...

  Me, Abra thought.

  He waved in a casual manner, as if he knew her, and strode past the slight opening in the gate.

  Abra cursed herself for not locking it. No one did so far out from the city. The feeling that securing it wouldn’t have mattered made her uneasy.

  She looked away, across the fields and then turned her gaze on the shed where the thrasher waited inside. She didn’t know how to operate it and had only driven her father’s tractor a few times. A feeling of hopelessness settled in. No matter what I do, this farm will fail. The Owens, down the road, know how to make things work. I should just sell it all to them. She spied their lot at the edge of the hill the stranger had come from. The house, even from this distance, glowed with its fresh, white paint. The pecan trees looked wider than the ones on Abra’s property.

  The strangeness of the thought to sell struck her. Only moments before, she’d felt her parents’ property was paradise. Not now, not since—

  “Afternoon,” the stranger said.

  Abra shivered as she rose to face him. He stood atop her porch, flashing a sly grin. His arms looked well-made, built for heavy lifting and his firm chest and stomach showed beneath his white shirt. She studied his narrow face, the arch of his ebony eyebrows and the lure of those eyes. Her pussy moistened as she imagined their bodies heaving together in a sordid union.

  Blushing, Abra tried to look away. She glanced at the peeling paint on the side of the house, at the window she’d left open to let in the cool breeze. Where did this heat come from? But she knew. Her head turned slowly and she stared at his crotch and the round bulge there. She raised a hand to fan her face. “It got hot all of a sudden,” she said, thinking it an awkward remark.

  “It’ll pass.” He blinked, that smile only just fading.

  She watched as he looked her up and down as if appraising her figure. Beneath her tank top, her nipples hardened, pushing against the white lace of her bra, reaching toward him. Abra realized just how alone she was, and how sweaty and unkempt she must appear to this handsome man. Why did he stop here? she wondered.

  “My name’s Val,” he offered, stepping closer with one hand held out.

  Abra gawked at his palm, taken off guard. I shouldn’t touch him, not him. She reached out, nevertheless, her hand grazing his and let him shake her fingers. He didn’t let go, but remained there, holding on to her, with his smile tickling the sides of his full lips. What would it be like to taste those lips?

  He chuckled to himself as if he could hear her thoughts. Abra pulled her hand away, the heat of him blazing across her skin. She shot a wary glimpse over her shoulder at the wall, that hard, sturdy wall and pictured him holding her against it. His fingers would burn into her wrists as he pinned her there, unable to escape.

  “Do you have a name?”

  Laughter danced in his eyes when she looked up. She couldn’t decide on their color. Are they black, or brown, or some odd mix of hazel? Abra determined she would have to find out before he lost interest and wandered on down the road to someone else’s house. “I’m Abra, Abra Helene.”

  “Nice to meet you,” he said, and she imagined he wanted to tack on a few more words but held back.

  “Would you like a drink?” She wanted to offer him more than that, a shower, a bed, a fuck against the porch slats. What’s come over me? The turning of her mind rolled forth at top speed.

  “I’d like that.” He tilted his face up, and she noticed that indeed, his eyes shone like emeralds and amber, an odd mix of hazel. He strode closer, his boots loud against the wood.

  Her c
hest constricted. Abra sighed, fighting the tension in the hot afternoon air. “I made some lemonade.”

  “Is it good?” His fingers came against her left shoulder, sending a ripple of heat through her body. Her womb cried out for release, for attention and a man who knew how to touch her in all the right ways. He slid her bra strap back under the wider strap of her shirt, the familiarity of the gesture unsettling.

  “I used real lemons.”

  He licked his lips and sucked at the lower one for an instant. Moistened, they appeared tempting and ripe.

  Abra ran a hand through her hair, turned on her heels, and headed for the metal screen door, her heart aflutter with desire. The hinges creaked, an annoying reminder that this old house needed work, oil and attention. She didn’t know how she could do it all alone. She didn’t turn to see if he followed; she didn’t need to. His boots clunked across the linoleum floor.

  She bent to open the fridge, reached in and found the glass pitcher. The crack in it seemed so beautiful just this morning, but now, with him here, it looked garish and unworthy. She set out two green glasses, old ones from the late seventies, probably from a catalog; her mother always liked catalogs. They showed the rays of sunlight peeking through the kitchen window as rings of green fire across the gold counter. Everything appeared old, dated, and not good enough. The comforts of this home, the place she’d grown up in until her parents mailed her off to Catholic boarding school, it all had…changed? Impossible. She handed him a full glass.

  “That’s a nice skirt,” he said, his gaze fixed on her lower body as he sipped his lemonade. “You’d look good in something shorter, something that shows off your legs.” His tongue darted across his lips, swiping away drops of sour liquid.

  Abra sat down at the table, her fingers rubbing over the hand-embroidered flowers on the tablecloth. “Val. Is that short for something?”

  He grinned at her, then sat as well, scooting his chair closer. Its feet grated on the floor. “It could be.” The stranger’s eyes lit in a mischievous way. He set his glass down, wiped the moisture from it over his forehead and leaned toward her.

  Abra swallowed. She set down her glass as well. “Are you from around Enid?”

  “No. This is my first time here.” He reached across the distance, his fingers meeting her cheek for an interminable instant, rough fingers that knew hard work but felt tender and inviting stroking her skin. “You’re all alone, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been alone a long time.” She felt he could see past her usual defenses. That vulnerability made her anxious, flustered.

  His eyes changed color, flashing to a brilliant green. When his hand fell away from her face, a glint of red showed in his pupils. “Do you like being alone?”

  “Yes,” she replied too fast, used to defending her place in life. Abra thought back, just to be sure, questioning the reply for the first time. Her parents had sent her away to make something better of herself than what they thought she’d become here in this farmhouse. She’d gone to the best schools, two art academies and made a decent living selling her oil paintings. Being alone was a part of her, and she’d accepted it. In fact, she thrived on the solitude. Alone she could paint at any hour, eat what she wanted, when she wanted and do things her way. There’d been men in her life, but never for very long and never for more than anything but fun. “Does that bother you?”

  He chuckled as he sat back in the chair. Val lifted his glass, drinking back almost all of the lemonade. His eyes flickered; the color changed, and he set his glass on the edge of the table. “I think it would be lonely.”

  “Not if you like yourself.” She forced a smile, sipped at her drink, and waited.

  “I like myself just fine, but I prefer the company of pets.”

  “Pets?” She shook her head. “Pets are too much work. If you want something furry to touch, get a stuffed animal.”

  Val drank back the last of his lemonade, smirked at her, and stood up. He glanced at the antique wall clock. “Thanks for the drink, Abra. I better be gettin’ on up the way.” The sudden accent sounded forced, the drawl just a little wrong.

  “Sure.” She held out her hand for him to clasp. He felt too hot, almost feverish. “You stop by again if you need something to drink.”

  “I’d rather stop by for the company, if you don’t mind.” He stepped closer, his gaze holding her attention.

  Abra’s body ached. She hoped he’d move in and do something brash, kiss her, crush her in the stifling heat with an embrace, hell even back her against the antique table to see just how much pounding it could take. “Stop by any time,” she whispered.

  “Maybe tomorrow, same time.”

  “That’s good for me.”

  “Maybe then, you’ll tell me more about yourself.”

  “If you’re lucky.” She wanted to grab his hand when he pulled it away. As he turned and opened the screen door, she felt the desperate urge to follow. Abra resisted. She stood up and went to the door, opened it and watched his ass as he loped away. He turned back at the gate, stared in her direction, though she doubted he could see her, and then, walked on down the road.

  “That was weird.” She closed the door and went to take a shower.

  Chapter Two

  The bathroom screamed eighties. Mom liked flowers then. Big, flowery prints behind cheap plastic frames, a vinyl shower curtain with flamboyant, pink irises and that fuzzy, purple rug that matched the fuzzy toilet seat cover, it all blared at her. Abra left the door open so the shower steam would filter out. She slid her skirt down, looking at her bare legs. “Maybe he’s right. Been a while since I wore a mini.” She caught a finger in her white lace thong and tugged it away. Shimmying her tank top over her head, she glanced in the mirror. “Not bad. Still lookin’ good for a thirty-some year old.” Abra unhitched her bra and let it fall to the pile of crumpled clothes, feeling no urge to pick them up; no one else was around to care. She liked that fact, but suddenly, it felt sad, and never before now had it been cause not to clean up after herself.

  Shrugging off the odd melancholy, she stepped into the tub, aimed the showerhead to the wall, and turned on the water. She hummed while she waited for the heat to build up. Steam drifted through the air in dream-like wisps. Abra closed her eyes, reached for the showerhead and directed it at her naked body. Standing still, she let her mind wander to Val. Mm, wish he were here right now. Envisioning his mysterious eyes and his sexy smirk, she sighed. “He was a tasty looking piece of eye candy.”

  She turned so the water drenched her hair. The wet mass felt heavy against her back. She found the bar of soap, lathered up her hands, and worked the suds over her slick skin. Fingers skimmed the curves of her breasts, seeking each sensitive patch of dimpled skin around her nipples. She traced with patience, imagining his hands there instead of hers. Tingles swept through her. She grasped her hard nipples, pinching them until she couldn’t take the pleasant pain any longer. Abra held her breath, leaned against the shower wall, and let her right hand wander lower.

  She frowned at the length of her pubic hairs, deciding it was time for a shave. Sweeping her index finger across her clit, she teased herself in gentle strokes. Her mind numbed. Thoughts drifted away, soothed by the shush of water pouring down. Working in deeper caresses, she felt the bud of her clit awakening. Circling the hooded nub, she coaxed it to life. Every touch, every press caused a hot prickle, making her quiver. She liked things hard, intense and deep. For a moment, she cursed herself for not unpacking her dildo. Next time, she thought, he’ll be with me. If Val comes back tomorrow, I’ll seduce him.

  Letting out a bliss-filled moan, Abra twirled circles across her clit, pushing hard until a pleasing numbness spread through her pussy. She imagined leaning into the mysterious man on the porch, standing on her tiptoes to nibble at his lips. Would he be hard for me? She thought of the obvious bulge in his jeans, his knowing grin, and his tight ass. I’d like to hold his ass when he drives his cock inside me.

  Her finger work
ed urgently. Butt cheeks tightened, anticipating the impending release. Her limbs tensed. Abra held her breath. The orgasm came slowly, a tender throb and pulse as her pussy reached for something that wasn’t there. She let out her pent-up breath, followed by a swooning cry of pleasure. Abra leaned against the fiberglass wall, its cooler temperature another sensation that she rode out with the rhythm of her body. When it subsided, and she could form coherent thoughts again, she said to the heated mist, “Tomorrow, he’ll be mine.”

  * * * *

  The sun had set hours ago, and respectable people living on farms way out in the country had long since gone to bed. Not Abra Helene. She stood in her makeshift studio, originally the living room of the old farmhouse, and painted with fury. She liked to create in the nude, and often bore the colored splotches of her art across her right hip. She didn’t mind. It was conversation if a man saw her naked. Usually, she painted angels, great naked men with heavy phalluses and rainbow wings reaching into vibrant sunrises, but not this night. Tonight she raked her brush across the canvas with harsh blacks and browns. The only light that showed on the grim vision glittered in the depths of its hazel eyes, two red dots in the place of pupils. The demon glaring out from the vanishing cotton linen had full lips, a bare chest and beyond it, souls wove in the shadows like mist from the shower.

  The angels watched from seven other easels set about the wide room. Abra imagined their disapproving voices. Perhaps, if they weren’t made of pigment and oil, they would wail at her for creating such a monstrosity. She shook her head, but didn’t turn to look at them. This demon needed wings, great, hairy, brown batwings that curled at the ends. In even strokes, she mapped them out. Then, feeling the urge to connect with her creation, she dropped her brush and swiped two fingers through the paint.

  Touching the cold vision, Abra slid skin against canvas and, in mere minutes, the demon was complete. She took a step back, smiled wide at her accomplishment, and danced about the easel in a crazed circle, giggling. She shook and gyrated until she could scarce breathe, her pulse pounding in her ears. Exhausted, Abra washed her hands and as much paint as she could from the dried streaks across her hip. Afterward, she climbed naked into the old four-post bed that faced the window in her bedroom.