by Ryland Thorn
Madame Brigette pauses for just a moment, but she isn’t done speaking. She is just giving the tar man enough time for her words to register. “You will never be able to get rid of it. The glyph will be part of you. No laser will be able to remove it from your skin. Your only chance will be to have the area surgically removed. Which is why I’m going to draw the glyph on your chest.”
As Madame Brigette speaks, the tar man starts to struggle against his bonds once again. But this time is different. There is an air of desperation to his movements that hadn’t been there before. He is hurling himself against his restraints with such abandon that Jack thinks he will break bones.
The tar man’s laughter has turned into the growl of a wild thing caught in a trap.
For the first time since he entered the cell, Jack smiles.
“Do it,” he says.
<<<>>>
The chair’s restraints are enough to keep the tar man firmly in place. There is nothing he can do to prevent Madame Brigette moving what remains of his shirt out of the way using his own blood to draw an intricate pattern on his chest.
Yet he has not accepted his fate. As well as lurching against the restraints as best he can, he snarls and swears and even spits at Madame Brigette while she works.
At the last, Jack moves in close and holds his blade between the tar man’s mouth and Madame Brigette.
“Try that again and I’ll see if I can’t seal your stinking trap shut!” Jack grates.
When Madame Brigette is done, she steps away. She looks at the glyph she has created with a critical eye and then nods, pronouncing herself satisfied.
To Jack, the pattern looks like a circle combined with a Japanese kanji. He doesn’t understand what it means or even if it has meaning. All he knows is that Madame Brigette’s glyphs are powerful.
He believes it will do as she said. “Now what?” he says.
“Now, I activate it,” Madame Brigette replies.
So saying, she closes her eyes and mumbles to herself as if she is praying. The words she uses have the same feel to them as those Lennox uses when performing her magic. They make Jack nauseous, as if he is on a boat in stormy seas. He would not be surprised if his pallor has changed to a sickly shade of green.
At Madame Brigette’s final word, the tar man screams. The blood-glyph on his chest is glowing cobalt blue. Steam rises from his chest in much the same way that steam rises whenever holy water touches his skin.
The glow quickly brightens until it is almost white. The tar man shrieks in agony. It is as if the glyph is a hot filament burning into his flesh.
And then, between one moment and the next, the glow fades to nothing. The glyph on the tar man’s chest is dark blue with nothing remaining of the blood with which it had been painted.
Jack is surprised by the intensity of it all. When he’d had his own tattoo-glyphs activated, it had seemed a far gentler process.
Madame Brigette gives a satisfied nod. She is proud of the work she has done. “I have activated glyphs on many people before,” she says. “But none this strong. And this is the first time I haven’t used an analgesic. Quite gratifying.” As she speaks, her smile takes on a malevolent aspect. “Go ahead,” she says, addressing the tar man. “See if you can conjure your spawn now.”
The tar man’s chest is heaving. His skin is glistening with sweat. He is puffing and panting as if he has just endured twelve rounds against a champion kick boxer. The tar man is glaring at Madame Brigette with so much hate it is almost palpable. It is like he is projecting a heat ray toward her.
The threat in his gaze is potent enough that anyone else might have quivered in fear to face it, but Madame Brigette stands where she is, completely unfazed. “Go on,” she says. “Or are you scared it won’t work?”
Surprisingly, the tar man does as she says. He closes his eyes in concentration, and Jack stands at the ready.
But the tar man’s hands don’t turn black. They do not form drips of putrescence at his fingertips.
The tar man’s demon-spawn completely fail to form.
As if to confirm Jack’s observations, the tar man’s eyes flick open in shock. He still carries hate in his eyes, but the look he gives Madame Brigette is more disbelief than anything else.
“You can’t…” he begins, but trails off before finishing his sentence.
“I can and I have,” Madame Brigette replies. “The only question is how permanent it is. At the moment, the glyph is seared into your skin. It’s like a shallow burn. In a few weeks, it will heal, and very likely the strength of it will fade away. You would probably be able to use your power again.” She gives him another vengeful grin. “If you’re still alive, of course. But once Lennox does her thing, there will be nothing you can do to regain your powers.”
The tar man is more enraged than Jack has ever seen him. Despite the bloody mess Jack has made of his face, he is gnashing his teeth and snarling like a madman. It is clear that not only does he understand Madame Brigette’s threat, he believes every word she has spoken.
For the tar man, not having his powers is a reality beyond horrifying.
There is not even the slightest hint of his laughter left in the air.
“Tell me your name,” Jack grates.
Chapter Eight: Answers
The tar man’s strength of will is a match for his horror. He still refuses to answer. He just continues to writhe and struggle as Lennox takes Madame Brigette’s place.
She offers the tar man a flat, stony stare. “I’m going to enjoy this,” she says, and pronounces words full of power.
The tar man tries to ignore her, but her words produce a ball of Hellfire at the tip of her finger. She touches that ball of Hellfire to the fiend’s chest.
He can no longer ignore her.
A scream of pure agony erupts from him as the cell fills with the smell of burnt meat. There is a sour, rotten aspect to it, and to Jack it is revolting. It reminds him of the acrid stench of the demon spawn dissolving in holy water. He has no choice but to curl his lip in disgust as he tries to avoid breathing it in.
At the same time, even though her use of magic sets his teeth on edge, Jack can’t help but admire Lennox’s control. Not so long ago, she would have ignited the tar man’s entire body. But now, she can harness her Hellfire so that she can trace the glyph on his chest with ease.
She is like a skilled welder finessing a seam, with her Hellfire playing the part of the electrode. She doesn’t burn the glyph out, but rather melts it deep into the tar man’s flesh, his skin bubbling like boiling water on a stove.
Jack can only imagine the agony it is causing. And still the tar man refuses to speak, at least to begin with.
Lennox traces a surprising amount of the glyph before the tar man’s will gives out.
“Rayce! Rayce Madden!” the tar man shrieks through his bloody mouth, his words surprisingly clear given the mess Jack’s fist has made of his face. “That is my name! Now stop! Tell her to stop!”
Lennox pauses in her chanting and the ball of Hellfire at her fingertip snuffs out. She gives Jack a private smirk of triumph.
“You will answer our questions?” Jack asks, his tone deceptively calm.
“Yes!” the tar man says. “Anything! Just … please, no more!”
There is no hint of his usual laughter. Instead, Rayce is whimpering like a cornered bully.
Jack understands that it isn’t just the pain that has led to this. The tar man has proven to be resilient against pain. It is the knowledge that he will never again be able to summon his spawn if Lennox finishes tracing the glyph.
Jack doesn’t care. All that matters to him is that they will finally get answers. He looks through the clear plastic wall to Deedee and raises an eyebrow.
Deedee asks the most salient question. “What do you know of the theft of the Daemonicon?”
Rayce Madden hesitates, but this time it is different. Instead of being willfully stubborn, sneering at their attempts to question him and
choosing not to answer, it is as if he is afraid. It is like he is aware that there are consequences of speaking, just as there are consequences of remaining silent.
It is like he is weighing those consequences and doesn’t like what he sees.
Jack snarls in anger. “Lennox,” he says.
It is all she needs. Once more, she pronounces words of power that are loathsome to hear. The ball of Hellfire appears at the tips of her fingers and she immediately touches it to Rayce’s chest.
The tar man flinches as best he can in his bonds and lets out a noise that is partway between a sob and a whimper.
“Ok, ok!” he says. “I’ll talk! Just … just stop.”
Lennox takes the flame away but doesn’t let it fade.
“The Daemonicon,” Jack snarls.
The tar man tries to nod. “The Daemonicon,” he says. “Yes. I know who took it. It’s all connected.”
In the cell, there is a release of tension at his words that is almost palpable. It is like Jack, Madame Brigette, and Lennox all breathed a sigh of relief at the same time. Finally, it looks like they will get the answers they seek.
But Jack doesn’t let up. “Tell us everything,” he insists.
“It was us. We took it,” Rayce says, his voice full of defeat mixed with hate and resentment. “It’s all part of the plan.”
“What plan?” Jack demands, but Deedee is speaking as well. “Who is ‘we’?” she asks.
The tar man’s battered and bloody face turns into a sneer. He chooses to answer Deedee, but not out of any sense of respect for her position. Rayce Madden’s entire nature is contrary. Nor is he overly submissive despite his decision to talk.
He answers Deedee first because it is all he can do to spite Jack.
“There are many of us. We live in the sewers and alleyways, hiding who we are and what we can do from the ordinary humans who infest this city. Hiding from those of us who choose to betray their true natures, like you,” he says, directing the last at Jack. “Hiding from your stinking Brotherhood and your high and mighty assumptions of what’s right or wrong.”
The bitterness in the tar man’s words is unmistakable. It is like he has packed decades worth of resentment into his speech and is hurling it all at Jack and the others.
Nor has he finished. Now that he has accepted that he will have to talk, he seems unwilling to stop. “You despise us for the blood we carry and for the things we can do with it,” he says, clearly talking to Jack more than Deedee and the others. “You use that to justify murdering us as if we are nothing. Hypocrite. You’ve got the same blood in you, as strong as any of us. As does your girlfriend. What right do you have to deny us the chance to walk freely, to live without fear and to do the things we can do?”
There is venom in his voice and he obviously means everything he has said. Lennox looks a question at Jack, who thinks about telling her to continue using her Hellfire.
Instead, he chooses to answer. “I’ve said it before. My blood doesn’t rule me,” Jack says. “That’s the difference. Now answer the question!”
“Ha!” Rayce almost spits the word, and some of his mirth returns. “You think pretending to be no more than human somehow makes you better than the rest of us? Well, guess what? It doesn’t! It just makes you a fool who is doing the will of an inferior species! You are a Titan on the leash to an insect, and you are betraying your own kind! Tell me, slave, how does it feel? To know that your actions go against the will of the very blood in your veins!”
Jack has had enough. He wants to plunge his blades into the tar man’s flesh again just to hear the sounds of his agony once more. But he just grits his teeth and snarls, “Answer the question!”
The tar man manages a ghost of his previous chuckle. “Answer the question. All right. Here’s your answer, blood-traitor. We are tired of being no more than targets for your rage. We are tired of scurrying about in the dark when we should be sitting on thrones. We are tired of the Brotherhood deciding who gets to live in this city and what rules to uphold. We are tired of it all!”
Because of the steel bands on the chair, the tar man is unable to move. He has been stabbed in the leg, his powers have been taken away, and Lennox has seared parts of Madame Brigette’s glyph deep into his chest.
Yet despite his wounds and hardships, his passion is enough to make his words clear. “So we are finally doing something about it!” Rayce says. “We are coming up from the sewers and into your world. We are taking what is rightfully ours. And you will not stop us!”
There is silence in the cell. Lennox and Madame Brigette are both staring at the tar man with loathing and hate etched into their features. It is as if they are staring at something vile, like a jar filled with mucous and reproducing cockroaches.
Even Deedee says nothing. Perhaps she is unsettled by the tar man’s vehemence. But to Jack, the tar man’s words do no more than confirm what he already suspected. They add little that is truly new.
“Who stole the Daemonicon?” Jack demands.
Lennox is still between Jack and the tar man, standing ready to resume her Hellfire welding of the glyph to his flesh. Yet she is not blocking their view of one another. Jack and Rayce can glare at each other with all the fury and resentment they can muster.
“There is one among us who has more demon blood in his veins than any of you. He is young yet, but powerful. His gift for demon sorcery is beyond compare. He stole the Daemonicon,” Rayce says.
“For what purpose?” Deedee demands through the plastic.
The tar man flicks a glance in her direction. “What purpose do you think, old woman?” he says, his tone full of scorn. “Do you think he wants to pull butterflies out of his ass, or make the world a better place? Morons. He wants to take the Brotherhood apart brick by brick! He wants to raise demons and monsters the like of which haven’t been seen in thousands of years! He wants to turn New Sanctum into an approximation of Hell itself, with us as its rulers!”
Not even Jack is immune to the feeling of dismay Rayce’s words conjure. The tar man is talking about horrors on a massive scale. If even part of this plan comes to pass, New Sanctum will become terrifying. It will be apocalyptic.
The townsfolk will become nothing but playthings and victims for those with demon blood in their veins and the monsters they let loose.
Jack feels his rage grow strong enough that the blood pulsing through his temples starts to boil. He knows that with the Daemonicon in this sorcerous stranger’s hands, all that the tar man has said is possible.
It doesn’t bear thinking about.
“And what of these attacks?” Deedee asks. “These demonic events we have been facing since the Daemonicon was stolen. You. The werewolf-thing. The ghouls. Is that your sorcerer and your cronies as well?”
The tar man’s laughter once more fills the cell. It is lower than it had been before, humorless and base. “Of course it is,” he replies, his tone full of bitter amusement.
“Why?” Deedee asks.
“To buy time,” Rayce says, his laughter fading.
“Time? For what?”
The tar man almost snarls his answer. “How do you think demon sorcery works? Do you think just having the book is enough? It needs to be studied! We need to understand it, so we can put it to good use. Tell me this, woman. What would your precious Brotherhood have done if my brethren and I hadn’t attacked?”
Deedee exhales explosively. She starts to swear under her breath in a way that suggests that she is profoundly irritated with both the tar man and herself.
“We would have bent our efforts and resources to finding the thief,” she says, spitting the words between clenched teeth.
Jack sees understanding dawn on Madame Brigette’s face and senses Lennox’s anger at the same time as he figures it out. “It was all a distraction,” he mutters. He glares at Rayce again, but the tar man is impervious to the venom in his stare. Despite his shattered cheek, the tar man finds the will to grin.
Jack turns a
way in disgust. Even bound as he is, the tar man has the ability to frustrate him. The plan has worked. Jack and the Brotherhood have wasted an entire day dealing with Rayce Madden and his ilk. They are still wasting time even now.
Except that there is something Rayce hasn’t admitted.
Jack turns back to the sneering, demon-blooded villain in the chair. He returns the tar man’s grin with one of his own, except that his is even colder, even more humorless.
“I bet you never thought you’d get captured,” he says. As the tar man’s expression drops, Jack continues. “Your plan has backfired. You hoped to distract us, to keep us from finding your sorcerer. Instead, you’re going to tell me exactly where to find him.”
The tar man’s expression is grim, but surprisingly, he manages to laugh one more time.
This time, his laughter carries more than a hint of self-mockery.
Chapter Nine: Different Viewpoints
“I don’t know where he is,” the tar man says with a bitter note in his voice that Jack doesn’t trust.
“Guess,” Jack demands. He doesn’t need to suggest to Lennox that she might conjure her Hellfire again. The threat is already hanging in the air in a way that is almost tangible. Nor does Lennox need the suggestion. The tar man’s hesitation at Jack’s order is enough. She begins her spell one more time, but doesn’t get past the first syllable before Rayce starts to babble.
“I don’t know!” he says, his tone a mixture of anguish and desperation. “I don’t know! But I know where he’s been before. I can tell you that!”
Jack doesn’t say a word. He just waits for the tar man to speak.
<<<>>>
Rayce Madden gives them a list of half a dozen places where the sorcerer has been. A couple of abandoned warehouses. A run-down church at the edge of town. An old subway station on a track that hasn’t been used in a decade. Even a construction site that has been standing empty, unfinished, for more than a year.
Eventually, the tar man falls silent. “And that’s it. That’s all I know about. If he isn’t there, I don’t know where he is.” His words are flat and full of resentment that he’d been made to speak.