by Ryland Thorn
Lying there on its back, struggling and kicking, the monster looks so much like a blowfly in its dying throes that Jack wouldn’t be surprised if it starts to spin in circles.
The holy water is having an impact. The minotaur’s skin is tough and thick, like an inch of concrete layered over its magma-like flesh. It has proven to be resistant to bullets and magic. Likely, it would have been proof against holy water as well.
But the flesh within is not as tough. As soon as the holy water touched it, a fountain of noxious, foul-smelling vapor erupted, escaping from the cracks in the monster’s hard skin.
Jack can imagine the havoc the holy water is causing. The merest touch on his own flesh causes hideous pain. Within the minotaur’s stomach, its flesh will be boiling like it has been dipped in acid. It will be collapsing in on itself, as if the holy water is eating around the edges. Jack will not be surprised if the holy water hollows the monster out from within, leaving only its thickened skin behind.
The only question remaining is whether the holy water is enough. Whether it can do enough damage to send this foul monster back to Hell.
All Jack can do is wait and mutter under his breath, “Come on you vile beast. Hurry up and die, damn you.”
It feels like minutes before the holy water runs its course. In the end, it is insufficient. The minotaur is too powerful. It never stops roaring its anguish and hate. But once the odious vapor stops belching from its stomach, it relaxes. It stops flailing about.
Then, more slowly than usual, as if every moment is agony, it climbs back to its feet.
Jack curses under his breath. He is impossibly weary. His muscles feel brittle enough that they might shatter like ice under a hammer if he continues to abuse them. Yet he sees no other option.
Summoning his anger and hate as if they can give him back his strength, he grits his teeth and forces his back up the column until he is standing. The muscles in his legs quiver in protest, and the effort is enough to make sweat bead on his forehead and his head pound even worse than it already is.
Yet the minotaur appears to be in no better condition. It is blinded and unsteady on its hooves. However, just like Jack, it is unwilling to give up.
The smoke that signifies its magic gathers around it again and a massive, curved sword forms in its grip. The minotaur has no idea where Jack and Lennox are, but it still seems intent on murdering them if it can.
And Jack has only his knife.
“Call Nathanial,” Jack grates to Lennox. “The Brotherhood needs to know what we have found. Tell them about this Hell-beast and the ward. I’m going to finish this.”
As he speaks, the minotaur begins to swing its sword back and forth. It is still roaring, and still seems as formidable as before. Only the hesitation in its movements, a hitch in its side with each swing gives any indication that it has been badly hurt.
Just how badly, Jack intends to put to the test.
Grimly, growling under his breath like an untamed beast, Jack forces his battered body to take a step toward the monster. He has no clue what he can do against it. He has no strength left of his own. His agility has deserted him. His key weapons are gone.
All Jack knows is that he cannot let this awful creature remain in New Sanctum. If he has breath left in his body, he will use that breath to send the minotaur back to Hell.
He takes a second step toward the monster. As he is gearing up for a third, he hears that Lennox isn’t doing as he asked. She isn’t calling the Brotherhood.
Instead, she is once more pronouncing words in a demonic tongue.
The nausea Jack feels is almost enough to drive him to his knees. Yet Lennox is also wounded and at the end of her strength. The blast of Hellfire that passes by Jack is her least powerful by far. Nevertheless, it is accurate. It strikes the minotaur squarely in the middle.
At first, it seems that the Hellfire blast isn’t strong enough to hurt the monster even in its weakened state. It wobbles on its hooves and takes a quick, steadying step. It looks in Lennox’s direction as if it still has its eyes and snorts a cloud of angry black smoke from its nostrils.
Jack doesn’t have the strength to stay standing. He falls to his knees and has to place his hands on the platform to steady himself. Bile is rising into the back of his throat and he feels dizzy. He shakes his head to clear it, and regrets it immediately. He feels woozy and weak, and fears that the blow to his forehead has done more damage than he wants to acknowledge.
He forces himself to stay focused. He will face the minotaur head on if it is the last thing he does.
Except that the minotaur’s sword has faded back into smoke. Instead of exuding rage and power, it seems somehow confused. Unsure of itself.
The cracks in its stomach have widened.
As Jack watches, they widen even further. The edges crumble into dust. At first, it is agonizingly slow, and then the process grows faster. In moments, there is a hole in the minotaur’s stomach that is as big as Jack’s head, and it still hasn’t finished. Just as Jack had imagined, the monster is mostly hollow inside. The holy water has eaten its flesh away.
The minotaur still isn’t quite done. It raises its head to the ceiling and bellows in anger and pain. And then its entire mid-section crumples into a cloud of dust, the two halves of the monster that remain crashing onto the floor.
Even then, it still clings desperately to life. It grasps the air with its fists and tries to call a weapon out of the smoke.
But it can’t. The smoke dissipates before it truly forms. Seconds later, what remains of the minotaur crumples in on itself and dissolves into a putrescent, sulfurous mound of sludge.
Jack barely has the strength to stay conscious. Nevertheless, he takes a moment to savor the sweet taste of satisfaction that the monster is dead. Then, with every fiber of his being protesting, he finally turns his attention to Lennox.
Chapter Seventeen: Postponement
Jack crawls over the station floor back toward Lennox. Every muscle he has is screaming, and his head is throbbing like it is a thumb bashed with a hammer. The world is fading at the edges and somewhere along the way Jack has lost his grip on his knife.
Nevertheless, he grimly holds on to what remains of his consciousness. The minotaur is defeated, but there is still more to do.
Lennox needs his help. And Jack hasn’t forgotten about the ward in the middle of the station floor. He knows that the minotaur had been there to protect it. He just has nothing left. Whatever the ward is, it is beyond him.
All he can do is hope that whatever it is hiding remains hidden, at least until he can get Lennox to safety.
Somehow, he makes it back to her. To him, Jack’s own suffering is no more than an irritation, a temporary inconvenience that will sort itself out after a good night of rest. But Lennox doesn’t have Jack’s durability or capacity for healing. Her torments are therefore much more crucial.
And Jack can see her agony. He can feel her desperation.
She has not moved from her place against the column. She still has her hand pressed against her side in an attempt to contain whatever damage she gained from the minotaur’s club. Her complexion, normally a rich, gentle shade of brown, is now pale and drawn. Her hair is plastered to her forehead, and there is a shadow of anguish behind her eyes.
Despite all this, she manages an echo of her usual grin when Jack collapses beside her.
“One day you will learn that you do not have to do everything yourself,” she says. Jack understands that she is trying for her usual playfulness, her usual mockery of his nature. But her delivery is marred by a wince that sours her good cheer.
Even so, Jack summons a weary grin in response. He nods despite the risk that the simple movement will cause him to black out. “One day, perhaps,” he agrees. Then he turns serious. “How badly are you hurt?”
Lennox tries to shift against the column, but the effort is too much. She can’t stifle a groan, and she has to close her eyes against the pain it causes her. When she o
pens them again, Jack can see the disappointment in them.
“Pretty bad,” she says. There is no joking in her tone. For the first time in forever, she is serious. “I think my hip is broken. And maybe my thigh as well. Damned thing hit like a battering ram.” Lennox draws a deep breath in an effort to calm herself. She bites her lip in an expression of regret. “I wasn’t careful enough. Shouldn’t have let it get that close to me. Sorry,” she says.
Jack is confused by Lennox’s apology. Then he figures it out. “You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he grunts. But in his own mind, he privately agrees. Lennox should have been more careful. She should have paid more attention when examining the ward.
Yet she isn’t the only one guilty of inattention. And she is still relatively new to the world of fighting these demonic creatures from Hell. If either of them is to blame for her being hit by the minotaur’s club, it is him.
“We will both be more vigilant next time,” he grumbles. “But right now, we need to let the Brotherhood know what has happened. We need them to take you back to the medical rooms at the Lair. And we need to tell them about the ward.”
Surprisingly, Lennox is able to quirk a half-grin. “Take me back to the medical rooms?” she says, trying for her usual playfulness. “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately? You are a mess!”
Despite everything, Jack is able to muster a genuine chuckle. “I’ll be all right,” he says.
“I do have something to apologize for,” Lennox says when Jack’s chuckling begins to fade. He looks at her quizzically. “I’m going to have to postpone our date,” she says.
Surprisingly, Jack is able to laugh once again. “I’m not sure I’m up to it tonight, either,” he mutters.
They share a moment of companionable silence, and then Lennox shifts once again. To Jack, it is apparent that she is uncomfortable sitting with her back against the column.
“Try not to move,” Jack says.
“I’m trying to get my cell phone,” Lennox replies with a grimace.
Jack can’t help himself. He wants to go to her aid, but she is right in her assessment of him. He can barely move. All he can do is watch as she carefully reaches into her pocket and, muttering encouragement or swear words under her breath, finally manages to withdraw her phone. One-handed, she unlocks the screen and swipes through to the number she wants.
Jack relaxes as Lennox hits the call button and raises the phone to her ear. But before she utters a single word, she looks over Jack’s shoulder and her eyes widen in shock.
All at once, Jack experiences a sensation of doom. He knows that they did not enter the abandoned subway station because of the minotaur. They entered it because the tar man had listed it as a possible location where they might find the sorcerer who stole the Daemonicon.
There is a ward in the middle of the floor.
Without turning around, Jack senses movement behind him. He doesn’t know exactly what has happened, but Lennox’s reaction is enough. A cold hand of fear wraps itself around his spine and he tries to muster whatever strength he has left.
All he can do is roll himself onto his back.
There is a young man standing in the middle of the station. Behind him, Jack can see a corner of darkness where the ward still stands. It is like the ward is a circular tent, and this young man has opened a section of it, a wedge of a cheese round, so he could walk through.
Jack has time to register that the man is little more than a boy. Maybe sixteen years old, with the looks of an angel. There is an innocence to his features that is surprising. His expression is open and curious, and with his dark hair and serious, intelligent eyes combined with the ordinary jeans and T-shirt he wears, he could easily be the most popular boy at his school.
Jack understands then how Samuel had been caught off guard. Few would think that this boy is dangerous. He could have walked right up to the old man in the foyer of the Lair and poor Samuel would never have guessed at his true nature even if Nergal had been spitting in fear and anger.
But Jack is not fooled. He has been able to sense demon blood in others for all of his life. A single glance is enough to tell him that this boy is far more than half demon. It is like he is standing there, an ordinary, guileless boy-child, while at the same time a shadow of darkness is standing within him.
Jack gets the impression of wings and horns and yellow eyes filled with hate, as well as fangs that drip with the most virulent poison. It is like there is the shadow of a high ranking demon from Hell is standing there, sharing the same place as the boy.
In the time it takes his heart to beat once, Jack understands that he is face to face with the sorcerer.
As if to confirm Jack’s suspicions, the boy begins to speak. The words he uses are demonic and loathsome, like those Lennox uses when casting a spell. They turn Jack’s blood and make him want to vomit, and as well as speaking out loud, the boy is moving his hands and arms as if he is engaged in an intricate dance.
Through it all, the boy’s expression never changes. It stays open and guileless even as a pair of invisible hands reach out and grip Jack and Lennox by their throats.
Lennox is able to gasp out half a sentence. “The sorcerer!” she says into the receiver, and then drops her cell phone to the ground.
The boy is still speaking, still waving his arms about. The invisible hand picks Lennox and Jack up and holds them both helpless in the air, their feet dangling more than a yard off the ground. Jack feels like he is choking and tries to tear at his throat, but there is nothing substantial there. All he and Lennox can do is kick out in futility.
Even if Jack had any weapons remaining, he wouldn’t be able to use them.
The boy has finished his spell. He tilts his head to the side like a puppy trying to see things from a different perspective.
“You killed my Hell-beast,” the boy says. There is no anger or hate in his words. Just mild curiosity. And yet, Jack gets the impression that he has just been accused of a capital crime.
Chapter Eighteen: Sorcerer
Before Jack can so much as gasp out a word in response, Lennox incants a spell of her own. Her pronunciation is tortured. It is as if she too is struggling for breath, but Jack still feels the familiar grating against his soul at her words.
She doesn’t get far enough for it to do any good. The sorcerer looks directly at her with eyes suddenly hard as teak and glittering with power.
“Stop that,” he says mildly and waves his hand as if shooing away a bug.
Instantly, Lennox says nothing more. Jack wrenches and strains, but he cannot turn his head to see what has happened. All he knows is that where before Lennox had been capable of talking, now all she is able to do is make noises. It is as if someone has covered her mouth with the palm of their hand.
Jack is beaten. Even before the sorcerer made his appearance, he was done. Nevertheless, at this treatment of Lennox, his blood once more boils in anger. He doesn’t know who this sorcerer-child is. Jack doesn’t know their young adversary’s full story at all.
He only knows that this child is responsible for the theft of the Daemonicon and for Samuel’s death. The boy is powerful, and despite his angelic appearance, he is ruled by a mighty demon within.
That is enough for Jack. He snarls in rage and struggles against his invisible bonds.
For all the good it does him, he might have been spitting at the moon. The sorcerer ignores him completely and focuses his attention on Lennox.
“Impressive,” the boy says to her. “Your magic is the strongest I have ever known. Not even close to my own, of course. But stronger than any I expected to see. No wonder you defeated my minotaur.”
He pauses then and his brows furrow as if he is contemplating his options. Then he raises his voice and speaks over his shoulder. “What am I to do with these two?” he asks.
For the first time, Jack looks at the wedge within the ward. Really looks. Although it is darker inside than out, he can make out desks and candle
s and a few amorphous shapes. He sees what looks to be the Daemonicon resting there, open and waiting, but that isn’t what takes his attention.
One of those shapes carries an odor of evil beyond any Jack has ever experienced before. Suddenly, he understands that while the sorcerer is a major threat to the Brotherhood, all of New Sanctum, and beyond, there is a greater danger yet.
There is someone – or something – controlling the boy, guiding his talents. And that thing is currently hidden within the ward in the middle of the abandoned subway station floor.
The merest glimpse of the thing crouching there is enough to make Jack shiver. It is like he is in the presence of evil itself given corporeal form. Like every known disease and cancer in the world has been distilled to its vilest essence and is staring right at him.
For most of his life, Jack has swum in seas of hate and rage. Now he understands that even at his most depraved, even at his lowest points, his hate and rage are as nothing compared with what is within the ward.
It is like he is in the presence of an extrusion of Hell itself.
Jack has few of the fears that a normal man knows. Mortality doesn’t scare him. The sorts of dangers that terrify others are a way of life for him. His greatest fears are for what can be done to those that he loves than anything to do with himself.
Yet a single glance at the thing in the ward is like a finger of ice gripping his heart. It is the very definition of horror.
Jack’s almost-premonition he had outside in the storm comes back to him in a rush. He is as close to panic as ever he has been, but he is unable to do anything about it.
— Kill them —
It isn’t a voice so much as an impression that someone has spoken. Jack would have sworn that it made no sound at all. Nevertheless, the words are enough to drive him into action. He struggles as hard as the weariness of his muscles will allow, kicking and growling for all he is worth.
Jack is a mouse caught in the jaws of a cat. His bonds have no give in them, and the image of the tar man bound to his chair comes unbidden to his mind. The tar man had been just as unable to escape as Jack is right now.