by Sawyer Black
“What in the actual fuck?” Henry looked down at the washcloth, then out the windows, working to determine their location. The harbor was on his far right, Twyker Island a dot on the left. “Where are we?”
“Safe,” Boothe said. “I told you, you can’t go around doing whatever you want, whenever you feel like it. That makes you a danger to me. You’re also a danger to yourself, and to Samantha. Correct me if I’m wrong, Henry, but you didn’t return from Nowhere to be of no use to anyone, did you?”
“Where are we?” Henry repeated, hating Boothe for how often he used his name, like a professor to his idiot students.
“My apartment in Martinsburg. I’ve not had it long, so you’ll find it a bit sparse for the moment. You will have every necessity, though, and are welcome to use the flat at your discretion. For now.”
“You’re a demon! Why do you need an apartment?”
“Don’t say demon like that. You make the word sound so ugly. Besides, Henry, if I’m a demon, you’re a demon too.”
“Do all demons have such fancy apartments? How do you sign a lease? Does your landlord know you’re a demon? Do you get a special demon checking account from Chase?”
Boothe smiled, probably at the hundred million secrets he knew that Henry didn’t. “We have ways of operating wherever we need to. You’ll learn each when appropriate. Money is plentiful, so yes, things are nice more often than not. I have many places, everywhere, from hovels to manors depending on who I’m hosting, but I appreciate your recent ascension to a certain standard of living. This place has all you need, including a massive bathtub, which you seem to love so much. Above all, the apartment will give you privacy.”
Henry blanched, as though privacy were a dirty word.
“I suppose privacy isn’t quite right. Humans require privacy. Demons require a darker sort of veil. The two needs are not the same and should never be confused. But your windows are tinted, so nobody can see in, at least not during the day. At night, I suggest you draw the blinds.”
Henry looked past Boothe and out the window with a sudden longing to be among the many millions of people swarming through life on the other side of the glass.
As if reading his thoughts, Boothe said, “You’re staring at a memory, Henry. That world is dead to you now. Demons live in secret, and your concealment can never be compromised. You must leash your instincts, at least until you learn to control them. You can’t go around killing people willy-nilly like you’re a star athlete or pampered kid sucking on the trust fund teat, especially not with witnesses. Every situation deserves care, caution, and well-reasoned execution. Understand?”
Boothe held Henry’s eyes until he nodded.
“Learn to walk well so you’re never forced to run. You are a hunter, Henry, and predators should never chase prey when they can stalk it instead. Start thinking as an assassin. You never see assassins coming, and nobody ever knows they were there until they’re long gone. That’s your world now, Henry. Forever.”
Forever?
Henry decided not to argue the point or question it. Yet, he marinated in their mutual silence for several seconds. After those seconds turned into a minute, Boothe said, “If people see you as you truly are, they will run to their God, clutch their Bibles, and start converting faster than deathbed atheists. Don’t worry, you’ll get your chance for vengeance, and it will be grand. I’ve not brought you here for nothing. But you have to understand, things must be done in a certain way. Our universe has rules for everything.”
“Fuck. I didn’t know the Devil was a stickler for rules!”
“I said the universe, Henry. Learn to listen. We’re all subject to rules. Rather than being the class clown, why don’t you pay attention? Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll have to drop you back in Nowhere where you can wait in line for your Judgment Day like all the other suckers. Would you prefer that, Henry?”
Henry sulked. “No.”
“Good lad. I’m not sure how well waiting for Judgment will work out for you after your little incident this morning at Hillbilly Flats. I can’t imagine that won’t somehow mar your permanent record, and I’ve no clue how much longer that little oops might keep you waiting for the Pearlies to open. Honestly, I don’t think you possess the patience for Purgatory, Henry. You are stupid from too many years on this plane, vibrating at the same insipid frequency. You’ve no concept of time, or what Forever actually means.”
Henry stewed, flexing his toes, clenching and unclenching his fists, and trying to rein in his anger. He was centimeters from snapping and worried he would. A decision to attack Boothe would likely be the last he ever made.
Once calm enough to speak, Henry said, “I had a chance to start making things right at the funeral. He was right there, and you stopped me! What if I never get another shot? What if that was it?”
“You are speaking as if you’re defeated already, Henry. Why?”
Henry stared at Boothe, hating him. “I don’t need a shrink.”
“You need to stop seeing everything as some unsolvable problem and start realizing that there’s always a solution. You spend so much time worrying, I don’t see how you ever got anything done. Now, I’m going to be talking fast, so you’ll need to keep up and not interrupt.” Boothe crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator, pulled out a pitcher of cold water, then filled a pair of tall glasses drawn from a cabinet. He handed one to Henry. “Drink this. Your body is weak.”
Henry gulped his water as Boothe continued speaking. “Why do you think that man was at your funeral, Henry? To pay his respects? No, of course not. He was there for something else. But you’re seeing so much red that every other color seems black. Close your eyes and stare into the darkness, Henry. Now think. Why was he at the funeral?”
Stop saying my fucking name!
“Stop fretting about what I am or am not doing, Henry.” Boothe doubled his volume on Henry’s name. “Start worrying about getting the answers you’re desperate to get. I promised to help you, not that your task would be easy.”
Henry closed his eyes, then waited, inhaling and exhaling with measured sighs, until his anger slowly melted. And then he saw — and felt stupid for not having seen sooner.
“My God,” Henry breathed. “He’s not finished … he’s stalking Samantha!”
“You’re pretty smart for a guy who told dick jokes for a living.”
“I’ve gotta get back to the funeral! I have to protect Samantha!”
Boothe laughed. “Look at yourself, Henry. You’re so angry, you can’t think straight. You need to stop doing so you can start thinking. Would you like to know why it took you twelve years to land your TV show instead of the two or three it might have taken a more practical comic?”
Henry looked up, wounded by the demon in a brand-new way. He was surprised Boothe knew about his TV deal, let alone how long it took to get. “I don’t know how long you’ve been dead, Boothe, but nobody gets a deal in two or three years.”
Boothe shook his head, as though he felt sorry for Henry. “Work harder, tour longer, write more material. You had enough by your third year to make the fourth your best ever. But you never believed in yourself, at least not enough. Saturated by the defeat you see inside, you willingly listen to anger and doubt. Stop. Listen to logic rather than fear. Logic says there’s no benefit in striking at your funeral.”
An odd sort of calm replaced Henry’s rage. His tightened shoulders softened and the boulder on his back was gone.
“Samantha will be safe, even after the funeral,” Boothe said. “Someone is watching her house right now. And at all times.”
“What do you mean someone?”
“Well, I suppose it’s not a someone, so much as a something. I put a goll at your house.”
“A what?”
“A goll. I guess they’re like goblins, but I find that particular term nearly as crude as demon. Golls are short, gray-skinned, and I suppose they sort of resemble children, except for their faces, which look like Satan’s orph
an bastards.”
“You put a fucking demon at my house?”
“He’s not a demon, Henry. He’s a beastie from Purgatory, not all that different from you or I, really.” Boothe laughed. “Ezra won’t eat your wife. I’m sure he’s still quite full from yesterday. He cleaned up your little mess, and white trash never agrees with him. Gives him the runs, every time. Believe me, that’s nothing you want to see. Or smell.”
Henry took a long swig of water as Boothe continued talking.
“You’ll need to learn control yourself before anything else,” he repeated. “I’ll help you prepare. In the meantime, if Ezra sees something off, he knows what to do. If he can’t handle the situation on his own — highly doubtful if you’ve ever seen Ezra in action — he’ll tell me immediately. Samantha is perfectly safe.”
“Are you sure?”
Boothe shook his head in annoyance, ignoring the question. “Now,” he said, taking his empty water glass and setting it on the counter beside him. “I can’t teach you to be a god, but I can come awfully close. So, pay attention.”
Chapter Eight
Henry wasn’t impressed.
“I need to get to my wife,” he said.
“Why? So you can stare at her? Think, Henry. What could you do? Pine from the shadows? Wish with all your woe-is-me that things were different? They’re not, and right now you’re most suited for revenge. Fail to learn what you must, and risk impotency when you’re needed.” Boothe laughed. “I’m sure you know about that, don’t you, Henry.”
“Fuck you.”
Boothe paced the apartment as he spoke with his hands. “I have things to show you, but if you don’t pay attention, I’m going to leave you alone to figure it out for yourself. Understand?”
Henry growled and nodded.
“I would tell you to look in the mirror, but I’m not in the mood to hear your screaming. So why don’t you rub a finger on that giant cut on your forehead, instead.”
Henry took two fingers and softly rubbed his smooth forehead, but felt nothing. No torn skin, no wound.
“Miraculous, yes?” Boothe beamed. “Wait, it gets better.”
Before Boothe finished his sentence, he was hovering an inch from Henry, brandishing a blade. Henry blinked twice in surprise. By the end of his second blink, Boothe had cut Henry with a long swipe across his left arm.
Henry screamed as blood gushed, then stopped when he realized there was no pain, only the idea of it. He went to the kitchen counter, grabbed another white washcloth, dabbed the gash until it disappeared, and turned to Boothe.
The demon smiled. “I told you. Not quite a god, but close. See how efficient we can be when running on my schedule? I’ve shown you three things at once. You heal almost immediately, you feel little to no physical pain, and I can move like a bullet. You can do that too, provided you have the energy for any of it.”
Henry stood in the living room, breathing heavily, sucking more of this new, impossible reality into his mind and body.
“Ready?”
“No. But let’s do it, anyway.”
Boothe walked over to Henry, set one hand on his right forearm, and the other on the healed skin of his left. Henry instinctively closed his eyes, feeling his body growing quickly insignificant. The world vanished around them, replaced by a momentary flashing from light to dark to light again. After the flickering, and a momentary dizziness, Henry found himself standing beside Boothe on the rooftop of an old warehouse about a half mile from the docks. Charcoal smoke plumed above the harbor.
“Where are we?”
“I thought we had an agreement, Henry. You weren’t going to ask me questions you already know the answers to.”
“We’re at the docks,” Henry said. “But where? That’s a fair question.”
Boothe smiled. “Yes, we’re at the docks, in an old part of the warehouse district where few ever go. We’re safe here.”
“Safe to do what? The deluxe apartment in the sky seemed safe enough.”
“You heal quickly, Henry, as do I. My apartment, however, does not.” Boothe smiled, condescendingly, as though Henry was an infant who might someday understand. “You need to learn, and this rooftop allows us the space to do that well. You must know yourself better, and much of that … insight, shall we say, has to come from me. We’ll keep our training light, and I promise, I’m a second from Samantha, always. Ezra, your goll, might be afraid of interrupting us, but he is far more afraid of failing me. Do you believe me that Samantha is safe?”
Henry wasn't sure what to say. No, he didn't believe Boothe. At least not completely. But he didn’t want to anger the demon, either. Henry nodded.
“Brilliant.” Boothe beamed. “Let’s get started.”
Boothe blurred into motion, leaving a black trail behind him that had barely faded by the time he stood on the opposite end of the roof, looking at Henry with a calm smile, his hands behind his back. He beckoned Henry over with a tip of his head.
Henry took a deep breath and pushed off to follow. Launching across the roof with the wind roaring past his ears, He reveled in the speed. His surroundings compressing and stretching. He skidded to a halt in front of Boothe, chest heaving as he fought for breath.
Boothe inclined his head in salute. “That is not the worst I have ever seen, but you are limiting yourself.”
“How the fuck am I limiting myself? That’s faster than I’ve ever done anything.”
“Yes, but you see …”
Boothe was gone. Henry saw him in his periphery, moving from standing to full speed without transition. He spun to follow him, but Boothe was already on the other side of the roof.
Henry launched into a sprint, pushing as hard as he could, but his speed was no better than his last attempt.
Boothe shook his head. “It’s not about your body, Henry, but about your mind.”
Henry bent over his knees, gasping for breath. “Well, my mind certainly says that was fast.”
“And it was, certainly. But your mind must learn that it can see things beyond what you have already defined.”
Henry stood up straight with his hands on his hips. “I don’t care what you say. I did pretty good just now.”
Boothe sighed. “Why are you out of breath?”
“I just sprinted my big ass across twenty yards of hot rooftop.”
“Then why am I not?”
Henry shrugged. “You’re in better shape than me.”
“It’s because you remember what it was like before you died. The knowledge of your new form is there, Henry. You must reach for it and accept it.”
Henry thought of how it had felt to smash the guy into the side of the van. Thought about doing the same to the animals that had raped his wife. Killed his baby girl. He didn’t want to hear another word of Boothe’s bullshit. “You’re saying my body knows what to do, even if my mind doesn’t?”
Boothe face twisted in annoyance. “Not exactly.”
“Then, what exactly?”
“Your brain works far faster now. Unlike aging as a human, the longer you’re a demon, the sharper you get.”
Boothe took him to the rooftop’s far corner and put his strength on display by lifting a length of heavy steel, bracing over his head with one hand, then hurling it to the opposite end of the roof.
That thing had to weigh two or three hundred pounds.
Henry was almost giddy as he took his turn.
Hulk smash!
He picked up the first length of steel. He remembered being nine, playing at Heritage Park and pretending he had super strength, flinging branches through the air, imagining that they were uprooted trees.
Henry let the steel fly … and a searing pain ripped through his body. Starting at his shoulder, tearing through the muscles in his arm, it rattled across his chest. He dropped to his knees as the steel clanged several feet of his target. He clutched at the ripping agony.
I’m having a fucking heart attack.
“The pain isn’t really th
ere, Henry. It’s in your head. You must allow your mind to accept your new form, and agree with what it actually sees and feels.”
Henry answered by picking up another section of steel, his anger powering it over his head. He hurled the thick metal bar across the roof with a bellow of rage. The second throw hurt less than the first, and by the third, it was little more than a tickle. Henry grinned at Boothe as he fought to catch his breath again. Boothe answered with a slight smile that only lifted one side of his mouth. A few days before, five minutes on the treadmill would’ve drenched him in sweat. Now he lifted heavy beams like toothpicks. At least, until Henry came to the last one.
This can’t be real.
The final piece of scrap, not quite as large as the others, held the weight of a planet. It ripped from his grip and smashed his foot between the metal and concrete. Because a lifetime of experience swore anything else was impossible, pain exploded from his foot, shooting up his leg. He swallowed his anger and took the punishment, closing his eyes and telling his brain it wasn’t there. After several seconds of concentration, the pain faded from a searing heat to a dull throb. To nothing. He opened his eyes and turned to glare at Boothe.
“What the fuck?” He reached down, yanked the steel off his foot, and tossed it aside with a heavy thud.
Boothe chuckled, as though amused by Henry’s failure.
“Why did that happen?” He limped toward the demon with his hands in fists at his side.
Boothe didn’t budge. He held Henry’s eyes with his own as he spoke into his heavy breath. “It might be any number of reasons, but my best guess says doubt. Or maybe that’s only me psychoanalyzing you. Your focus has waned from exhaustion? Perhaps it’s that. Every action requires focus. This is true of any normal body, and more so for you. Your body does more, and thus requires more to operate. Whipping through the air like wind or taking punishment like a rock takes a tremendous amount of physical strength. Your body refuels itself automatically, but still requires time to regenerate.”
Boothe smiled, more like a friend and less like a snake. “You ready to go back? You’re going to need a nap soon.” He held out his hand.