by Sawyer Black
Something seemed off, though he wasn’t sure what.
Henry went to the kitchen, drank water straight from the pitcher, then went to the bathroom to piss. He remembered nothing since leaving Randall and slipping into The Forgotten. That felt like a day ago, and forever. He could feel the passed time. Just not how much.
If Henry had seen Boothe, Randall, or Amélie, his mind had no mementos to show him.
He flipped on the light and turned to the mirror, seeing what he hadn’t been able to in the dark. His body was different. Shifted closer to a purpose. He was bulky, his muscles more defined. Black horns rising from his puckered forehead. Dark, shaggy hair. Fangs and claws.
He felt as powerful as he was hungry. And then he saw her face in his memory.
Samantha!
He had to know if she was still alive.
Henry went back to the bedroom and half-smiled at the jeans and hoodie lying by the bed. He dressed and crossed the apartment to the wide window looking out over the harbor. He slid it open and leapt outside onto the fire escape, then from rooftop to rooftop and alley to alley, quickly making his way through The Burg to La Paz.
Ezra wasn’t on duty, and Henry surprised himself by missing the little guy.
He was shocked to find the front door unlocked. The alarm not set. He swallowed his uncertainty and crept up the stairs, down to the bedroom he once shared with the only woman he had ever loved.
He wanted to cry, seeing Sam lying naked in bed. It had taken five years of marriage before she would do that every night. Henry loved skin-to-skin, but it made Sam feel like her brittle shell would break. At least at first. As much as she loved to peel her clothes to nothing, she wanted them back on when finished.
Sleeping naked meant Sam was content. Happy.
How long have I been gone?
Henry could smell her jasmine-scented shampoo and conditioner. He inhaled deeply. Longed to touch her. Let her know he was there,
He halted in the shadows, unsure.
Is this why I’m back?
Henry moved from the shadows and out into view, but then he paused in confusion. At the sharp aroma of rosewood and leather. A man’s scent.
A sudden sound from the bathroom sent Henry back to the corner. His heart raced, sorting through a hundred thoughts, each bleeding into the biggest one.
She isn’t alone.
A tall man stepped from the bathroom and slid under the sheets.
Henry choked his own throat to silence the scream.
In bed with Samantha was the cop who’d lost his child.
Mike Stone.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Chapter One
Forty-One descended the stone stairs for the first time, heart pounding in his ears, eyes fixed to the sliver of light fanning through a gap beneath the thick mahogany door. Water seeping up through the sandstone for a century had left a glittering film of salt on the landing’s uneven surface.
He pressed the tray of steaming food into his hip and dug through the front pocket of his robes. An iron ring of fourteen keys hung heavy, tugging at the neck of his garment, digging into the soft flesh at the top of his shoulders. He fished out the keys, gritting his teeth against the pain.
Iron repelled demons, especially minor ones like him who lacked the strength to defend against its touch.
Forty-One slowed his descent, easing his toes past the rounded edges of the final few steps. Standing firm at the bottom, he found the largest key, unlocked the door, dropped the heavy ring back into his pocket, then stood with his eyes closed, forcing his shoulders back and his head up. He breathed through his nose, wondering if those before him had done the same.
His throbbing hand fell on the latch and opened the door, wincing from the rusty howl and squinting against the bright lights that hung from the ceiling. A stone hallway stretched away from him, thirty feet to end at an iron door with a narrow slit at the top. Six matching doors on either side for a total of thirteen cells.
Forty-One drew a deep breath then stepped out of the stairwell and into the light.
He sent a silent prayer to Naburus and clung to the tray’s edges, staying in the center of the hallway.
The last cell was the only one that mattered.
Moans and indistinct shouting. The ripe scent of prisoners rolling past his nostrils. Fluorescents swayed from their chains and sent shadows in and out of the corners. Forty-One kept his eyes on the final door, breathing through his mouth.
“Is someone there?” The voice from the first cell, thin and weak. A virgin being held for her blood, nearly depleted. Cells two and three were empty. Four held a man with no eyes.
“I seeee you,” the no-eyed man whispered.
Forty-One shook his head and continued.
A demon wrapped in chains, hanging suspended in the center of cell five, sent a glamour through the door. The hall became a garden path, morning light now beaming through rustling leaves overhead. Sprites and fairies flitting among the motes of dust and pollen.
Forty-One smelled honeysuckle and jasmine. He breathed deep, but didn’t stray, passing where he knew the door to be, and the glamour crumbled like a wall of smoke. The demon bellowed rage into the corridor, piercing his ears, making him duck and forcing him to flinch. Still, he carried the tray to the end.
It was quiet after the demon, with only the last two cells occupied. Cell twelve held the body of a vivisected Englishman. Forty-One didn’t know what he’d done, or to whom the man might have done it, but there was cruel anger apparent in his punishment.
Torn open from chin to pelvis. A bladder of Ambrosia hung from the ceiling, dripping into the cavity holding his heart and keeping him suffering at the edges of death.
“Excuse me, good sir.” The man’s voice was thin and reedy. Airy like the push of a pair of bellows. “I’m quite thirsty and in an awful lot of pain. Could you be a dear and get us … just a sip of water?”
Drip.
“I cannot.”
Drip.
“A shame. I would very much have liked to taste some again. Before the end.”
Drip.
“I am sorry. Truly.”
Drip.
“Not at all. I’m sorry for bothering you. Just … you know …”
He left the man to his misery.
Forty-One removed the keys from his pocket, rolling the mess around the ring until he stopped on the one that burned. The key tingled as he slid it into the lock on the thirteenth door. The man in cell twelve whistled a jaunty tune in time with the drips.
The door to cell thirteen clanged shut, silencing the insanity of the Englishman’s happy tune. Forty-One sighed in relief then set the tray of cooling food on the table in the near corner. He busied himself with pocketing the keys and straightening his robes. He was loath to turn and face the inhabitant of the final cell.
Chains rattled behind him. He jumped at the sudden noise, a yelp escaping his compressed lips. A final deep breath to settle his nerves, and he turned, hands behind his back and eyes on the floor.
The boy sat on the edge of his bed, dirty robes riding high enough to expose his filthy ankles. An iron chain trailed away to a bolt in the wall, and the skin beneath the manacle was dark and blistered. Grit filled every crease in his fingers, running around the edges and under his nails. He touched his fingertips in endless fidgeting repetition. His slender neck led to a face framed by pale hair. Nearly white, wild, and falling across his forehead to brush his cheeks. A sheen of platinum as he tossed his head and exposed his eyes. Forty-One returned his gaze to the floor.
“Are you here to free me?” the boy asked.
In his ears as lilting music, and behind his eyes where it set off colorful sparks, a shiver traveled through Forty-One’s body. He caught his breath then sighed. “No, Adam. I am here with your meal.”
“You’re not here to help me?”
“I am afraid not, young sir.”
“Afraid?”
The quiet question made Forty-O
ne look up into the boy’s face. Small eyes set in the shadow of his brows were bright, practically glowing from within. Forty-One had to stare into their depths. Curiosity or compulsion, it didn’t matter. He took a half step forward and reached into his pocket to keep the keys from jangling.
He snatched his hand away from the burning iron and looked down in a daze. He drew his foot back and cast his eyes to the corner. The boy almost had him. Anger bubbled up at his carelessness. He turned his back on the boy and lifted his bowl of soup from the tray. The boy’s voice made him pause, its music filling the cell. “Why are you afraid?”
Colors danced in Forty-One’s mind. “I am not afraid. It is polite.”
“Oh.”
Forty-One turned with the bowl held in front of him with both hands. He kept his eyes fixed on the liquid inside, keeping it level with sliding strides. At the limit of Adam’s reach, Forty-One lowered the bowl and turned his head. He lightened his voice as one does with children. “Chicken soup, young sir. And there is cake still on the tray.”
Adam shot his hand from his lap and swatted the bowl. It sloshed from Forty-One’s grip, the greasy broth splashing the front of his robes as it tumbled, then shattered, splattering soup up onto his down-turned face. He jumped back, sputtering as he lifted his gaze to the child’s face, angry reproach filling his mouth.
He looked directly into Adam’s eyes, and Forty-One’s pointing finger froze in front of him. His face relaxed, and his hands fell to his side. He stared.
Weird and beautiful, the eyes were unlike anything he’d ever seen. One blue and the other gold. Both lit with an internal fire that sparkled like gems in a cave. Adam smiled, and Forty-One faltered, joy rising into his heart. Bringing happiness to this boy was his brand new mission.
“Free me.” Adam’s mouth hadn’t moved, but Forty-One still heard the voice as before, in sweet concert with the dancing colors. Gold and blue like the child’s eyes. Jingling chimes and the rush of a breeze through the reeds. A distant horn, rising pure into the air, echoing off the hills and rolling down to fill the ears of those fortunate enough to hear it. “Free me.”
Forty-One gasped and raised his hands to clasp them in front of his chest. Sorrow swelled within him, and he blinked back tears. “I cannot, young sir.”
“Why not?”
Forty-One pointed at the chain, bitterness rising to greet his sorrow. “They will not give me those keys.”
“So, you can’t help me?”
Forty-One fell to his knees. Sadness and disappointment filled Adam’s eyes, and Forty-One curled into the nausea already twisting his gut. He shook his head and shrugged, begging the boy to understand.
“Then what good are you?”
“Please,” Forty-One gasped. “How else may I serve you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Adam’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You’ll leave and betray me like the others.”
“No!” Forty-one shuffled forward, grabbed the boy’s foot, and brought it to his cheek. Closing his eyes, he said, “I will not. I swear it.”
“I wish I could believe you.” Adam’s whisper trickled like the splashing of a brook, sun dappling off its rippling surface. “You’re just like the others.”
Forty-One looked up into the boy’s eyes. “Please. Let me serve you.”
“Unless you can free me, you’re no use. Just like the others. Bad.”
Forty-One reeled back from the verbal slap. His feet scrabbled beneath him and he rose, staggering until his back hit the door and knocked his breath away. Adam lowered his eyes to the floor, and the dismissal sent a crippling shaft of shame through Forty-One’s heart. He regained his balance and turned to face the side wall.
His feet pounded and his arms pumped. Forty-One darted across the cell. His forehead connected with the stone. Pain exploded behind his eyes, setting off a bright flash that replaced the dancing colors of Adam’s voice.
He stumbled back, blood flowing into his eyes and down into his mouth. Vertigo sent the room into a crazy spin, and Forty-One fell to all fours. Blood dripped into a red inkblot on the floor under his eyes.
“Look at me.”
Forty-One twisted his pounding head until he could see Adam’s face. The boy’s eyes were wide, the light inside them dancing like reflected flames. Forty-One fell into them, and the pain subsided. He walked on the shore of a rushing creek in the middle of a spring shower, raindrops pattering on the leaves like blood onto stone.
Adam grinned, his teeth shining out, and Forty-One felt his own mouth stretch into a smile. The boy tapped the tips of his fingers together in time with a song only he could hear. “Again.”
Forty-One rose to his feet and charged the wall. The impact cracked like splitting wood.
Light and music swirled above him. He turned to see the boy watching with glee. Happiness filled him to match what he saw in the child’s eyes, and Forty-One struggled to stand.
“Again,” Adam said.
Forty-One ran at the wall with his own voice filling his ears as he cried out with effort. A wet crunching, and the light in his right eye went out.
“Again.”
Forty-One struggled to obey, and the impact sent a shard of freezing cold down his spine. On his back looking up at the ceiling. His left eye went dark. But he could still see the dancing colors of Adam’s voice with every command.
“Again.”
Forty-One rolled to the side, feeling for the floor with numb hands.
“Again.”
The cold stone floor pressing against his back, his feet splayed out.
“Again.”
His robes heavy with blood, slick under his probing fingers.
“Again.”
Forty-One drifted down into darkness, swirling in a current made of his own blood, the small shower becoming a heavy storm. The creek becoming a river raging toward the crashing waves of an ocean glowing with the fires of Hell. A black boat raced by, and the boatman reached out a skeletal hand.
Again.
Chapter Two
Henry stood atop the Burg-Heartstone bridge.
Three hundred and ten feet above the water, the east tower afforded the harbor’s best view and kept the city at his back. Lights from the boats ferrying the city’s trash to the landfills were a glittering constellation of garbage along the coast. A rancid, reeking rot rose into his nose. One of the peregrine falcons nested in the crooks of the bundled cables that kept the bridge out of the river flashed by, her screech on repeat.
Henry sent her a big red bird of his own and tipped the bottle to his lips. The glass clicked against his fangs as he drained the second half of his cheap whiskey in one long pull, hoping to dull the ache of Boothe’s betrayal.
He blinked away his tears and flicked his empty into the dark. The bottle hummed as it spun. A falcon cried as it dove past his shoulder. Henry ducked and watched the bird turn into a shadow outlined by the sliver of setting sun.
“Fuck you, Chelsea!”
The newspapers had named all the bridge falcons as some kind of celebration. They survived the encroachment of man, digging out a little place of their own in this new modern ecosystem, and since Chelsea Park was next to the 3rd Street entrance on the east side of the bridge, the old girl buzzing the tower of Henry’s horned head had received a fitting name. Her little tufted mate was named Leo after the lion statue at the center of the park.
Henry rolled his eyes.
After watching the predators wheel and dive, snatching meals from the air and pavement with their razor claws, Henry determined their survival was a foregone conclusion. After man spent the next thousand years destroying himself, the falcons would emerge from the ashes to feed on the survivors until there was nothing left. Then they would die, too.
Fuck.
Henry pushed off the edge and spread his arms. The wind whistled past his horns like the scream of a plummeting jet. Tears squeezed through his slitted eyelids, and the city lights dotting off the waves broke into blurred frag
ments. The flapping of his hood trailing out behind him sounded like applause.
He imagined people lining the shores of the East River, watching him fall with wonder in their eyes. Children pointing. The entire crowd clapping and holding their breath in anticipation.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Chelsea in a dive, keeping pace. Henry laughed, and the rushing air stole his voice. His field of view filled with chopping water, and an air horn split the night. One of the children in his dark suicide fantasy looked up in delight. Amélie, her mouth open and her eyes wide.
Ladies and Gentleman … the Amazing Henry!
Henry broke upon the water, and the blackness swirled around him as he sank beneath the surface.
The scent of pepper stung his nose. Sticky moisture like snot along his upper lip. He opened his eyes and squinted into the open square of sunlight beating his face and heating the fabric over his thighs and chest. He licked the ropy fluid oozing into his mouth and smiled as memory flooded through him. Salsa verde from Rocko’s Tacos.
He’d done some open mic stuff at The Reginald Comedy Showcase, a dump in the basement beside the Hyatt on 72nd and Clarke. The air had been thick with smoke, but Henry still managed to see Samantha sitting at the table with the spotlight shining through her raven hair. He felt punched if not gutted. Pain rumbled from his nervous stomach. He started sweating, feeling fatter and balder with every glance her way.
After stumbling through the first two minutes of his set, Henry had found his rhythm and finished strong with the bit about the doughnut hole. Roaring laughter and applause drowned his pounding heart, and he looked down to see Samantha wiping tears from her eyes. He went straight to her table and stammered through an awkward conversation that ended with her holding his hand as they ran across the street through honking traffic.
They sat in front of Rocko’s until the awning lights flickered off for the night and finished their first date with a handshake that Henry felt lucky to get. But a woman like Samantha would never want to be with a slob like him. So eventually Henry came to his senses, staying up until five in the morning sucking the rest of the salsa from the tops of soggy tortilla chips.