by Sawyer Black
“Why have me tell you when you can see for yourself? Just say, I’m ready, and you can go back.”
“Turn away,” Randall warned like some doomsayer. “Don’t follow him.”
Henry ignored Randall, despite the man’s intentions, then turned to Boothe and said, “I’m ready.”
Boothe smiled like a cat with a mouthful of feathers, but Henry didn’t care. He was going home.
He followed Boothe through the mist. It swirled away, and Henry stood in a stone room. A cell.
A beautiful boy sat on a cot, his foot chained by iron that trailed in to the corner. He looked up, his exotic eyes staring through Henry, his face red and puffy from crying. Henry’s heart ached, and he couldn’t say why.
Mandyel’s voice exploded into his brain. Adam. The boy that will be drawn when the horn is sounded.
“Drawn?”
Released from his prison and thrust into a war that will end creation.
“The weapon that can kill God?”
Yes.
Henry’s tears fell to the floor and puddled between his hands. He pushed himself up and leaned back. Mandyel buttoned his shirt sleeves and bent to retrieve his blazer and overcoat. He tossed them across the back of a chair and straightened his tie.
“You see, pal. You made the choice. You accepted the word of a demon, and now you’re unwilling to pay the price. So angry at becoming a monster, and you can’t see that the monster is your true form. The way you see yourself.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you, Henry. You have always refused to see the truth, even when it punches you in the teeth. Of course, I’m partly to blame. I chose to include you, in spite of my misgivings, and now I must pay the price as well. But unlike you, I am willing.”
Henry used the wall for support as he stood. “You don’t get it, Mandy. You heard me during that fucking Ghost of Christmas Past bullshit. I don’t care.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I just want to save my daughter.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me, pal. You just want to complain about how everyone’s out to get you. Nobody’s telling you the truth, when we’ve all been perfectly square with you.”
“I don’t give a shit, Mandy! You said if I get the horn, you save Amélie.”
Mandyel spread his hands. “Where is it, then? You managed to get your rotten smell up in the noses of every single demon and angel and fairy on this side of eternity. And still, nothing to show for it.”
“Oh yeah? I got Meyor’s cell phone.”
Mandyel slid his hands into his pockets. “Did you, now?”
Henry walked to the couch, giving the angel a wide berth. “I fucking hope so. I didn’t look at it, yet.”
He dug through the remnants of Meyor’s pants, and the iPhone slid into his hand. The lock screen flashed on, and Henry’s heart scraped the ocean floor. “Fuck. It’s locked.”
Mandyel grabbed it from Henry’s hand, and he flinched from the touch. Screaming souls trapped in Hell swelled in his ears. Mandyel held his thumb to the screen, and the phone chimed as it unlocked.
“Holy shit,” Henry cried. “Those things are unbreakable.”
“Holy shit, indeed.”
Henry walked around and crowded over his shoulder. Just like anybody’s phone, it was filled with numbers and messages and photos. After a few minutes of scrutiny, Mandyel sighed with a shake of his head. “I see nothing of use here.”
“He fucking looked right at it when I bit his face off, though.”
“Hold on a second.”
Mandyel turned the screen to face around. An image of an inverted cross over a blazing sun painted in blood on a white wall. Trees with reaching limbs on either side.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
“I’m not sure,” Mandyel handed the phone over and paced away with his hands in his pocket. “I’ve seen it before, though.”
“I can ask Pastor Owen.”
“Who?”
“My pastor. The Burg Spires Church of Hope.”
“Henry, old pal. I doubt if a human knows more about these things than an emissary of Heaven. Besides, we shouldn’t involve humans in our dealings.”
“Well, it’s kinda too late. I already told him everything.”
Mandyel froze, turning to stare into Henry’s eyes.
Henry wanted to hide. “You’re not gonna go all John Wick on me, are you?”
Mandyel shook his head and rushed to the chair, slinging his coat and jacket over his arm. He paused at the front door. “Did anybody ever tell you that you’re a pain in the ass, Henry?”
“Only everyone I’ve ever met.”
Mandyel slammed the door behind him, and Henry turned to look at Nadia. She tapped ash into a crystal bowl, regarding him with a frown through her smoke.
“Why didn’t he just disappear like usual? What was all that?”
Nadia shrugged. “That’s what you get when you ask the angel of free will to make a choice he doesn’t want to make.”
Chapter Seventeen
Henry walked most of the way to the church, sunshine on his face and a breeze through his hair. The city aroma. Its sights and sounds. He twirled his ring, wondering if he could be like this forever.
He could save Amélie, then watch Samantha live out her life. With the fucking cop.
He shivered and shook his head.
No way.
But maybe they could get back together. Even if he couldn’t ever have his old body back, perhaps he’d get to keep this ring and live as Mike. He’d take her to all the places they’d gone as Henry. Every place he made her smile.
He took a bus through High Town. Dirt and graffiti. Windows shuttered with plywood. Past Dongles on Eastman. He’d played a bunch of shows there in the salad days. Sleeping on Joey Sosa’s filthy couch. Smoking weed on the roof and listening to reggae on a crackling boom box.
He walked to the pier in South Chester. All the way to the end. He breathed in the salt, thankful he wasn’t carrying a sandwich for the seagulls to squawk about. So much bird shit on the rails that only the clueless tourists leaned on them, jumping back in disgust when they realized all that white wasn’t just peeling paint.
He stood in front of Creamy Beans — Ice Cream and Coffee on the corner of Patterson and Tinsdale. He shook his head at the specials menu. A mint chocolate chip latte for eleven-fifty. He fucking hated mint chocolate chip.
He and Samantha had stopped there years ago.
“What do you want?”
“Whatever,” he’d said. "As long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter.”
God, that smile.
She had brought him a cone topped with green ice cream, and he forced himself to eat it with a smile. He had wanted to splat it down on the sidewalk, but it was his fault for saying whatever.
“What kind of a man eats mint-flavored ice cream?” Henry shrugged, only realizing that he’d spoken aloud when a black kid emptying the trash out front passed him with melted ice cream leaking from the bottom of his bag.
“I heard that.”
Henry kept wandering until he found himself at the edge of El Matanso. Copper accents lining the brick walls. Copper fountains and sculptures. The exclusive neighborhood that Samantha had argued against.
It was too much. Too closed off.
“But the security here is fantastic,” he’d said.
“They drive around with guns, Henry. I don’t want our children seeing that kind of stuff.”
“Would you rather them see the kind of people that would run amok without ’em?”
“What kind of people?”
“Brown people,” he teased, acting like the paranoid racists he sometimes poked at on social media.
“God damn it, Henry! I’m serious.”
“I’m kidding, for Christ’s sake. Look, it’s safe and secure, and the city’s just right over there.” He had grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face the skyline. It twinkled with light from a setting sun.
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What a fucking view.
“I don’t know, Henry. It’s so expensive.”
"Maybe you haven’t noticed, babe, but we’re rich now.”
She sighed, reaching up to stroke his hand. “The schools are good here.”
“See? Besides, I heard Brad Pitt has a house just down the street.”
“Brad Pitt?” She spun around with her hands clasped in front of her, bouncing on her toes like a teenager about to see a boy band. “Is he really here?”
“Well, it’s what sold me.”
Even the Burg Spires Church of Hope looked like money. New world old, it looked ancient but had a slick polish that was deeper than veneer. Straight iron fences and sculpted landscaping; fresh paint on the parking lot lines; and a fully staffed daycare that catered to children with gluten intolerance — everything a nouveau riche wife would expect after a two-hundred-dollar visit to the salon.
And the repairs after the shooting were finished faster than a star college quarterback’s rape acquittal.
It was a beautiful building, but Henry had never stopped to truly admire it. Not a single mortar line that wasn’t perfectly straight. Gutters and downspouts installed with a precision usually reserved for the space shuttle.
And clean. Never a stain on the concrete outside. No dust collecting in the corners. Every bible and hymnal in its place, lined neatly enough for the barracks. There wasn’t even any dust in the air, sparkling in the rainbow of light beaming through the new stained glass windows.
Stepping onto the church property was like entering a germless world free of entropy.
Even though the church seemed empty, Henry kept his hood up as he walked along the wall to Pastor Owen’s office. He knocked like a whisper, but it echoed off the high ceilings like a hammer, then looked over his shoulder, waiting for the door to open. But the pastor didn’t answer. He felt exposed. Watched.
Henry tried the handle. The door swung in so he ducked inside with a sigh, and eased the door shut behind him.
The office was full of Pastor Owen’s work, but for some reason it reminded Henry of his attic. Not the high-tech nonsense on the first floor, but the cozy space at the top of the house where he felt the most comfortable and creative.
Papers and books scattered the pastor’s desk. Shelves lined with innumerable volumes of who knew what. The room was full, but it didn’t seem cluttered. It had an order that Henry couldn’t discern, but he knew if Pastor Owen reached for something, he would find it right there in his hand.
Uneasiness settled into his chest. He was looking into the life of a man without his permission.
But that man is a pastor. He won’t mind, right?
Henry read the spines on the shelf to the left of the door. Standard academic stuff. Even a couple of books that Henry owned himself.
Between that shelf and the next was a mirror. An old piece of glass with a black frame trimmed in gold. Some of the silver had been scraped away, but the reflection was still clear. Henry squared himself in front of it, threw his hood back, and stared into Mike Serafino’s eyes.
That’s not me.
Thinner and better looking. A full head of hair. No dark bags under his eyes. Henry twisted the ring.
Mandyel was right.
He switched the ring from his right hand to his left, and met the eyes of a monster.
Howdy.
His horns were longer than they had been. Smoother. Sharper. His black eyes swirled with red sparks. A lantern jaw with a mouth full of gleaming fangs. Hair as dark as Samantha’s fell across his forehead. The neck of a linebacker, swollen into shoulders that could hold the weight of Atlas.
The real me.
Henry snarled and snatched the ring off, jamming it onto his right hand. Serafino’s face twisted in rage and disgust. He took a deep breath, relaxing his face. He forced a smile, and it almost looked genuine.
The door opened, bathing him in light. Henry spun around, raising his hands into claws in front of him. But his human hands were ill-prepared for anything more than a slap fight.
Pastor Owen froze, his face slack with surprise. His hand fell from the knob. He squinted into Henry’s face then sighed in relief, his shoulders collapsing with his breath. “Henry, you scared the devil out of me.”
“You’re welcome.”
Pastor Owen entered his office. The door clicked shut, and he extended his hand. They shook, and the pastor edged past Henry then gestured at his chair. “Please. You’re always welcome here. Sit.”
“How’s Samantha?”
“She’ll be here tonight, actually.”
“Really?”
The pastor lowered his eyes. “There’s a survivor group that meets here on the last Thursday of every month.” He looked back up, sorrow creasing his brow. “For rape survivors.”
“Oh, man, I wish I hadn’t heard that.”
“I’m so sorry, Henry.”
“I know.”
Pastor Owen nodded and watched his fingers twine around each other on his desk calendar. Fidgeting his nerves away. “But I am.”
“Hey,” Henry said, his voice too loud. “I’m looking for the Purveyor. You ever hear of him?”
The pastor shook his head. “Purveyor of what?”
“Very bad things. I can’t get any information on him, but I might’ve found a clue.”
Henry dug into his pocket and pulled out Meyor’s iPhone. He opened the picture gallery and flipped it around so the pastor could see it. “Look familiar?”
The pastor reached for the phone but snatched his hand back before touching it as if he could sense the evil permeating within it. His forehead creased in thought. “You know, I have seen that.”
He leaned out of his chair and reached into the bottom shelf of the bookcase beside him. His hand came up full, and Henry smiled to himself.
See?
Pastor Owen opened the book, its spine cracking with age, and leafed through a few pages before stopping with his finger on a picture. He spun the book around so Henry could examine it.
An old drawing, like an ancient handwritten bible, the symbol rich with details that could never come from a bloody splash on the wall. Trees with meticulously rendered leaves reaching for the inverted cross hovering above a shining sun, its rays spreading in sharp lines to the top of the drawing.
“This talks about old earth magic,” Pastor Owen said. “Some ancient European paganism that was supposed to bring about the downfall of Christ before there even was a son of God.”
“What’s it doing in Burg City.”
“I don’t know. Where did you get it?”
Henry slid the phone back in his pocket. “From some sick fu … people who wanted to hurt children.”
“My Lord. And did they?”
“No, I stopped them.
“Did you kill anybody, Henry?”
“Maybe.”
“Henry, God can’t help you if you won’t let him.”
“If God was doing His job, then those kids would’ve never been there. God had nothing to do with it. Nothing!”
Pastor Owen closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of him. He breathed through his nose for several seconds. His lips moved as if in prayer, and Henry opened his mouth to explain.
The pastor forestalled him with a raised finger. “I have someone who may be able to help you. Come back tomorrow night.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, Henry. You’re always sorry.”
Pastor Owen opened his eyes with a worn expression that made Henry want to shrink away and punch himself in the face. "It’s bingo night, and I’m the featured caller, but my friend will talk to you. Is that all right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well, then. I’d like to be alone, please. God may be nothing to you, Henry.” He clasped his hands back in front of him and closed his eyes. “To me, He’s everything.”
Henry watched the pastor’s lips move in silent prayer. He wanted to tell him more about the ch
ildren and the demons, but he knew the pastor wouldn’t understand.
Nobody fucking understands.
He left Pastor Owen’s office, barely resisting the urge to slam the door.
Chapter Eighteen
The next evening, Pastor Owen met him at the front door. His smile sent a thrill of relief into Henry’s chest. Henry had spent last night trying to sleep past the memories of the pastor’s sad eyes. Ignoring the cries of pain damped by the ring. So many souls in need.
He drank pitcher after pitcher of water. Visiting the bathroom enough times to make an old man with a swollen prostate sob with sympathy.
He had made it until morning, getting dressed and wandering the city again. This time, hitting the bars.
I didn’t kill anyone, either.
“Come inside, Henry. My friend is waiting in my office.”
Henry followed the pastor past the empty pews. “Where is everybody? I thought you said it was bingo night.”
The pastor laughed. The kind that Henry had heard from the stage. It annoyed him that he hadn’t been trying.
“Do you think I just shout the numbers from the pulpit, Henry?”
“Kind of, yeah.”
“No, we do that in the rec room next door.”
“Oh.”
Duh.
He opened his office door and ushered Henry inside. A small man with thin hair jumped up from Henry’s chair. Jeans and canvas sneakers. A Vote for Pedro T-shirt under a gray sport coat. Small round glasses, and a sparse goatee.
“Hi,” he said in a booming voice much deeper than his thin chest suggested.
“Henry, this is Ezekiel Crown.”
The little guy took Henry’s hand in a crushing grip, pumping like a campaigning senator. “Call me Zeke.”
“You got it.” Henry retrieved his hand. “Unless you break my hand.”
“Sorry about that. I’m a climber.”
“Well, I’m a sitter.”
Zeke grinned and moved to the next chair. He sat on the edge of the seat and looked at Henry over the top of his lenses. “Hey, before we get going, can I see it?”
“See what?”
Pastor Owen laid his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I told him a little about you, Henry. He’d like to see you in your other … state. Only if you feel comfortable.”