Monstrous- The Complete Collection

by Sawyer Black

  Henry felt his heart swell with confused joy.

  Mandyel?

  The man on the other side of the table leaned over his side of the chessboard, flowing white robes sweeping the ground at his feet.

  Randall.

  Henry’s good mood soured, and his face twisted with disgust.

  Great, I thought maybe somebody else would be on the night shift.

  He looked at Ezra with a shrug.

  “Well, let’s go say hi.”

  Ezra bounded off like a puppy ready to run for miles. He stopped next to the table, dancing from foot to foot. He pointed to Henry’s approach, and Randall looked up, his mouth twitching in a smile. The other man stood, smoothing his slacks before turning around with his hand extended in greeting.

  Boothe.

  Henry’s rage flashed like a grease fire. His vision clouded over with a red haze, and he charged the remaining steps in a blur, swinging his fist up with all his hate to fuel it. Boothe’s face snapped back from the impact, and his body followed the recoil, sailing over the table and scattering the game with his shiny white loafers.

  He crashed into the ground flat on his back, but bounced immediately to his feet, eyes blazing with red fire and lips drawn back over bloodied teeth.

  Henry charged in and swung again.

  His hand was met by Boothe’s raised arm in a block that jolted through his bones like he’d hit a steel pillar.

  “Motherfucker!” Henry drew back his hand, baring his claws.

  Boothe vanished with a rush of air.

  Henry sensed him reappear from behind. He spun with his hands raised in defense, but Boothe stood on the other side of the table, smoothing his hair with a silver comb.

  “I’ll allow that one, Henry. I may even deserve it, but I won’t ask for your forgiveness.”

  “Fuck you, you son of a bitch! You don’t deserve my forgiveness.”

  The skin around the demon’s eyes tightened. He sucked his teeth with a nod. “That is probably true, as most things go. Still, I will continue to make amends as best I can.”

  “Make amends?” Henry stared, his shoulders dropping and hands flopping on his thighs. “What can you possibly do to make amends?”

  “Why, save your daughter, of course.”

  Henry’s knees wobbled, and he stumbled to the lump of stone Boothe had been using as a chair. “The only one who can do that is gone.”

  “And who is that, Henry?”

  “Mandyel. He died last night. Or whatever fucking night it was.”

  “Mandyel died, did he?” Boothe exchanged a look with Randall.

  “I saw him die.”

  Randall stood and put his hands behind his back. “Did you?”

  “Yes, Goddamn it. I saw Peterson eat his fucking heart.”

  “Peterson?” Boothe frowned. “That sot from the Viazo Grand?”

  Henry put his head in his hands and his elbows on the stone table. “He’s the head of the Order From Chaos cult.”

  Boothe laughed. A breathless guffaw that startled Henry out of his self-pity. The demon held his stomach and shook his head. “I hardly think Peterson is the head of anything more complicated than the hotel kitchen.”

  Henry jumped to his feet and leveled a clawed finger at Boothe’s face. “Maybe not. But he raped my wife and helped kill my daughter, and I’m gonna fuck his ass.”

  Boothe sobered. He wiped his eyes with a square of silk then returned it to his pocket. “And I’m sorry about that, Henry. Truly, I am.”

  Henry dropped his finger with a shrug. “What difference does it make, anyway? He has the Horn of the Lamb now.”

  Randall’s knees unhinged, and he grabbed the table to ease himself back into his seat. Color drained from his face, and he looked into the distance past Henry with eyes wide with shock.

  “Henry?” Boothe’s voice was quiet, without the mocking lilt that made Henry feel so inferior. “Are you certain?”

  Henry nodded. “Mandyel came with me to the Purveyor’s place. We were gonna trade some stuff for the horn, but Peterson was there. He had a Tracker chained up like a dog. Stabbed Mandyel through the back with a black sword. Peterson was pissed because me and Nadia tore his kiddie carnival a new asshole.”

  “I heard about that. Very well done.”

  “Mandyel was pissed. I thought he was gonna kill me.”

  “Oh, no,” Randall said. “That one is thousands of moves ahead. You probably did exactly what he wanted.”

  “I don’t know. I seemed to be fucking up all the time, and the ring was making me walk through life like I was asleep, kinda. I don’t know anymore.”

  Boothe mimed putting a ring on his first finger. “Was it silver? A frog eating a snake which was then eating the frog in turn?”

  “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “And where is this ring now?”

  “Peterson’s wearing it.”

  Randall and Boothe shared another look.

  Henry bristled. “Stop doing that shit. Come on, what?”

  Randall bent over with a grunt. He picked up the white king and placed it on the table where the board had been, then flicked it with his finger. The king fell over, and he leaned back with his arms crossed.

  “The fuck does that mean?” Henry demanded.

  Boothe whistled. “It means, Dear Henry, that Mandyel is a master, and we are but pawns in a game he plays with a skill earned over a day stretching into eternity.”

  Henry threw his hands in the air. “You fucking people. Or whatever you are. Just answer one question with a straight fucking answer. Just once.”

  “And what is your question, Henry?”

  “Is God gonna honor Mandyel’s deal?”

  “Of course.”

  “How?”

  “Once He receives the thing He was promised in return, Henry.”

  “Why would the devil give up my daughter?”

  “I’ve tried to tell you so many times. There are rules. And we must all abide by them. Even Lucifer, though he does bend them to their utmost limits.”

  “Will he trade her for Adam?”

  Boothe blanched. “He would trade the universe itself for that boy.”

  “Does he even know about him?”

  “Calm down, Henry. It is quite possible that he doesn’t know about him. Order From Chaos is powerful. And as they are consolidating that power further, they may be keeping secrets even from Hell.”

  Power.

  A thought tickled at Henry’s mind. Some detail that flitted like a moth. “Power.”

  Boothe tipped his head to listen. “Go on, Henry. You have something, I can tell.”

  “I know who the leader of the cult is. It’s the mayor. Fucking Malcolm Lucius and his wackadoodle brother.”

  Boothe leaned back, and he slowly nodded. “That makes sense, actually. His family is very well known in the shadows.”

  “Yeah, but his brother sold the horn for money when he could have just given it up. They could have blown it and drawn the kid to their cause, and we’d all be in Bonesville.”

  “That’s not so troubling when you know about Hennessy’s obsession with immortality. He’s even tried summoning me before. His cause is not necessarily his family’s. Or the Order’s.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Henry asked.

  “Still asking questions to which you already know the answers? I thought you had learned that lesson at least, Dear Henry.”

  He looked down at the tattered remains of the suit he had taken from Boothe’s closet. Blood stained and charred. Busting the seams of the silk boxers that barely covered his balls. “I guess I should probably get some clothes, huh?”

  “That is certainly a start.”

  “I had plenty of sleep, so maybe some water?”

  “Very good, Henry.”

  “I guess the last thing is to see when the Viazo Grand starts check-ins.”

  Boothe smiled and turned to Randall. “Tell Maria that I’ll be back soon… God willing.�
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  “After this …” His voiced cracked and he cleared his throat. “You’ll help me get my daughter?”

  “Henry, have I ever lied to you?”

  He bit on his seething hatred and pictured Mandyel’s burning gaze. The paths opened by his choices. His lack of trust. His self-loathing. “You know, I’m beginning to think the answer to that question is no. But what you said just now was not an answer. Please, Boothe. Will you help me get her back?”

  The demon’s face softened. Regret flashed by, almost quicker than Henry could detect. Boothe covered it with a smile, and placed a hand over his heart. “Dear Henry, I swear it.”

  I’m not gonna fucking cry. Not anymore.

  “Thank you.”

  Boothe nodded. “Now then. Let’s go kill the good Mr. Peterson!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Henry filled another pitcher at the kitchen sink. He tilted his head back and drank, the cool water spilling from the corners of his mouth. He set the pitcher down and caught his breath. Utter silence in his mind. He could feel the weight of the city’s sorrow — a low hum of pain that left his thoughts mostly alone.

  He closed his eyes and sent his mind out, questing beyond the walls of Boothe’s apartment. The screams of the damaged and damned crashed into Henry’s senses, and he drew his mind back, snapping into his body with enough force to send him staggering into the counter.

  I’m getting control of this shit. Hot damn.

  “What have you done to my place, Henry?” Boothe’s voice floated to his ears, and he winced at the memory of his tantrum.

  “It was like that when I got here,” he shouted.

  Boothe stomped out wearing a fresh suit. Dark blue with a crisp red tie. Starched white shirt, polished black shoes, and his hair was perfect. “I think we both know that isn’t true.”

  “Look, I had a meltdown, okay. You got your old lady back, you know. Not me, so fucking save it.”

  Boothe pressed his lips into a line and nodded. “Get dressed, Henry.”

  “The old hoodie and jeans. Yay me.”

  “Learn to inhabit the form of your choosing, and you can dress with style and class.” Boothe spun in an elegant circle. “Like me.”

  “What do you mean, the form of my choosing?” Henry shouted over his shoulder while stepping into the closet to pick between the gray one and the gray one.

  “Mandyel told you nothing of choice?”

  “That’s all the guy fucking talked about.”

  “He is the angel of free will, after all.”

  Henry slid the hoodie over his horns, grown longer since the last time he’d worn one. “Yeah, but he said this was my true form. Like I hate myself so much, that I subconsciously picked this form for me or something.”

  “And that’s true. An unconscious decision is still a decision, Henry.”

  Henry stepped out in his demon uniform stretched tight across muscles that had grown thicker and denser in the last few days. “I can’t concentrate on all this shit right now. Let’s just take care of Peterson, and if I’m still alive tomorrow, we’ll chat about free will versus predestination over some waffles.”

  “Whatever you say, Henry.”

  That was way too easy.

  Ezra poofed into existence in front of the refrigerator, jumping up and down with glee. “I went to the Purveyor’s house Master Henry.”

  “What in the world for?”

  Ezra’s face fell, and his dance broke into an embarrassed shuffle. “To bring back your things.” The goll held up his brass phone and the Buffet Bag over his head. Both were stained with blood but none the worse for wear.

  “Holy shit. That’s awesome, but that stuff’s not worth you getting caught or hurt.”

  Ezra looked up from under his brow. “Truly?”

  “Fuck yeah.” Henry slid the phone into his front pocket and opened the leather bag. “I’d way rather have you around than just this crap, no matter how cool it is.”

  Boothe wrinkled his forehead in curiosity at the bag. “What does that do?”

  “Check it out.” Henry snatched his hand out in triumph, holding a thick slice of sizzling pepper bacon. He took half in one bite, and closed his eyes as he chewed. “Oh man, that’s so fucking good.”

  “It … makes bacon?”

  “Yup. Three times a day if you want it.”

  “The Gratia Lapides Sacculi? You use it for … bacon?”

  “You got that right.” Henry tossed the other half of the bacon to Ezra. The goll caught it and stuffed it into his mouth. He closed his eyes like Henry. The corners of his mouth glistened with drool. He swallowed and looked up with a smile.

  “Thank you, Master Henry. It was delicious.”

  Henry rolled the bag up and stuffed it into his back pocket.

  Boothe raised his eyebrows. “You’re just going to walk around with the Gratia Lapides Sacculi in your jeans?”

  “Where else am I gonna get my bacon?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Then, there you go.” Acid roiled in his stomach. Henry swallowed it down and took a calming breath. The effort to keep from thinking was making him sweat. “We gonna do this shit, or what?”

  Boothe held out his hand, and Henry took it. Between blinks, the light from the apartment faded into the illumination from a vintage chandelier hanging in Peterson’s office, deep in the Viazo Grand.

  Four cultists in flowing robes stood in front of his desk with their hoods drawn. Three in brown, and the fourth in red.

  Peterson paused at Henry and Boothe’s entrance, a steaming cup of tea frozen under his nose. Ezra poofed into the office facing the corner behind his back. Peterson spun with a look of chagrin, and the cultists stepped back in shock.

  “Gentlemen,” Boothe said. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but we need to speak with this man.” A black spear appeared in his hands. The cultists turned at the sound of his voice, and Boothe spun the spear with a flourish, planting the butt at his feet and leaning on it with an enviable nonchalance.

  The man in the red robe stepped away from his fellows and clapped his hands in front of his chest. A blinding flash accompanied a booming crash, and he was gone. The remaining three eyed the empty space, then their heads rose to face Boothe as one.

  The one on the left snapped his hands up and two gleaming blades dropped into his palms, the metal gleaming with dark energy.

  The cultist in the middle threw his hood back to expose a face completely blue with tattoos. He reached between his open hood and his neck and drew a sword, ringing into his hand like a tuning fork.

  Peterson set his tea on the desk and stood with a smile. His wings opened behind him, snapping out like the billowing sails of a pirate ship. “You were saying?”

  The third cultist shrugged and raised his fists in a boxer’s stance.

  Henry stepped forward and roared. It filled the office with a screeching rumble.

  Not bad.

  The swordsman leaped forward with a thrust that met Boothe’s spear, and Henry launched into the heavyweight champ with his claws extended. The boxer slid aside like water and rocked Henry with an overhand right that dislocated his jaw.

  Holy fuck!

  Mr. Knife stepped under Mr. Sword’s lunge, and Boothe’s spear sparked when it blocked the blades, driving the slices toward the swordsman who danced back with a parry.

  The boxer peppered Henry’s face with jabs, splitting his eyebrow and squashing his nose with a CRUNCH!

  Blows so quick, that his blurring eyes couldn’t see them coming. Henry backpedaled, driving his claws up in a blind swing that caught the champ in the ribs, digging through muscle and bone.

  The champ squealed, and Henry closed his fist over the thick flesh under the champ’s armpit. He jerked a handful of meat free with a wet ripping, louder than the shredding fabric of the robe.

  Boothe spun under another swing of the sword, and sent the tip of the spear into the soft spot under the cultist’s chin. Blood shot
from the swordsman’s mouth, followed by his flopping tongue. It hit the floor like a steak on a butcher’s block. His scream matched the boxer’s, and Boothe dropped to spin on his knees as knives flashed overhead.

  Henry swung twice more, each blow tearing through skin and bone.

  The boxer spun away, and Henry caught him by the hair. He yanked his head back and dragged a claw across his throat. Blood sprayed across the office, painting the wall in a rainbow of crimson.

  Boothe finished his spin by pulling the spear from the swordsman’s jaw and planting the butt on the floor. He leveraged against the shaft, and whipped a foot up to kick Mr. Knife in the balls hard enough to lift his feet out of his boots.

  Mr. Knife wheezed a scream, like a steam kettle boiling over, and Boothe silenced his voice with a strike to the throat. Mr. Knife gurgled out his final breath through the gaping wound in his neck, then crumpled to the floor.

  Henry wiped the blood from his claws on the front of his hoodie.

  Boothe stepped up with every hair still in place, and not a single drop of blood to mar his outfit.

  God damn it.

  Boothe and Henry joined each other at the center of the room in front of the desk. Peterson stood stock still with Ezra hanging on his neck, the goll’s fanged mouth pressed into his skin just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood.

  Henry wiped snotty blood from his nose, flinging it from his fingers to splat on the floor. “Now, you were saying?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything.”

  Ezra gnawed and Peterson sucked in a wincing hiss.

  “Ezra,” Henry shouted. “Down!”

  The goll dropped like a stone, and Henry leaped across the desk.

  He grabbed Peterson’s bloody throat with one hand, and dug his claws into the dickhead’s crotch with the other. His weight drove Peterson back against the wall. The Ben Franklin specs flew from his face, and he snarled in fury.

  Henry felt Peterson flare, but his power hit a wall only to echo back into him with the rumble of distant thunder.

  I know just what that feels like.

  “You see, Henry?” Boothe stepped around the side of the desk to regard Peterson’s predicament. “The ring dulls a demon’s power. Like the snake eating the frog, only to be eaten by its prey, the power doubles back on itself, rendered useless without an outlet. It also acts as a teleport beacon. That’s how Mandyel always knew where you were. An infinite loop that told you where you were going because it always knew where you’d been.”