by Sawyer Black
“I always wondered if I was the frog or the snake.”
“But that’s the trick, Henry. You were always both.”
Peterson rolled his eyes. “Can we get on with it?”
Henry squeezed a handful of balls, and Peterson groaned.
“Fine,” Henry growled. “Have it your way. Where's Adam?”
“I thought you wanted the horn?”
Henry released his hold and spun Peterson around. Two vicious swipes of his claws, and bone broke like twigs, skin parting like bloody paper.
Peterson screamed as his wings dropped to the floor in gory lumps.
Henry spun him back around and reset both grips. He leaned into Peterson’s face and roared, “WHERE IS HE?”
Peterson slumped in Henry’s grip, tears welling in his eyes. “He’s in the cells beneath the dry pantry.”
Henry looked at Ezra over his shoulder. “You know where that is?”
Ezra stilled and closed his eyes. He nodded, his eyes springing open. “Yes, Master Henry.”
“Good.” Henry leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Now that we have that out of the way. You said you raped my wife, and I don’t know if you were telling the truth or if you were only trying to hurt me, but I did make myself a promise.” He leaned in until his lips were touching Peterson’s ear. “And I keep my promises.”
Henry dug his claws in then tore Peterson’s cock and balls off with a wet snap of his wrist.
Peterson crumpled against him with a strangled wail, and Henry held him up to watch the light leave his eyes as he bled to death.
He opened his hand, and Peterson’s body slid down the wall. His life force rose up to tickle Henry’s nose, and he waved it away in disgust, flinging the mangled genitals into the corner.
He turned to find Boothe inspecting him with his hands behind his back, his eyes gleaming. The demon bowed.
“Bravo, Henry. Bravo.”
Henry looked at Ezra, and swept his hand toward the door. “Lead the way.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ezra bounded into the hallway outside Peterson’s office. A service corridor bustling with activity. Porters and wait staff pushing carts covered in white linen. They kept to their side of the hall, avoiding Henry with down-turned eyes.
Ezra didn’t receive a single glance.
Just another Friday night.
They followed the goll into a busy kitchen full of noise and the heavy aroma of a gourmet preparation. A few sighs of annoyance and the rolling eyes of exasperation.
Boothe moved through the place like its architect. Henry walked like he’d entered a different world.
Past the massive refrigerators, they made a left through a stone arch. Much older parts of the building, missing the modern touches covering the ancient stones and plaster. Through another arch and into a larder stacked with barrels and crates. Sacks piled in a corner.
The door at the end was a thick, dark wood. Iron hardware with a giant rod pushed into a rusting hasp. A ring of keys hung on a peg driven into the joints of the stacked stone wall. Ezra stopped at the door, turning around to look up at Henry with an expectant expression on his gray face.
Henry looked over his shoulder, listening for anyone following through the oddly regular activity. “I don’t get it. Nobody gave a shit that a winged goll was leading a demon and a salesman through the kitchens?”
“It is, after all, just a hotel at its heart, Henry.”
“I guess.” Henry shook his head and grabbed the keys from the peg, iron tingling through his fingers like a nine-volt battery to the tongue. “We going through there, huh?”
Ezra nodded. “Yes, Master Henry.”
“What are we gonna find down there?”
“I’m sorry, Master Henry. I can’t see through all the rock.”
“Quite all right,” Boothe said. “And to Henry’s point, why don’t you go back and watch for anybody who might want to cause us harm. Like that red-robed fellow with the tricks.”
“Yes, Master Boothe.”
Ezra took off like a cat that just heard the can opener. He cut around the corner before turning to the door.
Henry turned back to Boothe. “You think there are any guards?”
“This deep inside the hotel? I doubt it, but let’s be cautious.”
“Fair enough.”
The third key clicked over with a grinding jolt, and the door swung open. An uneven set of stairs descended into the dark. Bright light spilled between the floor and the bottom of the door.
“What, are they growing weed down there?”
Henry ducked then dug his claws into the damp stone of the steps. On the slick landing, he paused and sorted the keys. A scent filled his nose, like the char on a burnt cookie — smoky and hearty with a sweetness underneath that had his mouth watering.
The Christmas after her first miscarriage, Samantha decided there would be no holiday baking. Henry hadn’t blamed her, but after two days, he cracked. How hard could it be to make brownies from a box? After the smoke cleared, Samantha tried not to laugh while mixing a new batch. For the next two weeks, every time they heated the oven, burnt chocolate would rise into the air and he would smack his lips in anticipation.
“What is that smell?”
Boothe’s voice was husky, and unnaturally loud in the close quarters of the stairs. “Virgin blood.”
“Wow. And you know this why? Wait, never mind.”
“Just find the key, Henry.”
Even though the third key had opened the door at the top of the stairs, he tried it again. Just in case. The same grinding click, and the door swung in on a rusty grumble of ancient hinges to flood the stairs with light.
A long corridor lined with doors. Six and six with one at the end. The burned brownie scent washed over him, and he breathed deep. Sugar and spice. That char. Something floral.
Boothe squeezed past, sending a disgusted look over his shoulder.
“What?” Henry asked.
Boothe shook his head and pressed his fingertips to the first door. He closed his eyes. “They’ve collected the blood, but she’s dead.”
“Shit.”
Boothe looked at him with a sad earnest expression that Henry couldn’t interpret. “Yes, it is. With her passing, the blood now loses power the longer it remains unused.”
Henry smiled and slapped Boothe on the shoulder. He tipped the demon a theatrical wink. “What, you want to drink it?”
“I’m half-tempted, yes.”
Henry sighed.
Just when I think I’m learning something.
He pointed to the next door. “What’s in that one?”
Boothe blinked as if waking from a daydream. “Nothing.”
And nothing in the rest of the cells until they reached halfway to the end, and a breeze rippled the fabric of Henry’s hoodie, washing the floral brownie char away with a blast of hay and dry leaves. They rustled underfoot. The sun beamed through the limbs of the trees above the path, and colorful bugs danced to the song of a bubbling spring.
Boothe stepped up next to Henry and looked around in appreciation. His forehead wrinkled.
“Don’t trust your eyes,” Boothe said. “It’s a glamour.”
He then called out, “Charlie? Is that you?”
The bugs froze, their wings beating in place, and a rough voice floated out of the trees. “No …”
Whistling intruded on the glamour.
Is that ‘Always Look on the Bright Side’?
The whistled tune further broke the illusion with its jaunty immediacy. Rushed and shrill. The bubbling water sputtered to a halt, and the bugs fell to the ground in fluttering spirals. The whistling grew louder. More desperate.
Henry winced away, and the peaceful glen broke apart like burning mist. A demon roared from behind the fifth door, chains rattling with rage. The demon caught his breath, and the whistling from the end of the corridor continued unabated.
“That you, Boothe?”
“Yes, Charlie. It’s me.” Boothe flapped his hand, stepping toward the door, and Henry handed him the keys. The demon didn’t fumble through them like Henry had. The door squealed open.
A red demon hung from the ceiling. Wrapped in iron chains from ankles to neck, the only things free were his smooth head and clawed feet.
Boothe stepped forward, but Charlie thrashed like a fat butterfly trying to leave its chrysalis. “No! Don’t try to save me. Just go down there and shut up that God damn WHISTLING!”
The spear appeared in Boothe’s hands, and he raised it overhead. Charlie closed his eyes and jerked his head back as Boothe sliced through the chains. They parted with a crackling sizzle, and the naked demon tumbled to the floor.
The spear drooped and melted in Boothe’s hands. He tossed it into the corner, wiping his palms on the front of his jacket. Charlie pushed himself to his feet. Thick muscle covered every inch of his body. His squat legs like kegs. His hanging gorilla arms bulging and roping up to his cannonball shoulders. A neck as wide as his head.
He looked up at Boothe with a beaming smile. “Thank you.”
He transitioned into movement in a heartbeat, blurring through the door, veering up the corridor with a whoop of joy. At the last door on the right, he went from full speed to stationary, sinking his claws into the iron door and planting his feet. His face stretched into a grimace, and the muscles in his back rippled.
The skin on his fingers peeled back as it burned, and he shook his head with a growl. Every time he heaved against the door, it bulged out, warping like taffy. One last pull, and the door tore free of the stone with a clang that shook the floor. Charlie dropped the door behind him and blew on his fingers.
The whistling finally stopped, but a weak voice floated through the open door as Charlie rushed inside with wide and gleeful eyes.
A British man’s voice asked, “I wonder if you would be so good as to … hurrk—”
A squat man stepped out of the cell brushing his hands off in front of him. Built like a bricklayer, he had Buddha's face and a shiny black ponytail. His oiled goatee extended to a point under his chin. Jeans and a black mechanic’s shirt, he sighed with a grin and turned to face Henry, dropping his hands to rest them behind his back. “Much better.”
Boothe indicated Henry at his side with a wave. “Charlie, this is Henry.”
Henry stepped forward with his hand out. An instinct that he didn’t bother fighting.
This is all too fucking much.
Charlie looked at Henry’s hand with his eyebrows riding up into his widow’s peak. “Why not?” He grabbed Henry’s hand in greeting. “Charlie Mara.”
“Henry Black. You’re standing where I think I need to be.”
Charlie snatched his hand back, and the mirth drained from his face. “You don’t wanna go in there. You don’t need that shit.”
“I’m afraid we must,” Boothe said.
Charlie looked from Boothe to Henry and back. He raised his hands. “Fine, but do me a favor and put me back in the chains first.”
Charlie moved to the side, walking on the bent door with echoing steps. Henry stepped forward, and the right key fell into his hand. He knew with more certainty he’d ever felt. It slid in and unlocked the door as if turning on its own.
The door swung open and Henry looked directly into the eyes of a beautiful boy sitting on the edge of a cot with his hands in his lap. Small and dirty, his face puffy from crying. He smiled, and Henry fell in love.
Don’t look into his eyes, Henry!
Words without meaning. A warning he couldn’t possibly heed. He looked into Amélie’s eyes for the first time, his breath hitching, swallowing tears that threatened to pour from the deepest part of his soul.
“Are you here to free me?” His voice in Henry’s head and ears. Hesitant. Expectant. Strained with a short life full of pain.
Amélie’s tiny squirming face had been red from the cloth used to clean the birth from the folds in her skin. She was a wondrous beauty, and he felt hideous standing there with her in his arms. He knew she couldn’t really see yet, but the feeling that she was looking into his heart, and his darkest thoughts, made him shrink deeper into his hate and self-loathing.
Henry, don’t look!
He had to look. He saw the same thing in the boy’s eyes now. And just like staring at his daughter, knowing she would forgive him anything, he felt it from Adam. His promise to Amélie on the day she entered the world, echoed through him with the weight of crushing responsibility.
I’ll never let anyone hurt you, baby. Daddy will always be here.
Henry tumbled into the boy’s gaze, but he knew which way was up. It was the direction of her love. Her understanding and forgiveness. Things he didn’t deserve, and yet he clung to them with all his might.
The boy’s power washed over him, but it didn’t touch his resolve. He already knew what a monster he was. He’d shown the world his demon face his whole life. If he couldn’t save one child, he’d save the other, and maybe that would be good enough.
Tears filled his eyes, and Adam’s face became Amélie’s. Henry nodded, and the child rocked back as if struck by an unseen hand, his power bounding back into him. “Yes, I’m here to free you.”
Adam blinked, fresh tears tracking through the dirt on his cheeks. “But you are champion to another.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Henry marched in and swung his claws, striking the chain from Adam’s leg in a flash of sparks. Thunder in the distance. The blast of trumpets heralding the child’s release, and Adam flung himself into Henry’s arms.
I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.
I’m here.
Adam bawled into his chest, and Henry stroked the boy’s pale hair with a twisted hand tipped with black knives. Boothe walked in, and his face was unsure and questioning. “Henry?”
Adam pulled back with a gasp. He looked up at Boothe, and his face twisted with rage and terror. He beat on Henry’s chest with tiny fists and screamed, “Kill him!”
The compelling power dug into him, but Henry brushed it aside. “Suck shit, kid.”
Adam froze with a hand drawn back for another strike. “What?”
“What?” Boothe echoed.
“Boothe’s an asshole, for sure. Don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing I’d like to see more than that fucker get eaten by a pack of syphilitic rats, but I had to admit earlier that I maybe kinda owed him, so … fuck that shit.”
“Henry!”
He looked up at Boothe’s scolding tone. “What? Don’t just tell a kid that it’s bad to say fuck. Let ’em hear it first so they know why you’re smacking them when they say it.”
“You disobeyed me,” Adam whispered.
“Yeah, I guess I’m an asshole, too.”
He squeezed Henry in another hug.
What he wouldn’t give to feel Amélie’s arms around him again. He buried his nose in Adam’s hair and rocked him until the child stopped crying.
Adam leaned back, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “You saved me because you wanted to?”
“That’s right.”
Adam looked up at Boothe from under his brows, his eyelids flashing as he blinked. “I’m sorry I commanded Henry to kill you, Mr. Boothe.”
“It’s quite all right, Adam. Henry?”
“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this little guy out of here.”
“That kid ain’t going nowhere,” Charlie said from the doorway.
Henry spun with a growl, setting Adam behind him on the floor.
“Whoa!” Charlie raised his hands, his round face an O of shock. “I didn’t mean it that way, mòmíngqímiào!”
“Then what did you mean, Charlie?” Boothe stood calmly, but Henry saw the tension in his shoulders.
“Until that kid is called, he has the weight of destiny on him.”
Boothe pursed his lips. “Henry, will you pick up the child, please? We’re going to my place.”
Henry slung Adam up on his hip. Boothe
grabbed his shoulder and looked at Charlie. “Would you like to join us?”
“Not really.” Charlie walked in shaking his head. He took Boothe’s hand with a rueful shrug.
Boothe reached through time and space to take them back to his apartment, but nothing happened.
A blip of power hit Henry in his chest. A flicker like a movie reel with a missing frame.
Charlie walked around to sit on the cot. “Maybe I’ll just put myself back in the chains.”
Boothe scratched his head, looking at Henry with his forehead wrinkled in apology. “This may have been an error on my part.”
Ezra burst into existence in the doorway. “Master Henry! Oh, hello, Master Charlie.”
Charlie waved without looking up.
“Master Henry!”
“Yeah, I hear you Ezra.”
“They’re coming, Master Henry!”
“Who is?”
The goll lowered his eyes to the floor, rubbing the top of his head with rough passes of his gray claws. “Trackers, Master Henry.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“What’s a Tracker?” Adam asked.
Henry hitched the boy higher on his hip. “They’re kinda like God’s fishermen.”
Boothe shook his head. “More like fishers of men.”
“Nah, my man,” Charlie said. “Fishermen of demons.”
Adam’s brow wrinkled. He lifted his hand and pressed his fingertips against Henry’s cheek.
Henry’s memories shuffled across his mind until the Trackers swelled in his imagination, growing with his pain and terror and panic. Adam pulled his hand away. “Oh, that’s a Tracker.”
“You just did the Vulcan mind meld. You’re like a little Spock.”
Adam rolled his eyes and raised his face to the ceiling. He opened his mouth, and the Trackers’ song issued into the silence. Demanding. Commanding. Echoing with distant horns and thunder.