by Sawyer Black
Black dots swirled in his vision, and he let go of hope as the chain remained unbroken.
Pastor Owen reached up and stroked his cheek. “Close your eyes, Henry. We just need the blood of a Paladin. It doesn’t have to be his Paladin. Or his blood.” He pointed to the boy spread out on the floor, and Henry caught his breath, his chest constricting with a loss that hadn’t yet happened.
“Sleep, Henry.” The pastor’s voice echoed in his mind, and the power of his command followed Henry into slumber. “There’s no need to watch, my son. You’ve seen enough.”
Henry’s guilt was swallowed by his relief, and once again, he let himself turn away from his problems.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A small stage about a foot off the floor. A single microphone on a silver stand. A circle of light shining against the brick-wall backdrop like the opening of a portal.
Henry sat by himself at a small round table right up front. He glanced around, and the rest of the audience sat waiting for the next comic, they’re faces open in anticipation. Wait staff dodged through the crowd, bringing fresh drinks and removing the empties.
As one, the faces focused on the stage, and their hands shot up in applause. Thunderous and joyful, peppered with whoops and whistles. Henry turned to see what could have possibly churned them so much.
Mike Serafino stepped out with a grin and a wave. He shielded his eyes against the spotlight, pointing to someone off to the side. Then he grabbed the mic from its stand, jamming his hand into his pocket. Same way Henry had started almost every show of his life.
He looked down at the floor, and the applause tapered down to a pocket. Mike raised his eyes to lock gazes with Henry. The applause died, replaced with expectant silence. “The fuck are you doing?”
A titter washed over Henry from the crowd. He looked around, but all eyes were still on the stage. Henry turned back, and Mike was still looking at him, his eyebrows a question. He stepped forward and put his hand on the empty stand, leaning on it the way Henry remembered doing a thousand times. “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“That kid’s gonna die, Henry.”
“So.”
“So?” Mike shrugged, and the crowd snickered. “If you don’t do something, that kid will fucking lose his soul.”
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“Then what about your daughter?”
A pop of laughter and Henry waited for it to die. “There’s nothing I can do,” he whined. He couldn’t figure out how to make them understand.
“We’re not talking about her dying, Henry. She’s already dead.” Roaring laughter, and Mike talked over them. “She’s in Hell, buddy. The devil himself has her in his arms.”
Wailing laughter like they had heard the planet’s greatest punchline. Mike dropped his hand, and the mic stand wobbled in a spiral as he paced the stage.
Henry leaned forward. “You don’t understand,” he shouted over the rolling laughter. “There’s nothing else I can fucking do!”
Mike spun, disgusted anger twisting his face, and the crowd erupted in a collective guffaw. “Goddamn it, Henry! I’m sick and fucking tired of your bullshit.”
Henry felt anger redden his cheeks.
The laughter rose to a maniacal wail.
Pain at the edges.
Panic filled the breaths in between.
Henry argued, “Hey, fuck you! You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I don’t know what it’s like? I am what it’s like, you fucking simpleton!”
Joy turned to pain. Screams of laughter became wails of anguish. Mike charged to the edge of the stage, leveling an accusatory finger at Henry’s face.
“You can’t barely try and then give up, you cocksucker! That bus ain’t gonna back up to let your wheezing fat ass catch it. You gotta run! Nobody gives a flying fuck about your troubles but you. That little boy isn’t sparing a single thought about how hard your charmed goddamn life is! Do you think your daughter gives one absolute SHIT about your struggle?”
The air split with applause, cutting through the cries and moans of pain. Henry shrank in his chair, trying to duck under the judgment at his back. He just wanted everybody to shut up and leave him alone.
“But that’s all you ever wanted, isn’t it?” Mike’s voice was a near whisper. The applause and screams fell to match. “The impact without the responsibility. But I’m here to tell you, buddy. You’re fucking nothing. All the money and all the fame. The laughter and the awards. That shit … that’s what you wanted more than anything. And the thing that you claimed to want more than anything? The love? Whatever. The world held its hand out to you, and you spit in it. Over and over.”
Henry denied him. Wiped the tears away and denied that any of it was even happening.
The screams grew louder.
Mike wiped his own tears away, and looked at Henry with grief. “There’s a guy pushing a boulder uphill, and he barely has the strength. And you know what? You’re not that guy.” He slipped the mic back into the stand and leaned against it with his shoulders drooping. “You’re the fucking boulder.”
In a blink, Henry stood where Mike had been, leaning against the microphone, looking out over a crowd covered in flames. Writhing in agony.
Amélie sat in the center with Adam in her lap. They held each other in a desperate embrace and looked at him with terror-filled eyes. Pleading. Begging.
Henry nodded and took a breath against the weight of his own guilt. He pulled the mic back out and held it up, whipping the cord behind him to give himself room.
“Stop me if you’ve heard this one.”
The crowd’s screams washed over him, the crackling roar of the flames blowing heat across his face. He opened his eyes, and the mirror’s surface rippled with the fire shining in its depths. Hell was on the other side of the reflection, and Henry thought he heard Amélie’s voice screaming out from her torment.
He snapped awake to find Adam writhing on the floor, his eyes fixed on Henry’s face. Pastor Owen stood chanting on the other side of the pentagram, a knife raised in front of his chest like an offering.
Dark words issued from his mouth like bile.
The glyphs in the vines of the Order From Chaos symbol given voice, and Henry knew if he listened too closely, insanity would follow.
Obisev stood in front of Henry’s knees, echoing the pastor’s chant. His voice rose into ecstasy as the mirror’s surface bent into the crypt, and a tentacle dripping lava to the stone floor broke through, twisting in the air. Questing like a blind snake.
“Adam,” Henry shouted. “I need your help, buddy!”
The boy stilled, and stared into Henry’s eyes. Even during this torture, he shone with beauty. Despite the demon that had manifested in the car, this little boy was a true angel.
“Come on, buddy. I need you to sing. The song of the Tracker, okay? I promise you I’ll get you outta here. I’m a Paladin, remember?”
A Paladin.
Henry froze.
A champion.
Henry smiled.
No chains can stand before my claws.
The crowd’s laughter echoed in his mind.
Holy shit!
Adam nodded, his eyes wide in understanding.
Henry twisted and wriggled, drawing his hand out from under the chain inch by inch. His fingers finally popped free, and his claws pushed against the thick links, sinking into the metal with a grinding squeal that set his teeth on edge.
He smiled and tensed his shoulders.
The boy’s song filled the chamber, winding in and out of the dark chant.
Pastor Owen faltered.
The questing tentacle paused, stretching out in shock. An oblivious Obisev continued, his worshiping face aimed at the ceiling.
The pastor shook his head as if waking from a stupor. He winced and covered his ears, the knife clanging to the floor. “What is this?”
The tentacle withdrew, and
the pastor’s eyes widened in despair. “NO!” He ran to the mirror, sliding on the bloody floor, bracing himself with a hand on either side of the frame.
A rumble in the earth.
A tearing in the air, and the roof split open.
A Tracker’s light filled the tiny space, blinding and glorious.
Obisev dropped to his knees, covering his head in terror.
Henry jerked his claws up with everything he had, and the chains shattered to fill the air with sparkling rust. He lifted his claws above his head as he stood, and drew them down in a swipe that tore Obisev’s arm off in a jet of blood that washed across Henry’s feet.
Another slash, and the man’s head rolled back, held on by only a scrap of flesh from his neck.
His body fell to the side, and blood sprayed the floor in a wave. The pastor danced away, his eyes wide with horror, filled with the glow of the Tracker’s arrival.
Do not be afraid.
Henry dropped down and slashed the ropes holding Adam to the floor. He worked the blackened stump of his left hand under the child’s head, and pulled him to his chest, rocking him back and forth.
“HENRY!” Pastor Owen screamed. “What have you done?”
You are safe now.
“I made a choice, motherfucker!”
The pastor stood up straight, tears streaming down his cheeks. His shoulders hitched with a sob, and he turned away from the Tracker’s light to face the rippling reflection of Hell.
Pastor Owen dove into the narrowing portal, and the mirror’s image emptied with a flash of red light and a swirl of inky black smoke.
The fucker was gone.
Henry closed his eyes and curled over the child in his arms.
You will suffer no more.
Henry shook with fear. Dread welling up into his stomach. He hugged Adam to his chest, and when the boy squeezed him back, pride swelled to replace the fear.
The Tracker’s net fell on his shoulders, gentle and soothing.
But this time Henry surrendered himself to the angel’s mercy.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gray light filtered through the branches above Henry’s face. They swayed with a wind he couldn’t feel, and his chest tightened with sorrow. Without a breeze cooling his cheeks, the Tree’s movement seemed so sad.
He took a breath and pushed from the trunk with a stretch. The knuckles of his right hand popped and crackled. His left hand did nothing. He looked at his bandaged stump and sighed, pushing the horror down with an audible swallow.
I’ll never hold a mic the same again.
“We took care of you, Henry, but the hand is gone forever I’m afraid.”
Henry looked up with shocked joy spreading across his face. “Boothe? How the fuck did you make it out?”
Boothe smiled and reached down to help Henry stand. He waved the hand away, and stood on his own.
Boothe’s smile split into a grin. “I have Ramiel to thank for that. He shielded us in his light, and the fight passed over us as if we weren’t even there.”
“What about Ezra?”
Boothe’s face tightened with sorrow. “He didn’t make it. Killed by a bolt of dark energy sent down the hill by the good pastor.”
“Aw, fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Be sorry for yourself. For some reason, he loved you more than me. But I may be starting to see why.”
Henry ducked his head. “Pastor Owen got away.”
“We know.”
“But I saved the boy.”
“Yes, you did, Henry. Mandyel’s faith was not misplaced.”
“Henry!” Adam rocketed into him like he had at Mandy’s store. Henry held him tight against his chest. “Ugh, you’re squishing me.”
“Sorry, buddy.” Henry inspected him. White shirt and shorts, he kicked his bare feet to bounce off Henry’s thigh. Not a scratch on his perfect skin.
“What have you been up to down here?”
“Randall’s teaching me to play chess.”
“He is?”
“Yeah, and I have his queen in a corner.”
Randall’s voice floated around the tree from the stone table. “A master in the making, Henry.”
Henry nodded, and his relief made his knees shake. His grip loosened, and he covered his emotion by setting Adam down and patting his butt. “You go on back to the game, okay? I need to talk to Boothe.”
“Okay, Henry.” He grinned and ran off, his pale hair flopping.
Henry took a deep breath and turned back to Boothe. “It’s time to get what I’m owed.”
“And so it is, Henry. But there is one more thing you must do.”
He grabbed Henry’s arm and guided him to the path leading away from the Tree. He put his hands behind his back and looked up at Henry from the corner of his eye. “The boy tells me you have learned to alter your form. Why walk around in the demon’s skin?”
“Because this is my true self, I guess.” Henry said it like it he’d found the answer in an encyclopedia. He lifted his shoulder in an embarrassed shrug.
Boothe laughed, his teeth gleaming. He shook his head. “You are a strange one, Henry. You have no problems learning what we try to teach you, but only after much argument. Everything on your terms.”
Henry shrugged again, uncomfortable under Boothe’s scrutiny. “Yeah, well, speaking of terms. What else do I have to do?”
“Kill the boy.”
Boothe continued a few more steps before realizing that Henry had stopped. He turned back with his eyebrows lifted in polite attention.
“Is this another of your fucking tricks?” Henry whispered.
“I’m afraid not, Dear Henry. The boy is a threat to God. To all of humanity.”
“He’s just a kid, for fuck’s sake.” He couldn’t think, and the betrayal tasted like salt.
“No, he is a weapon. You saved him from the Pastor’s sacrifice. Eliminated him as a threat. Filled with the boy’s power and Hell’s Army at his back, he would have been nigh unstoppable. Lucifer would have traded anything to see Heaven overthrown. Even command of his realm.”
“How is he a threat?”
Boothe sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand, but there’s been a battle between Heaven and Hell for a very long time. Between God and Lucifer. Adam is a threat to everything. Not just tipping the scales, but removing them altogether. It is not Adam under another’s control that terrifies us so. It is Adam under his own control that defies thought. That is why he must die.”
Henry looked over his shoulder. Adam sat across from Randall, his face still with concentration, the tip of his tongue held between his teeth. He remembered every tiny hug. The understanding look in the boy’s eyes. The moment when he had realized they both were safe. He shook his head and sniffed back his tears. “No fucking way. You kill him.”
“But I can’t, Henry. Only a demon can do it. And you’re the only one he really trusts.”
“Fuck that. He trusts you, too.”
Boothe opened his jacket and slid it off, spinning it over his shoulder to hang behind him. “You still don’t understand, do you?”
A glow behind Boothe’s neck grew as a pair of white wings spread out to wash Henry with the breeze he’d been craving under the tree. Henry staggered back, and his mind emptied of rational thought. Everything he thought resolved now crumbled away.
“Fuck this. Fuck all of this. How did you manage to become an angel?” He spat the last word out with all the disgust he could muster.
Boothe smiled, one eyebrow raising in a confident smirk. “Never underestimate the power of redemption.” His face smoothed to something grave. “And that’s what you’re being given right now. A chance at redemption. Kill the boy and you get whatever you want. Your daughter. Your life back on Earth. We can even make you an angel, Henry. You can go back like none of this ever happened, but you have to do this. This one little thing.”
“But … that little thing is a kid.”
Henry’s voice came out in a despera
te whine. He didn’t care. The time to give a shit about how he looked or sounded was over.
“No, Henry. He’s already been infected with the seeds of hate. If you could go back in time and kill Hitler as a child, wouldn’t you? Any decent person would. Imagine Hitler, but on a cosmic scale. Destroying everything, Henry. Every thing. His hate is already turning him.”
“No, you don’t understand. He doesn’t hate. He’s fucking hurting. I’ve spent time with him. He’s only a boy. A good boy. Please …”
“Henry, this is the only chance you’ll have to get your daughter out of Hell. Are you really going to let her suffer for an eternity?”
This angel. This demon. Every moment Henry had tried to convince himself that Boothe deserved an ounce of sympathy … Henry ate it all down, buried it under the black hatred brewing in his heart.
And now to beg?
“Please,” Henry gasped. “There’s gotta be some other way.”
“I’m sorry.” Boothe shook his head, and even looked sorry, but Henry knew better. “This is what must happen.”
Boothe furled his wings and spun his jacket around to slide his arms inside, then shrugging it up to fit. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Heaven’s Blade, the knife Henry had won at the Draconis Arcanum auction.
He held it out, and Henry took it with numb fingers. It seemed to twist away from his touch, and he knew just how it felt. It was repulsive to hold such a thing, knowing its intent. To kill an angel. He looked past the Tree at the crumbling cityscape of the tormented souls lost in the Forgotten.
He remembered finding Amélie in there, her ghost flitting among the ruins. Remembered that neither Randall nor Boothe had entered the mist.
Maybe they can’t?
Henry slid the sheath into the bandage surrounding his stump with a grimace. He looked at Boothe and forced his hatred and anger to recede. He drew a calming breath. “Okay. I’ll fucking do it.”
Boothe sagged in relief, a nervous smile twitching the corners of his mouth. “Thank you, Henry.”
“At least let me say goodbye, okay?”
“Of course, Henry.”
They walked back to the Tree in silence. His shadow fell across the board, and Adam and Randall looked up in unison.