Dark Ends

by Clayton Snyder

  When I'm done, I climb the stairs to my room and lie in the dark, hot tears streaming from my eyes, soaking my pillowcase. Sobs threaten to tear from my chest, and I stifle them, rage instead growing, growing...

  I woke, my face hot and wet, my knuckles bruised and bleeding. I'd hammered a hole in the drywall above the futon, red tinting the drywall pink. Regnos raged in my chest, an angry renter in a shitty apartment, promising to burn it to the ground if someone doesn't fix the heat.

  I seized on the picture of my parents on my bedside, and Regnos grabbed it. With a grunt, I hammered it deep into the drywall, the frame splintering, glass shattering. Blood flowed from my palms, and I slapped my hand against Regnos' tattoo with a shout.

  The demon receded into the background, rage trickling from me, the slap leaving a bloody handprint on my chest. I ripped a strip off my sheet and wrapped it around my hands, staunching the flow from the worst of the wounds.

  I flopped down on the futon, my breathing coming in deep gasps, calming in slow measure. Cory shouted something, but I had little time for him at that moment. I closed my eyes, trying to will the dregs of the dream away. Little by little, it faded, and my breathing calmed. The echo of breaking glass came to me, and I tensed, willing it to fade. Instead, Cory's voice became strident, loud. I jumped from the bed and stopped.

  Shards of glass on the floor glinted in the moonlight, shards of glass on the table shone wickedly. Someone had broken in through the fire escape and shattered Cory's jar. Whatever other purpose their little trip had, Regnos busting the place up probably bought them a distraction.

  I stood for a moment, looked at the jar that had been my former lover’s prison. Thought about the sound of rain on a roof, the smell of a park in summer. Thought about nights curled on the couch with Chinese and a bad movie. Tasted betrayal like bitter almond. I knew I should feel something more at the loss of someone I’d shared so much life with. Or maybe I’d taken on too much of the jailer, and caring was too much work. Or maybe I was just tired.

  But now I had a loose soul, and a missing kitchen window. I grabbed a broom and swept the glass up, then taped an old pizza box over the window, making my shitty apartment somehow shittier. Isn't that always the way? No one ever breaks in to redecorate. Always chaotic evil, never chaotic good.

  I went back to bed because growing boys need their sleep. And because my hands were throbbing from the cuts, and if someone wanted to break in a second time, I was honestly too damn tired to stop them.

  I woke up to the sound of something ticking in my kitchen. My first thought was bomb. My second was that the sun was peeping in through the windows in a hazy pink half-light, telling me I’d got less sleep than I’d hoped. I rolled out of bed and stepped to the kitchen, stopping in my tracks. The cardboard had fallen from the window, and a crow strutted across the cheap linoleum of the table, its claws making the ticking sound. I sat heavily in the aluminum chair. Witches. I blew an annoyed breath out.

  "Okay, Ivy sent you. What’s she got to say?" I asked.

  The bird glared at me with one beady black eye, cocked its head to the side. Crows are smart. They know how to use tools, they remember faces and hold grudges. There’s a reason so many witches like them. They’re avian mercenaries. Made sense Ivy’d picked it. It opened its beak.

  "PAIN. BEWARE. MORE TO THINGS," it squawked.

  "Is that it?"

  "DIPSHIT."

  I rolled my eyes and waved the bird away. Its message delivered, it took two long strides to the edge of the table and launched itself into the air, soaring from the kitchen, through the gaping window, and into the early dawn light. I cursed once under my breath and made some coffee.

  You’d think I’d have better things to do than ruminate on the myriad of problems presented to me, especially under deadline, but not thinking in the past had got me into situations I’d rather not have had to deal with. So, I sat and thought. Someone didn’t want me going after the girl. I didn’t know if freeing Cory was a part of that plan, but the timing was more than coincidental.

  While I thought, I ate a fried egg sandwich, washing it down with a pot of coffee, and when that was done, I showered, shaved, and dressed. It's less about the thing than the ritual.

  I left the apartment and hopped a cab to the warehouse district. It was close enough to the water that the scents of algae and fish permeated the air, accompanied by the tang of industrial solvents and food slowly spoiling. I’d arrived early enough that the place was still mostly quiet.

  It was the sort of place men with questionable morals made their personal amusement park. Everything from chopshops to sweatshops and anything between likely filled the corrugated steel buildings down there. For a minute, I had the mental image of the whole row going up in flames. I squashed the idea and hunkered down.

  The warehouse sat squat and long at the end of a row of similar structures, the corrugated steel already drinking the light. Fans atop the roof spun, doing their best to cool the big storehouses, though the doors remained closed, and the high windows dark. The word KRUGER stood out in red and white across the side.

  From where I sat, atop a frontage road that ran above the inset of the warehouse district, I could see a figure pacing the perimeter, though whether he was regular or private security, I had no idea.

  I slid down the hill in stages, pausing every few feet to make sure I wasn’t getting hung up on a piece of scrap, or making too much noise, timing my passage with the guard’s around the back of the building. Once at the bottom, I waited in the shadow of another warehouse that smelled like someone had set off a herring bomb.

  The guard rounded the corner, and I drew on Llyrial. I felt my blood rise, my cheeks flush, as I imagined the guard and I sweating in an alley. I only hoped he was distracted with the same thoughts.

  I approached and smiled, and the guard smiled back. His jacket had ‘Stephen’ embroidered on the breast, and I moved in, watching his pupils dilate, his breathing come faster.

  "Hi," I said.

  I’m fantastic at flirting.

  "Hi. What're you doing here?" he asked.

  "I’m los—" I started, but Llyrial was in full mode now, and I could smell the lust on the man. The thing about a demon like this, it’s not about orientation. It’s about attraction. And Llyrial could draw the animal urge out of a block of wood, given enough time.

  "There’s an alley..," he said.

  I followed him in, his hands already working the buckle of his uniform, pants bulging at the front. I released Llyrial, and called on Regnos, rage filling me. My fist lashed out before he could unzip, and the guard went down like a sack of bowling balls. I jogged to the head of the alley, looking both ways before stepping to the side door. I listened.

  "And I say to you, lo, do we not feel?"

  A chorus of voices raised in response.

  "Lo, do we not bleed?"

  More cheers. Whatever was going on was not what I’d expected.

  "Lo, do we not ACHE?"

  The voices reached a crescendo, and through it all, a deep keening wail. That had to be the girl. I stepped back and kicked the door by the latch plate. It shuddered, and then snapped open, smashing into the wall with an echoing crash. Five men turned to look at me, their leader, Markham, standing on a scaffold. He held a knife in one hand, and in the other, a hammer. I smelled fear and misery and called on Regnos.

  "HOLD HIM!" Markham shouted, and the men charged as the little girl wept.

  I put two down with hard strikes to the forehead, and though I knew my knuckles were going to ache in the morning, grinned. Rarely do I take pleasure in the demon’s violence, but anyone who makes a child cry deserves a good smashing.

  One of the goons—big, and smelly—caught me in the kidneys with a pipe. I went down, hitting the concrete with my skull. Stars danced in my vision, and Regnos snarled, pulling me up again. Blood oozed into my right eye as another came from the opposite direction, but the demon was in full swing, and caught his fist, snappi
ng the bone in his forearm with little effort. He gave a scream and collapsed, coddling his arm.

  Three down, and I didn’t know where the little guy had gone, but big man was back in my face, hammering my ribs with his pipe. I screamed as he cracked three ribs, and grabbed the pipe, reversing it and slamming it into his windpipe. It crunched with a sound like a plastic bag, and he wheezed out his last on the cold floor.

  I took a second to get my breath, and number four hit me from behind again, a small knife slipping into my back. Luck was with me though—it was too short for spine or organ, and instead, I just bled all over their floor when I ripped it out.

  With one final bestial growl, I rammed the knife into an eye gone wide with terror, the body toppling. Heedless of my own pain, I charged up the stairs in time to see the cultist raising his hammer over the little girl, her face a mask of terror.

  I sped forward, watching the hammer fall in slow motion. Too late. I dove in front of her. The world went dark.

  It starts with a slamming drawer, a fist hammering into a wall. A shout. He stomps through the house until he finds me, rage written plain on his red face. His eyes are wide, his fists clenched. My stomach knots, and I step back.

  "Where is it?" he seethes.

  "What?"

  "The roll of film. I had it in the desk." He's barely contained, moving closer.

  "I don't know! I promise!"

  "Did you take it? I know you took it. Damn kid, can't keep his hands off shit."

  I'm shaking, already sure where this is going. I back up another step, but he advances, hot breath in my face.

  "Liar!" he screams. Spittle flecks my face.

  He grabs me by the throat, and my breath seizes as he picks me up. I struggle, chest heaving, throat burning, and he slams me into the wall, my head ringing with the impact.

  "WHERE IS IT?" he shouts.

  I try to wheeze out words, but only tears come, leaking from the corners of my eyes like pain overflowing. I thrash, struggle again, and he shakes me, my feet dangling. It seems no one should be this strong, this angry. I'm his child. His son.

  He slams me into the wall again, and I realize I am also disposable. Panic and rage shudder through me, and I kick out, connecting with his thighs. He grunts and pushes me hard into the wall, and I kick again, heel slamming into his balls. He lets go with a grunt, dropping me to the floor.

  I curl up and rub my throat, crying as he thunders away, his rage temporarily sated. My tears and choking sobs come hot, burning...

  I woke in an alley, the taint of Xiphos' presence still swirling in my mind. I tasted pennies and alcohol and wondered where I'd been. Whenever that one came to the surface, all bets were off. I had little to no control over that demon and wasn’t entirely sure how I’d ended up with it. The old man might have been able to tell me, if he didn’t currently have a mouth full of grave dirt.

  The rain had begun again, a thin drizzle, and when I sat up, a bottle rolled to the side, the label declaring it whiskey. I licked my lips and came to the realization that was where the similarity ended. It had been whiskey the same way you can substitute kerosene for gas.

  I looked around, a slash of red catching my eye. It decorated the bricks of the alley in a bright Pollockian splash, and below it, the remains of Markham, his pants ragged, suit coat soaked in gore. Empty sockets stared from a ruined skull.

  As I inspected the body through bleary eyes, a dull ache announced itself in my wrists and knuckles, echoed a moment later by a sharp pain in my ribs. I knelt by the corpse and lifted the shirt, the sight of black and yellow bruises flowering over tattoos making my stomach do a loop.

  Somehow, despite my misery, Xiphos had sought out a threat, and dealt with it. I dropped his shirt and peeked out of the alley. Ivy's building rose across the street, the lights on in her penthouse. So, I’d had enough sense to head somewhere familiar, at least, even if it wasn’t home.

  I turned back to the body, inspecting the tattoos again. I counted rage, lust, hatred, and one more I didn't recognize. It bore a passing resemblance to madness, but the Enochian written in the circle twisted and barbed against itself, the lettering corrupted. I shuddered. Demons were one thing—bound and leashed, they made powerful allies. Demons had been angels, after all. But this—the letters squirmed and writhed, and as I watched, the center of the circle rippled, the flesh parting like a curtain.

  A mouth pushed itself to the center of the red folds, a thick lolling tongue licking at the edges of the wound. It spoke, the words guttural nonsense.

  I reeled back from the mouth as laughter pealed from the lips, the tongue dissolving as the collagen that held it together dripped in fat globs to the pavement. The teeth followed, falling to the asphalt and making clinking sounds as the lips separated and plopped to the earth, squirming like plump worms before dissipating into the muck.

  A car passed, tires shushing against the wet pavement, lights flaring as it passed, and I pressed myself against the wall, heart hammering. I had no urge to spend another moment in that close space with the body, but I'd have an even worse night if caught there with it. As soon as the car passed, I darted from the shelter of the alley and across the street, mashing the buzzer for Ivy's apartment.

  Her voice came to me, wary. "Yeah?"

  "IvyIvyIvyIvy..." I said, panic bleeding through.

  "Man. Hold on."

  The buzzer went off, and I yanked the door open, making sure to pull it shut behind me. As soon as I was sure it had latched, I took a moment to catch my breath and peer out of the glass.

  Nothing followed from the alley, just an inky black between buildings. I tore my gaze away and made my way to the elevator, riding in silence until the doors opened on Ivy's apartment. It usually took a good deal to shake me, but this was wrong… invasive somehow. We invited our demons in, formed a bond with them. This was something else. A taint, corruption that used the vessel.

  Ivy opened the door, standing on the other side with a nine-inch knife and a scowl. I hesitated. I didn’t fell like breaking the threshold and being turned into giblets. She looked me over, finally nodding.

  "Come on in. Don't track mud onto my carpet," she said.

  I hopped over the runner and onto the laminate of her kitchen. Water still dripped from me. She disappeared into the back and returned a minute later with a towel.

  "Get dry. Then go shower. Got some clothes that'll fit you in the hall closet. You smell like a wet dog," she said.

  She sat in the living room while I dried myself. I smelled lavender and heard her muttering something, but stayed where I was. Once reasonably dry, I hit the shower. It was hot, and I let the warmth soak into the bruises and sore muscle. I did my best to scour the blood from under my nails, and only flinched when I closed my eyes, that alien mouth flashing in the darkness.

  I climbed out and pulled a shirt, suit jacket and jeans from her closet. The clothing fit well. I transferred the contents of my pockets to the new clothes, then joined Ivy in the living room. She looked up from a bowl of something dark and thick on her coffee table, thin smoke rising from it. I plopped into the chair across from her, and she raised an eyebrow.

  "Well, you smell better," she said.

  "You don't seem surprised to see me."

  "Saw what you did in the alley."

  I grunted. I was doing my best not to think of the human ruin down there.

  "Verbose tonight," she said.

  "It's been a long couple of days."

  She nodded and peered back down at the bowl.

  "Any idea what that was?" I asked.

  "Something. Something else."

  "Not a great time to be cryptic."

  She shrugged. "Can't get a bead on it. What'd Locke tell you?"

  I fished the dollar from my pocket and dropped it on the table. She picked it up, a slight frown on her face.

  "You look like you're trying to figure out a smell," I said.

  "That was you," she said absently.

  "What's u
p with the dollar?"

  "It's a message, I think,"

  "Which is?"

  She shrugged and tossed it down, then rubbed her eyes. "No idea."

  A rustle from the hallway had me on alert, and I tensed, my body sending up an aching flare. My shoulder knotted, and I gritted my teeth. A small shape emerged, dressed in an oversize white robe. I let myself relax into the chair again.

  "The girl?" I asked.

  Ivy nodded, and the little one ducked under her arm, looking at me with big brown eyes.

  “She wasn’t…”

  “Dead? Near enough.”

  “Is she going to be all right?”

  Ivy looked at the girl. “Back to bed, honey,” she said.

  The kid rubbed an eye and ignored her.

  “Eventually,” she said.

  "Why didn’t you tell me?" I asked.

  "I had to be sure you were you."

  "What?"

  "They marked you."

  I stood and went to the mirror, pulling up my shirt.

  "Turn around."

  I did, craning my neck. That same corrupted Enochian I’d seen in the alley crawled in broken lines across my back. The cuts were pink and raw from the shower. I tried to read it, gave up.

  "Shit," I said.

  "King of understatement,"

  I pulled my shirt down and dropped onto the couch. The girl had cozied up to Ivy instead of going to bed.

  "You okay, honey?" I asked. She nodded.

  "Take her home, Ivy," I said, stretching out on the couch. I flipped Jacobs’ card onto the table.

  "What about you?" She asked.

  "Sleepy."

  "Boy, that is a three-thousand dollar couch," she warned.

  "Fuck yo’ couch," I muttered, half-asleep.