Old Wounds

by Ren Hamilton

  Patrick jumped back. “Don’t touch me, Juris. Don’t you ever fucking touch me!” He looked pleadingly at Litner. “Really? You had to bring them all?”

  “Patrick,” Litner said. “Stay calm.”

  “Stay calm? This has nothing to do with me. This is his mess!” He pointed to Shep. “Why should I have to be bait? I took a bullet last time I saw these assholes, now I’m bait for one of Shep’s enemies?”

  “Yes, Obrien,” Shep said. “We are using you as bait. Because it’s coming for you next. Now you can either shut up and let us deal with it, or we’ll be happy to leave, and let you fight the celestial assassin that wants to kill you.”

  Patrick took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He raised his hands. “All right,” he said. “Whatever it takes to get you out of my house.”

  “Do you still talk to Robin?” Juris asked.

  Patrick turned to him, a scowl wrinkling his forehead. “That would be none of your fucking business, Juris.”

  “Agent Litner told the chosen one she dumped you,” Juris said.

  Patrick turned to Litner. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  Litner shrugged. “Sorry. It came up.”

  “Okay.” Shep clapped his hands. “Here’s what we need to do. Obrien, you’re sleeping on the sofa tonight, so you go over there and kick back.”

  “Sleeping?” Patrick said. “I think not.”

  “Pretending to sleep, whatever. Juris and I will sit here, on either side of the couch. Margol and Klee, straight across the room, against the table. I want Joey behind you, back up against the wall, out of the line of fire. Litner? Find a place where you’re out of the way.” He checked the clock on the wall. “Preet could show up in five minutes or five hours, but we can’t chance it, we have to get in position now. Juris, dim the lights.”

  Patrick moved to the sofa and sat. “This is awesome. You know, Litner, I’ve been so freaked out since you called, I didn’t even think to call my family. If I die tonight because of him—”

  “Then you can come back and haunt me,” Shep said, shoving Patrick’s chest back on the couch. “Lay down.”

  “I’ll lay you down if you touch me again.”

  “I’d love to see you try,” Margol said, stepping toward the sofa.

  “Oh good, why don’t you all beat each other to death,” Litner said. “Wouldn’t it be amusing if the assassin showed up to find a bunch of bloody corpses.”

  Patrick glared at him. “You picked the wrong night to get a sense of humor, Steven.”

  Litner smiled at him. “Lay down, Patrick. Please. It could be a long wait.”

  Juris turned off all the lights except a dim table lamp in the corner, and the rest of them sat at their assigned places. Patrick stretched back, an arm behind his neck. Agent Litner took a seat at one of the chairs along the wall, closest to the adjoining kitchen. He had his gun but doubted it would do him any good. But he felt a lot better with a weapon on him.

  Then they waited. An hour passed in mostly silence, occasionally broken by Klee and Margol murmuring to each other. Joey sat with arms on his knees, head resting against the wall with eyes closed. Shep was still as a stone, back resting against the arm of the sofa, eyes alert but eerily calm. Juris mirrored his stance on the other side.

  Patrick shifted on the couch, adjusting his position, letting out an irritated sigh. The wall clock ticked. “Where will it come in?” he whispered, lifting his head to look at Shep.

  Shep gave a slight shrug. “It can walk through walls, so we can’t be sure.”

  Patrick looked warily up at the wall behind the couch. “Fantastic.”

  ****

  Time passed with excruciating slowness, and still there was no visit from Preet. Joey had begun snoring softly. Patrick propped himself up on his elbows. “Litner,” he whispered loudly. “What time were those followers killed? It’s almost midnight.”

  Litner pulled out his phone, then glanced at Shep. “I have to access the reports. Is it all right if I turn this on?”

  “This is an assassin from another dimension we’re waiting on, Litner,” Shep said softly. “I doubt very much your cell phone will scare it way.”

  “I had no way of knowing if this thing can track signals. I assumed we wanted it to believe Patrick is alone.”

  “I doubt Preet is paying attention to cell phone signals,” Shep said. “He’s powerful, but he’s not clever, and he has no experience with this world.”

  “You’re only here because your precious Obrien is in danger,” Margol said, glaring at Litner from across the room. “You care nothing if we are destroyed. You’ve proven that in the past.”

  Litner looked over at Margol. “I stopped you lot from doing something abominable, and I lost a close friend in the process. You’re not the victims here, Margol, and I’m certainly not the bad guy.”

  “You are to me,” Margol said.

  “That’s enough,” Shep said. “We’re not here to hash out the past. Margol, shut your mouth. Litner, check on what time the other followers were killed.”

  Minutes passed while Litner scanned the reports. Klee groaned as he shifted his position, stretching his legs out. “Stay alert,” Shep hissed, and Klee brought his knees up again, his huge eyes widening.

  “The followers were all killed at different times, Devin was after midnight,” Litner said. “But based on testimony by family members of Max and Brin, along with Carlos’s roommate, they were killed within thirty minutes after going to bed.”

  Patrick sat up. “Thirty minutes? I’ve been lying here for hours!”

  “Shit.” Litner stood, staring at his phone. “We have a problem.”

  Shep jumped to his feet. “What?”

  He reread the message, his gut going cold. “I haven’t checked my phone, it was off. I got a text.” He looked at Shep. “Wesley is in Boston.”

  Patrick sprang to his feet. “What?”

  “A friend in town invited him to a party tonight, so he drove down from New Hampshire. He’s staying down on Beacon Street.” Litner took a deep breath. “He wants to grab a coffee with me in the morning.” He looked around the room, the eyes of the brothers like cats in the dim light. “He got into town this morning.”

  “Wesley Shepherd?” Klee said, and Shep flinched, closing his eyes.

  “Awkward,” Juris muttered.

  “Jesus,” Patrick said. He turned to Shep, who still stood with his eyes closed. “Would it go after Wesley? I mean, he’s more tainted with your blood than I am. Shit, he was your guinea pig longer than Joey!”

  “What’s going on?” Joey stirred. “Hmm?”

  “Obrien just called you a pig,” Margol said.

  “If he got into town this morning, Preet was probably alerted to his presence,” Juris said. “The former chosen one would definitely shine brighter than Patrick. Preet will go after Wesley first.”

  “We have to go,” Litner said. “Shep.”

  Shep opened his eyes and shifted them toward Litner.

  “We have to go, Shep, we could already be too late.”

  “We’re not too late,” Shep said. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “I can feel him. He’s at the hotel. Still awake.”

  “You can feel him?” Patrick said. “Why the hell didn’t you tell anyone he was nearby, you asshole?”

  Shep clenched his teeth, turning to Patrick. “I only sense him when I want to, and I never want to.”

  Patrick closed in on Shep. “I don’t care about your past issues with Wesley right now, get over it. We have to go to him.”

  Shep stared at Patrick for a long moment, then turned to Litner. “How fast can that government issue of yours drive us to Beacon Street?”

  Litner pulled his keys out of his pocket. “I hope fast enough.”

  Shep nodded at his brothers. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Six

  Wesley Jackson Shepherd was happy to take off the clothes he’d worn to the party, laying
them over his suitcase in the hotel room closet. There was nothing wrong with the clothes, they were the height of fashion for a young man, and they’d complimented his lean form. In fact, he’d gotten a lot of attention tonight, something he wasn’t used to. They were all pleased to meet him. How handsome he was. How smart, they said. It was pleasant, but although he’d been slowly easing back into society after decades of seclusion, he still preferred the world in small, more personal doses.

  Shirtless in his plaid, cotton pajama bottoms, he went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Though he was more than used to his own face, thin with high cheekbones, youthful glow and bright blue eyes under a fringe of yellow bangs, he frowned at himself as he wet the toothbrush and applied paste. He was still amazed that strangers couldn’t see what was inside of him.

  Jerry and Maureen Bennett were his friends, and he’d been warmed when they invited him to their party. He’d met them on a boat tour out of Boston Harbor with Steven Litner a while back, part of the agent’s mission to acclimate him back into the world. Having lost their own son to cancer several years ago, Jerry and Maureen had taken a shine to him, impressed with how mature he was for his age. He enjoyed their company but felt like a liar when he was with them. In their mid-fifties, Wesley was almost a decade older than they were.

  He was looking forward to seeing Steven Litner tomorrow, if he was able to meet up. While he was getting better at pretending to be the age that matched his physical body, it was exhausting at times. But Litner knew the truth. Wesley could be himself around the stoic, white haired agent. Litner had joked that with his own prematurely gray hair at forty-five, neither of them looked their age. Wesley had laughed at the joke, but the truth of his situation was beginning to sting.

  It was one thing when he’d been alone, living a simple life in his mountain home, as ordered by Shep so long ago. Fear had kept him there, but he’d grown complacently used to it, and the isolation prevented him from facing the consequences of his suppressed aging. Now it was always in his mind when he interacted with people. Though he was able to pass for a young man despite his relative ignorance of pop culture, he still felt sixty-three years old. There was a unique loneliness to it.

  After brushing his teeth, he stretched back on the queen-sized bed, feeling restless. He eyed the large television in the cabinet, but quickly looked away. He’d experimented with watching television a few times and found it enjoyable until stumbling upon a fluff piece about Joey Duvaine. The program pondered what had happened to the young man who’d allegedly been saved by an apparition atop a Boston church while contemplating jumping to his death. The show’s hosts speculated about his sudden absence from the public eye. But they’d run a clip of an interview Joey did for a tabloid news program, and Wesley had finally seen him. The Sword. Shep’s new chosen one.

  Wesley had shut the program off after ten minutes and sat with head between his knees, heart pounding as dizziness spun. Even through the screen, that glimpse of him was disturbing. Joey radiated with Shep’s blood, strikingly obvious if you knew what you were looking for. Memories accosted him, of himself as a teenager, sitting eagerly as Shep sliced his arm, dripping thick blood into a glass for Wesley to drink.

  It was supposed to be him. He had been Shep’s loyal Sword once. But then Shep discovered how to bring his trapped brothers through the Cripulet. He’d discovered the key to opening it was the blood of the newly dead. Wesley had arrived at the cave to find the body of his dead aunt, and Shep smearing her blood onto the painted circle on the wall. It was a hell of a way to end a friendship.

  Impossibly, he still felt a pang of regret for what he’d done to Shep, trying to push him back through the wall, back into the void of darkness as he struggled to pull one of his brothers through from the other side. After that came the beating. The exile. The searing hatred when Shep ordered him to live alone as nothing. To be nothing. Death was too good for Wesley, he’d said. Shep vowed to never speak his name aloud again. But he had. Once. At the Forest Bluffs raid, just before he pointed a gun at him and pulled the trigger.

  If Patrick Obrien hadn’t jumped in front of the bullet, Wesley wouldn’t be here now. He used to think Shep was the scariest thing he’d ever encounter. But now it was himself, and the dark thoughts he’d had lately. Sometimes he regretted that Patrick saved him. Sometimes, he wondered if he could continue living this life. But a natural and healthy fear of death kept him going, day by challenging day. For in that sleep of death what dreams may come...

  Eyes growing heavy, he turned onto his side and snuggled in, but kept the table lamp on. It was a habit he acquired in the early days of his exile, searching the shadows of his room at night, expecting Shep to come in and finish him off. Though he no longer expected Shep to appear in his room at night, he was still afraid of the dark, and what might lurk there.

  He’d just started to drift off when the lamp flickered, a high-pitched buzz. His eyes fluttered open and he looked at the lamp. It flickered again with a zap, but stayed on. He reached over and tried to tighten the bulb. Then his eyes were drawn to the bathroom. He didn’t remember leaving the bathroom light on, but a beam emanated from the open door. Then it brightened, shifting like firelight. Was there a fire in the bathroom?

  “What the hell?” He threw the covers back but stopped dead. The light from the bathroom was moving. Moving toward him.

  He shuffled to the other side of the bed, his mind struggling to put together what he was seeing. It shimmered, like someone dumped a bucket of fine gold dust into a spotlight. When it reached the end of the bed, Wesley took in a shocked gulp of air, a gust of fear blowing through him when the image of a large man became evident within the shimmering glow. The image gained clarity, golden light darkening to amber as its features became defined: large, thick skull and neck, bald head, wide shoulders. It raised an arm, pointing it at Wesley with a closed fist.

  “Who are you?” The words came out half scream, the terror in his own voice speeding his heartbeat further. “What do you want?”

  He was vaguely aware that someone was at the door, the clicking sound of a hotel keycard sliding in the lock, but his focus was on the long, thin beam of orange light growing from the apparition’s closed fist. You’re in danger. Move. But he couldn’t. It was like he was pinned there, paralyzed, and then the apparition stepped toward him, legs moving right through the end of the mattress.

  Then impossibly, Shep was there, and Wesley felt stuck in a surreal dream as people ran into the room. Shep grabbed Wesley by the arm and flung him onto the floor, then faced the entity with hands out in front of him. “Looking for me, asshole?”

  The creature turned and thrust the beam at Shep. Shep ducked, one hand up, stopping the pointed end. His arm trembled as he held it off, then the beam of light pierced through his palm, coming out the back of his hand. Shep howled in pain.

  A strong arm lifted Wesley off the floor, and he looked up at Patrick. “Move back,” Patrick said, tugging him toward the wall. “Back!”

  Agent Litner was near the wall, down on one knee, gun pointed at the entity. The thing took a step, shoving the sword further through Shep’s palm. Shep fell to his knees, stopping the blade with his other hand before it reached his chest. The brothers surrounded them, and Shep barked out, “Juris, now!”

  The platinum-haired brother arched his back, arms thrown behind him, and his lips puckered as he sucked the air. A flare of dusty gold light spurted from the creature’s shoulder as though it’d sprung a leak, and Juris sucked it into his mouth. His neck muscles strained as he took it in, green eyes paling to yellow, then he stumbled back. The creature turned toward Juris and Shep screamed as the fiery blade ripped from his hand, leaving a charred, bleeding hole like a stigmata wound.

  The room vibrated with sound as the creature shrieked at Juris, bringing its golden sword around and pointing it at him. Then Margol and Klee moved forward, each sucking the air as Juris had done, and two sprays of light leaked from the thing, one shooting fro
m its side, another from its head as they siphoned, necks bulging, eyes glowing. The being roared like a lion as it whirled around, trying to cut them down, but then Shep was on his feet, adding his power to the mix, inhaling a wide gush of gold light from its back.

  Wesley gaped as the apparition’s glow began to fade like a dying flame. The swordlike beam disintegrated and dispersed, speckles of gold rising toward the ceiling like bits of glowing ash.

  “Again!” Shep shouted, and the three brothers moved in for another attack, sucking in streams of gold from the creature’s body. It stumbled, falling to its knees. Cradling his wounded hand, Shep joined his brothers as they circled it. The bald creature coughed, a very human sound, crawling slowly across the hotel rug as the last of its light faded, leaving only a solid looking body, bald and pale as death. White skin flushed to deep brown in an instant, and streams of golden-brown hair spilled from the bald skull, tumbling over its shoulders.

  “Holy shit,” Patrick said. “Is that a man in there?”

  “Not exactly,” Juris said, looking winded as he held onto the bedside table for support. “But he’s drained of The Light now.”

  Shep tentatively reached down, placing a hand on the thing’s neck. It flinched, rolling onto its back. A naked, muscular man looked up at Shep with an expression of blind terror, mouth frozen in a silent scream. “There you are,” Shep said. “Not so tough without those enhancements, are you, Preet?”

  The being’s eyes were deep blue and as large as Shep’s, but his face was shaped differently, a thick, lantern jaw, wider forehead and long straight nose. His brown skin was as smooth and perfect as a newborn baby’s. Taking in hitching gasps of air, the creature raised his hands, examining them.

  Suddenly his back bowed and he screamed, a hoarse, masculine cry full of pain and anguish. “Yeah, this part’s gonna hurt,” Shep said, then kicked him over onto his stomach with the toe of his shoe. “Brace yourself, old buddy.”

  Back muscles throbbed like a living thing as the creature pushed himself up on his arms, waves of golden-brown hair hanging down to the floor. With a sickly wet snap, the flesh on his back ripped open, a spray of blood painting the knees of Margol’s jeans.