by Brom
“Wha . . . what?” Dirk said, struggling to get the words out. “But . . . I can’t swim.”
The kid kicked him, drove his boot into Dirk’s side, knocking him backward. Dirk found himself half hanging over the ledge, looking down into the black river. He heard a cackle, glanced up to see the ferryman laughing at him.
The kid placed his boot against his side.
“For the love of Jesus!” Dirk cried. “No!”
The kid kicked him over.
Dirk hit the water, sank down deep into the cold, dark current. He heard them, the wails, the moans, growing louder and louder. He clawed at the water, fighting for the surface. A hand caught hold of his ankle, then his wrist. Then they were all over him, sinking their long nails into his flesh, his mouth, his eyes, pulling him down, deeper and deeper.
CHAPTER 90
Chet stood before the doors of the bridge, towering doors made of iron and wood, true wood, not bone, doors made for giants. He walked up the short flight of steps and laid a hand on one. The wood, petrified by age and the elements, felt hard as stone. He gave the door a shove. It did not budge.
There was no knob, no handle, only a gilded key plate. Chet glanced back toward the cobblestone street where several fresh souls wandered aimlessly with dazed, lost looks upon their faces. He fished the key from around his neck and slid it into the slot. The fit was perfect. He turned the key and there came a deep grinding, like huge gears turning.
Chet stepped back, waiting. When nothing else happened he pressed against the door. It didn’t budge. He pushed harder, putting all his weight behind it. It was like pushing against a gale, but the door slowly ground inward. He withdrew the key and stepped in, the door falling shut behind him with a resounding thud, showering him with dirt and debris from the rafters above.
Crumbling arches and columns disappeared into the gloom ahead, giving Chet the impression of an endless nave of some long-abandoned cathedral. Mother Eye’s amber glow shifted in through the tall, narrow windows lining the walls and down from several collapsed portions of the vaulted roof.
Chet couldn’t keep Yevabog’s words out, her warnings of forces aligned against him and Mother Eye setting him to flame. He swallowed hard and started forward, up the slight incline, stepping over and around the fallen chunks of stone and broken tile, avoiding the portions of the walkway that appeared ready to give way to the river below. He stopped once, peering down through a hole in the path, saw only the fog swirling beneath him, wondered what would happen to him when he crossed, if the river would change him back to pure spirit?
He pressed on and Mother Eye did not burn him, no thunder or lightning, no wall of fire; angels did not come down and smite him. The only sound was the low moan of the river below and he felt oddly peaceful, as though he were the only soul left in existence. The bridge began to slope downward and Chet allowed himself his first breath of relief. Shortly thereafter he saw the doors just ahead.
He did not need the key to leave. When he pulled the doors inward, they simply opened. He stepped out onto the far shore and they fell shut behind him.
He laid his hands on his chest, then his face. “I’m whole,” he said. “Solid.” He touched the knife, the key, relieved that all had crossed with him.
Faces, dozens of curious faces turned toward him, the long parade of ghostly souls slowing, stopping, staring at him in confusion and wonder. The questions started. “What’s going on? Where are we? Which way should we go?” and on and on. Chet paid no heed, marching down the steps, wading into the throng of souls. They had no substance and he moved through them as though they were smoke. Many reached for him, tried to touch him, but could not. Some ran from him, others followed him, peppering him with questions. He kept the river on his left, following its bank and keeping a keen eye out for the shadowy jellyfish creatures as he walked through a world of gray. He saw a few infants here and there, tried not to look at them, tried not to think what would happen to them.
After about an hour he came to the first trail leading up into the cliffs above. He started up, then stopped. No, he thought, doesn’t feel right. He continued on, passing two more such trails. At the third he headed up, feeling sure it was the way; it was as though his bones were calling to him.
He climbed the steep trail until the river was lost in the mist far below. Onward he went, ever upward, one cavern leading into another, each progressively smaller than the last, meeting fewer and fewer souls until at last he was alone.
He heard a voice, turned to see a woman wearing a simple knee-length dress, her hair in disarray, walking toward him. He recognized her from his journey down.
“Have you seen my baby?” she asked, her eyes desperate.
“What’s your child look like?”
“A little girl . . . her hair is—” She seemed to be trying to remember. “Blond . . . no, auburn . . . maybe.” She became distressed, her lips quivering. “It’s hard to remember.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen her.” Chet peered deep into her eyes. “She’s waiting for you. Follow the trail down until you come to the river. Search for her along the river trail. You’ll find her there.”
The woman’s face lit up. “Oh, bless you! Bless you!” she said, scurrying away, heading down the trail.
Chet hoped she would find a child, one of the lost ones, that maybe the two would bond and keep each other company. He watched until she was gone from sight, then continued upward.
The trail branched off repeatedly, and at each junction he would stand still with his eyes closed until he felt them, his bones, like a soft current tugging at him.
As he marched through the seemingly endless caverns he tried to formulate a plan, a strategy for dealing with Senoy. He would use the knife, as Yevabog had said, that much was clear. He’d seen what the blade could do against gods and demons alike. He just needed the right opportunity and one way or another he intended to make one. “I’m coming to get you, Trish,” he whispered. “And nothing, not man, angel, or demon, is gonna stop me.”
The caves narrowed until they weren’t much more than consecutive tunnels, the only light coming from the small pools of gray mist. Soon he was crawling, trying to make his way along in total darkness. He slipped out the knife, relying on its faint glow to see by. The tunnel ended in a shaft. He clawed his way upward, using the knife as a pick to help pull himself up.
At last he came into a small cavern and saw them, just like Joshua had said he would—his bones, shimmering above him.
CHAPTER 91
Senoy leaned against the oak tree, neither asleep, nor awake, neither dead, nor alive, merely holding on, trying not to fade. A feeling came to him in the form of a voice, one that only he could hear. He let out a gasp, stood upright. “The key,” he whispered. “Oh, sweet above. The key.” He closed his eyes, concentrating. It was him, the boy, Chet. He had it. Senoy was certain.
The angel stumbled down to the graveyard, so weak now that even walking was an effort. He reached out, above the gate of the cemetery, until his hand struck something solid. There came a slight glimmer, the ghostly outline of a wall as the shroud lit up momentarily, then faded. He pressed an ear against the barrier, listening, hoping for another sign that the boy had the key. He stayed like that until his shadow grew long.
“You okay there, Mr. Senoy?”
Senoy opened his eyes and looked over at Joshua, who was watching him from behind a gravestone. Senoy let out a sigh. “As good as one can be under such circumstances.” He pushed away from the wall, all but collapsing onto the stone bench next to the graveyard.
Joshua glanced furtively about, then ventured out from the graves and took a seat next to Senoy.
“Joshua, I believe our friend Chet has found the key.”
Joshua’s face lit up. “Why, Mr. Senoy, that’s wonderful news. Ain’t you happy about that?”
“I am. Just so very tired, that is all.”
“I’m sorry you ain’t feeling so good.”
Senoy could see t
he child was deeply concerned for him. Senoy had never cared much for humankind. It was hard for him to reconcile why God would favor these flawed creatures, these tailless monkeys, over the angels. But he found he couldn’t help but like this boy. Why then had I lied to him? Told him he was trapped within the shroud, when the spell only kept the divine at bay. Why had I not escorted him past the demons, walked him down to the bridge so that he might escape? Senoy studied the boy’s large, compassionate eyes. Because . . . because he brought me comfort. And that was all there was to it. He’d kept this child from Heaven for almost half a century for a little comforting. I should feel shame. Yes. So why do I not?
“Well, when Chet get’s here with that magic key of yours, I’m sure Miss Lamia can fix you up like you said.”
Senoy nodded, thinking of her sorcery with blood and the key and its ability to unlock spells. It would take time. Lamia needed to heal first, ration the baby’s blood. He felt sure she would keep the mother alive, for a year at least—the baby feeding off the mother, Lamia feeding off the baby. Then when Lamia was ready, she’d take the child, drive out its soul. There’d be no hurry, because once he had the key, he’d no longer have to fear her leaving him, as she lusted for its power the way he lusted for her.
And the boy, Chet, he was damned. One way or another Hell awaited him. Lamia’s demons would most surely see to his end. Senoy found he cared little, his mind turning to how wonderful that rush of warm blood had felt coursing through his veins all those long years ago. The world will be our playground, Lamia. Two immortals sharing a thousand mortal lives.
CHAPTER 92
I made it,” Chet said. “Oh, Lord. I made it.” His elation only lasted a second, because he knew he wasn’t home yet. He still had to rise, had to find his way up. He recalled Joshua saying that going up was the hardest part, that he had to concentrate on his bones a long time before he could rise. But Chet understood that Joshua was pure spirit. He wasn’t. He was ka and he feared things wouldn’t be so simple.
He set his hand against the roof of the cave. It wasn’t dirt, more of a wavering glassy rock. He assumed then that he wasn’t truly in the ground below the graveyard, not as one would think. He guessed he was in a place where the two worlds intersected, that he could no more dig his way up than someone could dig their way down. But Chet thought there might be another way. He tugged the key out from his shirt, started to draw a circle, the way that Gavin had shown him, but he needn’t, for when he touched the key to the ceiling a square shape lit up beneath his bones. The door was already there.
He kissed the key, hoping for the best, and touched it to the glowing mark in the square’s center.
The square became translucent.
“Stars,” Chet cried. “Oh, God, stars!” Chet quickly reached up, clasping dirt and roots and pulled himself upward. He got one elbow up, then the other, caught hold of a gravestone, and hauled himself into the world of the living.
CHAPTER 93
Chet lay on his back, clutching the key to his chest, staring at the moon and stars as though they were the most wonderful things he’d ever seen. He inhaled deeply, smelling the marsh, the dirt, the leaves, and for a moment forgot everything else. Heaven, he thought. Earth is heaven.
“Chet,” someone whispered.
Chet sat up. It was Joshua, the boy’s face full of joy. He put his finger to his lips. “Gotta keep quiet, Mr. Chet,” he said in a hushed voice. “We don’t want them demons to hear.”
“Is she still alive? Is Trish still alive?”
“Yes,” came another voice. Senoy stood just outside the iron gate, his eyes brimming with tears, his face in disbelief. He too spoke softly. “Chet, by Heaven above you have come back. You have done it. You have saved us all.” He stepped closer and his hand hit something unseen. There came a momentary glow revealing a ghostly barrier ringing the cemetery. Senoy stepped back and the glow faded. “Quick, Chet, the key,” Senoy demanded. “Bring it to me.” It was then that Chet realized that the angel couldn’t cross into the graveyard.
“Where is she? The baby? Did she—”
“Yes. Yes,” Senoy said, with growing impatience. “The baby is fine. They are all in the house. Now bring me the key, my knife, and let us go free them.” Senoy glanced anxiously about, eyeing the shadows. “Chet, we do not have much time.”
Chet stood, slipped his hand into the satchel, as though searching for the key, instead grabbing the hilt of the knife. He walked slowly over toward the gate. “How do we kill Lamia?”
“Do not worry, Chet. I will take care of her. I just need—”
“I think they’re having a party without us,” came a guttural voice.
“Sure looks that way,” came another.
Billy and Davy stepped from the shadows, their boyish guises gone, their scorched skin covered in thorny scales, their faces hungry.
Senoy snapped about, his face stricken. He raised his hand above his head. “I give you fair warning. Leave now or I shall smite you both.”
The symbol in Senoy’s hand began to glow, but the two demons continued forward.
“Back,” Senoy hissed through his teeth. Chet could see the strain on his face as the soft blue light intensified, drifting toward the demons.
The demons halted, shielding their eyes, but Chet saw no sign of fear.
Senoy’s hand began to tremble, causing the light to flicker. The glow dimmed.
Billy laughed. “I got a feeling your smiting days is done, angel man.”
Senoy backed up until he was pressed against the barrier, setting it aglow. “Chet,” Senoy snarled, keeping close watch on the demons. “Give me the knife. Now, before all is lost.”
Chet slid the blade from its sheath.
The demons followed the ever-diminishing ring of light, closer and closer.
“Give . . . me . . . the knife,” Senoy demanded, his voice shaky.
“How did you become flesh?” Chet asked.
“Give me the knife.”
“Did you drink her blood? My mother?” Chet caught it then, beneath the strain, just a flash, but it was there on the angel’s face—the undeniable look of a man caught in a lie.
“Chet, now is not the time. I will explain all. Just give me the knife.”
“I would like to hear it now.”
“Chet,” Senoy gasped, his hand shaking as though bearing a great weight, the light flickering. “Please, please—”
Chet drove the knife through the ghostly barrier, plunging it deep into one of the angel’s eyes, two quick, hard jabs. Senoy screamed, stumbled away, clutching his face.
The light died and the demons’ eyes blazed in the darkness. They howled and leapt for Senoy, knocking him to the ground, tearing into him, snarling and snapping, all teeth and claws. Senoy wailed as they ripped into his groin, tore open his stomach. But the angel wasn’t done. He let out a powerful yell, a battle cry, and there came a concussive blast of light from his very core. It kicked both the demons backward, slamming them into the wall surrounding the graveyard, lighting up the field. Chet ducked back, but the blast didn’t pass through the wall.
For a long moment nobody moved; slowly Chet raised his head.
The two demons lay motionless in the grass, their skin and scales smoldering. Senoy lay near the bench, his hands clutching his own chest, quivering as smoke drifted from his nose, mouth, and ears, up from all the great wounds riddling his body. He let out a weak moan. Chet leapt to his feet and slipped over the iron railing, striding quickly to Senoy with the knife ready.
The angel stared upward at the stars with his remaining eye. Chet dropped down beside him, pressing the knife against Senoy’s neck.
“No!” Joshua cried. “Don’t do it, Mr. Chet. Please! He’s gonna save me. Gonna take me home to my mama.”
Senoy’s eye found Chet, his brows furrowed, and he tried to raise a hand, but it fell back to his chest. “I am an angel of God. An angel of God.”
“You are a devil.”
The
words seemed to pain Senoy even more than his great wounds. His lips trembled. “You will never escape the wrath of the Lord.”
“I’m already damned . . . remember?” Chet hissed, slicing the blade across Senoy’s neck. But the angel’s flesh was unlike any other, and Chet had to saw back and forth with great force until finally, Senoy’s head rolled from his body.
Chet heard a low growl. He stood quickly and saw the bigger demon, Billy, standing between him and the graves. Davy, the smaller one, still lay in the grass, quivering. Billy raised a hand, his fingers sprouting jagged claws. The claws began to smolder, sizzle, glowing red hot. He smiled. “You got to the count of ten, Chet, to find a good hiding place. Better get running.”
Chet didn’t run: he locked eyes with the demon and started forward, one step, another and then another. Billy’s smile faded, replaced by a low snarl. Chet charged, bringing the blade around in a wide arch, making his target, the demon’s neck, obvious, just as Ado had shown him. The creature took the bait, leaping forward to meet the strike with its sizzling claws, committing wholly for the knife. Chet reversed at the last instant, bringing the blade down low, coming up under the demon as it shot past, the blade ripping into its stomach.
Billy spun round ready to come again, but hesitated, his brows cinched in confusion. He looked down at his belly, at the huge gash, at his own shriveled black guts as they spilled out onto the grass. Billy clutched his stomach, glanced over to his sibling as though Davy could somehow help him. Chet rushed in and the creature stumbled back, fell. Chet dropped upon the demon, slamming the knife into the creature’s neck before it could so much as put up a hand—two quick hacks and the demon’s head rolled away, hissing, its eyes two tiny pits of rage.
Davy stared at his brother’s severed head, his eyes wide with horror.
Chet stood and came for him.