Shadow of a Doubt

by Hunter Blain

  Looking back on that fateful night in London, it had been for the best that I’d put his fire out before his body had been wholly consumed, otherwise Armageddon could have started right then and there. At least now I had allies and a better understanding of how to stop the final battle between Heaven and Hell. On the flip side of that optimistic coin: if the final battle did commence, then all souls that have ever existed, whether above or below, would be collateral. So, delaying the end of times by a few years could be regarded as a moot point, if not negligible, in the grand scheme of things. Either way though, a lot of people were counting on me.

  “How is Locke adjusting?” Thomes asked, referring to my warlock archnemesis turned tentative ally.

  A few weeks ago, we had had a glorious battle indeed, worthy of a series on HBO—BUT only with the prerequisite that the final epic battle was so dark that no one was able to see what was actually happening. Oh, and the big bad guy we’d spent years learning to fear was killed while serving zero purpose. Winter must’ve been a guy because it had left as quickly as it had come, with the recipients left unsatisfied and alienated.

  But back to what I was saying: Locke had killed my family when I was still human, and I had spent several years tracking him down as a vampire before realizing he had probably died of old age at the very least. PLOT TWIST—He had been sent back to Earth to serve as Satan’s lackey and to piss in my Cheerios. I hadn’t known at the time that he was the same commander who had killed my mother and father, because the Devil had burned his face, forcing Locke to wear a mask. Plus, he had changed his name from Commander Godwin to Nathanial Locke, the warlock. How lame was that? Fast forward a tad bit and I ripped Locke’s head off, finally avenging my family, only to have said head delivered to me on a cardboard platter. Oh, and it had still been alive! Creepy, right? Locke had sworn he hadn’t had a choice and regretted everything he had done while begging us not to let him go back to Hell, and blah blah blah.

  I’d been really trying to better myself lately, seeing as how I was over five hundred years old and should probably put the nightlife behind me and mature a smidge. Ask me if it had been easy to forgive Locke.

  Go ahead.

  Fuck no, it hadn’t. What kind of stupid question was that? Seriously, did you even read the series in order? Anywho, I had forgiven him—as best as I could—and also helped him make a new body. He was really growing to love it.

  “Locke is doing fine, actually. He’s relearning his powers in his new body, and even doing the dishes,” I said with a serious face. “Though I did have to buy a step stool so he could crawl up to reach the sink…and the fridge…and the toilet.” The corners of my lips tugged up in a smile I only kind of tried to conceal.

  “It’s alright to hide your pain in humor, my son,” Father Thomes said. That struck a little too close to home. “Forgiveness is a journey that takes time. You have taken your first steps, which is the hardest part.”

  I took a deep breath in contemplation, then said, “What if he is lying and using me as a pawn in his chess game? I mean, I feel like he is truthful in his intentions, but what if he is growing in strength only to betray me later to Satan?”

  “I don’t think that is the case, John,” Father Philseep said while staring into the fire. He was thoughtful, as if weighing the words in his mind before speaking them aloud. “The best way to find out if you can trust someone, is to trust them.”

  His words were heavy with wisdom, and I was taken aback. The Archangel Gabriel’s words also flashed in my mind like an annoying pop-up banner that you tried to click away so you could get back to the video of the kitty playing with the puppy—I MEANT PORN. Yes, dark and nasty porn, not that cute thing I said.

  Record scratch—Cut scene to me in my coffin, bathed in the light of my phone, watching YouTube videos while saying in a high-pitched voice, “Aw, cute wittle puppers can’t get up the stairs. Hehe.”

  Gabriel’s words resonated and mixed with Father Thomes’, “You are free to make any decision, in the entire universe, that you wish. It is the consequences that are unavoidable.” I could choose to trust Locke and face a potential betrayal, or kill him and never be able to utilize his vast powers for the Light.

  Sighing, I said, “I think you’re right. The fate of the universe is at stake, and I need to have as many allies as possible.”

  “What about your personal growth?”

  “That too, I guess,” I responded, knowing he was right but still in a cosmic battle with my pride. “Long shot here, but do you know anything about the Shadow Court of the Fae?”

  “I’m afraid that is out of my realm of expertise, my son.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said sarcastically. “I figured you didn’t, but wanted to double-check. Seems I’ve made some new friends.”

  “That sounds about right,” Father Thomes said in such a way that I didn’t know if he was being sarcastic or a hundred percent serious.

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m super popular right now.”

  He got serious again after seeing my face. “Are you worried?”

  “You’re just going to say something along the lines of ‘God only gives you as much dick as you can handle’ or something prophetic like that.”

  “Not in precisely those words, but the message is the same.”

  I looked at him, worry evident in my eyes, “I’m scared, Thomes. Taylor told me that the Shadow Fae want to blanket all of existence in darkness.” A lump of frustration and brimming fear lodged in my throat, threatening to choke me. “They know I am the key to making that happen. He said they will send everyone and everything they have at me.”

  “Who is Taylor?” Father Thomes asked, intrigued.

  “He’s an elf from the Seelie Court. They are friendly to this plane and want the continued existence of…well…everything.”

  “Ah,” he said, hesitating. I wasn’t sure how much the padre knew about the Faerie plane, but it was safe to assume this was a lot of information for him.

  “Let me see if I understand this; there is a whole, what did you call it—court—that wants to kill you in the hopes that all of creation will be cast into darkness?”

  “That’s a bingo,” I said as I leaned back in the chair, letting my butt slightly hang off the edge of the seat in exasperation at hearing my predicament out loud.

  “How interesting,” Father Thomes said calmly, absorbing the situation with surprising ease. “Do they have a leader?”

  “I don’t know. Da and Locke are researching that as we speak. Why do you ask? Thinking I should try and negotiate or something?”

  “In every hive, there is a queen. Remove the queen, the hive ceases to be.”

  “You’re saying kill the leader?”

  “The fate of creation is on a precarious line, teetering dangerously first to one side and then the other. How long until we fall?” The father looked at me intently. “It is time to stop being reactionary. We need to take charge and end these threats before they have the opportunity to mount an offense.”

  “The best defense is a good offense, right?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t watch sports. But it sounds good.”

  Freshly energized by our conversation, I stood up and said, “I like it, Papa T. I’m going to get a plan together with my team of misfits and save the world by killing some Fae bastards!”

  “Go get them, tiger,” Father Thomes said with a genuine smile.

  “Pl-please don’t say that again.” His smile didn’t fade as I turned to walk down the hall toward the spiral stone staircase. I slowed, briefly, as I walked past Ulric’s cell, the red button on the wall next to the door glowing faintly in the lamplit catacomb. One press and the gates of Hell would spill open, commencing the final battle. My mouth salivated as I stared at it.

  I shook my head, hard, and turned my neck to see Father Thomes standing in front of the fire, his features hidden by the shadows cast by the flames. His rigid posture conveyed enough without even seeing his face. Though I
couldn’t see his eyes, I knew they were watching me intently. He trusted me but was still wary of my nature, as he should be. My Predatory Self (or PS, as I called him) and I were mostly on speaking terms and had an understanding, but he had proven time and time again that giving him full access to the steering wheel of my mind was not the best idea. Conversely, he had saved my life more than a few times by doing just that. PS—can’t live with him, definitely can’t live without him.

  I waved, and without waiting for a response, turned to make my way up the stairs, the pull of the red button calling to me like the rising steam of a cartoon pie on a window sill.

  What the hell was that, man? I asked PS in the control room of my mind. He shrugged, not even close to the wheel. Wait, was that me, then? I asked myself out loud in my head. Pausing for the briefest of moments, he shrugged again. O…kay then. Not worried at all.

  I was.

  2

  It was starting to grow hot outside, even at night. Houston had some of the most brutal weather that could change on a whim. The humidity was the worst part. It could be a hundred degrees outside with 90 percent humidity, and people would pass out from heatstroke. It got cold too, but not below-zero cold like way up north, and not for very long. In my opinion, Texas had nine months of summer followed by three months of fall, winter, and spring all rolled up together.

  All of this didn’t really bother me, seeing as I was a badass vampire that didn’t play by anyone else’s rules except my own, and sometimes not even my own. Depweg and the twins, on the other hand, were more alive than I was, and were susceptible to the elements. Man, I was thankful I wasn’t a werewolf because I bet that fur made it HOT. Excuse me, werwolf, with the first w pronounced with a v as the Germans said it. I did first find my BFF Depweg during WWII as we murdered a lot of Nazi shitheads, so I respected his decision to go by his motherland’s pronunciation. I could sympathize though; I hated it whenever people called me Jonathan. What’s in a name? Respect, that’s what.

  After absolving me of my sins, Thomes and I had discussed recent events, puppies vs kittens, and the existential crisis that was being a merciless vampire working with a holy priest, and after sitting in a reading chair for that long, my loyal trench coat had started riding up on my shoulders a tad. I repositioned the black leather, remembering—fondly—how I had stolen it off a superdead Nazi officer. Who had killed him? A powerful vampire whose hot button was the slaughter of innocents.

  I felt the smooth leather that had once been covered in patches; there had been so many that it had resembled a quilt at one point. After one of my latest adventures, though, I had all but shredded this piece of antiquity to ribbons; luckily, I had a personal seamstress on staff who kept my attire alive.

  Da was a five-inch faerie who told everyone he was a freaking angel. The only kind of angel he could be at five inches was one of those that sat on your shoulder debating with a five-inch demon on your every decision. Plus, the S.O.B. could shift planes, and I had never known an angel or demon to be able to do that. Then there was the fact that he’s FIVE FREAKING INCHES. All the angels I had ever encountered were, like, over ten feet tall in their natural form.

  Anyway, Da was amazing about keeping both my trench coat and gray beanie alive—two of my most prized possessions. He had somehow brought my coat back from the dead, and it looked almost brand new, but it still had the innards of the original. Truth be told, it had been patched so many times before the most recent restoration that not even Da could claim it was the original trench anymore. Just knowing the inner lining was untouched for the most part helped keep the emotional connection.

  Walking down the crumbling steps of the church, I made my way through the brown grass and jumped over the once black wrought iron fence. Turning toward Valenta’s Saloon, I started jovially walking down the street, whistling Dixie as I went. I was actually whistling an incredibly complex instrumental song from a group called Animals as Leaders. I hit every note with perfect pitch, something that would have been impossible for a mortal’s lips, which I am oh, so humble about, mind you. The technical prowess of this particular band had blown even my preternatural mind, which made it more fun to whistle. The lead guitarist for that band was, without a doubt, a supe.

  A breeze tugged at the loose black hair that spilled out from the back of my gray beanie. I was aware of the heat and humidity outside, but not bothered by it in the least. Not sweating was one of the many perks of being an immortal.

  The air smelled clean, as the city had been drenched in rain during the day while I slept. I enjoyed smelling the rain-soaked grass and seeing the blades glistening with beads that glinted in the moonlight as I walked.

  A rust-colored Pit Bull Terrier trotted up to me, tongue flopping as it panted. I immediately crouched down and began petting it enthusiastically while asking it if it was, indeed, a good boy. The stray enjoyed the attention as I grabbed one of my thumbs with the other hand and ripped it off at the base.

  “You hungry, boy? Who’s a hungry boy?” I asked in a playful, cooing voice, extending my hand out with the thumb as an offering. I knew he was probably hungry, and I could grow my digit back nearly instantaneously when I wanted. The pretty Pit sniffed and then delicately took my offering, chomping it and swallowing after only a few bites. My thumb regrew and I ripped it off again. I loved dogs.

  After feeding my new buddy a handful (get it?) of digits, the Pit began to sniff the air. A deep growl emanated from its chest as it turned around in all directions, trying to find the source of the smell it did not enjoy.

  “What is it, boy? A squirrel? Did little Jimmy fall down a well?” The stray did not respond. Instead, it began barking at a wall that should have been illuminated by one of the city’s streetlamps, except this one had burned out.

  “Odd,” I said out loud to both the Pit Bull and myself. “Those are LEDs and should never burn out, huh, boy?”

  Two glowing purple orbs blinked into existence. They moved from side to side until I got the distinct feeling that they had locked onto me. A Cheshire grin of jagged, gleaming teeth spread out of the darkness, forming a creepy U shape. The Pit yelped and sprinted down the road, slipping in place as it tried to get traction and flee.

  I willed my senses out as I let PS put one hand on the wheel in the control center of my mind. I could feel my canines flex and elongate into surgically sharp points as my eyes shifted from a vibrant purple to a crimson red. The world became clear as day, and what I saw shook me to my core.

  “The…fuck…” was all I could manage before the silhouette of a gargantuan reptile slithered toward me on impossibly fast legs. It ran to me faster than I could blink an eye before abruptly standing straight up, its mass growing from that of a nimble lizard to a hulking beast. It was like watching a shadow puppet show where things morphed seamlessly into other creatures.

  I had to crane my neck to look at the eyes of the phantom. I was frozen with indecision and surprise when the huge beast backhanded me with enough force to send me sailing across the street and into an industrial warehouse wall. Luckily, my bones slowed my crash, exploding into dust.

  As I slid down to my butt, my head dropped as I croaked out one of the manliest phrases that had ever come out of my mouth in my five centuries of life, “Owwy.”

  I lifted my head in time to see the beast stomping over to where I sat, the smokelike shadows billowing in its hand coalescing into a dagger that had no distinguishing features. The entirety of the monster, short of its glowing purple eyes and glistening teeth, was featureless. It was like in Peter Pan when the hero had had to fight his shadow.

  Gritting my teeth, I willed my bones to heal as a bloodspear grew from my hand. I didn’t know how much energy to put into the manifestation, so I dumped a lot just in case. This thing scared me. There was no conversing with the shadow monster; it simply attacked without the usual monologue. That meant this mofo meant business.

  The silhouette strode forward, dagger in hand, as I thrust my spear into i
ts unarmored stomach. It stopped abruptly, looking down at where the weapon met its incorporeal flesh. Its Cheshire smile diminished into a toothy grin in annoyance at the attack, but then reformed with vigor. The shadow beast looked back up at me as it stepped to the side, my spear sliding through its body without any damage being done. Stabbing my own shadow would have resulted in precisely the same outcome.

  “Welp…shit,” was all I could manage before the beast bent down to stab me in the face. As the blade was inches from its target, a car squealed down the street with its HID high beams on. The creature recoiled and shrieked in furious pain. I dodged the blade as the monster violently jerked, allowing only the smallest cut to crest my earlobe instead of my runway model face. My ear began to tingle where it had been cut.

  “Get in!” a familiar voice yelled from the car that screeched to a halt at the curb. I ran toward the pink Rolls-Royce, sliding over the hood in supercool cop show fashion. I maybe put too much effort and slid off the hood, where I continued to travel over asphalt on my ass.

  “John!” the voice cried out again, a bit more urgently this time. I recovered and scrambled on all fours to the passenger side door as the shadow monster bellowed its rage. I yanked open the door while risking a glance over the hood to see the monster start sprinting toward us, spittle flying from its mouth as it screamed. My ass touched the seat and Lily put the plastic to the rubber, as the saying should go nowadays.