The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  Yet presuming that he should succeed – and he must! – what then?

  —sun-streaked walls, tall and thick; searing heat; the taste of the sea. And chains. A long train of devious miscreants, chained together. Chained down. Imprisoned for their crimes.—

  Yes, that was as it should be. But how? He had chased the other to the crushing darkness of the outer edge before, to no avail. Simply taking the creature back there would not keep it secure. The shackles of the edge were not forged by a devourer’s self-hatred alone, but by its despair. As long as the other fought the downward pull, delivering it to oblivion would be insufficient. He would have to make the other stay until it gave up. Until the outer edge chained it down with its own hopelessness.

  An immense risk to himself. Such a prolonged exposure to those circumstances might destroy his own resolve not to feed the hunger that always threatened to consume him. Chaining the other meant chaining himself. Not unjust, considering his dark inclinations, but a waste of potential nonetheless. New hunts for other abominations might require his skills in future.

  ‘Selfish!’ he berated himself. ‘This creature is dangerous and must be eliminated. At all cost.’

  If that cost was his to bear, so be it. Under no circumstance would he allow himself to let his prey go.

  —’you have me’; ‘I am your prisoner.’—

  Distant echoes of a forgotten voice leapt forth. From an unheeded depth, it washed over him like the raging river. He froze.

  —’I do not mean to escape’; ‘dispose of me as you will’—

  The impact of the memory’s clarity shocked his whole being. Damned water that clung to him always now poured out, rivulets swelling into streams. Before him, a figure appeared in the fog. He reached with both hands to grasp it. Almost within reach. Almost—

  The figure dissolved.

  He curled back in agony, a terrifying howl tearing from his throat. Loss, failure, falling; images tumbled through his jaded mind—

  —a catch; hesitation; a criminal bathed in light; doubt; confusion; darkness.—

  Only with great effort did he eventually dispel them.

  ‘What happened in a lifetime matters not, now,’ he snarled as he straightened his posture, still enraged. ‘This one shall not get the better of me, I swear.’

  He waited until his energy steadied again. Then checked the woman’s marker. She had made no attempt to call him.

  Of course the other was not likely to seek her out while she emitted such foul energy as she did now. Useless. With a single step he shifted within her sight.

  ***

  Mercedes woke with a start from yet another disjointed dream about monsters, angels, and Danielle crying in panic for her maman. Groaning against the tug of sleep, she forced herself to prime her senses for nearby ghosts. She almost failed to muffle a shriek of surprise when she saw a towering shadow standing at her bedside.

  Your colours are unappetising.

  The blunt statement caught her still-groggy mind off guard. Wordless irritation flew in his general direction as she wiped a wet strand of hair from her face. The bed sheets, too, had become damp and cold against her skin, but beside her Eric turned over in his sleep, apparently undisturbed. She wholeheartedly wanted to do the same.

  Your discontentment is too obvious. The other will not be attracted to it.

  His unabashed rudeness appalled her. A flame of anger and indignation rose in her chest.

  Better, he declared.

  “I’m not a cheese in your trap,” she retorted, exaggerating the soundless movements of her lips to convey her annoyance.

  You need not speak. Your thoughts are clear enough.

  “Find in my thoughts what you will, but I need words to hear what I’m thinking.”

  She sensed that he was not at all interested in her needs. This infuriated her, but in some way his dispassionate demeanour calmed her, too. Venting her frustrations on him was a lost cause, but neither did he ignore her. He simply stood there, arms folded and dripping wet, with the stoic patience of a mountain waiting out a storm. Strangely reassuring in some inexplicable way. Mercedes let her tense shoulders sag a little.

  Better still. A hint of approval. Call me when the other comes. He turned around and began to fade.

  “Monsieur, wait,” she whispered.

  What for?

  Her thoughts scattered like a handful of pins. Before going to bed, she had drawn up her plea for his cooperation in minute detail, but barely awake and also fighting the demon’s imposing will, her mental faculties were not as agile as she needed them to be.

  “I want to help,” she blurted at last, almost too loud. Beside her, a grunt briefly interrupted Eric’s snores.

  Then do as I ask of you.

  “I can do more.”

  His lack of interest revived her mind, which first trudged and then raced through the various arguments she had prepared.

  “Rather than wait, I could seek out the monster, or perhaps attract it in such a way that will aid your strategy.”

  My strategy is not your concern.

  “I beg to differ, monsieur,” she whispered vehemently. “If I call you and your action fails, it is my soul at risk, not yours!”

  Mercedes winced as his attention drilled into her with icy precision. I shall not fail, his voice beat inside her head. She fought the urge to press her hands to her ears. His conviction was oppressive, palpable... but not quite absolute. Following that sliver of apprehension into his soul, she neither felt nor saw what caused it. Until in the next instant, she recognised the answer that lay within the absence.

  Blind? No, blinded. He was blinded!

  His will struck out. Her body jolted and she recoiled as if he had physically hit her.

  Save your curiosity to find the other! he bellowed.

  Mercedes stood her ground despite his fury. She knew this game. Ten years with Eric had taught her precisely when anger only served to mask insecurity. This outburst was her leverage.

  “You think me cheese to attract a mouse,” she said, still whispering through her teeth, “but if the cat leaps, the mouse will run. The cat will give chase, but how can it catch what it cannot see?” She stared into the black voids of his eyes. “You made this your hunt, monsieur, but you cannot hope to succeed without help.”

  The heat of his anger froze, spreading a sheen of frost over her damp skin. She shivered with pain and clamped her jaws shut as he drew her intentions from her mind like tangled ribbons from a box. His overwhelming disdain for what he found made her gag.

  You propose to be my eyes? Ha!

  “I do.” She had no idea how, which he already knew, so she poured all her strength of conviction into her determination. “It is true. I can help, I swear. If you will but let me.”

  His contempt cut to the bone. You are human, an incarnated soul trapped in this single plain. You cannot possibly be of use hunting a target that moves through multiple plains like fish through water!

  She had anticipated that argument, but refused to give in. There were solutions, she knew, and she concentrated on projecting them. Anne’s books of rituals, the seers, the cards, dreams. It had to be possible. Jean’s sanctuary proved that it was.

  Never put your faith in a guide. The cold of his sneer seeped deeply into her soul. The role I assigned you to is final. That already proves to be more than you can handle.

  “Not true,” she snapped, but the moment she did, he was gone.

  At dawn, Eric woke to find his wife roaming about the house in her dressing gown, severely agitated. His suggestion that she should rest and perhaps use her implement was received with ill grace. When the door of her crafts room slammed shut, the walls of the flat shook throughout.

  Mercedes relished the sting of the door key pressing into her flesh as she turned it in the lock. This barrier, this door shielded her from the world, and the world from her. On the other side, she heard Eric declare to Gagnon that he would take coffee in his office. Just as well,
since she had no intention of feigning interest for anyone’s sake. She had better things to do.

  Bleary morning light illuminated the desk by the window. She searched her sewing kit for Anne’s cards. The string wrapped around the stack was still tied as she had left it yesterday, assuring her the cards had not been touched. A small comfort. She undid the knot and ran the cards through her fingers.

  Without bothering to shuffle the stack, she placed it face up on the desk and fanned the cards out, so she could plainly recognise each card for what it was. Reason rather than instinct inspired her to select three cards before putting the rest away. Those three cards she placed in a triangle.

  To the left was the Book, symbolising secrets and hidden knowledge.

  To the right was the Key, which stood for solutions and new possibilities.

  And in the centre, slightly above the other two, she placed the Sun. A joyous card, but it was for the golden rays resembling Jean’s splendid aura that she had chosen it. This spread brought no revelation. It wasn’t supposed to. What she had created here was an amplifier. The occult equivalent of cupping one’s hands around one’s mouth while shouting.

  “Jean,” she said to the cards. “You cannot come to me, but I know that you can hear me and you had better listen.”

  While she didn’t feel Jean’s presence, a thought that wasn’t truly hers confirmed she had his attention.

  “Your demon is quite pig-headed, Jean. You may trust him, but he does not trust you.”

  She sensed this was not news to the guide.

  “He is also determined not to trust me.”

  That got a stronger reaction, still faint but enhanced by a hint of alarm. She pushed away the petty satisfaction his discomfort gave her and continued.

  “To him I’m worthless. In all fairness, he is not wrong.” She discarded the vague notion of compassion that came over her. “He has a valid point, Jean! I cannot do what I must to be of use – to him, to you or to Danielle.” She tapped the Book and the Key cards. “I have to learn to cross from my world to yours.”

  When no reply reached her, she recalled the demon’s warning not to put her faith in a guide. She chewed her lip.

  “If you cannot teach me, at least tell me who can. Preferably without death being a prerequisite.”

  Gentle laughter resonated nearby. On the table, the three cards began to glow with invisible light. That light took the shape of a hand. A hand extending from the sleeve of a beige day suit.

  Dying would defeat your purpose in this, said Jean. Your soul would rise too far to be the liaison you are now.

  She concentrated to see all of him. It took little effort. “You said you cannot leave Danielle unattended. Can you afford to be here? Can she?”

  For now, yes. The rampant one fed last night. It will not risk exposure so soon.

  She registered an unsettling thought beneath his words. “It knows it is being hunted?”

  Yes.

  Mercedes’ chest tightened. This dashed her hope of catching the monster unawares. More importantly, the same went for the demon’s plan. She could have the appeal of gold to a robber, but if the monster knew her to be an ambush, it would not take the bait.

  “Jean, you must teach me how to cross into the astral plains.”

  Do you know what you intend to do? he asked, his tone a kind warning. Do you realise the consequences if you succeed?

  “No, but if I had a choice before, that chance has passed now. The monster will not come to me, your demon cannot catch what he cannot see, and I cannot fight a dragon that I cannot touch. I need to learn this.” She plucked nervously at the cuff of her robe’s sleeve. “We all need me to learn this.”

  It would appear so.

  “Then teach me. Before I lose my courage.”

  You would be foolish not to be frightened. There is danger in straying so far from your body. You may not be allowed to die.

  “I have no desire to die, believe me,” Mercedes said miserably, “but I will take that risk. To protect Danielle.”

  She gazed at the warm light that was Jean. His reluctance was evident, but she suspected which argument would convince him.

  “If I am to win your demon’s trust, I have to learn.”

  The guide conceded, his apprehension becoming quiet accep-tance. Perhaps it is better to do this now, while there is time.

  She nodded in gratitude. He was still withholding something, but she let it slide. This wasn’t the moment to question his motivations for helping her.

  The key to what you ask is visualisation. See it, will it to be, and it will be so. Remember that. Now, physical pain will hamper or even undo your efforts, so be sure to position yourself in such a way that your body cannot come to harm when it slackens in your absence.

  Mercedes found a comfortable position in her seat, leaned against the backrest and braced her knee against the leg of the desk. Then she shut her physical and mental senses to the room, the rest of the building and the world outside.

  Good. Keep your eyes closed. Imagine yourself standing at the top of a flight of stairs. You cannot yet distinguish the bottom, but begin to descend. Count each step. Go as far as you need, until there are no more steps.

  Mercedes envisioned a simple stairwell and imagined herself descending it. Step by step she followed the curve of the stairs, ever further down. Finally, when she set her foot down for the fifty-second time, she noticed that there was no fifty-third step. Instead she had reached a landing. She meant to say so, but her mouth was heavy.

  Look ahead of you, said Jean. There is a large door at the end of the corridor. At his words, it was so. Go to it and open it, but do not enter.

  The thick, oaken door was adorned with wrought iron nails. It looked unwieldy, but a thought sufficed to swing it open and reveal a black marble threshold. On the other side of it was... her parlour?

  Correct. Now, will yourself to cross into the parlour.

  Wait. Was it really that simple?

  Is it? Jean retorted.

  It had to be. She put her hands on the doorframe and stepped forward. The instant she did, the doorway slipped from her grip and moved back.

  Oh. So that was the catch.

  She tried again. This time she focused not on the door or the parlour, but on the threshold that separated them. The door moved away like before, but not before her toes had scuffed the black marble divider.

  Well done! she heard Jean say. Mercedes couldn’t share his enthusiasm.

  Progress comes in small steps, he replied. She saw him now, standing in the parlour on the other side of the threshold. Practise this. It will take more time than I can spend with you without compromising your daughter’s sanctuary. When you succeed, the transition will feel like this.

  In one fluid movement, he reached over, took her wrists and pulled her forward.

  Stumbling through the doorway, Mercedes thought she was being pulled through a strainer. She made it across, but her flesh and bones were stripped away in the passing. Her mind resisted, convinced this should hurt and she cried out. A voiceless protest. An unnecessary one, too, since anticipation of pain had hurt more than leaving her body behind truly had.

  How else could it be? What was left could not experience pain. She was not air, but while she still had the shape that she saw in the mirror every morning, she was too flimsy for matter and too heavy for light.

  ‘Astral energy’, Jean answered her wordless question.

  Mercedes observed herself from the outside, as if she were gazing at another person. Aware of this, the self-conscious part of her wished for proper clothes. At once she was fully dressed and her hair done up to perfection.

  ‘This is odd,’ she muttered. ‘I seem to be looking at you through my own back?’

  ‘Your sight is no longer limited by the position of your eyes. You can adhere to that habit if you wish, but most tire quickly of obeying laws of physics that mean nothing here.’

  ‘You speak of “here” like it is anot
her place. Is this not my parlour?’

  ‘Yes, but only your soul, your spirit is here. Not your body. Why not try moving that statuette on the mantelpiece?’

  The mantelpiece was three steps from where she stood, yet the instant Mercedes focused on the little shepherdess, she was there, so close to it that the shape of her crinoline passed through the grate of the fireplace at her feet. She realised this because she was staring through the edge of the mantelpiece itself.

  Well then. Attempting to move the shepherdess would be futile, she concluded with dismay.

  ‘It seems so tangible, does it not?’ Jean chuckled. ‘This is what spirits – ghosts, if you will – aptly call the threshold. This is as close as our kind can come to the physical world.’

  ‘Not quite true,’ Mercedes rebuked him on instinct. She tried to gather her thoughts to clarify, but found she didn’t need to. They spun about her like moving pictures, visible to all who cared to look.

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Jean as he regarded Mercedes’ memory of an ice-cold cane on her jaw. ‘That is not a matter of proximity, but rather a matter of willpower. In theory, all spirits can make themselves known to the world of the living, but only few have enough interest to attempt it. Of those, again, only a handful manage the focus necessary to achieve such a physical effect.’

  ‘Your demon can.’

  ‘Indeed, but few can match him for willpower.’ The corners of the guide’s eyes creased with mirth. ‘One might say he is quite – what did you call him? Pig-headed?’

  Mercedes would have blushed if she’d had a face. Her mild embarrassment still showed, she realised, as a colour change in her aura. A faint pink glow appeared, as if her energy blushed instead of her cheeks.

  ‘A spirit’s energy speaks volumes,’ said Jean. ‘On a more important note, have you noticed this?’

  Turning around was not necessary for her to see what he was referring to. A fine thread of light that extended from the base of her spine, like a thin tail protruding from her dress. Jean touched it. From his finger, two pulses carried along the thread. One ended in her back where it caused an unpleasant tugging sensation. The pulse following the cord the other way kept going on and on, until it disappeared through the now miniscule doorway she had passed through.