The Devourer

by C H Chelser

  Icy streets, alleys stinking in the heat, downpours that drenched his coat, but the wolf wouldn’t give up. Night and lamplight cast shadows, but his prey could never hide. Some lasted, some led a chase, but few escaped for long. Criminals would be criminals; their imagined rewards too appealing to abandon. The spider needed only to wait in its web, because the fly would come. It always did.

  Always, but one. All but the one that counted.

  This swindler, this brigand who evaded justice under the pretence of kindness; it must be caught! Unthinkable that such a farce should be permitted to continue. Crime lay within an act, and acts were events, they were facts. Facts could be proven. They were certain, unchanging. Intent… intent is of no consequence!

  Or was it? He had cornered the fly time and again, but his web remained empty. The fly, the trap; capture should be inevitable! Why did it fail to perform its duty when it had never done so before?

  Why did I fail in my duty?

  Why did I fail?

  Why?

  Wh—

  A searing pain enveloped Mercedes’ head and poured down her shoulders. Even without touching him she had been drawn into another of his hallucinations.

  ‘Memories within memories. Trapped within memories.’ She willed the debilitating agony to ease. ‘I will be trapped here with them if I stay.’

  Through her bleary mind, she focused on the truth behind the façade of Paris by night. Her aura had become thinner since she had crossed, but she managed a short, sharp burst of light that ripped the veil cast by layer upon layer of memories.

  The transition felt like shifting to another plain, although she never left his indomitable shield. At once, the wide space of the quay was compressed into claustrophobic confines that almost crushed her before she could muster enough energy to resist the fog-like ink enclosing her.

  Her blues and lilacs dissolved in the darkness, like a lantern in an ocean of nothingness. She carefully stepped forward. At her feet, the glow she emanated painted a faint line: the edge of a hewn precipice. Beyond, a giddy depth and the sloshing, frothing sound of hostile waters.

  ‘Man is incorrigible, the universe set,’ a gruff voice rumbled, both near and impossibly far away.

  Mercedes cast her light around. A flare etched the outlines of M’sieur’s wet, sunken face directly beside her. His shoulder brushed hers. She expected the cold of his coat, but it burned instead. The rivulets running down his body were not water, but acid. The sheen on his face was not water, either. Not yet. The river that would drown him swirled below. Its chill seeped into her, tainting her energy like the acerbic fluids tainted him. He leaned forward to peer into the abyss, tense lines carving his gaunt features.

  ‘To take punishment, to suffer in order to make amends. This is essential.’

  ‘You need not do it,’ she said despite knowing that nothing she did could change the fact that he had already made this decision long ago. The decision to leap, to die. But in this instant, standing on this ledge, past and present flowed through one another. Did he know? Was he aware? She doubted it. Had he realised that this was a memory, his anguish would have been less poignant.

  Or so it had been for her. She had stood here, too, overcome by the same insurmountable despair that tormented his wretched soul. Her recollection of that moment was clear, but no longer terrifying. For him, however, the parapet might well be the deepest darkness, and the river below the most outer edge of existence.

  She clutched his arm and pressed closer. Soothing green pastels spread out to impart comfort and compassion, but they shrivelled in the acidity of his hatred. In a new kind of desperation, she buried her face in his shoulder. The biting moisture seared her aura and her shape. How did he tolerate this?

  He gave no answer. To him, her presence had dissolved in the pernicious throes of disjointed memories that ensnared them both, like a—

  —rope fettered his hands behind his back. His ankles were tied, too. Sturdy knots. Better than he had expected of these hare-brained thugs. They would kill him, of course. He had been an officer and a police spy too long to hope his exposure would have another outcome, especially since this gang consisted of murderers as well as thieves.

  How natural that his nemesis should be among their number. And how fitting that this same nemesis, this prey that had eluded him for so long, should volunteer to do away with the hated spy.

  His prey-turned-predator came at him with a knife and pistol. So be it. He didn’t flinch when he was forced to turn his back to his killer. To be stabbed in the back or receive a bullet to the head, it made little difference.

  Except the rope around his wrists fell away, and as the blade flitted across his throat, it cut only the noose the brigands had tied around his neck.

  ‘Go,’ the other said.

  ‘Kill me,’ he insisted. ‘It is just.’ No man can escape justice. As the other aimed the pistol, he was under no illusion that he might be spared.

  The gun fired. Point-blank range. The bullet did not hit him, did not kill him, yet it exploded all the same. In that instant, his life ended—

  Mercedes wept as though the blazing pain was her own, overcome by the enormous impact of that tiny pellet. A bright ball burned behind her eyes as she sensed it burned within him. Hope, reprieve, mercy, all this and more wrapped up in this grain of compassion shown by a mortal enemy. To her, the brightness felt like Anne’s kiss to her forehead, but M’sieur recoiled like a stricken animal.

  Like a beaten child that doesn’t understand why it is being punished.

  —Inexplicably alive, yet undeniably dead. Shot in the head, in the heart, by a bullet that had missed. He had never had a heart. Then how could he have felt it break?

  His head hurt. Too much. Only the hunt provided relief, so he spun his web, fast and efficiently, for any fly so foolish as to let itself get caught.

  Never had he imagined that his one prey might cross his path again.

  ‘You have me. I am your prisoner,’ the old thief said and offered its wrists to his handcuffs. ‘I do not mean to run any longer. I am old and weary. Dispose of me as you will.’

  His head throbbed harder. How was this? What fly would first spare the spider and then surrender to it? What fly begged to be devoured? And devoured it would be! No man could escape justice, least of all a criminal.

  Criminals should be punished, society protected. His duty was clear, performing it paramount.

  Except criminals did not show clemency to their executioners. They extracted revenge. They didn’t destroy themselves before destroying their enemy. What then? A beneficent criminal, a clement malefactor?

  What had he become that he now doubted so? He had substituted his own moral interests for those of society. Unthinkable! To protect society was his duty. To fail his duty was lamentable; to refuse his duty a breach of law. And a crime.

  A crime that warranted punishment.

  Yet what of arresting, of punishing one who had spared his life? Who in doing so enabled him to continue to do that duty? Was that not a transgression? A crime in itself? He shuddered. His path had always been straight and clear. Now it was twisted and obscured. Wrong was right, down was up.

  Down. The only way forward was—

  In blind despair, both his and her own, Mercedes wrapped her arms around his neck, her tears mingling with his acid as she held him close. Thoughts poured from her mind as she felt them tilting, losing balance. Colourful whispers streamed from her core and showed the truths he could not see. Her truths, her experience. Her memories nestling within his.

  The same river. Almost the same place. Confusion and pain had shredded her, until at last they eased in the face of light that, bit by bit, gave the world its colour back. Night followed day, day followed night. Some days were clear and pleasant, others overcast and dreary, but the sun had come out. It would set again, without exception, but only until the next dawn.

  ‘Get through the night,’ she implored him. ‘One night at a time. The pain wi
ll end, I promise, but not like this. Not like this!’

  But the past cannot be undone.

  Thick layers of his convoluted thoughts echoed through her consciousness. For a moment, all was motionless. Then he fell, and she fell with him.

  The moist chill in the air pulled them down like a kraken sinking a ship.

  ‘Everyone must take responsibility for their actions,’ his voice thundered.

  The last sliver of light vanished above them. She held on tighter, bracing herself for the inevitable while shielding him from the impact.

  ‘This is fact, and facts are facts. The immutable truth, the essence of justice.’

  If indeed she could soften the blow. If he would let her.

  ‘I must do what is just.’

  Ink-black tentacles burst up as they hit the water. Cold, so cold! Mercedes gasped, inadvertently gulping down the foul water. Black ice streamed into her lungs and for a moment the fear of drowning was real.

  ‘Mistakes. Errors,’ his thoughts spilled into hers. ‘I am accountable. I am… reproachable.’

  The churning water tossed them about like ragdolls. Claws dug into her shoulders, clinging to her as she clung to him and to his heavy, saturated overcoat. Too heavy to swim, even if he could. Even if he wanted to.

  ‘A criminal. Incorrigible. Beyond hope. Condemned...’

  The currents dragged them down, ever further down. His struggle grew weaker.

  ‘…Damned. An abomination…’

  He went limp in her arms, surrendering to the darkness.

  ‘…it is… just.’

  ***

  The familiar cold and its intense silence rekindled his consciousness. No longer jogged by eddies or unwanted memories, he relinquished himself to the quiet that travelled in the wake of these torturous episodes. A slither of sanctuary, however small, where the pain of confusion subsided and the insatiable hunger lay dormant.

  His dark haven…

  …had been breached!

  His lips curled into a vicious snarl, but he reined in his instincts. The invasive presence drifted beside him, around him, but without intent to intrude. Recognising the signature, he searched for light and pastels. but found only the faintest trace of indigo, so dark it barely outlined the black plains of the woman’s chosen shape. Where her talons anchored her to him, their energies blended seamlessly.

  Like that of the other devourer had when he had captured it.

  ‘What are you?’

  She stirred. An unsettling touch, if not unpleasant. That realisation only enhanced his apprehension of it. Of her.

  ‘What are you?’ he insisted.

  He sensed her thoughts, strangely distant though they were. ‘I am like you,’ they replied.

  ‘Impossible. You are neither devourer nor parasite. These depths should be too much for you.’

  ‘They are,’ she said without urgency. ‘Long ago, I fell this far down. It almost consumed me then, as it is still consuming you.’

  Through the dark he saw the river, the pump. A bridge banister that bore the same promise as the parapet beneath his own feet. Below, the black depth beckoned. The same depth that sheltered them now.

  ‘I see.’

  His acuity triggered a burst of energy in her. Sensations he couldn’t make out flooded their shared anchor and agitated the bullet behind his eyes. He flinched from its unwelcome flare.

  A touch to his forehead; the brightness dimmed. In the reforming shadows, colours just shy of black etched her facial features.

  ‘Compassion pains you,’ she said.

  ‘Criminals do not deserve compassion, madame.’

  ‘Yet once upon a time, a thief showed you mercy, and you repaid him in kind. He let you live. You let him go.’

  His teeth itched. ‘A hideous mistake with dire consequences.’

  ‘Without doubt.’

  He smelled the profound sincerity in her words, but even so another jarring flare of the bullet tarnished her intent. Distasteful. She took note of his repulsion and shifted her colours to bland, dulled pastels.

  ‘Appalling,’ he sneered, but his tongue flicked across his thin mouth.

  ‘You seek a tastier meal, then?’

  Her hues brightened, reducing his reply to a growl of the ravenous beast he was. He had last fed on her energy. Not enough, never enough. And now she dangled that delight like the lure he had forced her to be? He clenched his jaws.

  He was better than this.

  ‘Leave,’ he grunted. ‘While you can.’

  A nervous orange flitted through the wisps of energy dancing about her, but she didn’t withdraw. Worse, she gathered her colours into tangible ribbons.

  ‘You are hungry.’

  He snarled, baring his fangs.

  ‘Very hungry.’

  ‘Then leave! Leave while I allow it!’

  She cupped her hands and willed lilacs and blues to pool in her palms like water. Then she held the fluorescent liquid up. To him.

  His roar of frustration shattered the walls of his haven as he struck the woman and her offer down. Before she could catch herself, he grabbed her and hauled her up from the depths to the surface of the river that ran through the fog-shrouded city. There he deposited her dishevelled shape on the nearest bank.

  ‘The gallery beneath the quay,’ she muttered, sinking her talons into his arm to tether him to her once more. ‘The Pont-au-Change and its “arche du diable”. Your grave?’

  ‘Leave me be!’ Acid dripped down his contorting mouth. So close. So tantalising.

  ‘I will not, M’sieur. We cannot afford any more delays and neither can the souls in this city.’ She cupped her hands again. ‘Feed.’

  He whimpered at the smell, but resolutely turned away. ‘No! You know what damage I cause. You have witnessed it.’

  ‘I have witnessed far more than that,’ she said, images of his open wounds and bloodied fur trailing in the undercurrent of her thoughts. ‘We have no time to find you a suitable prey, but feed you must.’

  ‘My base instincts do not rule me!’

  ‘You can fight yourself or you can fight the other, but you cannot do both. And I need you to combat l’Autre. So please, feed.’

  She held out her palms. They filled with the colour of honey – the colour of confidence turned inside out. Confidence not in oneself, but in… another?

  A shudder wreaked him as he stalked closer, sniffing, salivating. She raised her cupped hands to his mouth. The sweetness of her energy quelled the pain in his acid-eaten lips, but it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. His claws traced the curve of her throat as she tilted her chin up. A hoarse growl rumbled from his very core.

  ‘You know… what I’m capable of…’

  ‘I do. The best and the worst.’

  She hissed as he pressed his nails into her spine. Her energy flowed freely from the punctures and he leaned closer to draw it in. She didn’t resist him or his intentions. With every other prey, feeding off merely their physical energy was a struggle. But she, she willed her soul’s energy to find him, fill and sustain him.

  Remarkable! The yields he took from his prey had sustained him, but this? He had never encountered anything like this. So full was the essence she shared!

  As he greedily gulped down the colours she offered, he tasted her fierce desire to protect. Images of a child, of another face she held dear, but also of the husband.

  And of himself.

  The bullet in his head exploded. He retracted, breaking all contact at once.

  Her startled mind scattered in a haze of confusion. ‘I do not understand?’

  Neither did he. Nothing made sense; not she, not her intentions, not his memories or the heaviness inside him. None of it! Incomprehensible facts made key to an imperfect world. How was he to gather resolve and do his duty when he couldn’t be certain of anything anymore?

  ‘M’sieur?’

  Once so coveted, the touch of her exquisite colours now scratched across his soul like rusty nail
s. Blinded and mortified, he arched backwards, into river, pleading its dark waters to claim him and drown the tempest inside him once more.

  He fell deep, fast. In to his haven. Within its icy silence, he might regain himself, regain his senses.

  ‘Coward.’

  An instant bout of furious indignation ground everything to a halt. ‘Who dares? Reveal yourself!’

  ‘I have nothing to hide,’ the same voice answered. ‘You are only enraged because you know it to be true.’

  At the fringe of the world of light, between him and the darkness he sought, appeared the ageless boy, lounging in an invisible chair.

  ‘You left her to fend for herself,’ it said with a nod that indicated the woman by intention rather than direction. ‘She stretched her limits staying out here, gave you what she had to spare, and you just turned your back on her. What a bastard you are.’

  ‘Was there ever any—’ He cut off the thought.

  ‘Doubt?’ the boy finished with a lazy smirk. ‘Not really. I guess she should have expected this, given what you are. I certainly did.’

  Vexed, he turned his attention to the woman’s soul marker, catching it just as she transitioned to the physical world. He suppressed the shiver of relief. The boy was correct to remind him that his part in this had jeopardised her safety more than ensured it.

  His face set in preparation of a fresh gulf of acid eating at him, but when the bile reached his mouth, it only stung. Unpleasant but not painful. He frowned.

  Something was wrong.

  The boy chuckled. ‘What’s the matter? Feeling peckish again?’

  ‘No.’

  Only when the word escaped him did he realise that his answer had been truthful. The satisfaction born from consuming the woman’s colours persisted. He hadn’t come close to drinking his fill and the ravenous urge hadn’t been quenched completely, but the absence of the pain it caused had left a curious emptiness. The instinct to hunt was far from dead in him, yet for the moment, he no longer felt compelled to feed.

  On anything.

  ‘That’s compassion for you,’ the boy laughed.

  He shot it an annoyed glare. What now? He, a devourer, had lost his appetite? Such absurdity! He could postpone his dismal fate, but not escape it. One’s stars did not change because of a single kind action of another?