John watched as Anastos grabbed the box, tucking it beneath his arm as he headed for the exit. There was no way in hell that he was going to allow the man to escape with the accursed box, and he pushed off from the wall, keeping his head low beneath the gunfire as he went after him.
At the freight elevator at the back of the lab, John watched as Anastos retrieved a ring of keys from his pocket, found the one that he needed, and opened the metal sliding door.
John quickened his pace even though each footstep was excruciating, but he couldn’t let him escape.
Anastos was sliding the door closed when John leapt. He managed some pretty good distance, blocking the elevator door with his good shoulder and then throwing himself inside, sending himself and Anastos both falling to the larger space of the freight elevator. “What are you doing?” Anastos shrieked indignantly. He was still holding on to the box and swung it around, striking John on the side of his head with a corner. John fell backward into the wall, doing all that he could to stay conscious.
“I was actually going to let you live,” Anastos said, climbing to his feet, gun in hand. He aimed the weapon and was about to fire. John lashed out, sweeping Anastos off his feet with one of his legs. The millionaire went down but still managed to keep his hold on the Devil trap, protecting it with his body. The gun fired, sounding like thunder in the confined space. John managed to avoid the shot, throwing himself toward the man and grabbing for the weapon. The barrel was hot and scorched his skin, but John held on, attempting to wrench the weapon away. Anastos fought crazily, kicking out, one of his feet connecting with John’s injured shoulder and causing excruciating pain. John lay there, gasping for air, hoping that the explosions of color in front of his eyes would pass. Through the fireworks of agony, he watched as Anastos got to his feet again, still protecting the box.
The man reached down, retrieving the gun, and came to stand above John.
“I’ve had just about enough of you,” Anastos said breathlessly, placing the cold end of the gun barrel against his head. “Maybe they’ll do season eight with somebody else.”
John’s actions were sudden, and desperate. From what he remembered reading on the Demonist scroll, he began to recite one of the rituals. Specifically the ritual that had been used to trap the elemental spirits in preparation of binding them to the Devil trap.
He imagined it would be like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull as his voice grew louder, carrying outside the freight elevator, inciting the elementals to come to him. He hoped that they would get to him before Anastos had a chance to pull the trigger. He hoped that they wouldn’t be too late.
The elevator shook as if held in the hand of some gigantic child playing with a rattle, signaling to John that the first of the elemental spirits had arrived. Anastos lurched to one side as he pulled the trigger, firing harmlessly into the elevator wall as the Earth elemental reacted to its summoning.
“What did you do?” Anastos asked, eyes wide with shock slowly turning to fear as he began to realize what John had started. John continued to utter the words from the ancient rite, pushing himself away from the man who still clung tightly to the Devil trap.
John knew that the spirits would be drawn to the Devil trap, the thing that had held them captive for so long.
They would be drawn to it, and they would be angry, seeking to destroy the object before they could be bound to it once more. The wind elemental was next, rushing into the enclosed space with a whoosh of air, picking the millionaire up in a shrieking maelstrom. John pushed himself deeper into the far corner of the elevator. He could see the man staring helplessly through the wall of wind, his eyes begging for help. But John wasn’t feeling the least bit merciful toward the man who was willing to hurt Theo to get what he wanted. The fire spirit rushed into the space next, merging with the cyclonic body of the air elemental. Again the two spirits were locked in conflict, battling as Cyril Anastos’ body was burned and torn apart by the violent melding of the elements. The water elemental was late to the party, flowing into the elevator space and partially extinguishing the heat of the fire spirit while knocking Anastos’ blackened remains from the grip of the swirling wind.
John watched in horror as the Devil trap fell toward the floor. He had no idea what the outcome would be if the box should break upon the floor.
Pushing off from the wall, John reached out as the trap continued to fall. Even though the floor of the elevator violently shook, he managed to get beneath the box, cradling it to his chest, all the while continuing to recite the ancient rite of binding, which returned the elemental spirits to the four corners of the container.
John lay there on the floor of the elevator, fighting to remain conscious, but it was a losing battle as the darkness around his eyes slowly began to close in.
And just as he was drifting off, he became aware that he was no longer alone, barely managing to open his eyes to glimpse who had joined him.
He recognized the older man from the hotel almost immediately, the horrific nature of his scars something he could never forget. But what is he doing here? John wondered, feeling the Devil trap taken from his grasp as the darkness rushed in to take him down. . . .
She had no idea how much longer she could hold out.
Theodora Knight pulled herself tighter into a ball within the darkness of her subconscious, listening to the taunts of the demonic entities that now shared her psyche.
“Why continue to fight, woman?” asked one.
“It’s all for naught, it truly is,” affirmed another.
“Give yourself over to us completely, and the pain and torment will end,” said another.
Theodora ignored them, even though they were much closer to her now than ever before, the inner light that shone from her astral form growing dimmer the longer she remained trapped within herself. Soon it would be gone, and then . . .
“He can’t save you,” chided a voice more child’s than adult’s, but she knew better. “All his books, and scrolls and words . . . they will never be enough.”
“You belong to us now,” growled a demon eagerly. “You just don’t know it yet.”
They were all laughing, trying to break her down, but she remained strong.
For now.
She could feel them reaching out, testing the light that emanated from her soul. They hissed and shrieked as the light burned them, but each time they touched . . . or poked . . . or pushed upon it, the glow diminished ever so slightly, as if a piece of the darkness that the demons represented was left behind to stain her aura.
Their attention to her was greater now that the light wasn’t as strong, but she would not let the fire go out, feeding its heat and illumination with thoughts of love and words forged with the stuff of purity by good men and women whose purpose it was to fight back against the spread of evil and the demonic.
“Lovely words,” cooed an entity so very close to her ear. “But they tarnish so very easily . . . smudges of black covering up their luster, and then . . .”
It was as if somebody had hit her with an axe.
The pain was intense—excruciating—and she cried out as the demons around her laughed and laughed.
Her guard was coming down, the pain that she felt chipping away at her resolve, and giving the entities the opportunity that they had been craving. They crowded all the closer, continuing their words of encouragement.
“Won’t be long now, sweetheart.”
“That one must’ve hurt like the blazes,” said one on the verge of laughter. “Let’s do it again so she knows that her time is coming . . . that it won’t be long until we’re feasting upon her soul.”
Theodora prepared to be struck again, fortifying herself the best she could, hoping and praying that it would be enough when— The demons were screaming, crying out in pain the way that they used to when the aura of her soul was so much brighter. She wanted to know what was happening, but what if it was a trick? Something to make her drop her guard so they could attack?
The screaming went on, the sounds of their awful shrieks dwindling as they fled deeper into the shadow of her subconscious.
And then she heard the voice.
Stern. Powerful. Yet filled with kindness.
It was a voice that she’d heard before, but not in the realm of the living.
“Go on,” the voice ordered. “Scurry back to the shadows where you belong. My granddaughter-in-law is not succumbing to you this day. Not if I have any say in the matter.”
Theodora opened her eyes, confident now that it was all right, and saw her there, radiating with a light that forced the darkness away.
“Nana?” she called out, surprised that her voice sounded so weak— so frail. Perhaps things were even worse than she had believed.
The woman turned from watching the shadows, her beautiful old face stony at first, but then breaking into a smile.
“Hello, Theo,” she said. “How’s my girl?”
Nana Fogg was one of the most alive ghosts that Theo had ever encountered in all her years of being a medium. Even though she had passed from the physical world long before Theo and John had married, it truly didn’t matter all that much because Nana’s presence could always be felt.
Sometimes much stronger than others.
“I’m so tired, Nana,” Theodora said, not wanting to break down, but barely keeping herself together.
“There’s a good girl,” Nana soothed, and she opened her arms to take her into her loving embrace. “You’ve got to hold on . . . you’ve got remain strong for John.”
“I know,” Theo said as Nana’s light seemed to infuse her with strength. “But it’s been so hard—the demons are so strong.”
“But it’s a fight that you . . . ,” Nana said, pushing her chin back so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. “That the world cannot afford to lose.”
In his dream John saw the jar.
Its bronze-colored surface glistened as if illuminated by some unknown source of light. John knew what it was, what it was going to do, for he had already lived it.
And then they appeared from the shadowy edges: Phil, Becky, Jackson . . . all alive again. They were moving closer to the jar, scrutinizing its coppery surface as the tiny, jagged cracks began to appear.
Get away from it, he tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come—or maybe they had, but they just couldn’t hear him. He tried again, this time louder, and still they leaned in closer, reaching out to touch the deadly container.
And then she was there, his beautiful wife. They reacted to her, backing up from the jar, and he found himself relaxing, breathing a sigh of relief as she moved to stand before the object. He told her that he loved her, and she looked at him, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her sexy mouth, before she turned her attentions to the jar.
He screamed as she reached for it, her hands wrapping around the still-cracking surface. There was something that looked like smoke leaking out from the multiple fissures and swirling about her head. He was begging her to put it down, and to get away from it—for them all to get away from it—but she ignored him holding the receptacle of evil in front of her, carefully studying it.
John tried to run toward her but found himself unable to move, as if he were bound by invisible chains that prevented him from reaching his love. He stretched his arms out to her, his fingers beckoning, but she ignored him, her entire focus riveted to the container.
And when it looked as though it was too late, that the contents of the jar were about to be released in a devastating explosion of supernatural ferocity, she—his wife—did the strangest of things.
Just as the container began to quake, the cracks spreading across the rounded surface like a wildfire unchecked, she opened her mouth incredibly wide, wider than any human should have been capable, so wide that it would have required her jaws to become unhinged like a python’s, or a boa constrictor’s.
And she shoved the jar into her mouth, slamming her jaws closed and swallowing.
John watched the shape of it as it traveled ever so slowly down her throat, eventually disappearing into her stomach.
Theo then looked at him and smiled, extending her arms as her belly began to grow, the impression of clawed hands pushing outward upon the tight flesh.
“They’re all inside me, John,” she said, her words deafening inside his head.
And the others were all looking at her now, Jackson, Phil, and Becky, the fear in their expressions growing exponentially with the size of Theo’s belly.
Until it burst, spewing evil like Pandora’s box out into the world.
John’s eyes opened to sunshine pouring in through an open window, and the sounds of birds chirping happily outside.
For a moment he considered that this was just another figment of his active imagination, and waited to see if it would suddenly turn to shit.
But it didn’t.
He lay there, gradually waking up, trying to recall where he’d last been in an attempt to figure out where he was now. He tried to sit up and the pain was viciously sharp—startling—and he remembered that he’d been shot.
Anastos had shot him.
And then he remembered the entire, nasty affair, his thoughts freezing upon the fate of his wife.
He had no idea if she was all right.
Carefully pushing himself up in the bed, he saw that he was shirtless and his wound expertly bandaged. He gently probed the gauze where a quarter-sized bloodstain had seeped through.
He looked around the sparse room and saw a shirt and pants hung over the back of a nearby wooden chair. Cautiously he climbed from the bed on tenuous legs. The stone floor was cold beneath his feet as he crossed the room to retrieve the clothing. Images from the last moments he could recall flashed before his mind’s eye. He remembered the box, and the evil that it contained, and the scarred old man who had appeared as his savior.
At least he hoped that was the case.
He needed to find a phone, some way to find out if Theo was . . .
Putting on his shoes and socks, which proved far more difficult than he would have expected, John walked to the door and stood.
Listening.
Wherever he was, it seemed to be incredibly quiet. Slowly he reached for the doorknob, turned it, and stepped out into a corridor. He looked from one end of the hall, to the other, deciding which way he should venture. Not knowing one from the other, he took a chance, going left and passing other doors.
Based on the style of his surroundings, he gathered that he was in a rectory, priory, or convent. There was also an air about the place, a vibe that couldn’t be missed. A sense of peace, of protection from the corrupted.
At the end of the corridor, he could go left or right and was considering his choices when the decision was made for him.
“Is that you, Mr. Fogg?”
John walked in the direction of the voice, finding an office with its door partially open. “Hello?” he called, placing his hand on the door and pushing it open some more.
The scarred old man was inside, standing at a coffee urn filling his cup.
“Good morning, how are we feeling?” he asked cheerfully, bringing his cup up to his mouth.
“I’m getting a strong sense of déjà vu,” John said.
“Help yourself.” The older man nodded toward the urn as he stepped behind a heavy wooden desk and sat down. “Oh yes, your wife is quite all right,” he added. “Survived the incident unscathed.”
“My wife . . . ,” John began, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. “She’s all right, then? She’s okay?”
The old man nodded as he drank. “My associate Mr. Royce confirmed her well later last night,” he said, resting his cup in his hand. “Did you have anything to do with—”
“Let’s just say we kept a situation from escalating,” the old man interrupted. “Please do have some coffee.”
John hesitated for a moment but then decided why not? He filled his cup and had his first sip.
“Good?” the old man asked.
“Excellent,” John said. “Thank you.”
“Please,” the old man said from behind his desk, motioning to two chairs on the other side. “Take a seat. We have some things to discuss.”
John walked to one of the chairs and sat, careful not to spill his coffee.
The old man reached across the desk and placed a tile coaster in front of him. “You can put your cup on that.”
“I think some serious thanks might be in order,” John said, feeling the need to start the ball rolling. “Not only did you save my life, but it looks like you saved my wife’s as well.”
The man lifted a hand, waving John’s thanks away.
“Not necessary,” he said. “We’d been waiting for an opportunity to raid Anastos’ home for quite some time. You provided us with it.”
“Who are you?” John asked before taking another sip of his coffee. “I’m guessing some sort of law enforcement organization? A division of Interpol perhaps?”
The old man stared, having some coffee, bringing a napkin up to the ragged side of his damaged face so as not to dribble.
“Okay,” John said. “Could you at least tell me if I’m warm?”
“Did what you experienced last night look anything like something that Interpol would be involved with?”
John stared, ready for some answers.
“My name is Elijah,” the man said finally. “And I am the leader of an organization—a coalition—that exists to attend to matters very much in the vein of what you experienced last night.”
“So you deal with megalomaniacal multimillionaires who want to release ancient, supernatural evils out into world?”
“Far more often than I’d care to admit,” Elijah confirmed with a chuckle.
“No connection to official law enforcement?” John questioned.
“Some are aware of our existence,” Elijah said. “While others would prefer not to think of the things with which we find ourselves involved.”
The Demonists Page 12