by Sawyer Black
“Then you take me. Make us invisible.” Henry thrust his hand out, hoping Boothe would accept it.
He laughed in Henry’s face instead. “No.” He turned his nose up at Henry with the same cool indifference countless women had shown Henry during his teens and twenties.
“What?”
“No. I’m not taking you anywhere or doing anything for you. You need help, you call Randall. I’m sure he’ll be happy to oblige. You and me, though? We’re done.”
Henry stood, snarling. “So why are you even here, then?”
“I wanted to see the look in your eyes when you realize that your supposed savior had abandoned you. Hurts, does it not?”
Henry inhaled and exhaled, trying not to give into the anger. But even as he struggled for control, the moments since his death bubbled inside him. Anger, fear, hate, and sorrow, all rolling into a furious boil.
Henry erupted, launching himself at Boothe.
The demon laughed, stepping deftly out of the way. Henry was overconfident, used to dealing with slow humans, and flew past Boothe before landing chest and palms first onto slate shingles.
Boothe laughed louder. “Really, Henry? Is that all you can do? I thought you had learned more than that.”
The demon had said the wrong thing if he was hoping to calm Henry down.
Henry leapt to his feet, screaming through his rage toward Boothe, surprising himself. Maybe even the demon. He scored with a solid blow to the side of the head, knocking Boothe back to the rooftop. Henry jumped on top of him.
Boothe was stuck, pinned beneath Henry’s legs. He leaned forward, shifting his weight to hold the demon in place as he launched one fist after another in a frenzied assault. Just like the cops had done to him.
The demon took the beating for several seconds before his eyes turned to rubies and his face shifted, twisting away from the handsome well-coifed man he’d always presented and into a demon. Though still better looking than Henry.
Boothe was a snarling monster beneath him, hissing and spitting as he shoved him away with a thrust strong enough to send Henry flying from the roof and sailing through the air to land on a patch of brickwork beside the pool. Boothe leapt from the rooftop, shattering brick as he landed next to Henry and slammed a fist into his forehead.
Pain erupted in his skull. Real pain. Not that in his mind shit he could push past with focus.
Henry rolled away, the spinning twisting nausea into his stomach. He pushed to his feet and staggered toward the water, staying upright and struggling through a sudden dizziness and shrill ringing in his ears. He spun from the pool and took a swing at the other demon, missing with a whistle of his fist through the air. The same for his second and third tries. On Henry’s fourth swing, Boothe ducked under the blow but kicked Henry’s feet from beneath him, sending him onto his ass.
Boothe’s demonic appearance faded, replaced with his sharp nose, perfect skin, and neatly-slicked dark hair. He pressed the heel of his shining loafer into Henry's chest.
Henry squirmed beneath the pressure. He snarled and beat at Boothe’s leg with weakening blows but could only sip at the air beneath the demon’s weight,. His vision dimmed with his struggles. “I wish you’d never brought me back! You should’ve left me dead.”
“Boo-hoo,” Boothe taunted. “You’re a child, Henry, incessantly whining. What about me? I wish you’d not strolled into my corner of Nowhere. I expected more from you. I thought we would do great things. Go places. Together. I believed in you, and all I or God ever asked was for you to believe in yourself.”
Boothe lifted his foot and kicked Henry in the stomach, like a period punctuating his sentence. Then he straightened his tie and buttoned his jacket. “But how can you see value in anyone or anything, when you can’t even see your own.” He set his heel back on Henry’s chest, grinding it down as Henry started choking, gasping and struggling to free himself from the demon’s hold.
Boothe continued the hectoring. “You’re a disappointment to me, Henry. Maybe I should have expected that. You were a disappointment to your teachers growing up, and, of course, your parents before they died. Your grandparents after that. Your new money means nothing. Your grandfather thought you were an idiot for trying to make a living talking like a vulgarian on stage, and your grandmother thought you married a harlot. You’re a disappointment to me like you’re a disappointment to Samantha. Which is what she thought every time she had sex with you for pity.”
Lies!
Henry gathered everything inside him, and launched his anger at Boothe, twisting himself from under the demon’s heel before grabbing him by the ankle and spinning his body back to the ground. Henry was on his feet first, using the moment to do the only thing that might keep him safe from the demon’s rage long enough to think of something else.
Henry threw his arms around Boothe’s waist and drove them both into the pool.
They crashed into the water. Henry kicked, pushing himself away and sending the demon toward the bottom of the deep end. Henry aimed for the surface, headed for the edge, gripped the pool’s lip, and brought his head above the water, gasping for air.
Boothe surfaced with a roar.
Henry pulled himself out, rolling to his knees on the concrete apron then charging toward the copper gate. He had to get to the hospital. To Samantha. Away from Boothe. Unfortunately, he was only ten feet from the exit when the demon appeared before him in a shower of pool water and bellowing rage. His clawing fingers dug into Henry’s throat. The demon lifted them both high into the air with a giant leap, past the treetops, before launching him to the ground.
More decorative concrete crumbled beneath him. Boothe landed seconds later, his hands back on Henry’s neck.
He gasped for breath, spitting and sputtering but unable to die.
Boothe shook his head, disappointed. His sopping hair fell over his eyes. “Do you know why you’re so mad at me, Henry?” Boothe waited as if Henry wasn’t sucking for air and might respond. “Because you are the liar, Henry. You act like you’re a saint who’s been thrust into doing horrible things against your will. We both know that’s a lie, don’t we?”
Henry struggled to cough out an answer, but Boothe kneed him in the gut to make certain he wouldn't.
Then he pulled Henry closer, until their noses almost touched. “You’re so set on what you think I am and what you think I’m trying to do to you, that you’ve ignored your part in all this. You didn’t come back because I brought you back. You came back because you had hate in your heart and wanted to return. You wanted to kill the men who did this to you and your family. I merely helped you achieve your goals. You did this, not me. You are the monster, not me. You are responsible for the church full of dead children, not me. So take your hate and either make the most of it, or return to Purgatory and wait for Satan to come collect your soul.”
A blinding light beamed from overhead. At first Henry thought it was a helicopter. Then, he heard the music.
A Tracker!
Boothe opened his hand, and Henry fell in a pile at the demon’s feet, gasping for air, his stomach cramping from panic. The Tracker, bathed in brilliant light, was larger than the one he’d seen outside Burg Spires. Its body seemed to block the entire moon as it descended. It hovered above, looking down with kind eyes as it unsheathed a glowing blade from its scabbard. The sharp edge crawled with sparkles of light.
Its voice boomed in Henry’s mind, and he winced beneath its weight.
I am here to ease your pain.
The air swelled with its music, lulling Henry into peace. A motionless glaze of surrender.
Boothe looked down at Henry, his lips peeling back in a sneer of disgust. He wiped water from his face and straightened his tie. “Well, you wanted your misery over. It was almost nice knowing you, Henry.”
Boothe’s body blurred and was then gone.
Henry lay by the pool, soaking wet, yet still on fire from the angel’s proximity, inches from what would surely be his true death.
According to Boothe, an everlasting nothingness where he’d never see his wife or daughter again. He wondered if he could roll into the water, and if that would keep him safe.
He tried to move but his limbs barely twitched.
Henry cried as the Tracker drew nearer, paralyzed by the song. The voice like a trumpet. Like a thousand bells echoing from the hills. It wasn’t that Henry couldn’t move, but that he didn’t want to. He was drawn to the angel’s infinite beauty and the sprawling majesty of the music, floating through the evening air like a promise.
Every wrong will soon be righted.
Suffer no more.
The voice was intoxicating. The lyrics to Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb ran through his mind. Henry smiled at the thought, even as death descended in all its statuesque glory. The angel looked like a gladiator. An angular face and square jaw. Huge muscles under flowing robes. Armor polished to shine like the sun. Henry stared with strained eyes, listened with tired ears. Hypnotized, yet grateful for the trance. His world was slipping, and Henry had no way to hold it.
A net woven from golden strands of light spread wide above his body, fluttering down like an autumn leaf.
He thought of all the death since that horrible night.
Sam and Amélie.
The bodies in the church. Henry could feel the Tracker rummaging through his catalog of sins, figuring him out. Appraising him.
Was the angel his judge and jury? Did the huge sword make it his executioner?
I’m ready. Take me.
Once dead, Henry would be where he was supposed to be.
The melody in his head told him that everlasting peace awaited. Henry wondered if Boothe had been lying all along. Perhaps the Trackers delivered salvation, not the endless nothingness Boothe had claimed. As the sweet song grew sweeter, Henry didn't care if the promise of peace was a lie. It was a beautiful lie. All he needed to do was relax and surrender.
The Tracker hovered a few feet above, promising with his song that Henry was seconds from his happily-ever-after. He would be taken away to somewhere beautiful.
Somewhere without pain. Without darkness. Without death.
Relax.
Welcome the light.
The net would become his shroud.
Everything would be perfect.
Better forever.
The net was an inch above Henry’s eyes when Boothe blinked back into existence between Henry and the angel. He held a large black spear with a glowing spiral of darkness circling its tip.
No! Don’t stop it!
Boothe spun away from the Tracker, swiping his spear across the net.
It dissolved into wisps of light, scattering like confused fireflies. Booth continued his turn, lifting the spear to his shoulder. He hurled it into flight.
Henry cried out, wanting to grab the spear before it destroyed such beauty. But he was too late.
The Tracker The Tracker dropped his sword into the spear’s path, and the weapons collided in front of the angel’s massive chest. Lancing light and snakes of black smoke erupted from the impact.
Then it fell back, still floating, opening his mouth wide, venting a shriek that rang so loud that Henry thought he might not ever hear anything again.
Impossibly, the scream grew louder, splitting into shards of agony as the Tracker was swarmed by the wisps of unspooling darkness. It fell to the ground, the song and light falling with it.
You killed it!
Boothe looked down at Henry, his eyes swirling with dark energy.
Before either spoke, Henry passed out.
CHAPTER 33
Henry woke in what he had started to consider his bed. Bright daylight streamed in from the apartment’s large windows as the twenty-four-hour news channel screamed from the living room.
At least he’s not in my fucking bedroom again.
Henry sat up, swinging his legs over the side and throwing the sheets back. He forced his aching body into the living room. Boothe sat on the couch, wearing a silk robe and drinking a martini. An odd sight for the demon. Henry had yet to see him in anything other than his black suit or robes. Henry ignored him, going to the kitchen and pouring himself several glasses of water. The demon ignored Henry right back.
With his final glass empty on the counter, he glanced at the silk robe again. “Been hanging out with Hugh Hefner?” Henry crossed the apartment and stood at the end of the couch.
Boothe turned his head and looked up with a sour face. “No, Henry. Such trivialities don’t interest me. I’m a romantic, not a pervert.”
“Yeah, and I read Playboy for the articles.” Henry plopped down in the overstuffed chair across from Boothe. “Any word on Sam?”
“She’s recovering. In Room 741, in case you’d like to peer through her window like a Peeping Tom. I’d wait for nightfall since apparently you now have angels, a cult, and the Burg City Police Department searching to kill you. Very well done, by the way.” Boothe sipped his martini.
“Where’s Ezra?”
“Nearby, looking out for your wife so you don’t have to, like always.” Boothe pursed his lips. “So, now that last night’s scuffle is history and you’ve another bandage on your boo-boo, would you like to tell me what you were thinking, getting yourself thrown in jail?”
“I didn’t get thrown. I threw myself. I’m sick of the pain, the murder, the everything.”
“So, what? You were going to leave Samantha defenseless against these crazy maniacs who shot up a church? Really, Henry? I pegged you as smarter than that.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Randall said I still had hope of salvation. That I could reject you, and that if I did, he’d make sure Sam was protected.”
“Well,” Boothe said looking up with a condescending grin, “Where is Randall now?”
Henry wondered if his loyalty to Randall had been misplaced. Demon or not, Boothe had saved him twice and Samantha once. While Randall had blinked him away from being caught by the cops, that was all the angel had done for him besides fill his head with confusion.
“Randall!” Boothe shouted in an exaggerated fashion. “Don’t keep Henry waiting!”
Boothe looked around for any sign of the angel. Then he laughed, a large deep guffaw that made him nearly choke on his martini. “So, let’s get this straight. A fallen angel promised you salvation, and you believed him? I suppose you thought the pearly gates might swing wide the second you rejected me? Maybe God Himself would welcome you with a guided tour?”
“Well, no,” Henry said. “But Randall promised a shot at redemption, but only if I didn’t listen to you. Is that true, Boothe? Do I still have a chance?”
“I’ve yet to lie to you, whether you choose to believe that or not. Have I obfuscated the truth in a dressing of light fog? Of course, we all do what we must when shoving someone off the fence toward where they’re meant to go. But I’ve never lied. Yes, there’s a slim chance you can still be saved. But … cross my heart and hope to die, Randall was the one lying to you. About Sam, no less. Once you went wherever you’re going to go, he couldn’t stay and protect her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Randall said what he had to say to get you to turn against me. Return to Nowhere, and he has no link to Earth. Not through you, anyway. He couldn’t protect Sam, no matter what he promised.”
“I thought you could travel to Earth whenever you wanted.”
“We can, so long as we’re connected to a soul in our care. Right now, you are that soul, Henry. Sure, we’ll be guardians of another, and the new soul will provide us with a way back, but we’ll be too busy working with them to see after Sam.”
Henry shook his head, trying to sift through sense and logic to determine whether he was hearing more of Boothe’s manipulations or the truth.
Did the angel lie?
“He lied?”
Boothe said, “You sound shocked.”
“But he’s good. He’s an angel, right?”
“A fallen angel, Henry. Good, yes, but
not perfect. He’s trying to earn his way back into Heaven. That means he must convert enough people to earn his return.”
“Fuck, if I can’t trust the good guys, who am I supposed to trust?”
Boothe’s massive grin said it all. Why not me?
Henry’s eyes fell to the TV screen, and a familiar pair of photos, Tiny Eyes and Bulldog. A third photo appeared, a man Henry hadn’t seen before. Under the photos were the words, Suspect in Henry Black Murder Case Arrested.
Henry stared at the screen, at the man with longish hair framing his pretty boy face. At least ten years younger and a few zip codes away from the first two killers. Everything about the asshole screamed rich kid. Under his photo, a name: Patrick Harrison.
“What the fuck?”
“Looks like the cops just found your third man,” Boothe said.
The photos transitioned to a shot of Henry and Amélie, taken at Disneyland two years before. He swallowed, thinking of his baby girl only for a second before the image blurred to a picture of the trust-fund asshole. That photo went to archive video of Patrick Harrison walking out of the courthouse surrounded by reporters. Beside him stood what appeared to be three hundred and fifty pounds of sweaty, sleazy lawyer. Or maybe a mob bodyguard in a fifteen-thousand-dollar suit.
“Harrison, son of Harrison Tech president Alfred Harrison, a high-level donor in last year’s re-election of Mayor Lucius, bonded out this morning and is expected back in court in two weeks,” said the female anchor, beaming.
Henry found the remote and rewound the story, starving for details.
The police tied two dead men to the murders at his house, then somehow linked one of the men to Harrison, though they weren’t detailing the connection or ruling out additional suspects.
“Bonded out?” Henry shouted as the story repeated. “The trust-fund fucker bonded out?”
Boothe shook his head, folded his fingers on his stomach, and said, “Well, Henry, I’d say that’s the best news we could’ve hoped for, yes?”