“I think I have a pretty good idea, Joey,” Ty replied. “Marcus and I never really had much of a relationship; far from anything you and he shared. That’s not meant to sound jealous – I was happy to see him with you – but there was a part of me, as his flesh and blood that craved having more than we actually did. Huh… I guess that does make me jealous in a way.”
“I wouldn’t think you were human if it didn’t,” Joey said. “I have to say, I felt something similar with Gage after he shacked up with Adrienne back in Houston when we were all carefree field operatives. Those were the days – just investigating the odd supernatural case and putting it to bed. Now it's like someone forgot to turn the tap off and the world’s overflowing with the paranormal.
“Back to what I was saying earlier, I guess my feelings for Gage were more lust than anything. What developed between Marcus and I was love… I think. I never really had it before so I don't have anything to compare it against. Your situation is different, yet it's also the same. I'd say what you had or wanted is more potent than anything I had, since you both were tied together by blood.”
Ty bore a slight smile.
“You may be right, but that doesn’t make what you had any less special.”
“Nope,” Joey agreed. “Although I couldn’t say that when things got dark. Did Marcus have issues with that? He would always need some light in the room, else he’d sweat a ton if it got pitch black. He did his best to hide that anxiety from me, but I knew something had to be up.”
“Yeah, Marcus was terrified of the dark so nights were incredibly tough. He wasn’t always like that though,” Ty said, harkening back to their childhood.
Joey moved up against the rails and took a comfortable position to listen.
“I don't know exactly when it started to take hold,” Ty continued, “but back when he was fifteen, heck close to sixteen, we heard of a case nearby that sounded like fun.”
Joey shook his head, knowing the feeling.
“They always sound like fun until you get there.”
“No joke,” said Ty. “Well, Mom and Dad had left him in charge while they were on the opposite side of town doing a case of their own. Marcus thought he would be able to solve the situation quickly and get a bunch of praise – mainly from our dad – in the process. After all, he was an exceptional book nerd and had a lot of knowledge on different monsters.”
“Lord knows that lore can only take you so far,” Joey said. “I gather things didn't go so well.”
Ty shook his head.
“Not at all,” he said. “Turned out the case involved a vengeful onryō, not some run of the mill ghost like we thought. I assume it must’ve hitched a ride with the homeowner when she returned from a trip to Japan. Nasty things, powerful and full of rage but thankfully for us afraid of fire, light, and the hope those things bring.”
“Oh shit,” Joey said anxiously, feeling his skin pebble. It must’ve been the wind.
“Long story short, we were both stalked for hours, Marcus attacked, and we ended up being cornered by the thing. Both of us nearly got killed that night – how stupid were we! We would have been finished had I not remembered a lighter I carried in my pocket – I was already experimenting with my ‘aptitude for herbology’ even way back then. Anyway, the flame, even one as small as it was, kept the creature at bay until dawn when we were able to get the heck out of there.”
Ty reached in his coat pocket and pulled out the very same lighter, flicking it on for a moment before putting it away.
“I had no idea about that,” Joey stated. “Was the spirit eventually taken care of?”
“Yeah, but not certainly by us. Another Journeyman had come along and the next night managed to destroy it.”
“Shit! That's enough to rattle anyone for sure,” Joey said.
“No doubt and Marcus struggled with the dark for a long time after that. Since you asked about it I'm guessing he never quite got over it. Although, I can say he did get over his bed wetting.”
Both of them knew they probably shouldn’t laugh at Marcus’ expense, but each let a much needed chuckle slip out. As the laughter was extinguished by hints of guilt, Joey looked over in Ty’s direction and saw that his face had drawn into a frown.
“Well, it’s been great talking to you,” he said, deciding it best to take his leave. “I’ve eaten up enough of your time man.”
As he turned to depart, a heaviness settled in his heart, slowing his steps. “Hey Ty, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m going to head back down to the galley for some OJ before bed. You're more than welcome to come with me if you want, talk some more?”
Ty didn’t really know what he wanted to do, but fell into the lure of Joey’s puppy dog eyes.
“Sure,” he replied. “Lead the way.”
THE MORNING OUTSIDE the tall windows of the dining hall was bright, filled with the pleasant sound of birds singing. The light streamed in over a long and dark table, at which eleven seats were stationed – five per side and one at the far end close to a regally carved hearth of gleaming marble, brilliant white around its charred firebox.
Dajjal sat in the foremost chair, grandest of them all, using a fork and knife to delicately carve into a slab of meat the color of beets beneath a layer of pale, fatty gray. Placing a succulent piece into this mouth, his four assembled generals watched as crimson overflowed from his smacking lips to collect in his beard.
Morax had proudly taken the closest seat on Dajjal’s right, leaning in longingly as his Lord devoured the raw flesh. The other three looked on with distaste from the opposite end of the table, as if the distance would provide them safety from any of Dajjal’s guaranteed outbursts.
“Tell me Sallos,” Dajjal addressed the lesser, whose face was overwrought within angst, “how is the general welfare of the Noctis?”
It was an imposing question that Sallos, for all his distress, didn’t know how to answer to best please Dajjal. As he struggled, Dajjal basked in it, his eyes twinkling with delight.
“I… y-your armies are as well as can be expected, my Lord,” said Sallos in a hoarse voice, glancing sideways at the others at the end of the table with him. “They are ready to do your bidding and await your commands.”
“Your host does not sound well, Sallos. You should find another soon and dispose of the faulty one. Now, back to the preparations; are there any issues I should be aware of prior to our attack on Paris?” Dajjal had an odd shine in his eyes, taking another noisy bite of flesh.
The only issue we face Dajjal is you, Sallos thought, yet answered ambivalently, “N-none, Your Grace.”
“Good, all is well then,” said Dajjal, turning his attention to Morax who had moved himself so close that another inch would have him in the Grand Demon’s lap. “You have updates on your own proceedings?”
Morax was elated to speak.
“Yes my Lord!” he said without hesitation, producing a rolled up piece of parchment from the inside of his black suit. Unfurling it, he displayed a map of Paris for Dajjal to see.
The demon paused from his meal, tilting his head to one side to consider the map.
“Plans proceed without issue,” Morax said cheerfully, pointing to the map as he continued. “We are placing wards along roadways and buildings in and around seven of the city's administrative districts: Louvre, Bourse, Temple, Hôtel-de-Ville, Panthéon, Luxembourg, and Palais-Bourbon.”
“This is quite a large area,” Dajjal observed, the entire city center shaded.
“Five and a half square miles,” Morax said while nodding, a thin smile appearing on his face to match Dajjal’s. “We should be ready to strike within the next two days, possibly even twenty-four hours.”
Dajjal’s smile twisted, becoming something vile.
“We shall strike before this day has ended,” he said sternly, sending Morax to stutter.
“Y-your Grace, these marks are not s-simple charms. T-they require time to lay out and b-blood sigils must be drawn with the utmost care.
”
“Then you best double the effort to ensure there are no mistakes,” Dajjal replied coldly, though his eyes were not, “or is there a need for someone more qualified to take this task?”
Morax shook his head.
“No my Lord, I will see this done.”
“Excellent. Now, you have told me before, but what is the payment for using these wards?” Dajjal asked, continuing to speak between garish gnaws and chews as yet more meat made its way into his mouth. Apparently he found feasting on werewolf more pleasant than drinking vampire blood. His eyes peeked up from his plate and focused on Sallos. “I have had to deal with so much incompetence recently that my memory has slipped. For example, I was unaware we were encompassing an area of that magnitude.”
“As always with spells like this, the price to activate it is a heavy one,” Morax clarified. “My Lord will be pleased that this summon requires life force to manifest and within the zone there are two hundred sixty thousand that will be sacrificed for Your Grace.”
Dajjal’s eyes left Sallos and widened happily.
“Most excellent. After this, not a human on this world will be unaware of the Noctis. The end times approach and I cannot wait to see this all unfold first hand.”
“My Lord?” Morax questioned as if he had been asked to strip naked in front of the group. In all his efforts to plan he didn’t realize that Dajjal desired to be in Paris himself during the confrontation. “Perhaps it is best if you remain here in the manor where it is safe, at least until…”
There was a clang of metal and an indifferent hand shot up; its rubbing fingers bullied Morax to silence.
“Are you suggesting that just I lay in wait for Gage Crosse to once again come to me, or that I am incapable of handling myself in the midst of a battle?”
Morax gulped, responding at once.
“Of…Of course not, Your Grace!”
“Then there is nothing further to discuss,” Dajjal snapped, picking his silverware back up threateningly. “I will go, Morax. Make ready.”
“Certainly,” Morax replied, grateful that he was still able to draw breath. “We shall prepare for your arrival.”
With that Morax departed, followed by the rest in the room, leaving Dajjal to continue his meal without being seen by watchful eyes. Throwing his silverware to the table, they clattered noisily, skating their way onto the floor.
Formalities aside, Dajjal used his fingers to tear out the next chunky helping. Shoving it into his mouth, he held out hope that these planned actions would lure Crosse to him. There were still four treasures in the human’s possession that he needed to reclaim.
“Don’t be late Gage,” said Dajjal, nosily chewing. “I will be waiting for you as your luck is about to run out.”
THE SUN WAS starting back toward the horizon, its early afternoon light shining down across a hole-in-the-wall bar. The roar of a thousand flapping wings rent the air and there was a sudden swirl of dust that cascaded gently around a pair of wingtip dress shoes that had appeared out of thin air. Attached to them, dressed in a high-dollar suit that barely contained his muscular body, was a very large man with piercing blue eyes.
His large hand swept across his short blonde hair as he looked ahead, tilting his view upward. There he saw a faded sign that read ‘Whittaker’s’, coated with years of grime kicked up by passing vehicles on the backroads of this Podunk town in middle of nowhere Missouri.
“Seems like this is the place,” the angel Azrael said in a deep voice, marching up to the entrance.
His footsteps were hefty as he pushed his way inside, met by the general drone of bar chatter mingled with Cold One blaring from a flickering jukebox tucked away in the corner. The smell of cedar was heavy, as were the scents of beer and liquor already in service aplenty.
Past a dozen or so people shrouded in a smoky haze but just before a wide stage where bands would play, a young man was sitting on a barstool beneath the head of a ten-point buck. Despite his fresh and lightly freckled country face, he didn't quite look like he belonged with the crowd.
Catching the slightest gleam of heavenly grace in his flitting eyes, Azrael approached and sat down in the vacant bar stool beside him.
“What're you drinking?” Azrael asked the man, whose dark brown bottle was nearly empty.
“Honey Bear said it was ale, least I think that's what he said through that accent of his,” he replied, catching Azrael’s eyebrow arching high. “It's the barkeep’s nickname, for crying out loud, not some strange shifter fetish. Heavens above, I'm not that drunk.”
“You are somewhat drunk,” Azrael clarified, now smirking. “Although I have to say Samael, this form suits you far better. I couldn't get used to talking to you while you wore that old woman.”
“She was very nice and quite holy, letting me right in without question,” Samael justified, and his faint buzz tried its hardest to make him laugh at the innuendo-wrapped statement. “This one not so much, but I thought with him being younger I could blend in better plus have a little more tolerance for the alcohol. Given last time, I wasn't sure how long you would be.”
“So you decided to grab an actual drink from the bar,” Azrael stated.
Samael picked up the bottle and looked around, waving it across his view of the cozy hovel.
“Just trying to be incognito, Az.”
“Obviously it's working really well,” he replied, signaling to the bartender for two more beers. “Might as well keep you going; this round’s on me Sam.”
The two settled into their stools and began a long conversation about what had transpired since their last meeting at the elementary school with Uriel.
“It seems the world has gone to shit down here,” Samael stated, Azrael not able to do much more than agree. “I've never seen the Earth in such disarray.”
“Definitely; monsters are aligning with other monsters and even the humans – so odd yet promising to see how far it has come. What concerns me though, is it seems the Grim Reaper has beaten me, already setting in motion whatever plans he had. The weapon has been given the human.”
“The human Gage Crosse, right?” Samael asked as Honey Bear dropped off their new bottles.
“The one and only,” Azrael said, nodding while taking his first gulp.
Suddenly there was a crash of wood and glass behind him, a small brawl erupting just down on the other end of the counter. The bartender was yelling, worsening the difficulty in understanding what he was saying, but the rest of the crowd seemed to care less, the scenario one of many that would happen on a daily basis.
The angels attempted to follow suit and resume their conversation, interrupted several times by loud heckles, shouts, and more shattering glass. Yet it wasn't until one of the brawlers – a reedy man in greasy clothes and even greasier boots – careened into Azrael’s wide back, knocking over his drink and leaving a large, oily imprint on his suit.
“You shouldn't have done that, boys,” Samael chastised as he righted Azrael’s tipped bottle, saving half the ale.
Azrael turned and pointed two fingers toward the fighters. His eyes shined brightly and there was a whining hum, all men immediately stopping their activity. Lumbering in a nearly drunken stupor, they soon collapsed to the floor and started to snore.
“That was quite annoying,” Azrael said, taking another sip as the barkeep rushed to toss the men out. He waved a hand and the suit was clean. “You were saying?”
Samael smiled before continuing, “I suppose this situation is better than the alternative where the reaper would have given it to the Deceiver. That could have made the situation on Earth much worse.”
“I think either way the angels are going to be faced with a choice,” Azrael groaned. “Sit by and continue to watch as all of His creation is consumed by fire, or intercede, placing our own brand of influence in this game.”
“Well by even being here talking we’re sort of dabbling with the latter already aren't we?” Samael sputtered, then downed a hefty swig.
“However, I don’t think you will be able to convince the archangels or the rest of the Chorus to act. It’s not in their nature.”
“It’s in ours though,” Azrael replied. “You and I know that sometimes it is okay to bend the rules. As I told Uriel, it’s a matter of free will. Though they would disagree until their halos rusted, it’s something He gave us all and that’s worth treasuring should you be blessed enough to receive it.”
Samael agreed.
“Gage has all of Lucifer’s possessions, right?” he asked, scratching the back of his head. “Keeping them away from Dajjal would avert the apocalypse, so perhaps you and I could focus on that?”
“I wish, but no, he doesn't have them all,” Azrael said softly. “He has four: The Ire, the Shackles, the Seal, and Manus Fortuna. Well, those along with Death’s weapon. The halo resides with Dajjal.”
“Ah,” Samael replied. “That must be the reason the demon went all crazy with the offensive. He’s a lot more open with his attacks.”
“Emboldened by what little success he has had, yes.”
Samael was still confused.
“So why did Death give his weapon to Gage?”
“That is what still eludes me; Death’s motives are still veiled,” Azrael said. “Perhaps he did it to give Gage more confidence to kill Dajjal, or it could just as easily have been to goad Dajjal into wreaking more destruction. However, I have no idea if the demon is even aware that Gage has it.”
“I don't think he is aware,” said Samael. “He’s not going to be able to sense it, or at least shouldn’t be able to given his demonic nature. Plus, I would imagine him being much more rampant in his attacks if he were to have two of the keys to Hell.”
“Hmmm,” Azrael said. “I suppose it does fit his methods. So, do you think there will be another attack?”
“Yes. Definitely and soon,” Samael said gloomily, looking around the bar. He felt sorry for the patrons and other humans, unwilling pawns in such a large game; their own free will just an illusion subject to the fancy of cosmic beings.
Then Hell Followed (Journeyman Book 5) Page 17