Bart of Darkness (The Book of Bart 2)

by Ryan Hill

  “Like a scar, or a black hole?” Sam asked.

  I interlocked my fingers and squeezed. I hoped Jurgen was up for these questions. That other part of him was a beast to deal with.

  “Perhaps a black hole,” he said. “It was always dark when he removed the hood. I remember fighting off these strong winds as I clung to the stones so hard, my fingernails broke off.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sam said.

  Jurgen rubbed his fingernails with his thumb. “It tried and tried, but it never pulled me in. Instead, he pulled something out of me. Something hidden inside of me all my life.”

  “What was that?” Sam asked.

  “Okay, let’s not go int–” I said.

  Jurgen ignored me. “I became a monster.”

  “Oh no,” Sam said, raising a hand to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The metamorphosis didn’t happen at first.” Jurgen stared off to the side. “Day by day, bit by bit, the hooded man and his Roman sentries tore me apart. Some days they’d take their time, and I’d heal before they finished, letting them continue with their torture through the night. Other times, they went for days on end.”

  “Why didn’t you die?” Sam was oblivious to everything around her except the story. I could’ve wet my finger and stuck it in her ear, and she wouldn’t have noticed.

  “I did. Over and over. But the hooded man somehow had the power to resurrect me.”

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “I’ve asked myself that,” Jurgen said. “The only thing that makes sense is that he once mentioned trying to get at the heart of creation.”

  “Through death?” Sam leaned back, her long face aghast at the horrors the musician had endured.

  Jurgen nodded. “I prayed every day for a true death, and every day my prayers went unanswered. The answer was inside all along.” His shoulders tensed up, face turning red.

  Some considered immortality a gift, others a curse. For Jurgen, it was both. He’d survived the torture, but at the cost of his humanity. The music was his attempt to reclaim the part of his soul that recognized beauty.

  “So you never found out the hooded man’s name?” Sam asked. “Not even in passing?”

  Jurgen downed his wine, shaking his head as he swallowed. “I might remember what he looked like if I saw him again.”

  I motioned to our waitress to bring more wine. In the meantime, if Sam wasn’t going to heed my advice and go easy, I figured, why should I? Jurgen was keeping it together … so far.

  “It sounds like there’s a chance your guy and our thing are related,” I said. “The wind part you mentioned lines up.”

  “Good,” he said. “I hope they do, for no reason other than the chance to face the real monster and squeeze the life out of him.” He made a fist so tight his hand shook as he slammed his fist on the table.

  Uh-oh.

  I hadn’t thought about what Jurgen’s reaction to his torturer possibly being involved with Caelo in Terra would be. In hindsight … that might have been a mistake.

  “And if that’s the case, I promise you satisfaction,” I said. “But right now, we don’t know if anything is connected.”

  “What do we do about him?” Sam asked looking at Jurgen.

  “Keep him calm,” I said. “Can you flash him, stop his blood from boiling?”

  “Here?” Sam glanced around the bar. “People will see.”

  “Naturally.” I scooted my chair around the table, getting close enough to Jurgen that our sides touched. He needed to focus on something besides turning into the monster. “Talk to me. Tell me about tonight’s performance. Stay with us, Jurgen.”

  “Too late.” He gripped the ends of the table. A vein in his neck throbbed. Eyes watered. Face contorted in pain, drool fell from his mouth.

  There was no stopping the monster now, and Jurgen sprung from his chair, spilling his wine on the table. Sam and I each took him by an arm. I set a $100 bill on the table, and then we did our best to make a quick and quiet exit.

  Outside, Jurgen leaned on a newspaper dispenser, coughing. Sam patted his back.

  “It’s okay, breathe,” she said.

  As if that’ll help.

  “His name,” Jurgen said in between coughs. “His name was Peter Heinrich.”

  “Got it,” I said. “Like the Heimlich Maneuver.”

  Jurgen’s face had a juicy, bright glare, and I quickly checked his arms. They’d lengthened a bit. His pants were shorter too, showing off a pair of argyle socks.

  Argyle? Oh, Jurgen. That monster inside you is the least of your problems.

  “Will he be okay?” Sam asked.

  I didn’t have time to answer. We needed action. And with no formal training or education in the field of preventing someone from turning into a monster, I decided to give the dartboard approach a try.

  “Think about all the ladies you’ve slept with because of your piano skills.”

  Jurgen shut his eyes, trying to concentrate, but soon gave up, groaning as his head swelled to twice its normal size.

  “How about a milkshake?” Sam asked, rubbing Jurgen’s back. “Everyone loves a milkshake.”

  Still no effect.

  “What about a hooker?” I asked. “I doubt Raleigh has a lot to choose from, but we’ll find you the best of what’s still available tonight.”

  Jurgen pushed me aside, then stumbled into the middle of the street … and went frigid. The monster was gaining control. He pivoted on one foot and turned around, mouth wide and contorted.

  “Don’t let me hurt anyone,” he said.

  I tried to say, “We won’t,” but the words caught in my throat like a bubble, or some phlegm that needed coughing up. My body physically wouldn’t let me acquiesce to the musician’s request. I wasn’t going to let Jurgen go on a rampage, but saying so felt like crossing the line separating bad from mediocre, bordering on kind of good.

  “We won’t let that happen,” Sam said, bailing me out.

  Getting the words out of the way freed me up to act on Jurgen’s wishes. I slung him across my shoulders, moving in that weird jaunt that happened when trying to run while carrying too much weight, and I made my way toward a construction site three blocks away, hoping the musician could hold on for a few more moments.

  Jurgen’s body grew as I moved, becoming heavier by the second. His clothes ripped. His body pressed down on my shoulders like someone dropped a luxury cruise liner on my back. It took every morsel of strength I had to keep from toppling over, and my muscles burned from carrying too much weight.

  The two of us weren’t going to make it to the construction site.

  Sam rushed behind me, trying to prop up Jurgen’s body with her hands. It provided a little relief, but after three more steps I dropped the musician, my spine feeling compressed to half its typical size.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  Jurgen had lost consciousness. His mind could only handle so much before it shut down for a breather. Once things simmered, the monster would awaken. Sometimes that took an hour, sometimes two minutes. Sam and I didn’t have time to find out.

  “Almost there.” Sam picked up Jurgen’s feet. “We can do it.”

  I hunched over, cupping my hands underneath the pianist’s shoulders. My back felt like napalm, regretting its very existence.

  “On three,” I said. “One … two … heave.”

  Sam and I picked Jurgen up and carried him toward the construction site while his body continued growing and filling out. It felt like a Herculean task getting him to the site. Sam groaned and wheezed. My muscles screamed, “Drop him, you asshole!”

  Somehow, though, we made it to our destination. Sam and I carried Jurgen into a small opening between the site and the building next to it and dropped his body, groaning in relief.

  “I wonder where I can undergo traction this time of night,” I said.

  “I can’t believe we did it.” Sam leaned back, hands on her hips. “But now what? Do we just leave him here?�
��

  Right. I’d forgotten there was one more thing to do.

  “Go back to the street and keep an eye out,” I said. “The monster could wake up any second.”

  “But–”

  “Do it.” I used my demon voice for added emphasis.

  Sam looked at me, shocked, like I’d slapped her across the face. I waited until the contestant in the You Can Be an Angel reality competition was out of sight, then snapped Jurgen’s neck.

  The last bit of breath in his lungs escaped like a soft whisper. I used my feet to roll him behind a dumpster, safely out of view of the street. Nobody would find him there. Once the sun came up, he would wake up like nothing had happened and scamper off in his shredded clothes.

  If anyone found him like this, the police, FBI, or whatever would be called. They’d stand over the monster’s body all night, trying to figure out what to do next. Once the sun came up, the monster would turn back into a man, leaving everyone aghast, befuddled, and wondering if there was LSD in the water. It’d also mean the end of Rupert Falkenreem’s days of playing professionally and for profit. The only upside to that scenario was giving Jurgen the chance to think of a better alias for his next identity.

  Sam and I decided we’d had enough fun for one night. We ambled down the street like a couple of zombies as we walked back to our cars, which were still parked near the Duke Energy Center. Since I was a gentleman extraordinaire, I offered to escort Sam to her car first.

  “At least we got a name,” I said.

  “Peter Heinrich,” she said. “Ring any bells?”

  “Not one.”

  “So we have a name that may or may not be linked to the Caelo in Terra.” Sam glanced up at the sky. “Was talking to Jurgen worth it, considering where he is? I don’t know.”

  I waved her off. “Jurgen’s died plenty of times. So long as nobody finds him, he won’t be mad.”

  “I just wish something would be easy for a change.”

  I snorted, almost shooting snot out of my nose. “Choose a different line of work.”

  “If only.”

  “Buck up.” I moved in front of her, walking backward. “We got a name, and if there’s a connection, Jurgen will thank us in the end.”

  “I hope so,” she said with a sigh.

  I wasn’t equipped for dealing with Sam’s bouts of depression. I figured that was better left to ice cream and bad romantic comedies starring actors better suited for television than film. Besides, I hated watching her in this state. The sadness, the insecurity… Few things were less attractive on a girl. It was one of the things I loved about virgins. Sure, they were nervous about their first time, but there was also an undercurrent of giddy excitement. The way Sam acted, she’d have wanted someone to walk all over her. Treat her like the tangled mess she was.

  No, I needed my Sam back. The one who, a few hours ago, couldn’t wait to ask Jurgen about the Caelo in Terra. That Sam would focus on her task and complete it as quickly as possible, leaving me free to vacation at the beach during Spring Break. The version of Sam in front of me had zero usefulness whatsoever.

  “Do you need to, you know, have a cry? Maybe go to church?” I couldn’t believe I’d said that. Somebody would be washing their mouth out with lots of liquor later. Hint: It was me. “Maybe you’re homesick.”

  Just like smoking cigarettes kept me, or used to keep me, attached to Hell, attending church kept angels linked to Heaven.

  “I’ve been going every Sunday,” she said.

  Well … dung.

  “Have you tried Wednesday services? I hear some of those are lovely.”

  “From who?”

  “I don’t know. People.”

  Sam stopped at a parking deck and pointed up. “This is me.”

  We walked up the stairwell toward the third floor. I made sure not to touch anything, what with all the black, dried bubblegum and empty mini bottles of liquor lying around.

  “So, church isn’t helping?” I asked, rounding the steps.

  “Not really,” Sam said.

  I opened the door leading to the third-floor parking area, letting Sam go in first. Not even church was helping her. I decided to play the last card in my deck as we reached her Mercedes SUV.

  “I can think of a couple of ways to turn that frown upside down.” I leaned in closer, ready to give her a kiss. “Help you get your groove back.”

  “Whoa.” She moved her head away, bumping it against the window. “What are you doing?”

  “I was trying to seduce you,” I said as desperation kicked in. “We both know you need some release. Why not get a little crazy? Maybe listen to nothing but jungle sounds to set the stage? It’d be wild. Magical. Magically wild. But also respectful.”

  “Are you serious?” she groaned. “You really think you can turn this around like that?”

  “Of course.” That’s what I did with vulnerable women. It was what all human men did too, from what I understood.

  Sam unlocked the SUV’s door and got in. “One, stunts like this are why you have not, and will not, get a second chance with me. Two, you know I’m not allowed–”

  “The danger only makes it more fun.”

  The almost-angel closed her eyes for a moment, frustrated. Sam was so misguided. She needed a release. Acting as a conduit for that not only would’ve counted as a—gasp—a good deed, but morally I had no problem with it. I also figured it was the fastest way to get the old Sam back; the one who’d focus on finding the Caelo in Terra.

  “And three.” Sam said, “All you ever do is say ‘Hey, wanna have sex?’ You never tell me I look pretty, ask me how I’m doing, anything like that. Maybe if you showed interest in more than my body, I’d consider giving you a chance.”

  Of course I never asked Sam about her day, or mentioned how good she looked in some dress she bought on sale at some discount outlet. I was a demon. Rogue. Whatever. I don’t do chivalry, dates, relationships… Even mentioning that stuff gave me the chills. I wanted to point that out to her, again, for the eleventy-billionth time, but there was no sense in poking a sleeping bear.

  “You’re the same as everyone else.” Sam’s eyes watered. “Why treat me like a person instead of a means to an end?”

  “I’m trying to help you get your mojo back. Your ‘A’ game. I don’t want you bogged down by some stupid emotions while we’re investigating the Caelo.”

  Sam paused. The atmosphere felt thick, like I’d committed some horrible crime, but the catch was I didn’t know what I’d done.

  “You think my emotions are stupid?” she asked.

  I rolled my head back. “Everything I said, and that’s the part that sticks with you?”

  “Go home.” Sam slammed the door. The engine started and the SUV backed out of its parking spot, then disappeared around the corner.

  Sam storming off like that normally would’ve turned me on, especially since she did it in a Mercedes. Instead, I felt weird. Concerned. A little perturbed, since she got to be depressed while I remained the responsible one.

  I might’ve even felt a touch regretful.

  Go to Heaven, freakin’ emotions.

  I walked into my dark condo and was greeted by a splashing sound under my feet. I flipped on a light to discover a puddle of urine on the floor. I’d cleaned up worse, mainly demon’s blood, but that didn’t make Ozzie using the floor as a toilet okay. The dog barked, sounding like a cross between a welcome home and intruder alert.

  Hopefully, the pee hadn’t had time to soak into the hardwood floor. Nothing like a pee-stained hardwood floor to raise the property value. Ozzie also left eight turds scattered throughout the den like they were meant as Easter eggs, and one of the couch’s throw pillows had been torn apart. The joys of owning a pet.

  On the plus side, Ozzie treating my place like a warzone livened my hopes of making a Hell Hound out of the pooch. I’d always hoped to get one during my stay in Hell. I came close once, until a higher-ranking demon lost hers in a bullfighting accide
nt and took the one meant for me. I never found out for myself, but those I knew with a Hell Hound swore—usually while taking You Know Who’s name in vein—that few things were more reliable or helpful in a pinch. If Ozzie didn’t work out as a Hell Hound, I could at least throw him into a Mop Top’s head, buying myself some time.

  Kidding! Sort of. It would buy me some time.

  I should’ve known Ozzie would need more than food, water, and a roof over his head, but I’d never taken care of a living thing before. Sure, I’d had a few hangers-on do my every bidding, but those were humans requiring zero effort on my part. They also knew better than to drink water out of a toilet bowl.

  Ozzie wasn’t like that. He needed help staying alive and entertained.

  A particular sort of dread crept into my stomach. The kind I’d never felt before. My upper lip curled. Looking down at this hairy, four-legged beast running laps around my legs, the cold, hard slap of reality stung me. Ozzie was my … responsibility.

  The next morning, I locked Ozzie in the bathroom and went to the nearest pet store. I kicked myself for not really thinking this dog thing through. Ozzie was left home, alone, without any toys, no idea how to turn the TV on, and nothing better to do with a book besides chew on it. I’d only fed the stray leftover steaks since I took him in, and after a little reading on the Internet discovered that was a terrible idea. Miniature Schnauzers had weird digestive systems, meaning I was lucky Ozzie hadn’t sprayed diarrhea all over the walls.

  First thing I picked up at the pet store was a dog crate. A red one. I also bought some toys, a giant forty-pound bag of food, a leash, and a collar with flames on it. Only the finest for my little Hell Hound.

  “New owner?” the cashier asked. She had blonde dreadlocks tied in a bandana, the sort of girl tailor-made to work in a pet store.

  “That’s right.”

  “Rescue?” The register dinged with each item the cashier scanned.

  “Sorry?”

  “Did you rescue the dog?”

  “Well, I prefer to ask who rescued whom?” I laughed with gusto and a healthy dose of obnoxiousness. The cashier laughed along with me, before telling me the cost of buying Ozzie the finest.