by Ryan Hill
“Neither was them killing kids,” I said. “I don’t consider myself anything close to good, but I never hurt kids. Right?”
“That’s true.” Sam’s voice perked up a touch. I hoped it meant she was coming around.
“Besides, us getting involved in this whole mess has the Caelo spooked,” I said. “Which means they’re afraid we’ll actually stop them. Right?”
Sam let her arms fall to her sides. “You’re right.”
“In fact, the only mistake you’ve made is keeping Duffy around.”
Sam elbowed me. “Hush.”
“We’re in it now,” I said as we walked past the parking deck. “All that matters is what we do going forward.”
The first step in that momentum involved using Remy’s eyeballs as the main part of a gumbo. It wouldn’t be easy, but I was up for the challenge. The Bayou Boy played by his own set of rules. It was one of the things I liked about him. Loyal or not, Remy didn’t let people walk all over him.
Sam was right. This backstabbing wasn’t like the Remy I knew. Maybe the Caelo had bribed him. Maybe he got pissed over Sam and I dragging our feet about repaying the favor. They were weak reasons, but I couldn’t think of anything better. I’d at least understand it if the Creole set just me up and not Sam. Until recently, I’d been a demon, so I basically deserved that sort of treatment. Unfortunately, Sam had also been thrown to the wolves with me.
The anger at that sparked a brush fire in me that stood on the verge of exploding into an all-out inferno. I didn’t know why Remy betrayed Sam and myself, and I didn’t care. I’d helped him fight off a zombie invasion during Hurricane Katrina. A special bond is forged when lopping off hordes of zombie heads in the middle of a hurricane and a flood. One that until tonight I’d thought was unbreakable.
Sam convinced me to let her tag along on my visit to Remy, citing his resourcefulness with potions and whatnot. I agreed, if only to stop talking about it. The two of us waited until morning to see Mr. Broussard. I parked the Corolla in front of his house; a small cottage nestled in the Person Street area of downtown Raleigh. Remy could’ve owned a castle, but preferred a nondescript house with an equally nondescript basement. People were less apt to poke their noses where they didn’t belong when it came to things happening in a forgettable house. This was perfect for the Creole since he loved trying out new potions at home.
I glanced at my Omega watch. Ten minutes past nine in the morning.
“Think he’s awake?” Sam asked.
“Probably.” I glanced up at the house. “Hopefully he’s in the basement, working on some new recipes. Maybe we’ll catch him off-guard.”
“And if we don’t catch him off-guard?” Sam asked.
“Then things will be a whole lot more fun.” Sure, finding Remy with his pants down was preferable, but who didn’t like a challenge?
Without saying anything, Sam got out of the car. She paced around the front so quickly that I barely had time to open the door before she moved past me and started up the painted concrete steps that led to Remy’s front porch. Halfway up, she turned.
“Coming?” she asked.
“Just want to make sure you don’t have any complaints about me breaking the door down.” Sam hated it when I committed a little breaking and entering. The best times were when she found a spare key after the breaking and entering took place.
“Not this time.”
“You sure?” I asked. “I don’t want to get in there and find you having second thoughts. That could lead to all sorts of tragedies befalling me.”
She gestured toward the door. “After you.”
I bent my knees and moved in a back-and-forth motion, readying myself to kick open the front door.
“What are you waiting for?” Sam asked. Her breathing sped up; her chest moving like a finger quickly tapping a tabletop.
“Are you worried this might get you in trouble with Heaven?”
That was a real possibility, because she was letting me break into Remy’s home. Upstairs didn’t smile upon things like felonies. They had a tendency to end in a one-way ticket to Hell.
Sam would be so lucky.
But the almost-angel shook her head. “You only live once.”
“How true.”
I glanced up and down the street for signs of life. Nothing. We were all clear. I kicked in the front door; the wood breaking off the top hinge. Inside, the smell of incense made the house feel like it belonged to a stoner, not some voodoo master. The floor, in need of replacing, made a hollow sound with each step of my John Lobb shoes. Remy’s home was a cross between a witch doctor’s place and the pad of a sixteen-year-old boy. There was a framed panoramic picture of the New Orleans Saints playing in the Super Bowl that hung above a couch in the den. In the far corner, a bookshelf sat full of old, withered books, all with French titles. I figured the books were for mixing potions and whatnot.
“What is this?” Sam pointed to a ceramic figure on one of the shelves. It was a black man with hair that looked like it was made of hay.
“Probably some kind of prayer icon,” I said. “I’m guessing. I doubt Remy has it on display to impress the lad– Wait, have you never been here before?”
“No.” Sam sounded defensive. “Have you?”
“Like a million times,” I said with sarcasm. “But aren’t you two dating?”
“You’re still on that?” she asked. “No. We’re friends. We get coffee, hang out, talk, and do other stuff friends do.”
“And there’s no flirting?”
Sam shook her head.
“At all?”
Sam shook her head again.
I winced. “Boring.”
“You’d be surprised.” She moved on from the ceramic figure and into the foyer. “We talk about things like existence, our place in the world, even surviving.”
I pffted. “You haven’t had to worry about survival for a few years.”
“That’s not what I meant, jerk.”
“You can talk to me about those things,” I said. “I could’ve told you all about Winnie the Pooh.”
“What?”
“Pooh Bear had it right all along. Just be. Exist in the moment.”
Instead of answering, she suddenly held up her hand, and we both jerked to a stop, listening. Remy was coming up the stairs from the basement, the thump thump of his feet giving him away. After a moment, he opened the basement door, singing Britney Spears’ “One More Time” and walked into the kitchen, too lost in his singing to notice us.
We crept toward the kitchen, taking care not to make a sound, which was no easy task considering the old, wooden floors in the place. It was like moving through a German minefield in World War II.
Of course it was my shoe that caught on the floor transition slip between the kitchen and the hallway, making a slight clump sound.
Sam’s mouth fell.
My eyes grew three times in size.
We were goosed for sure.
Or were we?
Remy didn’t seem to hear us over his own voice—which sounded terrible—because he just continued about in the kitchen. The Creole took a bowl from a cabinet, then spun around to head back for the basement. Imagine his surprise when he came face-to-face with the two of us.
Awkward!
Nobody moved or said a word. We just stood there looking like idiots, each more surprised than the other at the situation.
“Hi,” Sam finally said, breaking the ice.
“What are you doing here?” Remy asked.
“Do you mean what are we doing here in your home?” I asked with a laugh. “I’d imagine that’s surprising, considering you sold us out to the Mop Tops.”
“That’s insane.” Remy set the bowl down on the counter, his bewildered look becoming as artificial and ceramic as the bowl. “Why would I do that?”
This guy. Even people with short-term memory issues would remember setting up two of their friends. Did Remy think that since we survived the ambush, playing du
mb would convince us to forgive and forget?
“Your guess is as good as ours,” I said.
“I’m serious,” Remy said. “You’re also making me mad. You two bet–”
I’d heard enough. Remy was wasting our time. There were better things to do than deal with a Creole playing dumb. I charged at him, claws extended. My body slammed into his. The momentum threw us into a counter; the wood collapsing around the back of Remy’s head as pots, dishes, and cups fell on us.
“Son of a bitch.” Remy grabbed a dirty plate from the sink and smashed it over my head.
I staggered back, something warm and wet sliding down my face. It didn’t feel like blood, though, so I ignored it and charged.
“Bartholomew!” Sam shouted.
More wood cracked and splintered as we slammed into the cabinets. Remy socked me in the jaw and this time I did feel warm, black blood in my mouth. Impressive. I didn’t think the Creole had that sort of strength.
I grabbed his shirt and hurled him through a wall and into his bathroom, where he crashed into the toilet before ending up in the bathtub. Water rushed onto the tiled floor from the busted toilet pipe. Remy grabbed a bottle of shampoo and flung it at me, hitting me square in the nose.
That stings.
And now my nose was bleeding. On a list of things that could possibly draw blood, a shampoo bottle would’ve ranked at, or near, the bottom. I picked up the bottle and hurled it back at him. The bottle missed his head, exploding against the wall like a grenade.
“Please,” Sam said through the hole in the wall. “Let me handle this.”
“No.” I glared at her. “And don’t do anything to stop it.”
A piece of soap hit me in the temple and caught me off-guard, giving Remy the chance to bum rush and then tackle me. The two of us crashed back into the kitchen.
“Bartholomew, please,” Sam said.
“No.”
This scuffle looked more and more like a fair fight. I was enjoying the Heaven out of it. Remy and I got to our feet and I grabbed a baster from the sink and tried to jam it into his ear. He caught my wrist, our arms shaking as we each struggled to get the upper hand.
But my strength proved too much for Remy. The baster moved closer to his ear and I grinned, ready to jam it through his canal. Suddenly there was a bright white light off to the side.
Sam’s Hand of God power.
The force of the beam knocked Remy and me down. I’d hoped we’d get thrown through the house and into the backyard, completing the house’s destruction, but Sam only used enough power to send us to the floor.
“That’s enough,” she said. “From the both of you.”
I got to my feet, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and used a wad of them to dab at the blood and gunk on my face before it reached my suit.
“Look at that,” I said.
“What?” Sam asked.
“My suit didn’t get messed up.”
Suddenly Remy threw some gray, foul-smelling powder all over me. I don’t know where it came from, only that it messed me up big time. I coughed, my lungs reacting to the powder’s cloud, and waved at it, trying to clear my view. Remy lit a match with his thumb, then threw a small bit of fire at me. For a second, nothing happened. It seemed like a dud. The match bounced off my chest and went out as it fell on the floor.
Then, everything happened.
Every piece of me the powder had touched caught on fire. And this wasn’t an ordinary fire. The flames were purple. More than that, the fire burned. It was hot. Nuclear explosion hot. I didn’t get hot. Ever. Ex-demon or not, I’m from Hell. Fire gave me the warm fuzzies. This was some kind of demented voodoo fire, and it hurt.
Sam ran to me and tried to help put the flames out with the Hand of God. Nothing. I stripped off the fiery remains of my suit, then rushed through the hole in the wall to the bathroom. The fire was burning not only my human skin, but the true, scaly form hidden underneath as well, creating a juicy mish-mash of flesh and scales.
What in the world?
Remy must have doused me with some insane voodoo version of Greek fire, the royal butt-sniffer. I jammed my head into what remained of the toilet, the water rushing over my head, but that didn’t do any good. And, why would it? Greek fire was impervious to water.
The purple flames engulfed my vision, then, and I tried to speak, but the fire had already melted my voice box. I was turning into a burnt hamburger bun.
Sam’s voice sounded like bits of glass had sliced her vocal chords, forcing her hysterical screaming to crack under pressure.
“What do I do?”
It was difficult to tell through the flames and smoke aggravating my eyes, but I think she was waving her arms while she spoke.
Meanwhile, whatever molecule in my body the fire touched was crying out in pain—but I had to think beyond the hurt and the image of myself as a burnt marshmallow if this continued much longer. Remy had to have something that could put the fire out. He wasn’t the type to have something this dangerous in his home without the means to dismantle it, should the need arise. If the extinguisher were anywhere, though…
“Basement,” I tried to say, though it probably sounded like gurgling.
“I don’t understand,” Sam said. “What’s buh muh?”
I pointed at the basement door, the fire melting my index finger off. Time was running out. If we didn’t’ stop me burning in the next minute or two, my one-way ticket back to Hell would’ve been punched. I tried to pick up the melted finger, but the rest of my hand was turning to mush.
“Oh, basement.” Sam jumped up and disappeared from my sight, running downstairs.
But I couldn’t just lay there and wait for her. Who knew how long it’d take her to find the extinguisher? I needed to slow the flames. Laying on the floor, I tried the stop, drop, and roll technique. It didn’t put the flames out, but it did keep Remy’s concoction from swallowing me up like a brushfire. Felt that way, at least.
“Any ideas?” Sam shouted from down in the basement.
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I worried they’d melt into my flesh.
There was a long, pregnant pause, and then: “Coming!”
I heard her running up the stairs and then her black Converse All-Stars were inches from my face. I glanced up to see her holding a jar full of yellow-ish liquid. I couldn’t read the label through the flames, but hoped the almost-angel had picked the right jar. I didn’t have a choice. My body wasn’t going to last much longer.
“I remember Remy mentioning that this put out fires.” She twisted off the jar’s cap and poured the liquid on me. A second later, she tossed the container across the room, the glass shattering on impact. “Oh, no.”
Some things seem great in theory. A person strapping on fake wings to fly, in theory, sounds good. At least it did in the seventeenth century. It took a while for people to figure out propulsion versus lift, and all the math that went into flight. Using leeches to drain “infected” blood from sick people, in theory, came across as an okay idea at the time. After all, it was something perpetuated by real, actual doctors, and they thought it was great, and who was I to stop them from bleeding someone dry?
Sam pouring the yellow-ish liquid on me to put out the flames, in theory, had seemed … like the best possible choice at the time.
Then the liquid mixed with the purple fire to create a new, more powerful, and even more painful version of burning Bartholomew. In the Middle Ages, whenever some ne’er do well dipped me in a vat of acid for torture, I’d laugh. The acid bath tickled. This? Not even the Seventh Circle of Hell was this much agony. No, whatever concoction Remy had set me on fire with was the ex-demon-killing weapon to end all ex-demon-killing weapons.
I could talk my way out of most trouble. Or bribe my way out, if my words failed me. Not so with the purple voodoo fire. This was it for the old Bartster. All she wrote. I’d die and return to Hell soon enough. What awaited me down there was anyone’s guess. Hell didn’t make a habit of going ou
t of their way to give former demons new bodies. Not without hazing the former demon for a good century or two. Even then, the former demon—in this case, me—would have to jump through a few million hoops, both literal and figurative.
Then the flames began to lessen in sizzle. The pain wasn’t as agonizing anymore. The fire, like me, was dying out. Not much of me left to burn. I made a mental note to tell Lucifer about this fiery concoction when I saw him in a few minutes. Maybe it’d earn some leverage, get me out of Hell in decades rather than centuries. Or Lucifer could take the purple voodoo fire and just send me back to the Seventh Circle of Hell for a hearty chuckle.
I never knew with Lucifer.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My Own Private Hell
“Time to get up, little angel.”
Huh? I opened my eyes. I was laying on hard, black stone. Above me was a red, ashy sky.
Hell.
Nicholas, Lucifer’s brat of a bastard child, came into view. He looked like some giant monster straight out of a nightmare. He stood proudly in his scaly demonic form—his horns proudly extended, eyes a red darker than blood. I noticed that the dingle berry twiddled his long, clawed fingers; he was obviously excited at the prospect of me being back in Hell.
“Get up.” Nicholas kicked me in the ribs, knocking me on my side, and morphed into his human form, wearing a knock-off red suit that featured loose threads in one of the sleeves.
I groaned. “Always great to be home.”
I looked down and jerked. The transition to Hell had restored my human form, healing the damage from Remy’s attack.
“You wouldn’t believe how many wanted to be first to punish you.” Nicholas knelt, his face only inches from mine. “But I won out. Had to give up all claims to Eastern Europe, but it was worth it to get you all to myself.”
“Everybody always knew you had a crush on me.”
“You never stop with the lip. Don’t worry. You won’t believe the fun that’s in store for you.” Nicholas moved to tap me on the nose with his finger.
I bit the finger off before it could touch me, and Nicholas screamed and lurched back. His eyes were manic, like he was surprised I’d stood up to him in Hell, of all places. He stuck the stump into his mouth, then pulled it out, revealing a brand-new finger. I spit the part I’d bitten off onto the ground. It disappeared with a small, ashy poof.