“The word of a demon?” Dustan stiffened as though he feared the man might strike him.
Aamon placed a hand over his heart. “Again, you wound me. I assure you my oath is my bond. If you need time to consider my offer, I can return once the worms have eaten away your corpse. However, contrary to popular belief, we do not work with departed souls of the unaligned, nor do we reanimate the dead. In other words, it is now or never.”
“The unaligned?”
“A discussion for another day.” Aamon shrugged and peered at him with an amused expression.
“I suppose I have no choice.” Defeated, he hung his head. The prospect of dealing with a demon scared him, but the certainty of dying terrified him.
“Not if you wish to go on living.”
Dustan gave a reluctant nod, acquiescing to Aamon’s bargain. The demon stood with a grin and moved close. He held up the index finger of his left hand and appraised it for a moment. After retrieving a cigar cutter from his lapel pocket, he placed his finger between the blades. Snip. The lopped off portion dropped into his palm. Crowned with a sharpened nail, it did not bleed, the blood congealing before a single drop spilled.
Aamon displayed his left hand. Five digits wiggled in to view. Dustan gasped, wild-eyed. The demon leaned over him, his new finger tracing along Dustan’s sternum. He nodded, appearing pleased with the spot, and placed the severed finger’s nail against quivering skin. With a gentle push, the tip slid downward and disappeared into the heart.
“It is done,” said Aamon.
“What… What did you do to me?” Dustan pawed at his chest.
“You will feel better soon. My associate shall pay you a visit shortly.” Aamon sauntered to the door, and glanced over his shoulder. “Until we meet again.”
2
Angel Spotting
St. Savior’s Parish, London - 1864
After his father died, money grew scarce, forcing Dustan and his mother to relocate from their home near Kennington Common. Hard times landed them in the slums of Collier’s Rents. Pervasive filth clung to the parish in an industrial smog. The streets bore the refuse of chamber pots, and mangy creatures roamed free. As many rats as people had settled the area, and his mother feared the vermin nesting beneath the floors and rafters would cause his condition to return. In the two years since his illness, Dustan remained somewhat frail, unable to regain his previous vigor, and disposed to sniffles and coughs. His mother took employment at a laundry in the Mint where she slaved dawn to dusk. The boiling pots and washboards stiffened her skin to leather, her once lustrous golden hair became stringy and brittle.
Collier’s Rents was located in St. Savior’s Southwark on the banks of the Thames River. All of Southwark held a justified reputation as dangerous, but even the worst cutthroats avoided the Mint. One could not live in St. Savior’s without developing at least perfunctory skills in the criminal arts. Dustan had come to excel in minor theft and the occasional grift.
Today, he and two friends planned a daring heist. At the far end of King’s Street sat a bakery renowned in the parishes for its fine bread and pastries, though most of the area’s residents could afford neither. The owner always laid the fresh breads out to cool on a windowsill. A simple scheme—Jory and Thomas would distract the baker while Dustan grabbed their prize and made off with the bread.
“How much for a toke’o bread?” Jory, tall for thirteen and slim, wore a perpetual smirk on a lopsided grin. His sandy hair peeked out from beneath a checkered flat cap.
“More’n you got, you gummy li’l bastard.” The rotund baker dismissed him with a wave.
“I got a schilling.”
The baker spun, his eyes narrowed to slits. “Bloody hell, you say. Show it to me.” Jory shuffled his feet in the dirt, but did not produce the money. The man huffed and hawked a wad of phlegm onto the street. “Scram you damn ramper.”
“Here.” Thomas, the eldest of the three boys by two weeks, extended a silver coin—a piece of metal flattened by a wagon wheel, but the baker didn’t know that.
The man stepped forward and reached for the coin. As he stretched out one chubby hand, Thomas dropped the piece. It rolled across the ground, coming to a rattling halt beneath a near table.
“You clumsy oaf.” The baker squatted on hands and knees to retrieve the coin, his ample backside thrust into the air.
Jory took advantage of the diversion and nodded toward an adjacent building. Dustan caught the signal, rubbed his palms together, and dashed from his hiding spot. He snatched two loaves, shoving one under each arm, and flashed across the alley. A missing slat in a nearby retaining wall allowed him to slip through and obscured his getaway. Almost to Queen’s Street, he ran headlong into a blue uniformed policeman.
“Out of my way, rozzer,” he yelled.
The cop grabbed for him, but Dustan, quicker, dodged the attempt and scooted behind a head-high fence on his right. He raced across Bridge Street and up Borough Road before doubling back toward the river. He found Jory and Thomas under Blackfriars Bridge laughing and out of breath.
“Get away clean?” he asked.
“Ha. The fat bootlicker can’t run on them meat rolls of his.” Jory snickered and shook his head.
Dustan tore off a hunk of bread and tossed it to Jory and another to Thomas. “Copper about nabbed me at Bridge Street. Gave him the slip though.” Dustan grinned, his cheeks puffed out, packed with the bread. He sniffled and wiped a sleeve across his nose.
“Give me another chock,” said Thomas. “Ain’t had nary a bite in a day.”
“Eat what you got first,” said Dustan. “Got to stretch it a while.”
“Why?” asked Jory. “We can dupe ol’ Francis day and day. Can’t catch us, fat bastard.”
“Luck’s one thing, stupid’s another,” said Dustan, ripping a piece with his teeth.
“Tasty bread, lads?” The voice seemed to emanate from all around them, drifting from the river’s surface with a watery gurgle and off the bridge’s wooden beams.
“What the…” Thomas leapt to his feet, eyes darting back and forth.
The policeman Dustan had evaded appeared in their midst as if by magic. He patted a baton on his thigh and grinned.
“Bloody hell.” Jory shouted and took off, Thomas hot on his heels.
Dustan glared at the man, weighing his options. Obviously, the copper singled him out, revenge for earlier he supposed. Dustan made a quick move to the right. The man slid into his path before his second step hit the ground. Next, he tried a feint to the right, pivoted, and bolted left. Again, the cop seemed to read his mind, shifting to block his escape.
All or nothing, head down, Dustan dashed away in the opposite direction. The market lay in sight not far ahead. If he made it to the crowds, he would be home free. Dustan laughed as he ran. He glanced over his shoulder hoping to catch a glimpse of the copper’s astonishment, but he was no longer there. Good riddance, thought Dustan. When he returned his sight ahead, the cop stood at the street corner in front of him.
“How… Shit.”
Dustan darted into the neighborhood directly across from the market. He scooted under Mrs. Cotter’s clothesline, hoping the drying sheets would conceal his route from view. Ducking his head, he slid beneath a passing wagon and raced toward Mr. Walker’s orchard. As he rounded the next corner, the copper stood propped against a storefront with arms crossed, a peeved expression pinching his face.
Only one idea left, Dustan bolted toward home. A bulky English oak stood in the field near Low Borough Bridge. If he could make it and hide up in the limbs, the cop would never see him. After a long run, darting in and out of the crowds, he tore across the field and reached the oak’s trunk. A grotesque thing, it resembled a squid lying on its back, tentacles twisting in the air. Dustan braced against the wood, coughing and gasping for breath. A rope tied to an upper limb hung down to the ground—the boys planned to build a tree house, but had not gotten around to it. He hoisted himself amongst the leafy branches.
Three quarters to the top, nerves got the better of him, and he clung to the tree as if hugging his mother after a bad dream.
High enough.
“Come on down, boy. This is getting tiresome.” The policeman squinted into the branches.
How the…
“Fine, I’m coming down.” Dustan descended and perched on a low limb, eyes scanning the area.
“Don’t even think about it,” said the cop, tipping his hat back with one finger.
Dustan eyed him a moment and then swung out and over his head. He hit the ground, rolled to his feet, and sprinted for the street with no clue where to go next. A peek back confirmed the policeman still stood at the base of the tree. Dustan’s head swiveled forward to find a row of brass buttons at eye level. Wham. Stopped cold, he bounced off the big man’s chest, and plopped onto his rear in the middle of the street. He brushed dust from his forehead and collapsed in a coughing fit.
“Easy there, lad. I’m too old for all this running around.” The cop helped Dustan to his feet, guided him into a nearby alley, and propped him against the wall.
“Okay, copper,” said Dustan, raising his arms in surrender. “You got me. Call the paddy.”
The policeman’s grin stretched into a smile. “Won’t be necessary, lad. Relax, Aamon sends his regards.”
Dustan’s legs gave and he plopped onto his backside. Since the fever and the nightmare world, he convinced himself it had been nothing more than a dream—terrible visions born of the disease plaguing his mind and body. He still heard the tall man’s voice and saw the finger slip inside his chest each time he closed his eyes. A terrible dream, nothing more.
“Wasn’t a dream, boy. All real enough. Though, honestly, real can get a bit fuzzy where I come from.”
Dustan backpedaled, crab-like. “Wha… You can read my mind?”
“Ha, no. Don’t have to. Should see your face. Mug’s practically yelling what you’re thinking. Can’t say I blame you. It’s quite a spot to get your noodle around.”
He assisted Dustan to his feet and the two strolled down Borough High Street, cutting through between St. George’s Church and The Marshalsea. The man halted in a small grove behind the church. A dozen more oaks shaded the area, though none as large as the one at the bridge.
“Catch your breath, we’ve a lot to talk about,” said the cop.
Dustan eyed the man suspiciously while taking a seat on a knotted stump. He hacked, spat, and rubbed it into the dirt with his shoe. “You’re the one Aamon said would come?”
“Bright boy, how long it take you to put that together?” The copper wagged his finger. “Sorry lad, sarcasm’s my crutch, but have to admit, I’m pretty good with it.”
“You’re my tutor?”
“Call me Shax. And yep, your tutor, mentor, teacher—hell, your mum and da. Wipe your ass when you need it, tan your hide when you need that.”
“I have a mother, and don’t need a father.” Dustan pursed his lips in a childish pout.
“Oh, chin up, boy, only an expression. Don’t be so touchy. I’m an ornery sort, and if you’re going to get your feathers ruffled every time I chide you, we’re in for a long road. Going to be long enough regardless.” Shax stretched his arms and rotated his torso with a hand at the small of his back. “Mind I change? This is taxing my strength.”
The air shimmered around him. His body flashed in and out of sight as though Dustan blinked rapidly. After a moment, he stilled. Gone the brawny policeman, replaced with a stocky dwarf. Chest high to Dustan, the little man bore stubby arms and legs on a thick trunk. A large square head twisted on his neck, creaking and popping. Piercing green eyes filled with mischief stared out from beneath shaggy black hair. Shax’s button nose twitched as he patted his face, seeming to make certain all the parts found their proper place.
“Bloody Hell,” shouted Dustan, falling off the stump.
“Ha. Guess I could’ve warned you, but I do love the reaction. Makes me chuckle every time.”
“You… You can be anyone?” Dustan stared at the diminutive man, wondering if he had hit his head.
“Nah, not anyone. Only the dead, and only for a short time. It’s like becoming a picture of a dead person for a bit. We ain’t really them, or even in their real bodies. Eventually have to revert back to whatever appearance we took on when we first got to this realm. Takes a lot out of us to maintain a different form. Think of it akin to your birthday suit. You can wear different clothes, but they get grimy and dirty after a while. Always got the skin you’re born in though. Not the best analogy, but you get the point.”
“That’s the first body you chose?” asked Dustan with a smirk.
“And what’s wrong with it? It’s perfect. No one takes much notice, and if they do, only to snicker and stare for a moment.”
Dustan considered this, scratching behind an ear. “So what do you look like in your realm? Got horns, long pointy tail?”
“Sorry to disappoint, lad.” He shrugged and sat on the ground near Dustan. “Hmm, I forget you know less than nothing about us.” Shax nodded. “Right, brief history lesson, and it ain’t my forte, mind you. As I understand it, way back, the spirit realm pooped out of some god’s arse, or out of nothing, who knows. Anyhow, my kind came along, the first ones, and at some point developed intellect, reason, and such. Whenever you get enough thinking beings in the same spot, bound to have a fight, and so they did.”
“The war in Heaven?” asked Dustan, keen to impress with his Biblical knowledge.
“Sort of, I suppose. But not like your thinking. Hush, I’m getting there.” Shax craned his head, as if the physical gesture could somehow herd his thoughts into order. “Right, so, the strongest stood out and the rest fell in behind one or the other. Lines go way back, don’t ask me to name any of the head honchos before Michael and Lucifer took over. Might know a couple, like I said, I’m not a history buff.”
“Satan!” said Dustan.
Shax grumbled and frowned. “No, just Lucifer. The rest is a bunch of poppycock your kind whipped up. Michael and Lucifer were merely leaders in a long, long war. Not even the first ones, far from it, but they ruled when the human realm got discovered. Lucifer died of old age, think Michael got himself killed in battle. Before my time, mind you.”
“You can die?” asked Dustan, amazed. “I thought angels and demons lived forever.”
“I wish. Or maybe I don’t. Get boring after a bit I imagine. Of course we die. Everything that lives, dies. We live quite a spell longer than you lot, thousands of years, but we die in the end same as everything else.” Shax cut his eyes at Dustan. “You going to keep interrupting or you want to hear this?”
Dustan dropped his gaze and nodded.
“Good. So, the war rages on and on and ranks get depleted. Michael, got to give him credit as a forward thinking kind o’ gent, he sends scouts out to look for new recruits. Supposedly, a fair share of us didn’t align with a side and skipped off to hide some place. Michael planned to force a reconsideration on their part. Didn’t find them, instead his scouts stumbled onto these big rock things. Forget what they called them. At any rate, these stones marked gateways to other realms. Most didn’t have any real life, maybe insects and some trees, weeds and the like, nothing useful. Some contained primitive creatures, but still nothing Michael could wrangle into the war. Finally, they discovered the human realm.” Shax flourished his hand in a wide semi-circle. “This shit pit.”
Dustan repositioned himself on the stump, his ass aching from a knot poking into one cheek.
“See, we’re spirit beings, and you lot are nothing but meat sacks. Even so, you do have a spark in you, a touch of the spirit. You call it a soul. Michael found he couldn’t force you to join him, but he could entice you to enlist, so to speak. When a spirit dies, including you, it passes into the Void, nothingness. But the fine print’s humans die twice. The human form dies, but the soul doesn’t. It heads right to the Void, which seemed a waste. Michael offered a chance to avoid that for a
bit. Your souls could go to our realm, so long as you agreed to fight for him.”
“But angels are supposed to be good, demons are the evil ones.” Dustan sat mesmerized by the story, eyes wide, his breathing almost non-existent.
“Ha. Nonsense. That too, Michael’s doing. He got here first, you see. Told the right stories to the humans. Painted his kind as good, protectors of the human realm, perched on clouds singing halleluiah all fuckin’ day. Us, he said were evil, vile creatures who ate babies and poked the damned with pitchforks. Poppycock. More’n enough good and bad on both sides I suppose. All depends which side you end up on.”
“What about God? The angels fight for God.”
“Sorry lad, but ain’t no god I’m aware of. You got humans in this realm, our kind in the spirit realm, and a bunch of this’n that spread out in countless others, or so they say. Never heard of a god, never seen one. Maybe something made it all then took off some place. No idea. What I do know is what you call angels and demons are nothing more than two armies looking to beat the shit out of each other.”
“So why are you called angels and demons? The Bible says…”
“Going to have to forget what you thought you knew. Oh, kernels of truth in there some times, but most of it’s not but wishful thinking and fantasy. We never thought to identify ourselves as anything before finding this place. We had our names, all we needed. Humans learned many of them, figured out we came from another realm, and started making shit up. Seemed easier to go along with it after a while. We tried to match Michael’s genius and create religions for our side. Make us the good guys. Paganism and a host of others, nothing stuck. Now we use whatever methods we can to recruit new soldiers, hoping to gain more’n the other bunch. Numbers win most wars, you know.”
The story was a lot to take in. Dustan squinted, skeptical. He did not sense any deceit in Shax, but demons were known to be gifted liars. They had him now, part of a demon hid inside his body. Why would they need to lie? Perhaps he possessed the ability to disregard their commands, even with the demonic taint inside him. They obviously needed him for something more than a standard recruit. Angels, demons, it all made his head spin, his fear equaled only by his curiosity. He assumed Shax would clue him in eventually. All he could do for now was wait, listen, and learn.
Blood for the Dancer Page 2