Shax made sense, but something still bugged Dustan. “Angels and demons do nothing for humans, but coax them into joining their armies?”
“That’s the end result most times, and the aim every time. We don’t interfere with human business too often. Staving off death and healing, those are tough, takes the most powerful to manage it. Still, it weakens them, and a weak archangel or demon lord is an opening to the enemy. Takes a special case to warrant the risk.” Shax flicked one stubby finger in the air. “Oh, sometimes we’ll point someone toward fame and fortune, give a little push so’s they get something they want if it’ll help entice them to align. Let them think a prayer’s been answered. Demons have to resort to those tricks more than angels. Angels got the advantage of religion. Believers think joining them’s part of the deal.” He huffed and shook his head. “They get convinced it’s something they got to do to wiggle into Heaven.”
Dustan stood, brushing grass and dirt from his pants. He paced the grove, head down in thought. “I get it now. Can’t say I like it much, but I get it.”
“More than when you started,” said Shax with a grin. “Don’t be too hard on your ol’ mum. She’s doing what she thinks best. Just trying to make it through her days, however she can.”
Dustan nodded, a tight smile, lacking warmth or humor, on his lips, and walked away.
That night he dreamed of his father. A slight man, though far from frail, Jonathan Wheaton lifted his son above his head. Dustan squealed as he whirled through the air. His father placed him on the floor with a heavy sigh.
“I swear, boy, you’re getting big as a horse. Might strap the carriage to you soon.” His father chuckled and tousled Dustan’s long, dark hair. “Time to cut that mop, I’m thinking. Be long as your mum’s before long.”
“I like it long. I’m Samson.” Dustan flexed his muscles. “You be the lion, Da.” He crouched and crept toward his father.
“I’ll be Moses bringing the ten plagues you don’t do your chores.” His father smirked, affection in his eyes. “Enough play for now. Your ol’ Da needs to be off to work. With you growing so fast, I’ve got to put in more hours to feed you. Be a good lad while I’m gone, and don’t forget to have those verses memorized for Sunday.” He retrieved his flat cap, popped it onto his head, and stepped out the door.
Dustan had spent the day swimming in the river with Jory and Thomas. As the sun dipped below the buildings on the far side of the Thames, he threw up splashes darting from the water.
“Where you going?” asked Jory.
“Da’ll be home in a jiff. I haven’t learned the verses or done my chores.” In his undergarments, he snatched his shirt and pants off the rocks and dashed down the lane, wet puddles following his steps. Dried to damp by the time he reached home, he tugged on his clothes and did a hasty sweep of the floor. With Bible in hand, he pounced into a chair. He flipped the Bible open on the dinner table and started reading. His father would test him first thing.
His mother entered the back door, saw him sitting there, and smiled. “Nick of time, huh?”
Dustan grinned, his face reddening. The words on the page skittered about like ants, defying his concentration. His father had promised they would go to the carnival tomorrow. Dustan’s mind envisioned the jugglers and clowns, the acrobats and dancers. How could he be expected to learn boring verses when they competed against such sights? This carnival even boasted a Wild West Show with a real cowboy from America.
A knock on the door brought his head around. His mother opened the door to a man in a tattered tweed coat, sawdust clinging to him like a second skin. Dustan recognized him from the few times he visited his father at work—Mr. Conner, the owner of the sawmill. He could not hear the man’s words, but his solemn expression conveyed a world of sympathy. Dustan’s heart rose into his throat—something bad had happened. When Mum fell against Mr. Conner’s chest in tears, anguished sobs shaking her body, Dustan bolted from his chair.
Mr. Conner took her gently by the shoulders. “I’m so sorry. The saw took the hand right off. We couldn’t get the bleeding stopped.” He paled at the memory. “I…I’m sorry.” With a nudge, he turned her toward Dustan who embraced her, his own tears streaming down his face.
Father Samuel presided over the funeral. “Our Father, take this dear soul into your loving arms. Touch his family and grant them strength and peace.” The old priest gazed on Mum and Dustan. “Our brother Jonathan, beloved husband and father, soars on wings into paradise…”
Dustan heard the words echo off the breeze, trees, and river, but they did not console his heartache. His mother clutched his hand, turning his fingers pale. He could not feel her skin against his, or the tightness of her grip. A light drizzle pitter-patted off the wooden coffin, and fell on his face, cold and stinging. Unrelenting pressure filled him and threatened to burst from his chest. Hours of crying left his nose chapped and sore, his eyes puffy and bruised.
Once home, he fell into bed, hoping sleep would come to take the pain away for a little while. A faint murmur drifted across the room. He raised his head to see his mother kneeling beside her bed, her long golden hair cascading down onto her back and shoulders. The light from a single lamp cast soft yellow illumination in a halo around her. She appeared angelic.
“Dear God, you promised never to give us more than we can bear. Lend me your strength to accept this loss and to be strong for my son. I know my husband is with you now. Jonathan knows no more pain or hardship. I will not be sad. Send your angels to minister to me and my boy. Help us find peace in your mercy.” His mother’s voice trailed off as her head sank onto the blanket.
In the following days, she never cried or pitied herself. When she spoke of his father, and she did so often, it was always with a smile on her face. Nightly, she thanked God for his many blessings. His mother lavished all her affection and attention on Dustan as though attempting to supply the love of two.
The morning after the dream of his father, Dustan woke a good hour before his mother and sat at her bedside kneading his thighs with stiff fingers. The memories of what they had lost lingered in his mind. He understood now. She needed to believe, and he needed to let her. Whatever gave her the strength to face trying days, he could not take from her.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I was just angry I guess. About you working so hard and how bad things are.” Dustan stared at his feet, contrition knotting his stomach.
“I’m sorry, too. I promise never to strike you again. We’ve both been through so much, but don’t give up and don’t lose faith. God is watching over us. Things will soon get better.” She sat up in the bed, smiled, and hugged him.
Dustan held his mother, feeling her bones protrude from beneath thin muscle and skin. “Yeah, it’ll be better soon.”
4
Come Sail Away
Things soon returned to normal. Dustan continued to accompany his mother to church and even managed to memorize his verses on occasion. Father Marcus, to the surprise of the parishioners and the dismay of Father Samuel, received an urgent missive summoning him to Rome. Dustan smirked at the news and feigned agreement when his mother voiced her disappointment.
He spent his days getting into trouble with Jory and Thomas. Every vendor from Southwark to East End knew them now, so the infrequent pickpocket or broken leg scam replaced swiping. Some yellow papers wrapped tight and wetted down hardened into something resembling a cast if the mark didn’t examine it too closely. A skinny, dirty child with a cast leg practically guaranteed a few coins. At fourteen, they could earn money as chimney sweeps or any number of distasteful jobs around the city. Fuck tha’—their customary retort to the mere suggestion. The children working as sweeps or in the mines walked the Mint like cadavers. Gray skin, sunken cheeks beneath hollow lifeless eyes, they spooked the shit out of Dustan.
Sometimes, Dustan ran across Shax, and the demon would stand over him while he spotted angels and demons. He had grown quite adept with the talent, taking seconds to locate a spirit’s glow
.
London cowered beneath another bout of weeklong rain. Finger-deep creeks snaked down the dirt-packed streets or puddled along the cobblestones. It had let up for the last hour, but a gray overcast hovered above the city like a soggy blanket. A wet chill seeped inside and stiffened Dustan’s muscles. He rubbed his hands together to warm them. The tactic lasted a few seconds and did nothing for his body as a whole. His coat bore holes at the elbows, his pants at one knee. He patted his upper arms rapidly, blew into his cupped palms, and stared down the street at the crimson hue of a demon talking to a shopkeeper.
“Why don’t you or another demon waylay an angel when I spot one?” he asked Shax.
“Love to, but ain’t easy as that. Takes a lot of energy to fight in this realm. And when you have two spirits going at it...well, let’s just say, sparks fly. If we start up a ruckus here, it causes a bubble of sorts—a pocket that’s both human and spirit realm. Because it’s still technically part of the human dimension, your kind can see it. Be quite the shock, I imagine. Anonymity’s key to our efforts here. Humans knowing what’s what, it’d put a damper on recruitment.”
“Does it ever happen? Couple of them go at it here?” Dustan watched the owner receive a small box from the demon, glance inside at the contents, and surreptitiously shove it under his coat. The two shook hands and the demon strolled away appearing rather pleased, a baleful grin on his face.
“Not in ages. Rules of engagement evolved over the years, strictly adhered to by both sides. A case of what’s good for one’s good for the other. Most times, the shock of energies clashing bounced them right out of the realm. Finished up on the other side. Took them a bit to recover, so the quickest back on their feet usually won.”
Dustan sniffled, a cough tickling the back of his throat. “What if I fought one?”
Shax flicked his hand along the sleeve of his uniform. “Wouldn’t advise it. Not yet. In theory, because you’re human, I suspect it’d throw up some dust all the same, but less so.” He tapped Dustan with the tip of his baton. “Don’t get any crazy ideas, pup. We’ll let you know when you’re ready.”
“Ready?” Dustan’s brows arched over widening eyes.
Shax only smiled and tipped his hat before setting off down the lane.
When Dustan returned home, he found his mother doubled over. In recent weeks, her skin had grown pale and her body withered. She became more prone to coughing fits than even Dustan. Gagging and hacking, she wobbled and tilted forward. He rushed to her and caught her before she slumped to the floor. With one hand on his forearm and the other high on his shoulder, she managed to stand erect.
“What’s wrong, Mum? Should I get the doctor?” Dustan’s mind whirled, a cold fist clutching his chest.
“No. No, I’ll be fine. Give me a moment.” She eased into her rocker and wiped a hand across her mouth.
“Mum,” shouted Dustan, horror in his voice.
She stared down at the blood on her wrist and sleeve. Dustan grabbed a cloth from the table, wetted it in the basin, and dashed to her side to wipe the blood away. More dribbled from the corner of her mouth, her teeth appearing as if she had chewed licorice root. The fear in her eyes stole all his own terror and produced determined resolve.
“I’ll get the doctor.” Dustan rushed out the door.
“She needs rest and plenty of water,” said Doctor Jamison. Dustan had not seen the man since his own illness two years earlier. He seemed to have aged a great deal in the short span, less hair and a paunch around his waist, worry creases across the forehead.
“I have to work. We…have no money.” Mum could barely speak. It seemed to strain all her effort to move. She lay in the bed, a deathly pallor painting her face.
“If you leave this bed, Madam, you will die.” The doctor gazed down with a mixture of sympathy and rebuke. “I’ll speak with the local churches. There is high demand for assistance in these troubled times, but perhaps some small help can be procured.”
“Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll work.” Dustan tried his best to appear strong and undaunted. His hands trembled against her bedclothes, and tears filming his eyes blemished the mask.
She squeezed his hand with an almost imperceptible pressure. “No, son, you’re too weak. You’d be in a bed right beside me. Wouldn’t we be a pair?” Her sad attempt to smile slid from her face in a grimace.
“Try not to fret. It will only weaken you further.” Dr. Jamison turned to Dustan and spoke in a stern pedantic tone while packing his instruments into a small leather bag. “She is not to leave this bed. Do you have food enough?”
“A little.” Dustan hung his head as though the dearth were somehow shameful.
The doctor placed a hand on his shoulder. “All of England is poor or dying it seems.” He shook his head. “Keep your faith, and trust in God. I will check in on her tomorrow.”
Dustan never left her side. He spooned her water and meager bites of gummy porridge. His mother’s lips fluttered in constant prayer, a word here and there caught his hearing. She begged God to watch over him, offering not a single word of supplication for herself. The damp cloth remained close at hand, so he could dab the sputum from her mouth and chin. As the hours passed, the bloody saliva dotted her tattered linen gown. The sight unnerved him. He wanted to change her, but could not bring himself to disrobe his mother.
Shortly before noon the following day, Dr. Jamison returned. He confirmed her condition had not changed, which he took as a positive sign. Minutes after he departed, a knock rapped on the door. Dustan assumed the doctor forgot something, but no, Shax stood in the entrance.
“How did you…” Dustan stepped back, surprised to see him here.
“I hear things. How’s she doing?” Shax morphed into his first form, waddled to the rocking chair, and hoisted himself up.
“The same. The doctor thinks it might be a good thing.”
“Doctors are butchers with a dainty bag.” Shax glanced downward, appearing ashamed. “Sorry, lad. No time for my cynical humor. How you holding up?”
“I don’t want her to die, Shax. Can’t you do something?”
“I wish I could. I really do.” He teetered in the chair, the rockers clacking against the floor as if ticking away the time. “She’s aligned with the angels.” Shax glanced at Dustan.
“I guessed,” said Dustan with a shrug.
“Nothing we can do unless she switches sides. Don’t see it happening, do you?”
“No. No, I don’t. What about the angels? They’ve never helped before, but maybe…”
Shax tossed his head to the side. “Wouldn’t get my hopes set on it. She’s already aligned, nothing in it for them. Plus, would take a major power to heal her now. Zaph…Ariel could do it. But won’t. Zaphkiel’s presently got his horns locked with Valefar in the Seron Valley, and Ariel loathes the human realm. Zaph don’t have horns, figure o’ speech.” Shax stood and took Dustan by the wrist. “I know it hurts. You lost your da, and now…. I’ve lost more friends than I care to remember. Part of the deal, and it sucks mule tit. Shit, I ain’t good with consolation. I feel bad for you is all I’m trying to say.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
When Shax left, something he said stuck in Dustan’s mind. She’s aligned already, nothing in it for them. What if there was something in it for them? According to Shax, a human could change alignment at any time. Even a spirit could switch sides. If he pledged himself to the angels, would they heal his mother? With a piece of Aamon in his chest, doubtful he could alter his allegiance. Still, if they could use him as the demons planned, wouldn’t it be worth it to them? It seemed his only option was to try.
Dustan knelt down and clasped his hands before his face. “Zaphkiel hear me. I beg you to heal my mother. Restore her to health, and I will pledge myself to you. Whatever you ask of me, I swear to obey. Please, I know you have the power to grant this. You’ve never answered her prayers…or mine. Do this one thing for us, and I will serve you with my courage and loyalty all m
y days. Please, I beg you.”
Dustan rose. Nothing happened. He wasn’t certain what he expected. Zaphkiel to waltz in as Father Marcus, lay hands on his mother, and chant in an angelic tongue? His mother then leaping from the bed fit as a fiddle? Did Zaphkiel even hear him? Did he do it right, say the right things? Perhaps switching allegiances involved more than a simple change of mind. Maybe he needed some ritual. But he had no way to know such a thing, or the time to find out.
He stayed with his mother day and night, caring for her—wiping down her fevered body, feeding her, changing her sheets. She had not spoken since the day he found her coughing blood, her movements restricted to terrible instances of thrashing at unseen apparitions in sleep. Dr. Jamison came daily, but could offer no further help aside from words of encouragement. Shax did not return, and the loneliness ate at Dustan, impending loss hollowed out a gaping chasm within him.
Dustan prayed to Zaphkiel and the angelic host—the same prayer every hour for three days. On the fourth…his mum died.
Another funeral shrouded in bleak, gray skies. The heavens opened up and wept. The first thing they had ever done for Ava Wheaton. A quiet rage burned inside Dustan, warming him in the midst of the chill. A handful of men in somber suits and women wearing dark dresses and bonnets attended—co-workers of his mother’s and members of the small congregation from her church. Shax stood near Dustan. He exhibited the form of a middle-aged gentleman in a black suit, rather nondescript, average in every way. Father Samuel presided has he had for Jonathan’s funeral, and Dustan felt certain he blathered the exact same sermon and commendation.
After the interment, the cemetery caretakers began the arduous task of dumping globs of viscid earth onto the casket.
Blood for the Dancer Page 4