Blood for the Dancer

by Dallas Mullican

  “Saerna. What are you doing?”

  “Shush,” she said with a finger to her lips. “Another lesson. How can you kill if you have never loved?”

  “I don’t understand.” He fought the impulse to cover himself with his hands as Saerna drew his pants down.

  “Killing, as does fucking, births strong emotions, which you must control. You must quell the anger and rage, subdue the heat in your blood, to become a killer. A killer is more than one who kills. One who kills does so from passion, emotions out of control. A killer feels nothing for their enemy.” She slipped his pants over his feet and flung them onto the floor. “But there is a paradox. Just as you love with hunger, you must lust for the kill. The blood must boil while remaining ice cold.”

  “I don’t understa…”

  Her words confused him. The feelings elicited by her hands caressing his legs and stomach, frightened him more. He desired her more than anything he had ever wanted. A sweet discomfort took hold of him. Dustan grabbed Saerna by her arms and twisted her onto the bed. With one hand behind his head, she used her other to guide him inside her. Her back arched off the mattress, a soft moan purring from her lips. He caught it in his own as he leaned in to kiss her. Their tongues fought as their bodies writhed in a chaotic dance.

  Saerna shouted yes to questions he did not ask, but instead answered with voracious need. What she sought to teach him passed beyond his mind and instructed his body and soul. Fire spread and laced through him…cold. When at last the pressure threatened to tear him apart, he exploded into her. She dug her fingers into his back, raking sharpened nails. A scream tore from her—a hellish thing, full of agony and ecstasy.

  Dustan woke feeling the warmth of Saerna’s body next to him. The scratches on his chest had healed, the stings on his back gone. He could not look at her, not yet. He feared his attraction to her would morph into something deeper—an attachment fraught with danger in more ways than he could imagine. With this his first time, and Saerna’s unparalleled beauty, it would be easy to fall or confuse his feelings for love. But no, as Geras remained so far beyond him intellectually, he understood now Saerna was as removed from him in another way. He would do as she taught, but he would never achieve the level of detachment she demanded of him. His humanity excluded such coldness. More so, he did not want to lose that part of himself. Part demon, yet he remained the son of Ava and Jonathan Wheaton, the friend of Jory and Thomas. Dustan was still…human.

  He rolled off the bed, trying not to wake her. As he leaned down to retrieve his pants, his mother turned to him. “Good morning…son.”

  Dustan recoiled in horror. He backed away until butting against the far wall. “No, you can’t be. Saerna stop it.”

  She rose, her arms extended. “Dustan, what’s wrong? Are you feeling poorly again? Should I get Dr. Jamison?” Ava Wheaton ambled toward him with such heartbreaking concern and love engraved on her face. Tears flowed from his eyes.

  “Goddammit, stop this.” He screamed. Another of Saerna’s tricks, but this went too far. It was too much.

  She continued forward. “Son, come give Mum a hug.”

  Her hands reached for him, but Dustan took her by the wrists and held her at bay. His mother’s face distorted. In his mind, he viewed Saerna grinning behind the mask. Fury detonated inside him. He shoved her hands aside, squeezed her throat, and hustled her backwards, slamming her into the wall amid a shower of plaster from the ceiling.

  “You’re hurting me, son.” The voice remained his mother’s, but the mask slipped a fraction, revealing the deceit. Dustan clenched his fists tight and brought them down in manic succession. Saerna could no longer hold Ava’s form. She wiggled free, extending her hands.

  “Enough.”

  A bolt of energy hit him in the stomach. Dustan doubled over, the force hurling him onto the bed. He lay there, panting, gulping the air.

  Saerna dressed and smoothed her hair. “When you have settled, find me downstairs.”

  Dustan did not care if he ever laid eyes on the bitch again. She wanted to push him…fine. No more. From now on, he would push back.

  9

  The Many Masks

  “I will not apologize. All I do is for your well-being, and ours, whether you believe it or not. Aamon is convinced you are the key to winning this war. Such things are beyond me, but I trust his wisdom.” Saerna sat cross-legged in the high-backed chair, a knee and calf exposed by the slit of her gown.

  Dustan found her stunning in spite of his anger. He shook his head. She exercised manipulation as deftly as deception. He would not allow her beauty to mollify him. Nothing could justify what she did to him. The fury boiled again in his gut.

  “I’ve had enough lies. How can I trust anything you say? What any of you say, for that matter? From the moment you came here you’ve done nothing but deceive me.” He stomped around the great room, his eyes straight ahead, and refused to so much as glance her way.

  “I told you my purpose from the start. It is my task to teach you deception and disguise. Have you not listened?” She flicked her hair over her shoulder and stared down at long red fingernails. “You are no longer a child. We do not have the time nor the patience to placate your sensitivities.” Her tone was icy, but her eyes shifted with ambiguity.

  “What could you possibly teach me by posing as my dead mother? Cruelty? You did your job well.” Dustan huffed in revulsion. The memory of Saerna enticing and nude atop him mixed with his mother’s angst-ridden pleas brought bile into his mouth.

  “Do you think the angels shy from torture and guile? You know nothing, Dustan. These are not the creatures of myth. They are not here with a noble cause to save human souls. They are treacherous and brutal. Once you crossed into our realm, all protections ceased. Your humanity will not spare you their most insidious methods.” Saerna’s voice remained calm, even stoic, but hints of contrition bled through in her eyes and the set of her lips. A tightness along her brow and slight bob of her leg betrayed the tension coiled inside.

  Dustan dismissed her arguments and any possible reluctance with a wag of his hand. “I’m a tool, a weapon, nothing more. Shax told me, I should have listened.”

  “I have trained a thousand years to rein all sentiment.” A tear gathered in the corner of one eye, she appeared unable to constrain the overwhelming emotion any longer. “Impossible. No creature cable of feeling, in any world, can hope to completely bury joy, hurt, love. Desire is an invincible foe—desire for friendship and closeness. I have come as near as any, but there are still those who manage to sneak past my defenses.” She stared at him then, the austere mask falling away. “You are among them Dustan. You accomplished in months what required centuries for others. Perhaps it is my hope in your promise that clouds my mind and tempers my heart.”

  Dustan narrowed his eyes, attempting to discern if this was another of her tricks, an effort to weaken him and pull him back into her good graces. Nevertheless, something in the way she gazed at him broke through his wariness, or maybe his fear of losing her and the others drew him in. Without them, he would be alone. He could no longer live a human life confined to the needs and yearnings of this realm. Aamon woke something within him—something that could not be extinguished.

  “It is a shame you must first experience a thing to understand it. Trust me. Each episode is a valuable teacher, but all leave their scars. Be wise, Dustan, learn from those who have already felt the fire. Do not insist on burning yourself to believe the flame is hot.” Saerna placed her hands in her lap, the aloofness returning to her expression.

  Dustan detected something in the shift—a hunch. “You’ve been hurt too haven’t you?”

  She averted her eyes with a subtle tightening of her jaw. For a long moment, Dustan assumed she would not answer, but then… “I have been a demon since my birthing, or so close as not to matter. Both my parents were demons, so naturally I aligned with the Horde. We were a close family, a close legion. Ours is a warrior society, you see. One is a soldier
or nothing.”

  “There’s no other occupations? No artists?”

  “Yes. Some of our greatest artists are also our greatest warriors. As for the rest, all tasks are supportive of the war. Every worker is a soldier as well. I suppose under other conditions we might have evolved differently, but war is all we have ever known.” Saerna pulled a knitted shawl around her shoulders, though the room was warm. The fire blazed with dancing flames and cast a flicker of red-orange glow upon her cheek.

  “Do you live with family and friends?” Dustan relished the opportunity to see not only Saerna more intimately, but life in the spirit realm. Like it or not, he was now tied to that world. One foot in Hell, so to speak. Naturally, a curiosity and affinity for the dimension would become part of him as well.

  “In our manner. Social communities exist within the military structure. Obviously, we have parents. Siblings will most often remain in the same legion, which is a kind of extended family. Those exhibiting special talents, however, gain reassignment to the elite divisions. Though we remained close, my training, and later my missions, kept me from them.”

  “You miss them when you are here?” Dustan ceased his back and forth trek across the room and took a seat across from her.

  “I do. Still, duty must come before kinship. If we lose this war, concern for family becomes moot. It has taken so much from me already. Aamon, those here, my legion, everyone I care for remain under constant threat. You see, we are not so different from humans. We love and we hate. When one spirit harms another, we feel pain. We know each other by appearance. Our auras and features are as recognizable to us as humans are to you. The way one smiles or stands, a certain gait, a peculiarity in their speech. Each of us is unique, with individual personalities.” She gazed into the fire. “I imagine intelligent beings in all realms share much in common.”

  Fascinated, Dustan allowed his anger to fade, the events of last night to recede into memory. He forgave Saerna for what she had done, but he could not forget, which he suspected would please her. His view of her changed with understanding and granted a wider perspective.

  “How were you hurt?”

  She sighed. “I displayed a talent for masking early—disguising as humans and other spirits. Very few could manage the latter—an ability similar to impersonation down to the most minute detail. Near to what I did with Jory and your…” Saerna frowned and looked away.

  “It’s okay. Please go on.”

  She offered a pensive smile and nodded, appreciation evident in her expression. “I was sent for training with the elite divisions. Handpicked by Aamon himself, I learned espionage and assassination. My usual assignments required masking as an angel: Get close to the enemy by guile and seduction, and send them to the Void. I was very good at it and soon earned higher-profile targets.”

  “Sounds dangerous…and scary. Weren’t you afraid? In the midst of the enemy all alone?” Dustan sat captivated, poised on the edge of his seat. He recalled his father telling him pirate stories. How he envisioned the ships and swords, laughing and clapping when the navy sank Black Beard or Captain Kidd.

  “At first. A main element of my training included controlling fear, anxiety, and pain.” She quivered. “You can think you have such things mastered until put to the test.”

  Saerna stood and went to the window. Black clouds obscured the sun and shadowed the yard in darkness. Valefar, in a handstand, legs scissored parallel with the ground, turned his head and winked, impervious to the threat of bad weather. She shook her head at the man with a faint grin. Dustan had noticed a subtle affection between the members of the group, and could only guess at the harrowing battles they had braved together. More and more, inclusion into their circle became important to him, a desire to please his teachers as important as mastering the skills they taught.

  Saerna ran her hands down her gown and fingered a lock of hair from her face. “My assignment was a high-ranking commander, a general over five legions of the Host. She had a reputation for enjoying the company of other females, making my plan quite simple. What I did not know at the time—a member of my division served as her part-time lover.”

  “What about her aura? Wouldn’t it give her away? She would need to change allegiances,” said Dustan.

  “A clandestine rendezvous is quite different from altering one’s complete belief system. A Christian may become attracted to a Jew without changing their deeply held views.”

  “Touché. Still, a risky affair. How would they even have met?”

  “I do not know. Spies and assassins are necessary weapons in the war. Both sides find ways to avoid detection. Perhaps she was an angel all along, and like me, gifted at masking. She was new to my division, and none knew her well. It is plausible she exhibited the talent for others to witness and gained assignment with the elites.” Saerna shrugged. “It was long ago.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “When discovered, she attempted to flee to the Host’s domain. She did not make it.” Saerna’s smile slid into a grimace. “The bitch betrayed me. I wished I had been there to see her off to the Abyss.”

  “She told the general who you were?”

  “Yes. She couldn’t know who I would impersonate, but did possess enough information to alert the general an assassination attempt was imminent. General Cassiel prepared for my attack, and a squad of her elite guard took me within her Aerie chambers.” Saerna paced the great room, picking up objects at random and inspecting them through distant eyes. “You will not find it mentioned in any religious text, but angels are gifted torturers. For what seemed an eternity, they inflicted pain in unimaginable ways. I am not Geras. I lack the words to convey the intense agony, the horror and helplessness. Even if I could paint such heinous descriptions, I would spare you the mental images. The details would haunt you all your days, just as they have mine.”

  Dustan found the concept abhorrent, yet how spirits could be tortured eluded him. “I don’t understand how beings made up of energy can be hurt. Geras explained the receptors, but I still don’t get it. Destroyed, sure, but how do you feel pain? You don’t have flesh or a brain.”

  “No, we don’t possess discrete organs, nervous or circulatory systems like humans, but we do experience pain. We have minds and feel the same positive and negative emotions as you. An injury to our bodies is an alarm signaling danger. The same as nerves at the site of a wound warn your brain. Left unattended, the injury may bleed out or lead to any number of complications. We are the same.”

  “That makes sense...I guess.”

  “The physical pain was not the worst part. They destroyed my parents in front of me. Brought them into the room where I lay shackled and cut them down like vermin. The helpless plea in my mother’s eyes…. No torment inflicted upon my body could ever equal the agony of that moment.”

  Dustan’s face grew taut with sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

  Saerna’s sorrow chiseled into her features. An expert at restraining emotion, even she could not stifle the tears. She fell into the chair, hands on her cheeks. “Thank you, Dustan. So long ago, yet it still hurts. Now you understand why I have been hard on you? Once they know of your existence, the Host will stop at nothing to find and use you. If they cannot, they will destroy you.”

  “I understand.”

  Dustan regretted doubting her. Her tactics were stern, but for good reason. He couldn’t imagine enduring what she had, but in his own way, the angels took his mother from him, or allowed her to die in agony. Not much difference in his mind. He shared loss with Saerna and felt closer to her because of it.

  “How did you survive and escape?”

  “Aamon. He came for me himself. Unheard of, the Demon Lord assaulting an Aerie to save a mere assassin. He slew more angels than I could count in the effort. A cyclone of spinning swords, he cut them down in waves. It was…breathtaking.” She smiled at the memory, a hand over her heart.

  “You love him don’t you?”

  “Sometimes,” she
said with a grin.

  “Who is he, really?”

  “Father and mother to us all. Doubtful we would still be in the fight without him. The previous Demon Lord had died and the Horde sank into turmoil. Demons and angels alike follow strength. Commanders fought for dominance and the Host took advantage of our disarray. We lost full legions before Aamon pacified the generals and assumed command. He has led the Horde for thousands of years now. We have made our greatest gains under him. Lucifer himself pales in comparison.” Saerna appeared radiant as she spoke of Aamon. “Unfortunately, Zaphkiel is every bit his match. Since he took over the Host, the war has ground to a standstill. Neither side able to seize an advantage. That’s where you come in.” She smiled.

  “Great.” Pressure settled on his shoulders.

  10

  Blood Dancer

  Trees shed their leaves in a carpet of brown, red, and gold as autumn gave way to winter. Evergreens rose in their midst, flaunting ripe needles; husks from hickory trees layered the ground like broken caskets. Deep in the South, the weather had remained warm through October, the first chill not arriving until year’s end. Now February, most nights fell near freezing. Dustan slept beneath a thick wool blanket, a low fire smoldering in the hearth. Valefar had yet to approach him, and he grew antsy waiting.

  On one particularly frigid day, Dustan found Geras reading in the gazebo. The old demon’s face crinkled. He set the book aside and thrust his hand inside the sleeves of his robe.

  “Bloody hell but it’s cold,” he said, shivering.

  “Why don’t you go in and read by the fire?” asked Dustan.

  “Because I want to read out here.” Geras looked at him with a puzzled expression as though he were daft.

  Dustan glanced to Valefar who knelt working at something near the pond’s edge. Geras must have noticed his consternation.