by Hunter Blain
“Exactly, man. I’m scared. I’m scared because I don’t know if I would kill him and go insane from guilt, or not kill him and let all of creation burn in hellfire.”
“Have you asked Father Thomes about it?”
“No,” I said curtly, shaking my head once. “Only you. I just couldn’t find the right time to tell him.”
“Well, now might be the time for both of us to tell Father Thomes everything,” Depweg suggested, letting his hands drop from my shoulders. “Lies beget lies and grow into doubt and pain.” I nodded once and he continued walking down the street. I quickly caught up to him as I wiped at my wet face while Depweg did the same.
I punched Depweg in the arm, pretty hard. He flinched and said, “Ow! The hell was that for?”
“Sorry. Was getting a little too emotional up in here. Had to, ah, man it up. Wanna have a push up contest?”
Rubbing his shoulder, he looked at me, caught what I was saying, and smiled. Then the sonofabitch went full force into an arm punch that sent me to the ground—no easy task, mind you!
“YYYOWW!” I yelped, rubbing my own arm vigorously. I forgot how strong Depweg was in his man-suit sometimes. “I’m gonna cry again!”
After a pause, we both burst out laughing.
Depweg extended a hand and I got to my feet. It felt like a mountain made entirely out of anguish, fear, and uncertainty had been lifted from my chest. I felt like laughing, donating to the Salvation Army, feeding the homeless, and rubbing the belly of every shelter dog in the world.
We were staring at the ground as the wrought iron fence came into view and our laughing, which had died to sporadic bursts of air through our noses, ceased entirely.
A piece of the fear mountain I had lifted broke away and fell back into place like an asteroid as I stared at the black church.
White containers on the street drew my attention, and I took note that SAC Baker was good on his word.
“That was fast,” I commented.
“What?” Depweg asked, turning to follow my eyes. “What are those?”
“Ah, right, I didn’t tell you about Special Agent in Charge Collin Baker. He helped me find and save you.” I snapped my fingers and pointed to the church as I remembered something. “Oh yeah! He also told me about the prophecy scrolls in Hell. I need to ask Papa T about that.”
“So what are the containers?”
“You aren’t going to ask about the prophecy scrolls in Hell?”
“Not much we can do about those from up here, huh?” Depweg countered logically.
“Ah, right. The containers are for restoring the church. Father Thomes is too old to do anything that involves manual labor.” As I spoke, the irony of the words rang out. “Hmph,” I laughed with a closed mouth.
Depweg just stared expectantly at me.
“He’s too old. That-that’s funny, right? I’m, like, five hundred and fifty years old, and I’m calling a mortal who’s barely ninety, old.”
“The irony isn’t lost on me.”
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
“You just did,” Depweg said with a forced smile as he glanced back at the church, feeling the weight of what we had to do creeping back in.
“How old are you?”
“Including mortal life?”
“I’m only counting my immortal one, but sure,” I admitted.
“I was thirty when I was bitten, and you and I met when I had been a were for nine or ten years, I think.”
“Is, ah, your memory not crystal clear?”
“In what way?”
“I can remember anything and everything that has ever happened to me since being turned, with complete clarity.”
“I think you’ve mentioned that before. Don’t you have a city or something in your mind?”
“It started as a village, but yes, it is a full city now, and it’s always expanding.”
“Cool,” Depweg said.
“Cool,” I mirrored as we both stood at the gate, desperate to stop time. “You know,” I said, glancing sidelong at my friend, who stared at the church with a sullen expression, “procrastination is a lot like masturbation. Sure, it feels good at the time, but in the end, you’re just fucking yourself.”
Depweg responded by letting a weak puff of air escape his nose as his mind bathed in the pool of dread the church was filling.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward without a word and Depweg followed. I stepped on the landing—which cracked under both of our weight, causing us to stand slightly further apart—and knocked.
When no one answered after three or four minutes, I placed my hand on the door and pushed. It was unlocked, and I motioned for Depweg to stand by me, which he hesitantly did.
We stepped past the threshold without the wards attacking either of us. I mentally thanked the silver crosses on my lapels. Then again, it was entirely possible the father had turned them off with the mortal workers preparing to restore his church.
I went straight for his chambers, knocking as I reached his door. When no answer came, a lump formed in my throat. I turned the brass handle and opened the door.
The room was empty, and I felt an immediate sigh of relief leave me.
“He must be in the reading room downstairs.”
We made our way to the spiraling staircase that descended to the hall that led to the parlor, and Ulric’s prison.
I glanced at his iron door as we walked by, feeling the pull of the red button on the wall. A part of me also wanted to talk to Ulric, to understand his thought process, but I knew it would only be centered on pride and hate. I—his creation—had risen up in defiance and defeated him, twice. As the part of me that wanted to speak to my maker understood there would be no reasoning with the monster, it retreated again, dropping the point like an unsure kid in class tentatively raising their hand to answer a question before letting it sink back down.
I returned my gaze to the sitting room ahead, where Father Thomes was marking a place in an old tome and setting it down on a stand next to him. A dying flame illuminated the room.
Without looking over his shoulder at us, he called out, “I do so hope this is an informal visit, unrelated to the copious and unscrupulous killings in Mexico.”
Depweg stopped midstride, as if the pause button had been pressed on the story of his life. An audible gulp screamed in the silence.
I continued forward, setting my jaw, and said, “Not only him, Father. I have something to tell you as well.”
The priest answered with a sigh while looking up at the ceiling as if asking God for the strength to deal with two naughty children.
“Very well. You first, John. Then Jonathan Depweg and I will have a private conversation about the atrocities he has committed.”
I turned to see Depweg lower his head in shame and then slowly start walking again.
“One thing, though, Father. We have already discussed our actions and both fully understand the implications of what we have done, or will…do.”
“Do you, now?” Father Thomes asked dubiously as he slightly leaned forward in his chair. The faint light from the fire cast half his face in ominous shadow.
Anger flashed as the full weight of Depweg’s and my conversation protested, demanding to be acknowledged. I closed my eyes for a moment and extinguished the flames within, knowing Father Thomes was right.
I sat in the reading chair on the other side of the little table where Father Thomes’ book sat, backside up. I couldn’t see the title but assumed it was some Catholic book meant for priest’s eyes only.
Father Thomes turned to look at me expectantly.
“I saw a seer, and…and she told me I’m going to kill Magni.”
“The boy from the cemetery?” Father Thomes asked with raised eyebrows.
“The very one. Doesn’t make sense, does it? But she’s been right about everything else so far.”
Depweg came up to stand in front of us, staring into the dwindling crackling fire. Knowing this was goi
ng to be a long night for him, he grabbed two more logs and placed them on the flames.
“What else did she say?”
I relived the events of that night in an instant before remembering something.
“Oh, right. She, ah, said that I was going to make the gates of Hell open. After tonight’s interaction with the Aztec god, Tez—ah…catlipstick, or something like that, I think it will happen in five years.”
“What is this seer’s name?” Father Thomes asked, barely getting the word out as if it went against everything the church stood for. Which, I suppose, it sort of did. It wasn’t all that long ago that she would have been burned at the stake.
“Lachesis,” I answered, letting the word slide off my tongue with an equal amount of dismay and respect.
“Fate?”
“That’d be the one. Thought it was just a stage name. I-I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Curious,” Father Thomes said to himself just below a whisper.
“So Fate says you will both kill Magni and open the gates of Hell?” Father Thomes asked, turning his body unconsciously to face me more. The growing fire illuminated his face, allowing me to better see him.
“That’s a bingo,” I said, slumping in my chair and letting my head rest on the back. My eyes stared absently into the flames that were beginning to rise from the fresh wood, crackling in delight. I unconsciously took a breath, enjoying the smell of the fire.
“What could possibly make you want to harm the boy?”
“We talked about that,” I answered, lifting my chin toward Depweg while keeping my eyes locked on the dancing flames. “The only thing I can think of is that Satan will make me do it by holding my friends hostage or all of humanity, or something in between the two. That’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”
“I see,” Father Thomes said, sitting back in his chair, lost in thought.
Depweg turned to face us. “John isn’t sure he could do it, after everything the boy’s been through, even if it meant starting the end of times.”
“Is that true, my son?” Father Thomes asked, regarding me.
“I, ah…I don’t know, and it scares me that I don’t.”
“John, if it means one life or the souls of every living creature that has ever existed, then you must make the tough choice. Surely you must understand that?”
I turned my eyes to Father Thomes; his eyes were stern. “I know, Father. I know. And don’t call me Shirley.” I forced the most unconvincing smile, feeling the magnitude of his words pull down at the corners of my lips.
“Let me pray on the matter, my son. For now, do not worry yourse—” Father Thomes began a fit of ferocious coughing that made me sit up straighter in my chair. Depweg took a step closer, both hands outstretched as if he were getting ready to catch the mortal should he fall from where he sat.
Father Thomes made a drinking gesture with his empty, arthritic hand while coughing wildly, and I got the message. I blurred upstairs to the kitchen, grabbed a glass, filled it under the tap before placing my hand on top of the cup to seal it, and then blurred back downstairs. I handed the water to the mortal priest who couldn’t catch his breath, and watched with a frown etched on my face as he drank greedily. Maybe it was the same pungent smell I had enjoyed from the fire that had caused the coughing fit.
After the glass was downed, I took it away while Father Thomes leaned back in his chair with one hand on his chest and the other on his throat. He was taking deep breaths while his lips quivered. I couldn’t help but notice how gnarled his hands were, and it made my heart ache.
As the fire was brought into its full strength, I could see from the now ample light that my mortal friend had become gaunt. Cheeks and eyes sat sunken in a wrinkled face. I could make out all the individual tendons under the copious liver spots of his arthritic hands. He didn’t have much longer on this Earth.
I began to open my mouth to ask the Father to forgive Depweg of his sins before he died, and then slammed it shut in disgust. How dare I ask a man who could pass away at this or any moment to save my friend who had done unspeakable deeds.
Then again, it was Depweg.
“I’m sorry about that, my sons,” Father Thomes said between raspy breaths.
“Ha-have you been taking the serum from Doc Jim?” I asked, knowing it wasn’t my business to do so.
“Only as much as needed to stay alive. I refuse to reverse the accumulated rewards that signify a long and prosperous life on God’s Earth.”
“You choose to suffer with the arthritis and weakness?” I asked softly, disbelieving the sacrifice the man was making. The angelic armor flashed through my mind for a nanosecond, like replacing a single frame in a movie reel. Understanding dawned before he could answer.
“Yes. They remind me that I am here for a purpose. I cannot rest until the story is over.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, apparently that will be only five years from now.”
“It isn’t,” Father Thomes said with a playful smile. “I don’t suppose you know what it’s like to go to the bathroom with arthritis.”
“I’m going to get you a bidet,” I said as I walked over, knelt, and placed a hand on his knee. He rested his disfigured hand on top of mine, and I had to fight the instinct to pull away in disgust. His skin was colder than it should be. Once plump blue veins now looked like thin black worms under the skin.
He patted my hand a few times before saying, “Leave me with Jonathan, won’t you?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” I said, getting to my feet, feeling relief that he was going to help my brother after all. “Depweg, I’ll be at Val’s when you’re done.” He nodded as he moved to sit in the chair I had vacated.
Turning back to Father Thomes, I asked just above a whisper, “Go easy on him, ’kay?”
“I would be doing him a disservice if I did, my son,” the priest said solemnly, and I knew he was right. Depweg had taken on an impossible debt by letting the beast out. “Go, enjoy a drink and try not to worry about that which we cannot control.”
“Good idea,” I admitted as I licked my lips in anticipation of a delicious enchanted beverage.
As I started walking toward the stairs, I said over my shoulder, “Don’t forget I’m having the place renovated. Maybe we can fill this ol’ girl with a congregation again.”
“I have a flock already, John, and it is of utmost importance that I steer their souls accordingly. We are all counting on it,” Father Thomes responded. I thought that I could almost feel the hurt in his words about not having his own mass of followers. I wondered, then, how often he had to remind himself that the sacrifices he was making were for the greater good.
“The greater good,” I whispered to myself.
10
I stepped outside the church, letting the big door close behind me, and took two steps on the old wooden landing before my foot went through. My knee smacked into the wood and I fell forward, catching myself before face-planting on the floor.
I gave an annoyed chuckle to myself as I pulled my leg out and looked at the white crates sitting ready to restore this old church.
“Perfect timing, I guess,” I said to the containers.
I began a casual walk down to Valenta’s Saloon. Though I tried to force thoughts, movie clips, or book passages through my mind, the sensation of unease continued to bat away my efforts of not contemplating the severity of what Depweg and Father Thomes were talking about at that very moment.
As my brain did a losing tug-of-war with my anxiety-driven deliriums on scenarios I was sure couldn’t happen, my feet stayed on course and eventually brought me to my destination.
Standing in the street, I looked at Val’s and once again licked my lips as the scene from earlier replayed in my mind; the crate of armor just waiting for its master. I wondered, then, if I was anxiously wanting a drink or to be closer to my armor. The irony of the situation caused a wave of longing for the inebriation a Blood and Jack would bring.
&nbs
p; I walked through the double doors, more ready than ever to have a drink, when I noticed the bar was completely empty.
“Val?” I called out, craning my neck toward the back doors.
“He’s indisposed at the moment,” came a male voice with a German accent.
I nearly leaped out of my pants as flicking eyes searched for the source of the sound. In the darkness of a corner, a match was struck and brought to a pipe. As the man puffed to ignite the tobacco, his face was illuminated with pulses of orange light. The contents of his tobacco smelled exotic and expensive, not like the chemical-laden crap of the commonwealth.
“Who tha feck are ye?” I asked startled, letting my accent slip.
“You know who I am, Vampir. Please, have a seat. I only wish to have a discussion with you,” he said, using the German pronunciation for vampire.
I let my predatory sight take hold, doing my best not to let my eyes turn red for fear of sending the wrong signal.
The bar lightened as if an unseen switch had been turned on, all except the corner where the man sat. There was a blotch of darkness, like a spider’s web, that filled the entire corner, hiding the man with shadows.
That’s a new one, I thought to myself, unnerved my sight was being canceled by this calm man.
“Allow me,” he said as he lifted a hand from the shadows and candles all around the room burst to life. That’s not the creepy part. There had been no candles when I walked in. He manifested them, presumably, from the ether.
I knew, then, who I was dealing with.
“Let me guess. Grand Master Silver. Am I right?”
“Very good, John Cook,” the man responded not so subtly, showing he knew about me.
I walked to where he sat, pulled out the chair, turned it around cool kid style, and plopped my butt down with an overconfident dad-groan. He smiled, unfazed by my show of gratuitous self-assuredness.
The man had a neatly trimmed goatee around his mouth and pointy chin, eyes with the same color iris as his pupil, and was graying near his ears. His otherwise short black hair was pristinely groomed. The pipe he smoked was long, like something you would see in Lord of the Rings, with sigils decorating the wood. Thick black silk robes covered him from head to toe, with a five-inch cloth belt wrapped around his middle. Acting as some sort of buckle was a pentagram that seemed to be made out of bone.