Murder The Light: The Demon Whisperer #2

by Ash Krafton

  Aw, crap. He'd never told Mack about his little field trip. There hadn't been time. The expression darkening the angel's face wasn't encouraging a confession now, either. Better to fish for answers. "What are you talking about? What's wrong? What did you see? What did I do different?"

  "You did everything the same, as far as I could tell. But there was…something different, some—shadow, of a sort, bolstering your chants and your charms. That demon obeyed instantly. Not because it was you. It was as if someone were standing behind you."

  "Yeah. You. Look." He made a hesitant glance at Mack, braving the look. "You're a Watcher, right? A non-aggressor. Maybe it wasn't you but rather the Big Guy you stand for. Maybe that's what did it."

  "God's power does not feel like a shadow."

  "I don't know that it does or doesn't. But I do know it was a tense moment." He rubbed his mouth and looked off, down the street, away from the angel's scrutinizing gaze. "Come on. You know I've been distracted lately. Looking for her. I was worried my mind wouldn't be focused enough. Maybe that's why you thought there was shadow. I had doubt. I don't, anymore."

  "Doubt is dangerous." Mack was softening, though his brows were still lowered in suspicion. "I am glad you conquered that."

  "Yeah, yeah." He rubbed his palms over the top of his head, ruffling his hair. "Me, too. Listen. Seriously. Can we talk just a little about that angel stunt you pulled back there? What was that?"

  Mack lifted his eyebrows with a humble shrug and set off down the street. "Influence."

  "Seriously?" Simon caught up to him, feeling like he'd just had an energy shot. Excitement over having seen Mack do one of his divine doings. Elation that he'd lived through another exorcism. "Influence? That was more like, I dunno. Mass hypnosis."

  "Not hypnosis. Merely a redirection of attention, a glimpse of something better."

  "But that—that barrier."

  "Not of my construction. Faith buffers a man and shields him from evil. Those people saw the Light, but their faith kept the demon away. All I did was behave as an angel was created to behave."

  Simon mused over that. An angel behaving as was created to behave. Did angels truly exist by such simple conditions?

  And what about himself? How was he to behave? As he'd been created? Was this his purpose, to chase the devils out of poor men?

  He thought hard about that. To chase the Devil, right down to his lair? The full realization of what he'd done suddenly settled upon him, heavy enough to make him stumble. Mack righted him with a gentle touch on the arm, his brows knitting when Simon glanced up in gratitude.

  "Simon." Mack gestured toward his face. "You're hurt."

  "What?' He wiped his mouth, feeling dampness on his lip. "When?"

  His fingers came away bloody.

  Nothing touched him. Nothing should have come close to touching him, let alone give him a nosebleed.

  He glanced up at Mack, whose expression had sunken to a most forbidding kind of concern.

  Nothing good.

  Bristol

  South West England

  a very, very, very long time ago

  Zophiel stretched his wings, the sunlight creating a diffuse glow around him as he glided over the water. A new mission, a new way to serve the Creator! It filled his heart with a buoyant joy. He was an angel of God. He existed to extend His Will to mortals.

  His name—"God's Spy" in the old tongue—never held negative connotation. Spying was merely watching and reporting back to those who sent him. That wasn't negative—that was simply his function. He behaved as angels were meant to behave.

  He slanted his wings and drifted lower, the sunlight catching the water's surface and bouncing it back in a million mirrors. The lower he flew, the less visible he became. Angels were not visible to mortal men. It was necessary for protecting the sanctity of faith.

  And the Faith was extremely interested in one particular mother-to-be. So it was that Zophiel was sent to Earth, to monitor the Enochian while she prepared to give birth. He was to watch and report back with any…anomalies.

  The sight of the shoreline quickened his heart. It was rare that he was chosen for missions. This was, by far, his most important.

  It would also be the first time he came upon mortals. Curiosity bubbled through him and he put new exertion into his flight.

  As he approached, he spied the harbor. He would follow the water path to the city at the end, a town called Bristol. Activity churned along the water's edges. Boats of different sizes and colors bobbed near the shore, where stout wooden planks extended out in primitive decks. Hard at work, oblivious to the presence of divinity, men performed their tasks. Carrying bundles, hanging nets, climbing into their boast. This was what men did.

  Men. Such amazing, dedicated creatures. Bless the Creator for so wondrous a creation. No question why He loved them so.

  But why would an Enochian be here? Enochia was far more resplendent than these hardy colors and shapes of Earth. Beauty and comfort were incomparable. Placed side by side, Earth would be caustic, rough, dangerous.

  Yet, an Enochian was here, in this place, preparing for the birth of her child. Not a common occurrence on Earth. One that had to be contained, if necessary.

  Zophiel had been endowed with certain abilities that would allow him to easily manipulate any mortals that needed redirection. Most particular were his powers of Suggestion, Persuasion, and Assurance. Mortal men were sensitive to these influences. With them, Zophiel would have no problems herding them.

  The Enochian, however, would not be as predictable. Best to let her do what she needed to do, and manage any complications that arose around her. The end game, he knew would be in getting her to go back to Enochia. But first, a period of surveillance.

  At the harbor's end, he took in his first glances of the man-made town of Bristol. Completely invisible and insubstantial, Zophiel glided through the village, observing the humans in the course of their day. The markets were full and lively, a cacophony of sound and color. Men, and their offshoots of women and children, talked and bargained and traded. Enochia had none of these things. They had no need for trade.

  While Enochia enthralled him, Zophiel had different feelings for its inhabitants. Angels mating with humans. It was an unsettling thought. Not having the body or the mindset for mating, Zophiel couldn't understand how the race had even been conceived. He considered them an impossibility, placing their existence firmly in the glory of the Creator, who alone knew all things.

  Looking at the women, he felt no stirrings, no temptation. There was no concern that he would be introducing new Enochians to the masses. Women were only slightly discernible from the males, generally by their rounder features and the children that often clung to them. He reached out with his senses, locating his mark. She was not among these people. She was somewhere…West.

  Without hesitation, he turned his back to the sun, opened his mind to her, and let her draw him in. A quarter-mile from the heart of the village, he found a small dwelling. She must be here. He could feel it.

  Drifting around the corner of the tiny home, he heard an odd sound. It was peculiar—a sad sound of music that resonated within him. He peered in the window.

  A luminous woman, hair the color of sunlight on wheat, clad in the remnants of Enochian silks, sat on the end of a sleeping bundle, cradling her swollen belly. Zophiel heard the sound that had drawn him in, clutched at his sympathetic heart.

  She was weeping.

  His prejudices vanished on the wind. This beautiful creature, far superior to all the humans he'd seen along his way, perfect even in this distended, unnatural state of pregnancy, weeping as if all hope had been lost.

  It touched him in a way unlike he'd ever known. In that moment, he knew that she was one to be protected and cherished. She was one of His creations and it would be his honor to be her guardian. He vowed to find a way to bring her peace and ease the torment that caused her to weep with such distress.

  His mission had officially
begun.

  Simon followed his feet back to Chiara's apartment.

  Why? He had no clue why. If anything, that was the last place he should have gone, considering what happened less than twelve hours before.

  But he was tired, like, dead to the bone tired. He was weary. And he hurt. His shoulder hurt from being tossed into a trash can. His chest hurt beneath his amulet and his brain hurt just thinking about what it meant. The only thing that didn't hurt was his nose…yet that was the part that worried him most.

  His damned nose had bled so profusely he almost went to the emergency room. Almost, but not quite. Something about white coats made him uncomfortable. He'd have to be in danger of losing a limb before he went into one of those dens of misery and, even then, it would depend on the limb.

  So, he'd done the practical thing. He made a pit-stop at the diner's parking lot, where his chests of magical wonders-to-behold were stored in his perpetually-parked van. Took a lot of chicory to get him there unnoticed and a heaping handful of yarrow to get the bleeding stopped before he finally dragged his behind to Chiara's place.

  And all the way there, the long weary shuffle of it, his brain rolled through old footage, too tired to stop it. The memory of Kent's voice echoed in his head like a ghost, a phantom he couldn't put to rest. Too weary to ward off the memories, he surrendered to them, and allowed himself to be carried downstream by the relentless current.

  "Give me your amulet, Simon…"

  Kent had said it as off-hand and a guy would say "Give me your lighter." Not "give me your sole vestige of protection and kneel naked and vulnerable before me."

  But he wasn't a guy asking for a light. Kent was Simon's master.

  Simon obeyed, unclasping the chain and placing it on the table between them. It took every bit of his will to do it. When was the last time he'd removed it? When was the last time he'd trusted someone enough to even let them look at it?

  Why did he feel so powerless?

  He kept his eyes on it as if his gaze would maintain some tactile contact. The pendant wasn't large, or extravagant. The size of a nickel, maybe, with a double ring of three hearts each, the inner ring resembling a shamrock. Lucky charm, his mom had said. He supposed it had worked, considering he was standing here, looking at it, despite all he'd done to try to get himself obliterated.

  His mother had worn it and gave it to him when he had her committed. He had worn it ever since, a sign of her love, his betrayal. Two things he never wanted to forget. It was one of the few things he'd taken with him when he left his life in Belmont behind.

  It meant everything to him now. As a son, as a mage, as a soldier against the dark.

  And it was the one thing that protected him from what he both hated and feared most.

  Simon shook himself out of the reverie as he dragged himself up the last flight of steps, sliding along the wall toward Chiara's door. The lock clacked open at his approach, loud enough to bring him all the way back into the present.

  He shuffled through her door, too exhausted to mind the wards while they did their little pat down. The amulet warmed a few degrees hotter than usual, probably because it sensed he had worn himself to complete defenselessness. He stroked it with reverence, a grateful thought that at least something still had his back.

  Pulling out the poultice he'd packed into his nostrils was a complete nightmare. Chunks of weed and dried blood stuck to his nose hairs, making its extraction a new kind of painful experience, complete with a wimpy sting of involuntary tears. Not seeing a wastebasket, he tossed the remnants of his nasty cure into the fireplace.

  The fire roared, devouring the bloodied yarrow with a shower of green sparks.

  Uh, oh. He slapped himself on the forehead. Stupid, stupid man. Just fed blood to a mystical fire—

  A chuckle sounded from the fireplace—a deep, sultry laugh he recognized at once. The sound crawled up his spine and brushed the back of his neck, making him shiver.

  And he knew. He knew.

  The nosebleed hadn't been an accident. It was a blood price.

  That exorcism had been simple, annoyingly so. He didn't have to even perform the whole ritual. It was like the demon knew where he was headed and finished it for him. No demon should ever want to do that.

  That demon was nothing special. It had referred to itself as "us", right? So it had no particular identity. Plain old minion rank, one of a billion nameless hoard that clumped together like slime cells on a stagnant pond. Nothing special, nothing new, nothing different than the hundred he'd pulled out of people in the past.

  So, it had been him. He was different.

  He sank down onto Chiara's ratty couch and glared at the fire. He should have known. Didn't the Morningstar tell him he'd done him a favor?

  And, by the way, what the hell? Why would the Devil make him a better exorcist?

  Power. A whisper slithered through the room, echoing over and over.

  He sat up, hastily scanning the parlor, the stairs.

  Giving the fireplace the side eye, he slipped his hand into his pocket, fingering through his charms. When he brushed against the silver crucifix, the whisper deepened into a disapproving rumble.

  Not in my house, you don't.

  "What do you want?" He twisted, scanning the room, the ceiling, not knowing where to point his voice. Bravado from a beggar. At least he didn't sound like a terrified twelve-year-old.

  The very same that you want. To find my daughter.

  Simon rolled his shoulders and sat back, the lumpy cushion denying him comfort. His tattoo twinged as if an ice cube slid across it and he rubbed it absent-mindedly. "How does a stupid nosebleed get that done?"

  I cannot see her from my vantage. I need eyes on the mortal plane. You are to be my envoy.

  "Shit." He rubbed his hair back hard enough to hurt it. "No, sir. Not your envoy. That's a direct violation of my ethical standards."

  Ethical, indeed. Lucifer issued a dismissive noise from deep in His throat. Those so-called standards permitted you to venture to my own realm to recruit my assistance.

  Simon grumbled. Not like he'd known exactly who was going to pick up the phone when he dialed. "Yeah, but—"

  Ignorance of the law is not an excuse to break it. More than a little amusement lightened His voice.

  He could hear the Devil smiling. And the Devil smiled only when He was winning.

  Talk about a losing battle. Simon sighed. In for a penny and all that. "Fine. What are we dealing with?"

  You carry a piece of me within you. It is tied to your power. Not your soul, I assure you. The voice took on an arch tone. I prefer those to remain…organic. Ensures a pure harvest. But your magic—that I can work with.

  "And the bleeding?"

  You are a mortal. Mortals are not meant to wield such immense strength.

  Good old-fashioned cockiness rolled to the surface. Simon bit back retort after retort. Wouldn't be a good idea to mouth off to this guy.

  Mmmm. Pride. I think that is one thing I do like about you, Alliant. Your swollen, grotesque pride. It is admirable.

  Morningstar was reading him. Simon bit down on his lips and forced himself to think of a blank sheet of paper and a single droning syllable, trying to empty his mind. Hard to do with the tattoo pulsing with a happy little heartbeat of its own. Damn thing was responding to the Devil's power. Not good.

  All it did was earn him a wave of condescending laughter.

  That's the spirit. Do that. Hide your thoughts from me. But do not defy me, Alliant. You will do what you must to find my daughter, or you will pay a price greater than a handful of blood.

  The fire suddenly flared out, swelling, crackling, sending out a shower of spitting embers before shrinking down, down, down to orange coals, which pulsated with a sullen heat like a distant heartbeat.

  The room felt empty but for himself, once more.

  "Okay," he said, hoping no one was listening at this point. "Guess I'll just go to sleep, then."

  Would his favor
ite room still be there? He climbed the stairs and peered around the corner, down the long hallway. The very end was completely shrouded in blackness. Kind of comforting, that. Didn't really think seeing that door would be conducive to a good night's sleep.

  About halfway down, one of the doors stood open, a warm light spilling out into the hall, softening the darkness with an inviting glow. His room. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe something good could come out of all this bad, after all.

  Carefully, he paced toward the open door, slowly and deliberately, wanting nothing more than to flop onto the big pillow-top bed with its pillows and memory foam, but fully expecting trap doors to swallow him or a creep-show beast to pop out.

  The edges of his senses tingled, kind of like a blip on the radar. His amulet pulsed once, a spot of heat, a bump up in his protections. Something was up here. Something he hadn't noticed before. He paced past each of the rooms, their doors closed, and leaned to listen. Nothing.

  Another door, another scrutiny. Nothing.

  The door to the room catty-corner to his stood slightly ajar. Although that room was dark, it buzzed with a ward that felt like a burr bush, scratching at his senses, snagging his attention. He paused in front of it, examining the ward's power signature. Something not exactly unknown—

  When he turned to look at it, the door slid shut with a sullen click. The anticipation of something unpleasant switched off. Whatever was in there didn't want to be seen.

  Fine by him. He wasn't in the mood for another intrigue. He shrugged, not having a clue, not wanting one. Giving the door a stern glance, he waved a finger at it. "And stay in there."

  The distraction dispelled, he drew a deep breath and focused on the spread of light that poured from his room. It was like an open embrace that beckoned to him.

  Now, everything was peaceful up here. Quiet. Right. Just like it had always felt when she was around. Maybe…

  He shook his head. He wasn't silly enough to think she was in there. But he was human enough to hope, and lonely enough to wish.

  Simon dallied in the bathroom only long enough to peel off his soiled clothes and scrub the old blood off his skin. The bed was as soft as he'd remembered, the pillow just as fluffy. As he sank into the warmth and the soft and the comfort, he let himself remember her scent, and pretended she was there.