Murder The Light: The Demon Whisperer #2

by Ash Krafton

  Oh, this was not a conversation she wanted to have with her own mother. No, no, not at all. She hurriedly turned her back, wishing it could shield her, stop her ears. "I don't want to be talking about this."

  "Zophiel has been my companion for centuries, Chiaroscuro. He has never abandoned me. You once thought of him as family."

  "Because I thought he was family. He lied to me. He masked his true self and pretended to be someone I loved and trusted." Chiara sat down on the edge of the couch and folded her hands. "I know the truth, now. I cannot trust him in any capacity."

  "Why? Because you've learned that Zophiel is more than just my assistant?"

  "No. Because I learned what he really is. Mother." Chiara lowered her voice to urgent tones. "What he does is treacherous. Even by my standards."

  "Treacherous?" Luminea seemed not to care if anyone overheard. "Don't be silly. This is the mortal plane, dear. There is no treachery here. In fact, the rules are sketchy at best. And rarely enforced."

  "So says the Enochian who cannot die on this plane, thus evading judgment."

  "You're a fine one to judge, girl." Luminea lifted her chin. "What happened to your precious sense of neutrality?"

  "It's perfectly intact. As are my morals. As is my certain knowledge that the Divine have no right upon this plane. He should not be here. You should not be here."

  "I cannot be elsewhere." Luminea crossed her arms and turned her back on her, standing to gaze out the windows toward the silver horizon.

  "No," Chiara said. "You refuse to be elsewhere."

  "I cannot be elsewhere." There was a subtle but sure emphasis to that word, matched with a downturn of her icy eyes. "Do you forget? We lived here on the mortal plane all your life. We made our home on this Earth. We lived amongst mortals, assumed their habits, their cultures, their traditions."

  Something of sentimentality in her tone made Chiara get up and join her at the window. With a light touch upon her arm, she urged her mother to look at her. "We lived, Mother. It's what people do."

  "We are not people." Luminea patted her hand once, a resigned sort sadness giving way to something stronger, something harder. What had been soft and pliable in her voice was now forging itself in steel. "We are not mortals meant to muddle through this filthy plane like meat bags with an expiration date."

  Luminea backed away, framing herself in the brightness of the broad window, back lit by the glint of sunlight off the city surroundings. "I am Enochian. I am of the Light, the purest of planes below the Celestial. Descended from angels. Angels! Creatures of clarity and crystalline grace. Unsullied by death or dirt or…despair."

  "My point, exactly. You've never been content here. Why stay?"

  "Because I cannot be elsewhere!"

  A familiar guilt settled over Chiara. Long before she'd left home, she blamed herself for her mother's separation from her friends, her family, her home. Zophiel had played no small role in that, she realized, with his secret insinuations and his disappointments in her failings as a daughter of Luminea. It was what spurred her to seek far-off lands, what drove her away from her mother.

  She'd long ago come to the conclusion that her mother abandoned Enochia because of her. The unwanted child, her dark heritage. A stain upon an Enochian's name. "So leave this all behind. You don't need all this—this fortress, this city. We lived simply once, remember? I'm not saying we need to live in the Middle Ages again, but we can live cleanly. Like when we had that little piece of land near Bristol."

  "Yes, I remember Bristol. Knowing we were safe so close to the water. And I remember when they built that bridge—no magic, no power, just the work of their dirty hands and sore backs and sheer determination to conquer that water. Such a shame to see it replaced by that boring, iron thing. So like people. Taking monuments of toil and heartbreak and replacing them with cold, unfashionable strips of metal. It's not the same. Bristol isn't the same."

  "So don't go there. There are other places, simple places. The shorelines here are mainly all built up now but in Canada there are vast wildernesses, and many great lakes and rivers, close enough to water—"

  "Water?" The look Luminea tossed at her was heavy with contempt. "Do you think water is enough to protect us now? You know it cannot. You've proven it cannot."

  "Not us." Chiara turned her head. "But I don't need to be protected."

  "Of course, you don't." Luminea's tone turned to glass, cold and sharp. "You are his, aren't you? Your father's daughter."

  "That is not what I meant."

  "Doesn't matter anymore" Luminea said. "We are here. We will stay here. I don't need water to surround me. I have power."

  "Power?"

  "Yes. My empire." Luminea clucked her tongue. "Come now, dear, you can't say you haven't noticed. I've done quite well for myself."

  "Yes, you have." Chiara rolled her eyes. "This is very beautiful. The prison you have me in is quite exquisite."

  "Don't patronize me. You may not be able to appreciate what I've done but, I assure you, I do not miss home."

  Chiara remembered the tales her mother had told her about her home in Enochia, wistful bedtime tales of light and grace, fairy tales and happily-ever-afters. She'd never understood why they didn't go back, not even after she'd been on her own and made telling discoveries about herself. "Not even a little?"

  "You can't miss a place that doesn't want you." Luminea stood and tapped the side of her eye, blinking. "And why should I miss it? When this whole world is open?"

  "Not for you, Mother." Enough was enough. Whatever mood possessed her mother of late, it could not be excused. Chiara had long believed that when she left home, her mother had gone back to Enochia. Apparently not. Living on the mortal plane was no crime, but consorting with a angel such as Zophiel—that was inexcusable. "I mean it. What you're doing here—it's not right. Zophiel should have been dispatched ages ago."

  "Dispatch Zophiel? Why would I do that? Do you know how difficult it is to find good help these days? And not just the help. What he can do with his hands—"

  "Mother!"

  "I'm talking about massage, dear. Really. Not all of us dream in the colors of perdition."

  The colors of perdition. What a bleak thing to say. Perdition was one of those words one seldom heard on this plane, not unless someone was referring to ultimate damnation. To hear it from her own mother's mouth…it weighed in her chest, a palpable ache.

  She lowered her head, unable to face her mother. Although Zophiel had been the one to make her believe such things, she'd held onto the hope that the negativity had been only his, a secret. To hear it now, from her own mother, was grievous.

  Chiara felt small and discarded, a vulnerable child, so great was her re-animated shame. "Is that what you think of me?"

  "Of course not." Luminea seemed not to notice the anguish that twisted Chiara inside. "I'm just saying. Zophiel knows me. He understands me. I don't want to have to re-train someone new every fifty years. It's exhausting."

  "He's an abomination." Chiara knew how many times she said it, the word would not alter her mother's perception. What Luminea believed, was. End of story.

  "Zophiel has no choice. That is the prevalent theme here. There is no choice. Not for him. Not for me. And, certainly, not for you." Luminea approached the mirror, pressing a finger to the surface, activating the passage way.

  "There's always a choice, Mother."

  "You have had the luxury these many years, my love, of living in the best of both worlds. Well, I haven't. I only had this world. I have had to make do. And, well," she said, her voice lightening into an arrogant laugh. "If I haven't just. So. You should sit back and enjoy your quarters, and the service, and your new situation because, my dear, this is an empire, and it takes a family to run it."

  She stepped through, her last words distorted as they echoed through the rippling glass. "Welcome home, child."

  Turned out, angels did get car sick. Kind of.

  Simon arrived in Atlanta with a new w
orking definition of the word eternity: four hours on a bus with a pissy angel.

  Wasn't like Mack could sit in his own seat. Rather a bit too ethereal for that. Simon had been lucky to get on at all, much less get an empty seat next to his.

  Mack spent the first hour standing in the aisle, dissipating every time somebody got up to use the toilet. Eventually, he got tired of all the passing-throughs and went up front to sit on the step near the driver.

  It was hard to drown out the sound of his complaining. Driver drove too fast. Too slow. Too close to the car in front. Too near to the edge of the road. Wore too much cologne. Fooled with his phone too much. Simon passed most of the ride chuckling into his collar, trying not to draw attention. It was hard to look sane while laughing at a ridiculous creature no one else could see. Little too much Drop Dead Fred.

  Mack's indignant tirade almost made the ride bearable…but a bus was still a bus, and he'd gotten on with a rough stomach to begin with.

  If only laughter really was the best medicine.

  Unfortunately, this malady had a lousy prognosis. It was terminal. Every deal with the Devil ended the same way.

  Simon drew a shallow breath, trying not to wake the cramps again.

  At least Mack seemed impervious to diesel fumes. Simon, on the other hand, wasn't. The smell left him feeling dizzy and nauseous, a little unsteady on his feet.

  Or, maybe it had been the ride itself that left him a wreck. Angel portals were a thrill ride for him, but buses? Reduced the mighty mage to a puddle of sea-green in a wastebasket, every time. Fricken car sick nonsense—

  He staggered the corner and leaned heavily against the wall, breathing deep in the ocean of clean, bus-free air. Or, maybe it was his tattoo. It took a will of steel to avoid it but he hadn't touched it once on the entire ride north. Maybe he was jonesing for a hit. God only knew how he felt between regular old wand-hits before. Withdrawal was a nauseating bitch.

  Or…maybe not. He rubbed his mouth and leaned to spit into the gutter. If it was the tattoo, he'd know it, period. The hold it had on him was bone deep. Soul deep. If he were simply hungering for a wand hit, he'd know it even if he were dead.

  Mack had regained his ethereal composure, manifesting enough to allow the soft breeze to stir his clothing, his hair. Peace had once more assumed its natural order upon his countenance.

  Kind of a shame, Simon thought. The harried I-hate-buses bus look was way more interesting. Made him feel like they were on equal footing.

  Not like that would ever be possible. Not now.

  "So, chum." Simon shook off the sense of impending despair and rubbed his hands together. "Give us a map, why don't you?"

  Without a word, Mack procured his pouch of angel dust and poured himself a handful, throwing up the glimmering veil of map. A single tap of a pale finger brought forth the lines and curves of street and road, revealing the odd wobbly spider web shape that bulls-eyed the city of Atlanta.

  "And us?" Simon glanced from the map to Mack's face and back. "Does this thing zoom in?"

  He reached up to expand it with his fingers, knowing his hand would pass right through.

  Except, it didn't.

  He felt the veil, a cool slip like a benign jellyfish, alive with a pulse of life. The veil clung to him and he spun it thinner, bringing forth new details. His lips parted in a smile as he relished the control, the touch of angel magic, the power.

  Until it began to burn.

  He snatched his hand away and rubbed his fingertips, soothing away the nips of tingly pain. But the map…

  It now bore the brand of a human hand print, a dark scar across the face of the bluish-purple sheen.

  Mack stood agape, staring through the damaged veil at Simon.

  "I—I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have—I" Simon stammered, regretting so many things all at once. He had no right to touch it. Didn't even know where the impulse had come from. Just knew that looking wasn't enough. So surprised he'd felt it, the joy, the surge of victory at having done so. And the crush of regret that he'd ruined it, tainted it, marked it with his lowly undeserving mortal flesh. "Did I break it?"

  Mack's eyes were dimmed beneath his furrowed brows. He tapped the veil, but it didn't respond to his touch.

  "Just great, " Simon muttered. It was locked up, or something. The Holy Internet crashed. His fault. Again.

  "This is of no use." Mack waved a hand and the chrism veil disintegrated into dull sand, falling to the sidewalk with a soft hiss. "You will need to rely on conventional means. Or, rather as is generally the case with you, unconventional."

  If he only knew. Simon nodded, scrubbing at the grains of dead chrism with the toe of one shoe. Only a moment ago it had been bright, and shimmering, and full of wonder. Now, it was now little more than scattered dirt, a chilling reminder of what lay ahead for him and every other foolish mortal who dared to believe that something glorious awaited in the hereafter.

  Such pessimism was not to be shared. Exorcists, more than anyone else, had to believe in the Life After. It was the only decent reason to keep risking the life he currently had.

  Thing was, before he went through the Devil's portal, he didn't have to work so hard at believing it. "Righto. So. First step first."

  Scanning the street, he selected a friendly-looking passerby and strode over to her. A small inquiry made. A smile, a point of a finger, and a thank you.

  Returning to Mack, he jerked his head in the direction in which the woman had pointed. "Come on. We go this way."

  Behind him, the angel called out. "What did you ask that person?"

  He only gestured over his shoulder for Mack to catch up.

  Which the angel did, in a moment. Honestly, he moved like he had a Segue under his tunic. Maybe he did. Those pants he wore were pretty loose-fitting. "Simon, what is this 'first step'?"

  "The same as every other first step. I found us a Dunkies. Every plan starts with a coffee, Mack." He clapped the angel around the shoulder and steered him in the right direction. "I figured you knew that by now."

  Soon thereafter, the pair leaned against a low stone wall on one of the multitude of Peachtree Streets (Simon had trouble keeping track of them all), this particular one a lovely tree-lined sidewalk beside the busy lanes of city traffic. He had to admit, there was a certain charm to this place, a warmth beneath the annoying humid heat of a southern city.

  There was a another force in this place that attracted him, resonated with him. While he'd always been intrigued by new places, this was more than the change in speech patterns, the difference in pace, or the odd obsession with sweet tea. Atlanta had a sense of Something Big on the Way.

  Big cities usually had that feeling about them. It was growth and change and the cumulative desires of tens of thousands of men and women who were all thriving in the heart of urban life, changing and morphing with each breath.

  Yet, this place was slightly different. It was the same typical city feeling, but this time, it lay on a deeper, metaphysical level. He closed his eyes and inhaled over his cup of coffee regular, feeling out the ley lines beneath his feet. If he hadn't been so focused on saving one person, he could admit he should have relocated here a long, long time ago.

  There was a lot of work here to be done. He didn't need the scrying lens or the damnable Sight to confirm it. So many doors here, waiting to be opened.

  Mack seemed nonplussed by the whole change of scenery or the dull ache of foreshadowing that coated it, although he was quieter than usual.

  He was staring at Simon. Studying. Scrutinizing. Suspicious. That mess with the chrism veil didn't abate that a single bit.

  Well. Let him scrutinize, Simon thought. He had work to do. Always had work to do.

  Squinting in the sunlight, Simon shielded his eyes with one hand, slugging down another mouthful of coffee. It would take a while to acclimate to this new city, to absorb the natural energies, the humanity, the residual powers. It was like taring a scale—he had to identify the baseline before he cou
ld notice the anomalies.

  His tattoo pinched up about then, giving skin crawl a new definition. Dammit. He must have triggered his tat without meaning to do so. This wasn't the time for a distraction. He barely had time to get the Coffee Beast fed. Now the tattoo was looking for attention.

  He rubbed it with a frown, annoyed more than anything else. But it was more than an unitchable itch. It was a sense of…open your eyes, fool.

  Not one to ignore a magical warning, he did as he was told. He opened his eyes and looked, hard, everywhere, at everything, everyone.

  When his gaze fell upon a certain man across the street, his senses just locked onto him.

  The big burly man stood out amongst the others around him. He didn't look comfortable in his own skin. He walked like his clothes didn't fit, or like he was going commando. Sunlight filtering down through the leaves glinted off his reddish-brown hair as he lumbered away from them, toward the Marrietta district. He looked over his shoulder once, in Simon's direction.

  Simon's throat closed around a swallow. That face. That was definitely him. The man from his wand-tripping visions.

  Silently he followed, moving in lockstep, using trees and poles as camouflage. Couldn't lose him, couldn't spook him. Zeroed in on the guy, Simon patted himself down for his cigarettes and pulled out the pack, tapping it against his palm.

  One by one the cigarettes slid out. He picked them free, tossing them to the ground. It wasn't a smoke he wanted. It was chicory. He needed an invisibility spell.

  The pack crumpled when the last cigarette fell out. Not a single stick of it. Shit.

  So, he did the only other thing he could. In a last ditched effort, he closed his eyes and willed himself not to be seen.

  The tattoo hummed and churned out a sheen of magic that slicked over him from head to toe. He knew it worked. No one saw him, not even the guy who shouldered past him, eyes on his phone.

  Simon didn't look back to see if Mack followed. Hopefully, he didn’t. He didn't want to have to explain what just happened.