Murder The Light: The Demon Whisperer #2

by Ash Krafton

  He wanted to be grateful. The vice grip in his chest had lessened. He reached into his pocket, feeling for the relic Mack had given him. Touching it didn't hurt. Here in the circle, he was free.

  His shoulders crumpled. This was just a circle. He couldn't stay in here forever. Sooner or later he'd have to go out, back into the red fog that waited like a judgement he'd never outrun.

  Glancing at the sky, he tried to judge the position of the sun. The reddish haze muddied the sky too much. Never mind. Now was all he had.

  "Get to work, boyo," he muttered. "Daylight's burning, somewhere."

  He sat down, cross-legged, and closed his eyes. Submerged in the cool press of air and energy, free of distraction from sound or sight, he settled, stage by stage, into a deep meditation. As his nerves quieted and his heart rate slowed, the hunger that never went away became sharper, more pronounced.

  Damn circle couldn't fix that bit, could it? The need. The ache that was always with him. It swelled, raised its head and spread its hood like a cobra, as if knowing it was about to be fed.

  He slid the wand out and uncapped it. He knew if he opened his eyes, the fog would be boiling, wanting to be part of this disastrous sin.

  No. Not sin. He set his jaw. A tool. A device to get a job done.

  He started to chant. Didn't need to chant to make it work, but wanted this one to count, wanted this one to make up for all the ones he'd never do again, if only he could get her back. Seemed like he was trying to make a shoddy deal but he didn't care. What was one more?

  Didn't even bother trying to line up the wand. Sorta knew he could drop it anywhere and hit the tat dead-center. Like using a large bore needle. At this point, it would be harder to miss.

  When the wand hit, it was like he'd driven a spear straight through his arm, impaling himself on the thrust of razor-sharp power. The stars exploded behind his eyes and he threw his head back with a tribal scream.

  The magical dome above him took on the drapery of a midnight sky. The stars and their orbits hung precariously overhead. Time bled around him. The ground disappeared. Lightning sizzled through every inch of his body and his vision opened up, opened wide and he saw everything, all at once.

  Like a kid in a candy store, he grabbed what he could. Saw the red-headed man, that face he'd first seen in Boston. Felt his otherness, his sameness. Saw the black fist scoop him up, obscuring him.

  Behind that face, there were others. Hundreds. But they were all masks. Masks, covering the true being inside. That redhead was just another mask.

  He spun around the man's figure, scrutinizing him from all sides. When the sun pivoted and backlit the burly figure, more than simple girth blocked out the sun.

  The silhouette had wings.

  Real wings. Not foggy shapes like a Watcher.

  The man spun and images flowed past him in a hurricane of events, scenes of him doing terrible things to people. Killing men. Abusing women. Getting children on them. And all the while the sun shone down and he basked in the light, the bastard. Basked in the golden rays as if he, for one moment, deserved even a hint of grace. The lecherous murderer.

  The sunlight smiled and coalesced into the image of a shining woman—the one in the car, the one who took Chiara. Luminea. The man gazed at her with adoration while he cut and he maimed, all for her.

  A fortress snapped into place around them, the wards as plain as text upon a page. It was like he could see it through The Matrix, lines of code, layers of protection. Just as the circle strained out every last bit of hellpower, so did that fortress. That redheaded punk was safely inside with Luminea, the tallies of his sins cascading through the halls like a treacherous river.

  The flood of images slowed and came to rest on a lone woman. He saw her. Saw Chiara, her face, her eyes—God, her eyes—

  Saw the chain, her arms pulled overhead. Felt her fear. Felt the rage that was closing in on her.

  And he knew all, in that moment. Omnipotence. Grabbed what he could, knowing he couldn't keep it all.

  The vision broke, shattered when the wand fell from his spasming fingers. Everything in the universe had been there in his head one moment, gone the next. He crumpled over upon himself and slumped to the ground, sprawling on his back, panting.

  And when the blood slowed in his ears, he realized he was chanting, quietly, repetitively. Metatron’s prophecy. Light’s scion, tarnished…

  He replayed the images, describing what he'd seen in a breathless mumble, trying to remember everything he could before it all faded like an opium dream. Only when he felt he'd cemented the necessary memories of his vision did he open his eyes.

  The fog was still there, waiting all around him. It wanted him back.

  And, now that he had what he needed, he was ready to go back and finish the job.

  Standing, he knocked the grass off his clothes and prepared to cross back, grateful he'd built a large enough circle that he didn't bust his head open when he landed. The last thing he needed to do was blood this thing on the way out.

  Crossing over didn't hurt nearly as much. He merely stepped out into the fog and it swallowed him whole, squeezing in on him until every last puff was inside. His second vision clicked over once before settling on normal. Nothing of the Dark here in these woods to hold it.

  Just himself, and he was the last thing he wanted to look at.

  Back in the city, Simon leaned against the glass window of a bus stop shelter, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, watching down the street for the appearance of his next dreaded ride. It was a little late in the day for sunglasses, and he shouldn't have needed them here in the shade of the cityscape.

  However, he'd gotten a look at himself. Better the glasses than have people staring.

  Reunited with the dark power, he'd made short work of getting back to the city. All he'd done was stroll out of the woods out to the road. A little snap of his finger, a tiny flick of hellfire, and he was in the front seat of some dude's Jetta. Travelling in style. Sure beat riding in the back of an open pick-up truck. Less bugs.

  Guy wouldn't remember a thing, either. When he stopped for gas, Simon slipped out, dropping a tenner on the front seat before strolling away. Dude was too spellbound to know he'd stopped for a hitcher, let alone get a good look at him.

  Maybe the guy was a little confused as to why he stopped for gas with a tank more than three-quarters full. The bigger question should have been why he was wearing loafers without socks or why he popped his collar when it obviously wasn't 1991 anymore. But, hey. He wasn't the kind of guy to judge.

  He decided to hit the can while he was there. Maybe splash a little cold water on his face, cool his eyes. They were tired and sore from being out in this relentless Southern sun.

  But a look in the mirror told him it wasn't sun strain. His eyes were both hemorrhaged, looking like twin balls of blood. Suddenly, retinal cancer seemed like a better deal.

  He just leaned on the sink, feeling heavier than he'd ever felt in his life, staring himself in the bloody eyes. Resignation was too cheery a word. He couldn't even be upset about it.

  At least his nose wasn't bleeding this time.

  So. Gas station sunglasses that pinched the soft spots above his ears and hugged his brows like Jordie LaForge's visor. Adjusting the frames, he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Just wasn't his look.

  None of this was.

  "Simon." Mack's voice startled him. The angel appeared to his left, stepping out of his wing-fog to apparate at his side.

  "Hey." He waved weakly, not so much from weariness but rather a sense that he'd done enough to Mack already. Every second that went by felt like he drove a nail in the already-closed door in Heaven's gate, stranding the angel outside with the rest of the unworthy. "Funny meeting you here. Wanna go for another ride?"

  "Not in the least." Mack looked positively revolted.

  Simon shrugged and swiped at his nose with his thumb. Would be a long, long time before someone got that angel on a bus again. "Well, I kinda need
to catch this one so, talk fast."

  "We have gone through a rather difficult time as of late, you and I." Mack wore the expression of an apologetic ex who felt bad over the break-up. "My…contact has informed me that the situation has not been mitigated. What I do not need contacts to tell me is that you have made a terrible turning point. That I can see clearly, the dread certainty etched upon your heart."

  "Yeah, you can say that. I, uh, had a vision today. You know, the kind you don't approve of. But after years of not having a plan, I got one. Probably a bad one, but it's a plan." Simon paused and took a long chug of his coffee, grateful for the terrible sunglasses. "I know what I have to do."

  "I do not like the feel of your aura, Simon. Your plan—I can only assume it's a bad one."

  "Oh, the worst." He leaned over and chucked the cup into the trash. "I asked her father for help, and he agreed. I'm going to walk into Luminea's fortress and, uh…hell gate him in."

  If he'd punched Mack in the holy ‘nads, he couldn't have gotten a more vehement response.

  "Are you mad? Have you learned nothing? Allowing a demon to step forth, unhindered? What good can you accomplish by an act that will cause untold damage? A minion against an Enochian—it will just result in another explosion, most likely, but this time, you will be blown to bits."

  "Not with this minion. Because he's not a minion. He's…" Simon faltered. Oh, God, he really didn't want to let Mack find out this way. "He's kind of a big deal."

  "A big deal?"

  "Yeah. Kind of the biggest."

  Several long heavy moments trudged by before the illumination of truth hit, the realization of who Chiara's father really was. And Mack just lit right up.

  "You must not!" Mack rushed him, grabbed his shirt up in both fists and jacked Simon right up against the wall of the bus shelter. A startled woman yelped and almost dove headfirst into the street. Nose to nose, Mack gritted his teeth, his eyes gleaming with a sallow light. "All this time—I almost cannot believe it, but it is so clear. He's been priming you. To this very end. A hell gate is exactly what He wants. Access to this plane."

  "Don't you think I know that? What choice do I have? I can't fight Luminea. I can't beat a divinity, especially not one who is out of her fricken mind. It's hard enough fighting human crazy. I can't begin to imagine divine insanity. And that boy-toy of hers—" The shudders that ran down his back were genuine. "Holy crap, is he a mountain of misery. I don't even want to tell you what I think he is—"

  "There is no need to tell me. I know what he is. This is a battle you shouldn't fight."

  Simon shook himself free of Mack's forceful hold. "What do you mean by that?"

  "It's not your place."

  "This is my place." Simon spread his hands wide before thumping himself on the chest. "Getting Chiara back is my only place. I was suffocating, Mack, and I didn’t even know it. Not until she gave me the air I'd needed. She never gave up on me. I won't give up on her."

  "But the adversary is Enochian, Simon. She is of the Light. To say you are fighting the Light—"

  "She's cracked, Mack. She's a bad bulb."

  The angel crossed his arms. "Then leave those matters to others. Walk away."

  "You know, ever since I met Chiara, you keep telling me to walk away. I'm getting a little sick of it."

  "Then obey and I will stop."

  Oh, no, he didn't. He did not just tell him to obey. Trigger word, pulled.

  The caldera of otherness that constantly simmered in his veins began to boil. A hot voice in the back of his head seethed with indignation.

  He was not the one to obey. He was the one to rule. How dare a servant angel, a slave, a mouthpiece dare tell him to obey? A darkness rose from the ground up, stilling and chilling him.

  "Did you get Sarah back?" Simon stepped into Mack, who stood his ground. "Did you make me face my fears so that I can fix that broken part that kept fucking me up? Did you help me find the closure I needed? Did you make me whole? No. Did God? No. She did. She did all those things. And she is of the Light, too, you bastard. I fight for her. I fight for her light. I fight for her because she fights for the rest of us little unworthy men."

  Mack stood still as carved stone. The breeze didn't even stir the fabric of his tunic. "Then you fight alone."

  Sullenly Simon crossed his arms and leaned back against the frame of the bus stop shelter. "Never asked you to get your feathers dirty."

  "No. I mean, you fight alone. Not just without me. Without the Light."

  Simon reached up to take off his glasses, like it would help him see Mack more clearly. He barely caught himself in time. "What are you saying?"

  "I have my orders. If you insist on doing this, knowing what it will do for the darkness, in full knowledge of that intentional sin…" Mack bowed his head. "I am to withdraw my patronage."

  "What, you're leaving me? Abandoning me?" All the fight went out of him, drained out his toes, puddling uselessly at his feet. "You…you can't. I need you more than ever Mack. I need you to hold me together when I do this."

  "I have my orders."

  "But, Mack." He rolled his lips, sucking hard on them. "This thing will kill me if you aren't there to put me back together when it’s over."

  "Then you die to bring Lucifer into the world. That is the essence of your sin. All that He does will be on your soul. Is that what you want?"

  Simon rolled around the corner of the partition and sank onto the bench, holding his head in in hands. "I just want Chiara back safe."

  "Then pray your sacrifice is not in vain."

  Simon lifted his chin, staring up at Mack for a long silent moment. He always knew he had a choice, even when others didn't. That was his curse.

  He let his gaze drift and jerked his head. "Then you better be off. I don't want you tainted with what I am about to do."

  Mack lowered his eyes and nodded once, a resigned sort of sorrow dimming his ephemeral expression.

  "Mack. Before you go…I don't let a lot of people in, you know? I work better on my own. Less distraction. Less collateral. If you haven't noticed, I tend to lose the ones I care about. That's the only thing that's perfect about my record." He stood up, wanting to face his sole true companion one last time. "So, I'm not really surprised I have to lose you, too. It's the way of things, right? I just never thought—I mean, I figured an angel would be different—"

  He sniffed and rubbed his mouth. Another reason to be thankful for the sunglasses. "I'm sorry. You always had my six. You never did anything but help me. I'm sure I should have been blown to bits by now. And, no, not from that explosion. I mean, from all those minions. The magic. The magic a waste like me doesn't deserve to wield."

  Straightening up, he clasped Mack's shoulder. "So, thanks. For all you did. You made me a better man. And I'm sorry that I made life harder you. I'm sorry I let you down."

  "It's not me that is disappointed."

  "Well." He gritted his teeth. "At least that part is mutual. God helps those who help themselves, right? Well, I guess He's going to have to suck this one up. I'm going to save her. One of us has to do it."

  Mack nodded once, then stepped backwards into the fog of his wings, fading from sight.

  Alone. Simon was alone.

  He palmed his wand. Not for long. And, after that, alone wouldn't matter anymore. The only thing that mattered was her.

  From the street, it looked like any modern office building, stretching high above the others in the vicinity of the Georgia Aquarium. It was a rather new addition, if the cornerstone was accurate. Sleek and sharp, it had been constructed with a slight twist in the frame, giving the sense of a spiral, fluid and lithe and utterly unique against the skyline. For all its grace and beauty, it was still just a building.

  Or at least, he hoped it was.

  Simon couldn't trust his eyesight anymore. The second Sight that Lucifer's tattoo afforded him was still disorienting and, quite frankly, alarming. All his life, he'd roamed around the planet, knowing he cou
ld see what others could not. His magic made him quite unique in that aspect.

  He snorted. Unique was such a pretty word. Definitely too much so for a ruffian like himself.

  But this Sight—this made unique sound like it was a desirable thing. This Sight added a dark layer to everything. Not dim or shadowy dark—just Dark dark. He saw the things that belonged to the Darkness. The pre-manifestation of demon on the brink of possessing. The tethers that Darkness attached to everyone it had touched. All the things he'd never seen before because he wasn't of the Dark.

  This wasn't a game. This tattoo wasn't a magic-shop novelty, a trick learned on the Internet, a nifty spiff of a spell traded between mages in a seedy New York bar long after last call.

  He saw these things now because he'd been to Hell. He'd looked the Devil in the eye and asked Him for help. And he'd gotten it. Suddenly, he didn't feel so cocky, all swagger and bravado because he pulled off some flashy mind-bender or a hair-raising exorcism. He felt very small because now he knew just how deep a pile he'd found himself in.

  He stared up at the office building like he faced off with the Dark version of Goliath. This—this monstrosity. It was positively dripping with darkness.

  And no one could see it but him.

  "Dammit, kid," he muttered. "I need you out here to tell me what I'm walking into."

  Rubbing his amulet for luck, he set off down the sidewalk, trying (and probably failing) to look inconspicuous. What was the harm in looking like a tourist, head back, gazing at the tall buildings, open-mouthed in admiration?

  Besides being mugged, that is. First rule of tourism: never look like a tourist.

  Hard not to stare, though. As dark as that building was, it was compelling. He'd never seen anything like this before. And, though it was bad—very, very bad—the student in him was rapt with the new experience.

  If he could convince himself that he was justified using this power in the name of science or something, maybe he wouldn't feel so much like every breath led him one less to his ultimate damnation.

  He rubbed his face with both hands. There was no justifying what he was doing. Using the Darkness was in itself Darkness, no matter his intent.