by Ash Krafton
So. There would be Hell to pay. May as well get what he needed before they closed the tab.
He'd made it three-quarters the way around the building without seeing as much as a crack, much less a way in. From the ground up—as well as down, he noticed, as his Sight revealed an equally-Dark presence below street level—nothing but solid, oozy, reddish black Dark, with the fattest fricken demtrail he'd ever seen waving from the rooftop, like a column of smoke.
As he ran his gaze back down the mirrored side, something caught his eye. A blip in the Sight. A sharp twinge in his arm accompanied a pulse of energy that struck him with a wave of…possessiveness.
His.
That was the gut feeling. Something up there was his, and a sense of fierce, almost dangerous ownership began a slow burn in his chest. His and his and his and how dare anyone build a barrier between himself and what was his—
It was an alien idea, something that came from this power, someplace outside. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the railing beneath the main entrance of the aquarium, letting himself sink into that strange sensation, examining it, looking for something useful.
Ownership was too vague, too rough a description for it. It wasn't just possessiveness…it was sameness. Oneness. Whatever was up there, it wasn't just his. It was part of him. And every stitch of his being wanted it back.
Breathing deep, he let it fill him, let his center give out from under him so he could spin further down, further out. No longer limited to ground underneath and sky overhead, he allowed his energy to find the open space of the unexpected vision quest. This purloined power gave him a ridiculous level of adeptness and he slipped into quest as easily as if he'd been in ceremony for several days.
What had originally felt like instinct worked and folded itself into vague images. A shape. A silhouette. Sharper. Clearer. A laugh that sounded like Chiara on the verge of an I-told-you-so. Undoubtedly her. A set of feminine curves, a sense of black and white, a feeling of…
…too much. The emotions were thick and convoluted and conflicted as to be nearly indecipherable. These weren't his emotions. These weren't his instincts. Yet he was filled to overflowing with what could only be described, albeit poorly, as familial love, of pride, of guilt, of despair.
And of sheer determination to get her back.
Determination. He opened his eyes and looked to the spot where he'd sensed Chiara. A determination so strong that he almost whited out, his vision going all swimmy and silver. His legs trembled, a shudder going through him—and, behind the shudder, rage.
Nearby a woman cried out. His Sight dimmed, eyes going nearly human-normal. The passersby around him braced themselves against buildings or vehicles, cries of alarm. Murmurs of speculation. The ground shook. Earthquake?
Aw, shit. His stomach dropped. That was no earthquake. That was him.
A new sensation, one of being seen. Looking back to the swollen tick of a probably heavily-guarded fortress, he swallowed hard. Someone else felt those tremors. They knew he was here. No time to lose.
Nothing much left to lose, period.
Swiping the perspiration from his upper lip, he pulled his charm ring out of his pocket and crossed the street, heading directly for the only thing that looked like a front door. Little point to subterfuge at this point.
Reaching for the door, he let slip a slick glaze of hellfire from his fingers. He could just go in, hell guns blazing, and burn his way up to her, destroy everything that dared to stand between them.
A subtler hint of warmth on his chest made him stop. His amulet.
The one thing that remained untainted. It was all that was left that was truly him. Or, at least, who he used to be.
Palming it, he knew the amulet was untouched by this Darkness, this wicked power that churned his blood like a food chopper. It was still him. Every experience, every master, every fricken life lesson he'd stumbled over along the way—all of it had a purpose. It was all to serve the Light.
Not serve the way angels served, with their unwavering wide-eyed surety. They knew God existed. They'd been in His presence. It was ingrained in their very beings.
He served the Light the way a mortal served, one who'd seen Dark things at a tender age, had made deplorable mistakes, and tried so fricken hard not to balls everything up again, while knowing he would, over and over. He served in a bumbling, inept fashion, as inept as his magic and just as serendipitous. This amulet had been given to him by his mother, had been blooded with every attempt he'd made at becoming better than what he had been, and had saved his sorry ass more than once.
It warmed his skin again. His amulet hadn't given up on him.
He shouldn't give up, either.
With a deep exhale, he mentally pushed the Darkness from his Sight, his skin, himself. He pushed it down, swept it up into a tidy pile and held it fast in a mental fist. He flipped the charm ring in his fingers, identifying and disregarding each one until he found the one he needed, yet had never wanted: the small glass vial, stoppered with cork, that Lucifer had given him.
The vial was the kind teenage girls filled with glitter and wore as pendants, calling it fairy dust.
No glitter in this one. Instead, it held an inch-wide piece of ancient parchment, rolled tightly, upon which the words of a Middle Ages-era binding spell had been penned with minute precision. A textual amulet. Until recently, he'd never even held one, let alone used one. Kent had a book or three in his library that made references to them.
These were amulets of antiquity—very rare, very precious, and very powerful. Simon had figured the woodcut illustrations inside those books were the closest he'd ever get to seeing one.
Until the Devil gave him one.
Without hesitation, he crushed the thin glass ampule between his fingers to free the parchment. The text was tiny, illegible for all that he didn't speak Middle Age anything. Didn't matter. He didn't need to read it.
He popped it into his mouth and swallowed it whole, chanting the release spell, activating the parchment. The magic bloomed like a flower, unfolding itself, opening itself to the sunshine that was Light. Directing that precious power toward the tight mental fist he still clutched tight, he bound the Darkness within with a murmur and a scrap of ancient parchment.
The Sight vanished, the hot voice in the back of his head ceased. All that remained was Simon.
He smiled, cocky and hard, tipping a nod to his reflection in the shiny glass of the door. Yep. It was him, all right.
He pulled open the door, blasted by the bite of air-conditioning, and strode to the elevator, past the unmanned reception desk and the numerous cameras that swiveled to follow his passing.
Time to see what he could do on his own.
Luminea stood over the font, watching the images flicker across the surface of the still, golden water. The resolution was so much better than what modern video monitors could provide. She could see every detail of the dark-haired man who dared walk into her property with impunity. "We have company, I believe."
"Not to worry, Madam." Zophiel glanced over. "We are impenetrable."
"Yes. That may be a problem."
"I don't understand."
Luminea stroked the surface, bringing the images closer, zooming in. The man stood in the elevator, staring up at the camera as if he knew she watched. He ruffled his hair and stretched, giving a glimpse of long muscle and lithe limbs.
A sly smile crept across her mouth and her lips parted, the tip of her tongue running over the edges of her teeth. "I want to be penetrable. For that man, there. Come, see, Zophiel."
He stepped closer and looked down into the mirror. Luminea slipped her arms around him from behind, peering over his shoulder. "That body. I want you to have that body."
His voice betrayed his displeasure. "That? He walks into your fortress with no more armor than an old suede jacket. He obviously has no intelligence. Or taste."
"Let him in." She purred against his ear. "Then, let yourself in."
He sighed, a deep breath that made him feel even more barrel-chested than his host body already was. The sudden movement made him shift enough that her cheek brushed his stubbly neck. The sensation, so caustic, so harsh, repelled her and she backed away.
Watching the images of the man in the elevator, she allowed herself to imagine how nice it would be to have a man like that around. So much more her type than this burly ginger of a boulder standing next to her.
Zophiel crossed his arms and lowered his head, looking up at her from under his heavy brows. "Are you sure this is what you want?"
"One thing you need never question is if I know what I want." Her tone was cool. Her heart had grown considerably cooler simply by having to say it.
Zophiel lowered his gaze. His words slid out on edge. "Yes, madam."
She smiled suddenly, and stroked his arm. "Oh, don't be sullen, Zophiel. Change is a good thing."
"I am not sullen. I am only concerned about the appearance of a stranger within the wards of your fortress." He gave the surface of the watching pool the side eye. "That is no ordinary man."
"Yes. But he is still just a man." She resisted looking once more to the stranger in the elevator. He would be here, in the flesh, soon enough. She was patient. "And no match for you. I'm sure you will make short work of it."
She turned her back, allowing him to take his leave. Short work of a minor task, before the great undertakings could finally begin. Surveying the city, she smiled again, looking forward to the pleasantness of a change of scenery.
Simon paced side to side in the elevator. Antsy. He felt antsy.
Part of it was the amulet that was literally sitting in his stomach. The spell felt like a happy cloud in his gut, a pressure somewhere between "hey, I'm here in your belly" and the urgent need to pee. He shifted weight back onto his other foot, trying to ignore it. Pretty sure it wasn't the right time to look for the can.
But this elevator was so damn slow. What, did they have a guy in the basement pulling on a rope, or what?
Only one button was on this panel. It was marked TOP. Pretentious much? Still, one button gave the mistaken impression it would be a quick ride.
Wasn't quick, not by a long shot. Gave him too much time to think. Time to think about the road he took to get here, and the road blocks along the way.
And more than enough time to remember every exorcism he'd done since he came out of the silver pool. This last stretch of road had been the Devil's Turnpike. Hard to avoid thinking about the toll booth at the end of it all.
But that wasn't what stuck in his mind.
What stuck in his mind was Kent, eternally on replay.
"Simon, give me your amulet…"
The words had hung in the air while Simon's magical life flashed before his eyes. Every master. Every lesson. Every knock-down, every self-punishment. All those years, those memories, those things that dared only to come back in his nightmares, it all came rushing up like a ghost wind to knock the breath out of him. He swallowed around a lump of cotton in his throat and pursed his lips, controlling his breath, trying to slow his thudding pulse.
Kent flicked his gaze from the amulet to Simon's face. "You have a lot of wards on this."
"Yeah, well." He gave his best grimacing grin, the look of one who cared way more than he would ever admit. "It's more or less my merit badge collection."
"How much do you know?"
How did a guy sum up a magical education? Not like he got college credits or kept a resume. "Well, I studied a little Native American medicine, and the rite of Catholic exorcism, and..."
"No. I mean, how much do you know about yourself?"
Simon frowned. "More than I'd like. I'm not exactly a people person. Even I don't like me."
"You seem like a nice enough fellow."
"First rule of magic." Simon folded his hands and squeezed his fingers. "Never trust what you see."
Kent nodded. "But tell me, do you still look with your eyes?"
Ah. Wise old boy, this one. He shook his head. "You don't, either."
"Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said though Sherlock Holmes: You see but you don't observe. And I do trust what I observe."
"So…?"
"I stopped looking. You don't need your eyes to observe what really matters." Kent tipped his head toward the amulet. "And I don't need to cast a spell to find out if this is your blooded amulet. I can feel your fear. You put everything you have into this stamped circle of metal. And yet you took it off and you handed it over to me without so much as a protest."
Simon swallowed again but his throat felt stuck shut. Thank God. The last thing he wanted to do was sob in front of this man.
Kent reached across the table and clapped his hand on Simon's arm, urging him to meet his gaze. Simon stubbornly kept his eyes down, holding onto the sight of his amulet.
The old man sighed. "I swear I will not betray your trust. I know you haven't an abundance to share. I will teach you. My wife would kill me if she knew. Lucky for you, we are both safely beyond the reach of her wrath."
Kent took out a handkerchief and scooped up the amulet. "Unless, of course, she took an alternate route through the afterlife. But even if that were the case, I'd have nothing to fear. Alliant the exorcist is here."
When Simon was severed from visual contact with his amulet, he knew his life was in Kent's hands. Literally. Anyone who controlled his blood amulet controlled him, right to the moment of his death and most likely a good deal beyond.
And one thing he knew: Kent was more than familiar with what lay beyond…
Suddenly, the elevator shuddered to a stop, bouncing his lower belly. More than anything, Simon wished Kent stood beside him right now because he had absolutely no idea what would lay beyond.
But he was alone. With a quick prayer to all that was just, he braced himself and watched the doors slide open.
He had a plan. Now, it was time to execute.
Simon stepped out into the empty foyer. It was a high ceilinged, tile-and-marble vault of a room that reminded him of museums. An arched doorway, marble-faced with an intricate gold locking mechanism in the center, stood directly across from him. The floor was paved in polished stone, glinting like quartz, with gilded designs on each one.
Talk about pretentious. He half-expected a god to ride down on a bolt of lightning.
What he didn't expect was a wallop that knocked him forward. He tucked into a roll and bounced back on his feet, finding himself facing off with that burly, barrel-chested man with freckles and wiry red hair.
He straightened up a little. He'd expected a god but this was looking more like a Boston bar fight.
Don't let your guard down, buddy. If this was no more than a drunken brawl, it wouldn't have taken a shit-ton of magic and the Devil's hand to get this far.
Plus, there'd actually be a bar. Glaring omission, right there.
"So," the burly man grumbled. "This is what I must endure for the next handful of decades."
"Excuse me?" Simon flexed his hands, readying his fists.
"I would, if it were possible." The man sighed, a deep sound of great burden. "But it is what my mistress wants."
With a deceptive burst of speed, he thrust forward an open palm. An invisible force slammed into Simon's chest, thumping him back. The amulet warmed, an indignant pulse of heat as it shielded him from the blast.
Though he was protected, he still felt it. Tasted it. He knew what it was.
Angel magic. No wonder Mack couldn’t spit it out.
"Funny." Simon snapped his jacket straight and brushed off his sleeve. "I always thought angels were good guys. What the hell is with you?"
"No Hell nor Heaven is with me." The man smiled, crooked bottom teeth showing. "Some are free."
"You mean, none." Simon chuffed out a laugh. "None are free."
"I agree. We all bow to something. I bow to a power so bright, so perfect, that all other sources of Light become shadow, shades of former brilliance. You, on the other han
d, bow to me. I have use for you."
"I'm not feeling it." Simon frowned and shook his head. "I don't work with renegade angels."
The man checked himself. "You truly do know my nature."
"Sure. You're a fricken douche bag."
"My true nature," the man spat. "How do you know I am angel?"
"Uh, because number one, you're acting like an obnoxious turd. You sound like an angel, douche bag. And second…"
Simon slid his rings onto his thumbs. They popped with electric blue sparks that zinged along their edges. "I'm in the business of knowing when a divinity is in the wrong body. That guy just doesn't suit you, pal. Totally not your look."
"I agree. Again. Amazing we have such similar ideas. I think it's fate, don't you? We're made for each other."
"Buddy, I can honestly say this—I'll die before I work with you."
"But you mustn’t die. Your body must be protected. It is of value. Your mind, however, is no longer necessary."
Lifting his freckled hand, a strange shimmer rolled beneath his skin, a pulse of light. It seemed to reach right for Simon's face.
The light was only a ruse. What hit him was a darkness so massive it dragged Simon under.
The darkness was a torrent of images, memories, every painful moment Simon had ever experienced. The images were 3-D projections, spinning around Simon like the tornado in the Wizard of Oz, except in color and with agony. Ritchie. Sarah. Balazog. Madness. Exorcisms. Bloody eyes. Chiara.
"Oh. Her." The angel's voice pieced the rush of ghosts swirling round Simon, taunting, teasing, torturing. "You failed her, too."
Violent images. Chiara worried, then terrified, then…hanging. Hanging from her wrists, struggling to breathe, eyes wild with fear.
Then the angel, forcing himself on her.
madness madness madness
Simon screamed, clawing at his eyes, trying to block the barrage of images. Needed—needed a focal point, an anchor—he needed his truest friend