by Ash Krafton
"Didn't I? Curiosity is your downfall, Simon. I know you. ‘Look at the odd divinity,' you thought, ‘with her lofty heritage. What a hot, delightful mess. Let's see if we can't have us a war.' You know it to be true. And it's my fault she hurt you and it's my fault He marked you."
"None of this is your fault. None of it. Not her, not Him. None of that is your fault."
She bit her lip and turned her head with an angry shake, but not before he saw the slick glimmer in her eyes. That was it, wasn't it? Not the metaphysical battle. Not the fight he gave to get her back.
It was the her and the Him and the they. Poor kid punished herself over her parents' failed paradise. Still, after all these years, God only knew how many. On the inside, she really was still just a kid.
He knew all too well how hard it was to live with that inner child stepping on a person's soul.
He pulled her into his arms and cupped her head against his chest, rocking gently. "It's their fault. Only theirs."
She didn't reply. The slight shudder of her body against him spoke for her. She didn't weep, or wail, or sob; she held tightly to those sounds with the strength he'd come to admire. Actual words would only get lost in a flood.
He held her as long as she allowed him. No need to let go. No need to run. Just one moment, a feeling of solid, dry land beneath their feet before the tides rose again, and they'd be back to treading the water.
Simon wrapped a protective arm around Chiara and led her from her former prison.
He steered her carefully through the debris-littered foyer, where scorched feathers lay in crumbling heaps. The murdered host lay off to one side, the stone carcass of an angel to the other. Try as he did to shield her from those terrible sights, she saw them.
She said nothing.
The elevator was open, expectant. The ride seemed a lot shorter going down than it had going up. Retrospect did that, sometimes.
What kind of mess would the authorities find when they got here? More bodies? More signs of apocalypse? That nose-stinging smell the hell gate had left behind?
The police would probably think it had been a gas leak. An explosion. How convenient. He huffed out a sardonic laugh. Then again, it always was.
Twilight was taking hold of the city as they walked outside. Night would rise up rapidly now that the sun had fallen. A shiny red car stood parked on the sidewalk in front of the door, the building's entry lights glinting off the glass like a tiger's smile.
He knew the car was his. Back there in the elevator, he had vaguely thought about what they'd do once they'd walked outside. Not like he was keen on buses and a taxi was probably a little on the pricey side. A car. He needed—he wanted—a car.
And viola, a car was at the curb. The keys would be in the ignition and the tank would be full. It would be because he willed it to be. And no charm in his pocket could have pulled that little trick off.
The bend of his arm thumped with a pulse of swollen satisfaction at the sight of it.
This power. He rolled his lips inward and bit down, hard. This power was so damned easy to use. And the high that went with it—it sizzled through his blood like a shot of seltzer, making him tingly all over. Full of energy, of motion, of being two ticks from a kinetic kaboom.
With a whoop, he took off at a run, hopped onto the hood, and slid across to the driver's side like an action movie hero.
"Simon." By the tone of her voice, Chiara obviously did not share his enthusiasm. She dragged herself to the curb, her hand on the car door, not getting in. She spoke to the ground, unwilling to look at him. "You killed an angel."
"I facilitated his demise." He lifted his finger in protest, emphasizing the fine point. "That's different."
"Yet, the angel is destroyed. It should not have been you."
How could she possibly sound so disappointed? It had been a battle, a righteous one. An exorcism. It was what he did. It was the cornerstone of his continued existence on this planet. It was sanctioned by the Light, too, because he'd had divine assistance.
Technically, anyway. "He said he was going to do things to you. She confirmed it—"
"So, what?" She looked at him now, a look of heat and scorn that burned him. "You destroy a divinity? You're a mortal, Simon. There will be repercussions. This is a game of staggered stakes. There is no eye for an eye here. You destroyed a piece of the Divine."
"He was not divine." The heat was in his voice, too, now. "He was a snake, a black-winged dickbag—"
"That had been a divinity." She shook her head. "You can't just wave a wand and make it go away. Not to mention the elephant in the room."
He grumbled an exaggerated complaint. "Now I'm killing elephants, too?"
"A hell gate. You opened a hell gate, here. On Earth. And you allowed Him to come through." She shook her head. "These are marks that can't be erased. That hand on your shoulder. That ring around your tattoo. That black string that's tied to your soul—"
"You can see that?" He rubbed his mouth, fighting the urge to reach over his shoulders and scratch. "Oh, shit. I know you can. You saw it the minute I walked in, didn't you?"
She nodded, misery pooling in her eyes like tears.
All the fight went out of him, that cocky full-of-hot-air attitude that kept him aloft. He sagged and leaned up against the car. "So, what's it all mean? Am I damned? For good, this time?"
"I don't know, Simon." She shook her tousled head, glancing away as if the answer stood a piece-ways off. "Some things you can't unsee. Some things you can't untouch. Some things are forever."
She blinked rapidly and set her jaw in a stubborn line before meeting his gaze again. "No. We will not be pessimistic. We will go home, and I'll talk to Him. I'll work something out."
"Like a trade?" He barked a laugh. "A bag of your best marbles and a pack of gum in exchange for a mortal's soul? I have the feeling your dad doesn't give things up without a fight."
"No. But there must be something." She straightened herself, giving him a very Chiara-like look. "I am a Daughter of Hell. And I am my mother's child. I'll find something I can use. I am resourceful, and I am persuasive, and…"
She ran her fingers through her hair, her fingers catching in the tangled ends. Pulling open the door, she jerked her head at him to do the same. "I really need a bath. Let's just go home."
Simon flipped down the sun visor and felt along its surface. Nothing but the vanity mirror. Dammit. No CD sleeve and he hadn't even thought about getting a satellite radio subscription. Scanning the channels once more and getting nothing but static, he switched it off with a grunt. This was proving to be a long, terrible drive.
Georgia to Baltimore. Nine hours, straight through. A stick of chicory and a determined whisper to avoid the green stamps. Hammer lane all the way.
At first, he distracted himself by using the power to ease off the pain of his broken ribs. The seat belt had been simply too much to take and Chiara wasn’t letting him drive off without wearing it. All he’d wanted was a Vicodin’s worth of relief, that was all. But when he felt bones snap into alignment, leaving him absolutely pain-free, he realized the power was more than a metaphysical Vicodin.
It was methadone. And methadone was heroin’s best friend.
Definitely not the sort of company an addict should keep.
Entire states passed in a midnight blur of headlight streaks and overhead signs. Chiara slept just about the whole ride. He glanced over frequently to make sure she rested comfortably. Poor kid. What had they done to her? She looked like she'd been through hell.
So had he. No telling if Hell was through with him.
Still. All things considered, it was good to have her back, rumpled mess or no. He thought again of the prophesy he’d more or less prevented. The lone-heart, the mortal savior of souls, was her. Not him. Kind of a relief, that. Not because it put any sort of divine pressure on him, since he couldn’t not be an exorcist. Rather, it relieved him of an unspoken worry that had gradually seeped in over the last few weeks,
since day-tripping to Hell.
While he’d never once considered Chiara to be the threat, he was 99% convinced the prophesy was about Lucifer.
He couldn’t bring himself to admit it but he was very worried that the Devil would bring about his demise. His death, his inability to continue doing what he’d always done—any of it. Anything of his the Devil might have ended would have been bad, bad, bad.
Not only was that particular worry abated now, there was also the blessing of knowing that she was the mortal savior all along. Which meant…she could keep up the good fight. She would not be ended. He knew all along she was the important one. Anything that happened to him would not lose the battle for her.
And that was what he’d been worried about the most, even more so than a one-way ticket to the Devil’s den. He was afraid his deal, his situation, would screw up everything she’d fought so hard to do. There was no telling what he was in for, now that he was the Devil’s pawn. But, at least, she would carry on.
By the time he reached North Carolina, he'd fallen deep into driving hypnosis. Normally road trips were coffee and cig-fueled journeys with occasional nitro bursts of road rage and frequent gas stops because the Astro simply wasn't big on fuel economy. But not this time.
The car they drove was some kind of Kia electric that got about a bazillion MPG. It must have been one of Luminea's because it smelled like her. Light perfume, some kind of fruit, a little bit of a pheromone. He had to admit—the bitch was wicked, but she smelled like a fresh stripper. And there was never anything wrong with that.
It was telling that someone who was technically a divinity was so eco-minded. Enough to knock the stoutest Republican on his arse.
He drove tunnel-visioned with determination, absolutely intent on getting Chiara back to her safe place. Whenever he tired the least bit he'd absentmindedly scratch his shoulder, let his fingers drag down lightly over the bend of his arm. That was enough. The tattoo did the rest.
The energy just came to him, giving him back his alertness and resolve. It did anything he needed. Dammit if he didn't see the gas gauge bounce up an eighth of a tank at one point.
No wand. Just him. Just a thought, a press of desire, and the power responded to his will.
Once in a while, it would occur to him that New Simon was in a shit ton of trouble because addicts needed to stay away from their drugs. No more could he say he could snap his wand the moment things got too hot.
His drug was inside him. Beckoned by a split second of will.
This is what the Darkness wanted. It had him by his balls. He was on his tiptoes, one of those black threads tight around his neck. All that remained was the moment when the world fell out from under him.
Sometimes he'd tighten his grip on the steering wheel and squash the thought. Other times, the thought squashed itself. Already his power was practicing self-preservation.
Bad stuff. Magic didn't have a will of its own. By definition, it had a master. Question was: if Simon didn't master it, who did?
Only one answer to that and it was the big daddy of bad news.
Not now. Drive now. Drive and get home. Chiara first, Devil later. Just tap the tat and drive.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. No cops, no traffic, no trouble. And no nosebleed, or bloody eyes, either. He rolled his lips between his teeth. Looks like he'd banged another corner. Fantastic.
Hellfire cauterized all the bleeders, not just the ones that dripped mortal doubts.
Chiara's Place
Baltimore, MD
Simon paused on the stairs, turning to take a last look at Chiara. She lay curled up on her lousy couch, a crocheted afghan covering her from toes to chin. Only her face was visible, her eyes closed, brows drawn, a tightness around her mouth that persisted even in deep sleep. Not the most peaceful face. But it hadn't been the most peaceful of experiences, either. She was allowed to look disgruntled.
He briefly considered going outside to call Mack, try to make amends somehow. It didn't feel right, leaving things the way they did in Atlanta. He hadn't a choice, then. There was only one way to do what had to be done and he hadn't gone skipping merrily down that path, strewing daisies and singing happy songs.
He'd made a choice. Even if he wasn't entirely clear at the time on the exact details of that choice, it was all-too clear, now. His life for hers. Since the moment she disappeared, that had been the unspoken deal.
As he gazed down at her sleeping form, her knees tucked up in a huddle, her face drawn in lines only she could interpret he realized that, even if he'd been completely aware of the dimensions of his choice, he'd have made it all the same.
He just never anticipated that Mack would bail… but by then, it was too late. Too late. Just too fricken late.
Mack was gone.
Simon finished climbing the stairs with a softer step and quieted his mind. Least he could do is keep it down so the kid could sleep.
He glanced down the hallway, trying to remember what lay behind which doors. Hard to remember now that he’d seen Hell’s version of the place. His bedroom was third on the left, right? Which made the spa room two doors up and opposite.
With a wry grin, he thought of the hot tub with it jets and bubbles. He rather liked the bubbles. Now that Chiara was home, maybe he could relax a little. Let his guard down a bit. Breathe all the way in.
Hmm. Sleep or a swim? Tough decision. Maybe a nap in the hot tub. Split the difference.
He walked down to the spa room and turned the knob. With Chiara out like a light, he wouldn't even have to swim in his briefs. Thank God. Wet underwear had a way of bunching up. No need for that special brand of hell.
He cracked the door but paused, wrinkling his nose.
Yuck. He should smell chlorine. Not…sulfur. Pushing the door open, he didn't see the hot tub.
It was the pool. The silver pool.
With a yelp, he yanked the door shut with a slam. Holy hell, how tired was he? Did he actually go all the way to the end of the hall by accident?
Looking left and right, he scratched his head. Nope. He stood right in the middle of the hall. Cautiously, he swung open the door once more, his breath catching.
The creepy pool room. Shit.
Heck, maybe he was too tired for bubbles after all. Spinning on his heel, he walked back to his bedroom. Opening the door, he saw stone tile, not plush carpeting.
Son of a bitch.
He went door to door, opening each one, save one that wouldn't budge. The silver pool. In every single room, the air was thick and curdled, smoky and sharp. Every room was the room at the end of the hall.
He rubbed his face. Probably not a glitch. That left only one thing to do.
Walking stoically to the end of the hall, he pushed open the door and stared balefully at the shimmering surface of the Devil's doorway.
"Okay. You obviously want something." He spread his hands wide. The thick air muffled his voice, swallowing any echo. "Well, here I am."
The door swung closed behind him with a boom, pushing him into the room.
"Oh. Privacy. Sure. Fine. So, talk."
Nothing.
"I got her back, didn't I?" He shook his head at the water, feeling a little self-conscious talking to a pool. "I did everything that you wanted. What more do you want?"
Only the sound of stone scraping against stone behind him. He turned, alarmed.
The wall was moving toward him.
He quickly scanned the room. All the walls were moving. Sliding. Closing in. The wall pressed against his back and pushed him forward toward the pool. He braced his shoulder and tried to push back. No use. It was solid stone and way bigger than he was. His shoes slid on the damp tiles. Closer and closer to the pool.
"Chiara!" He screamed her name until his voice cracked. "Wake up!"
He hugged the wall, going up on his toes when he slid up to the edge of the pool, bumping over the curved tiles. For a moment he hung there, precariously. Panting. Praying.
Then the wall
shoved him, hard. He hit the silver surface flat on his back, and the world screamed in his ears.
Silence. And shit, the floor was hard. He'd landed on the black and white tiles with a smack that made every part of his body hurt.
It was a discomfort he quickly forgot as he looked around the room. Everything was…brighter. Like a glimmer of sunlight sparkled on every surface. The floor, the stairs, the walls—everything.
And the glimmer was magic. He felt it, a warming of the bones, as if he sunned himself on a poolside chaise. He stared at the floor, peering intently. The glimmer came from golden lines etched into the tiles. After a moment, he saw they were letters. Words.
Familiar words.
Each tile bore a letter, forming words that repeated in a pattern he’d learned in the earliest of his studies. His lips parted in a grin.
The Devil had drawn SATOR squares all over. It was literally the oldest charm in the book. He glanced upwards, seeing other words, other ancient charms and spells. Lucifer had His lair charmed six ways to Sunday.
And they were all protections against fire. How could he have not noticed it all before?
A familiar clearing of a throat made him turn his head.
Lucifer sat on his throne, elbows on knees, watching him with amusement. The wall behind him looked like a lighting display in a home improvement store. The Devil sure had a thing for lightbulbs. "You know, you could have slipped in feet first. Makes for a better landing."
"Wasn't thinking about the best way to get here." He pushed onto his elbows with a groan. "I was only thinking about how to avoid it."
"Typical human. Thinking about how you'd like to avoid going to Hell while every single thing you do drags you another step closer." Lucifer got up and paced toward Simon, panther-like and dangerous. "And another step, and another, and another, until what do you know? You're here."
Simon eyed him warily, feeling more than a few shades of vulnerable. "What do you want from me?"
Lucifer only smiled, dragon-sharp, and stretched out His hand.