by Joey Ruff
“You just missed him,” the bartender said, looking over at me. He motioned for the door. At the moment, all I could think was that I hoped he didn’t try to drive home. He was pretty drunk.
I settled my tab and walked out into the night, glancing around, but seeing no one on the street. A few minutes later, a cab rolled around the corner, and I flagged him down. I climbed inside and sank back in to the seat.
As he pulled away from the curb, I let my head roll to the side and caught a glimpse of the man with the red, curly hair disappear around the corner of a building and into the shadows of an alley. “Hold on,” I told the driver, and he stopped.
For a moment, I considered my options. But the Bishop’s voice in my head said, “Forgive and forget.”
I sighed and said, “Nevermind. Just drive. St. James Cathedral.”
***
I didn’t sleep well that night. Tormented with visions of the red-haired man and the things he might do, I couldn’t help but envision him in an old factory or a run-down apartment building, hovering over a woman who was tied to a table with old ropes, panicky sounds escaping from the gag in her mouth. Sometimes he held a knife in a gloved hand. Other times his fingers bore talons and his eyes shone like gold and as the full moon broke through the naked window, his form violently shifted to that of a wolf.
I’d seen too much in my work. It didn’t usually keep me awake at night, but this man was different, somehow, and it was made worse by the nagging torment that I might do something about it if not for my vows.
I tossed and turned until I couldn’t take it anymore, letting the visions play through my mind. There was a bottle of whiskey in my cabinet, and I drank until I passed out. My sleep was dreamless.
I felt like hell when I woke. I made coffee and picked up the paper, flipping through a few articles on housing developments, checking some sports scores. It wasn’t until I set the paper down that I saw the picture of Jake on the front page, and the headline above him read: Brutal Serial Killer Strikes Again. I read through it twice before it sank in…before I really believed it.
Had he wandered outside and met the red-haired man? It couldn’t just all be a coincidence. He was there, and I could have stopped him. I almost stopped him. But I didn’t. And now a man was dead because of me.
I got up from the table and vomited into the sink.
***
As I sat in my chair at work, I managed to follow up on some emails, but couldn’t focus on anything. My head was in a fog, and all I could do was spend two hours researching on the internet. I didn’t usually follow the news. I tried to stay positive because that’s what my parishioners expected of me. If there was anything supernatural going on, a member of the Hand would contact me and assign me to a case. I didn’t go looking for them.
But the news story had me thinking, and as it turned out, Jake’s killing was linked to another murder the same week, the same neighborhood, just around the corner from the bar, both hearts torn from their chests.
On a whim, I searched for killings seven years ago: unexplained murders, missing hearts.
I found a story from the Boston Globe dated May 4th, 2005. It was something about a killer the media dubbed the Knave of Hearts.
As I read, the phone rang. “Hello?”
“Austin? How are you?”
“Terry?” I coughed, and my voice sounded weak. “I’m not sleeping well, but otherwise I’m okay.”
“Did you ever figure anything out about that case for the Hand?”
“Not really,” I admitted.
Silence on the line for a moment, and then he said, “I might have something.”
“Okay…”
“I was thinking about what you said, the seven-year thing. It was too specific to be coincidence, and…”
“Ape. I don’t mean to be an ass, but I’m tired. Can you get to the point?”
“Have you heard of the Teind?”
“Teind…,” I said. The word was Scottish, it meant tithe, which as a priest I was familiar with. Church parishioners tithed ten percent of their income to God and the church. However, in context, I suspected he meant it as something else. “Wait, are you talking about the Fay?”
“Exactly,” he said. “Legend says that the fairies are forbidden from entering Heaven but are exempt from Hell so long as they pay tithes to the Devil. Teind to Hell. The tithe they pay is in…”
“Souls,” I said, matter-of-factly.
“Souls,” he said. “You know those old stories, a phantom stranger rolls in to town, challenges an unsuspecting person to a game or, or a wager….”
“A fiddle of gold against your soul.”
“Yeah.”
He grew really quiet, and for a moment both of us were silent. Eventually, I said, “How many souls?”
“For…?”
“To pay the tithe. If they owe the Teind every seven years, how many souls do they owe?”
“The lore’s sketchy on that,” he said. “It ranges. Anywhere from three to twelve. Seven’s a common number, though.”
“So…what do I do?”
“How do you mean?”
“He’s going to do it again.”
“You don’t have to do anything. Let Jono and I handle him.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Austin,” he said. “This is what you were talking about the other day, isn’t it? The confession you heard. You can’t do…”
“No,” I said. “What I can’t do is nothing, Terry. If this man…this thing…is one of the Fay… then, well, the sacramental oath doesn’t apply to him.”
“Austin…”
“There’s order in Creation,” I said calmly. “God has a plan, and He uses His servants to carry out His will. I’m the only priest in all Seattle that’s also a member of the Hand. I’m the only one who could have known what to do in this situation. That didn’t happen by accident.”
There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line, and Terry said, “Okay. What are you going to do?”
“So far, his victims have all been found in the same neighborhood. It seems likely that’s where he’ll strike again.”
“Austin,” he said pleadingly. “Don’t get in over your head on this.”
“I won’t.”
“Seriously. I’m a phone call away. Say the word, and we can be there.”
“I appreciate that,” I said and meant it. “Thanks, Terry.” Then I hung up.
I turned back to the computer screen, but before I could do anything else, there came a quiet rapping on my door.
“It’s open,” I said.
Bishop Hendricks entered. He wore a smile that warmed the room. “How are you?” he asked.
“Tired. Besides that, I’m…” I shrugged and let the words trail off. “I guess I’m just having a hard time understanding why someone would confess something they haven’t done and continue to do it anyway.”
He nodded in understanding, and he stood silently for a moment. Eventually, he said, “When I was a young priest, much like you are now, my mentor, Father Daniels, told me that while not every person that confesses is truly repentant, they all at least acknowledge that they’re wrong, or they wouldn’t come to us.”
“So they come to see if we can talk them out of it? That…doesn’t actually help me.”
“What I’m saying is that there’s at least a part of the person that recognizes they are wrong. While they might not yet grasp the fullness of repentance, still a part of them feels remorse.”
I rubbed my eyes. Remembering Terry’s words, I said, “A tiger doesn’t regret slaughtering a gazelle.”
He flashed me a good-natured smile, but there was something in his eyes that missed the connection. “It’s in a tiger’s nature to slaughter…and to eat. They do it of necessity.”
“Right,” I said. Then something occurred to me. “But if a tiger was raised by gazelles…it might feel remorse if it slaughtered one.”
“Austin, I’m not sure where you’re going with this
, but the mind plays dangerous games when it attempts to justify…”
“No,” I said. “You’re right, Bishop. I think I’m okay now.”
He eyed me reluctantly. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.”
I nodded.
When he left, I sat for a moment considering his words. A tiger didn’t feel remorse; it was his nature to kill, and he killed for necessity. A Fay wouldn’t regret his actions. He offered his Teind to the devil willingly to keep himself out of Hell.
But a Changeling…
I turned to the bookshelf and removed my Codex: a heavy, nondescript tome. It looked ancient, and it probably was. There were no words anywhere on the cover or binding. Its only distinction was a dull, inset fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the Hand of Shanai. The Codex was an Encyclopedia of sorts, a collection of lore gathered by Night Hunters over the years.
Carefully, I opened the book, scanned the index, and flipped to the section on Changelings. It had been years since I’d faced one, and my knowledge was a little rusty. After scanning the page, I turned to the section on the Teind and read that as well.
As many different Fay as there were, there were different ways of procuring souls for the Teind. One of the more common methods involved trading out human babies at birth and replacing them with a fairy child. This fairy child was known as a Changeling.
If one of the Fay had been raised by humans, it might be reluctant to slaughter them, might even feel guilty about it, despite being Fay by blood and thus bound by the Teind. The way I understood it, there was an impulse that kicked in…a seven-year itch, as it were. They were compelled to act on it; it was in their nature.
I turned back to my computer and started to work on a new angle. The Fay paid their Teind every seven years. The Knave of Hearts, if he was in his thirties, would have killed before 2004.
I ran a search on seven years prior, in 1997, but found nothing. 1990, still nothing.
1983, a single article. The Chicago Tribune reported a story of a boy, David White, the only survivor of a ritual killing in a Suburban neighborhood outside Aurora, Illinois. The hearts of both the boy’s parents had been torn from their chests. David was found beneath the stairs, covered in blood, shaking and traumatized, blank as a sheet of paper. He said nothing, apparently saw nothing, and he was sent to an orphanage called Brighton Academy that was run by the state. When I ran a search on the orphanage, I discovered that it burnt to the ground in 1988. There were no reported survivors.
Searching David White, I found Birth Certificate information from a hospital in Aurora, as well as Death Certificate information. His body had been recovered, charred like a briquette, but ID was positive. They had pictures of the autopsy.
While difficult, I eventually tracked down a picture of the boy tucked away on some website chronicling family trees. He was plain looking, freckles and small eyes, a boring child in a plaid shirt and sweater vest – a school photo, perhaps. The only thing that stood out about the boy was his curly red hair.
***
I waited until after dark before I took off on my motorcycle.
The bar from the other night was closed, but a crowd had gathered in the parking lot, and each person wore a grim face and held a burning candle. Near the door was an over-turned milk crate that had been turned in to a shrine of sorts, bearing more candles and a framed photo of Jake.
They were mourning him, and I watched for a while from the outside.
The bartender performed a sort of litany for the man by holding what I presumed to be Jake’s bar tab over one of the candles, and a woman sobbed as the flames reached toward the stars.
Nobody noticed me. They wouldn’t have recognized me if they had. I was dressed in my motorcycle leather – jacket and gloves – helmet, and jeans. I wasn’t a priest tonight. I was on business for the Hand, which meant that I wore two Colt M1911 pistols with Canary Yellow slides holstered in the small of my back, just under my jacket.
I don’t know if I expected to see the red-haired man in the crowd, but he wasn’t there. As I looked on, a woman glanced over at me, and her teary eyes held mine for a moment, as if to say, “Come and join us.” But I didn’t. I had my own way of honoring Jake’s memory.
***
I rode around the neighborhood for a while, keeping my eyes open and letting my mind wander. There was something that felt wrong about being out here, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
When I saw the man with red hair, it was after midnight. I’d stopped for gas, and when I mounted my bike, he walked from the mouth of an alley across the street. I stood there for a moment, watching him disappear around the corner, and I fired up the engine and took off after him.
I followed for a little while, but the motorcycle was a little too obvious to remain unnoticed and after he’d glanced back at me for the second time, I raced past him in to the night, ditched the bike, and hid in the shadows, waiting as he passed.
I followed on foot at a safe distance, and two blocks later, he walked up to a sleepy little two-story cottage, the shutters drawn, the lawn nicely manicured. I hid in the bushes across the street as he walked the length of the driveway and entered a stand-alone garage from a side door.
I counted to thirty, and when I was sure no one was watching, I stuck to the shadows and followed, drawing one of my Colts and taking cautious steps.
As I neared the garage, I began to detect a faint music, some kind of hard rock with distorted guitar and no words.
I didn’t detect any movement, so I made quickly for the side door. The music was louder here, and as I pushed the door open, I noticed an old speaker suspended near the top of the door frame.
Inside was dark. The only source of light was from the few lit candles that were scattered around, and in front of me stood the skeletal backside of a theater set, triangle support beams jutting out.
I gripped the Colt tightly in both hands as I stalked around to the front of the set and quickly peered around. The front of the walls were painted to look like an apartment of sorts, with windows and painted drapes, a two-dimensional brown dresser. The walls stood on three sides, and in their center was an old bed frame – no mattress – with a young woman tied to the naked springs. She wore only a sports bra and jogging pants, probably plucked from a run somewhere nearby. She had an athletic figure, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her wrists and feet were fastened to the bedframe as if she were about to be drawn and quartered. She was gagged.
In the corner was the man with red hair. He was cowering, balled up in the shadows, his body visibly shaking. With his back to me, he rocked back and forth slowly, and I could just make out a soft mantra coming from his lips.
Slowly, I moved toward him, trying not to make a sound, and as I neared, I took note of the words he was speaking: “No, please don’t make me do this. She’s done nothing. Oh, God…”
“David?” I said quietly.
“Huh?” The man startled and spun quickly on me, turning his big saucer eyes my direction. “Who…Father?”
“David White?” I asked again.
“You’re the priest from St. James. How…how do you know my name?”
“David,” I said, trying to keep my voice as even and reassured as I could. “I’m here to help you. God sent me to you.”
“God?” he said, and the word sounded so foreign on his tongue. “God can’t help me now. Don’t you see. I don’t wanna do this anymore, but I have to. The things I’ve done, Father. God can’t forgive me. My soul is damned. This is the only way…”
“The only way for what?”
As he turned to me, I could see the dagger in his hand, and the blade reflected the candles’ glow. “To stay my perdition.” His head cocked to the side, and his small eyes narrowed as he held me. He was exactly the boy from the photo I had found, he’d just aged twenty years.
“Forgive me, Father. My sin is just beginning.” His dark eyes focused on me. “Help me.”
“How?”
&
nbsp; “Kill me,” he said.
“David, I…” At the sight of his blade, my hands instinctively tightened around the Colt, but now, I forced myself to relax and holstered the weapon.
“Father,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to do this anymore, but I…can’t stop.”
Before I could say anything, I heard the girl mumbling something through her gag behind me, and I glanced at her. Her body was rigid, her eyes were wide, and I felt the movement just quick enough to turn back to David, catching his knife hand at the wrist, and direct the blade from my heart to my shoulder. I screamed out in agony as it bit through my leather.
I struck David in the chest. He staggered back a few steps, and then he charged me again, knife brandished high over his head to strike.
I reached in to my jacket and pulled out a small velvet bag, took a pinch of the iron shavings it held, and threw it in David’s face. Iron burns the Fay.
David stopped, shielded his eyes, and broke into a coughing fit.
He dropped the knife, and I stooped to pick it up. I moved for the girl on the bed, and she was squirming and trying to talk as I cut through the first of her ropes, freeing one of her feet. Her mumblings became more panicked, and I pulled the gag out of her mouth as she said, “Behind you.”
I spun to see David charging me with an old, rusty pipe in his hand. He screamed, and as he bore down, I pulled both Colts without blinking and dropped him with a few quick slugs to the chest.
I holstered my guns, turned back to the girl, and started to cut through another rope. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Becky,” she said.
“Becky,” I said, cutting through the third rope and moving on to the final. “You need to run. Get as far away from here as fast as you can. Do you understand?”
She nodded. With both hands freed, she rubbed her wrists as she sat on the edge of the bed frame. “Who are you?” she said.
“I’m just doing the Lord’s work,” I said with a faint smile. I cast a glance back at David, but he was still on the ground, shaking slightly.
“Thank you,” she said and then ran for the exit.
After she’d gone, I heard the gurgling noises David was making and moved to kneel over him. I took both of his hands in mine. I looked down at his face, completely untouched by the iron shavings that should’ve burned him raw. His eyes were wide, and with each of his short, labored breaths, I could feel his fear.