Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2)

by Silvers, Shayne

  Instead of answering, he poured the rest of his beer over his sewn-up mouth, and then picked up his paddle. Glowing green runes flared to life as soon as his skeletal hands touched it.

  “Charon. Really. Listen to me. I’m not supposed to go there.”

  He hesitated as if debating only thoughts that the Boatman to the World of the Dead could fathom, and then turned his nightmare gaze back to me. His ebony eyes glittered in the green glow of the runes on his paddle. Then he spoke, face screwed up as if trying to remember something. “I had twelve fucks as of this morning. Now I have a dozen fucks. How many fucks did I give today?”

  I… blinked.

  The Boatman was… making a joke? He was staring at me with what I thought was supposed to be eagerness, but merely looked predatory. So, I answered, understanding that he probably didn’t get many chances to exercise his humor. “You gave zero fucks today, Charon.”

  He slapped his knees with excitement and his face tightened in what I guessed was a smile, the knotted cords over his mouth pulling tight, which made me wince with imagined pain. His smile would have made little girls and grown men alike run screaming in horror. “And I’m not about to start giving fucks now.” He added. Then he appraised me. “That was funny, was it not?” he asked me curiously. I was kind of getting used to his voice. The way someone gets used to nails on a chalkboard.

  “Sure. Hilarious, Charon.” I answered in resignation to my apparent fate.

  Then he began rowing the boat, aiming for a sudden vertical split in the river before us, a beam of glowing green light.

  “It’s not up to you. Or me.” He hissed compassionately.

  I groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You know how many enemies I have down there?” I grumbled more to myself.

  He shrugged and continued to paddle towards the light.

  So I drank my beer. It tasted good. Really good. Perhaps it was because I knew it would be my last.

  We didn’t move very fast. I guessed Charon wasn’t really in much of a hurry. After all, it wasn’t like he cared about anyone else’s time schedule. His fares were dead. They weren’t necessarily in a hurry to get anywhere anymore. Most were likely not in a hurry to get to their final destination.

  I finished the beer as we entered the light with a faint tingling sensation coursing down my arms, and I mentally prepared myself for the worst thing imaginable. What would Hell be like? Was it individually tailored to each person? What was my worst nightmare? I had experienced a plethora of them over the past few months. What could be worse than those? But as the light washed over me, a familiar scene surrounded us.

  The salvage yard.

  I turned to look at Charon with a scowl. Was this my hell? To relive my death over and over again? Then I noticed something odd. My body was lying on the ground, dead.

  Othello still kneeled where she had been. But Gavin was nowhere to be seen. Charon waved a hand and a metaphysical window appeared, showing me the entrance to the Armory at Temple Industries, where Gavin was liberally, and furiously, throwing a dark, viscous liquid against the door. My blood. Nothing happened. His scream of frustration was most satisfying. Then, totally unexpectedly, the freaking door exploded. Gavin barely escaped in time as I watched my company implode like a nuke had went off in the lab. Huh. I hadn’t seen that in the blueprints.

  Gavin reappeared before Othello in the Salvage yard. He was not entirely unscathed, much to my satisfaction. His face was cut up in two places, bleeding freely, and his hands were covered in my blood. His clothes were singed from the explosion, and he faintly smoked in places from the embers that had nearly burned him alive. His hair also looked silly, like a toupee on a particularly windy day. No, not like a toupee, it was a toupee! Oh, that was rich.

  Apparently my Hell was not being able to make fun of him for it, which was abhorrently cruel in my opinion. Not even a chance for one wise crack. I sighed.

  Gavin struck my friend across the face, screaming in a spittled rage. “The place was rigged to blow!” Then he began to torture her in earnest. Like a child plucking the wings off of a fly, and I suddenly knew that he was much worse than the Academy. He was of the school of thought that Might was Right. Just like Peter had been.

  I was forced to watch Othello be beaten to death.

  I slowly turned to Charon, sickened. “So, this is it, huh?” I accused in a low voice. “You will leave me here to watch her die? As punishment for my sins? What sins have I committed to deserve this?” I finally roared helplessly.

  Charon stared back calmly for a long second. He must be used to it by now. Then he spoke in my mind again. “It was nice meeting you, Master Temple. Do better next time.”

  Without further ado, he flung a hand at my face, and reality… collapsed.

  I came to, panting hoarsely, my fingers clutching gravel in tight fists. I squeezed the gravel tighter and a blue haze filled my vision as the gravel silently imploded into dust. Then nothingness.

  What the…

  I slowly looked up as I heard a sickening thud of fists striking flesh, and a resulting delirious groan of pain that was on the verge of final silence. Gavin was towering over Othello. “You lied to me! I will tear the skin from your nephew for this…” The rest was incoherent babble as I realized a very important thing.

  I was back.

  I began to hum to myself as I climbed to my feet, once again in perfect key.

  Back in the saddle agaaaiiiin….

  Chapter 38

  I climbed to my feet and called out Gavin’s name. Softly. Gavin flinched, practically jumping in his skin as he turned to face me, a look of utter disbelief painting his features. It made me smile, but I realized I still wore Death’s Mask, and wasn’t sure if Gavin could see my pleasure or not. “You… You can’t be here. You’re dead. I killed you. I used your blood on the door. The Armory is mine now. You wouldn’t dare attack me.”

  “You didn’t get into the Armory. I saw you fail.”

  He spluttered defensively, spittle flying out his mouth. His knuckles were covered in Othello’s blood. He went with his original threat, seeing that I had called his bluff about the Armory. “It’s death to impersonate a Horseman! I’ll call them and tell them what you’ve done! Nothing points to me. I made sure of it. It all points to you!”

  I watched him squirm like a worm. It was immensely satisfying after thinking I had died and was going to hell. This was almost like heaven to me. Then that sunk in.

  This wasn’t Heaven, was it?

  I hoped this wasn’t heaven giving me hallucinations of victory for eternity. Oh well. If it was, so be it. I was going to make the most of it. I spoke softly, with all the authority I could muster. “Who said anything about impersonating? I’m here to condemn you for your lack of proper toupee etiquette. It’s downright embarrassing, like a hungover zombie squirrel took a nap on your dome.”

  Gavin’s hands jumped to his hairpiece, straightening it instinctively before a scowl crossed his features. I smiled. Yes! Toupee joke accomplished. This really was heaven. I continued more seriously. “You saw what I did to the Greater Demon. I think you’ve had this coming for quite a while, Gavin. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s slow enough for you to experience every moment of it. I want you to see the twinkle in my eyes that signifies my sublime satisfaction at every millisecond of your agony. But first, tell me why?”

  He quivered with frustration. “The Academy is broken. They’ve forgotten their true purpose. It’s all politics now. Favors exchanged for more favors. Not true Justice.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I was going to reset the rulebook. Establish a new Academy with the power of the Armory at my back. Start fresh. Salt the earth. A New World Order of Wizards.”

  I let him finish, not entirely disagreeing with his cause, but utterly disagreeing with the means he had used to accomplish the Academy’s downfall. I nodded once in both appreciation of his answer and signifying his impending death. And, because I would literally never have another le
gitimate chance to say it, I quoted The Princess Bride as his farewell conveyance.

  “My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father. Prepare to die.” I had always wanted to say that, and… damn did it feel good. Especially with the accent.

  Gavin jerked his head around in a panic, searching for any way out.

  And his gaze settled on Othello/

  He smiled. “Well, if I’m going to die, I’ll do it with finesse. You killed my Demon, now I’ll kill your concubine.” Before I could even blink, he slit Othello’s throat with a whisper of magic, too fast for me to even consider stopping him, being completely unused to my new powers. She hadn’t even raised her head to look at me before she died.

  Othello’s soul slowly rose from her broken body. She stared down at it in pity, crying. Then her soul looked up and saw me. Her form quivered in fear as she realized she was about to meet Death in his official capacity.

  I had seen my reflection. I didn’t blame her.

  I smiled compassionately, hoping she could see through my mask to the human emotion beneath. “It’s me, Othello. It’s okay. I forgive you. Come to me.” I encouraged softly in my mind. She apparently heard me, her eyes widening. A tear fell to my cheek beneath the cold bone mask. She hadn’t deserved to go through this. But she had done it all to save her nephew’s life.

  Othello was golden, folks. If you ever meet someone like her, never let her go.

  And I wasn’t about to let her go out like this.

  Time for some absolution.

  She blubbered in a whispery voice, her soul drifting beside me like smoke on the breeze. “I didn’t have a choice. He kidnapped my nephew. He threatened to hand him over to the Demons if I didn’t help.” I nodded sadly, patting her soul comfortingly. Gavin watched me with a frown, no doubt wondering if I was hallucinating. Then his eyes widened in understanding as he glanced at Othello’s dead body beside him, and then back to the air in front of me. He couldn’t see her, but had surmised that Othello’s soul was still present. And that I could see her. Which meant that I might actually be Death in the flesh.

  “Thanks for not telling him about me being a Maker.” I whispered.

  She nodded sadly. “It was the only thing I managed to keep back from him.” She whispered back, heartbroken with shame.

  I nodded, then winked at her. I turned away from Othello’s shattered soul and faced my tormenter. “You see, Gavin. One of the handy things about this mask is that I am a temp-worker for Death. So I get the final say on who lives and who dies.” I hoped that was true. If not, I would beg Death to take me in Othello’s place. Knowing he was backed into a corner Gavin began to prepare a nasty bit of magic to fling at me in retaliation, but I didn’t know how to use my magic, and I wasn’t sure how helpful the mask would be since I had already ‘died’ once. So I simply reacted, not concerning myself with the numerous wizardly ways of defending myself. I didn’t consider using magic.

  Instead, like a teenager in a street fight, I used the only thing I had in my pockets. The keys to Death’s motorcycle.

  Now, you may not know this, but if you want to see some serious damage throw a wad of keys at a milk carton. It obliterates the thing.

  It’s incredible.

  I aimed the keys for Gavin’s face, hoping to throw off his spell for a second or two so I could figure out how to use my new power to stop him.

  But the damndest thing happened.

  Midair, I saw the cute little scythe keychain turn into a real scythe. The real Scythe of Death — Horseman of the Apocalypse. And that thing was both glorious, and horrifying as hell.

  Heh.

  Wails of trapped souls screeched through the night, causing Gavin’s ears to bleed almost instantly, and the temperature dropped by about a hundred degrees. Just like I had experienced in the bar an hour ago. The scythe made a whump-whump sound like helicopter blades as it raced towards the summoner. Then it sliced right through his delicate little neck like a hot knife through butter, cleanly decapitating him. Gavin’s body stood upright for a few seconds before finally toppling over. His head bounced, and Karma came full circle as his toupee fell off completely. His soul slowly rose up from the steaming carcass, a look of sheer surprise as he stared down at his body.

  Then he turned to face me. To face Death’s temp-worker.

  And this temp-worker was a tad bit vengeful.

  His soul began racing towards me in what I assumed was a spiritual attack. I held up a hand and he froze before me. He stared back, fearful and angry. “Speak. Tell me everything, shade.” And, seemingly against his will, he did.

  “I wanted power. Pandora. I needed her assistance to help me overthrow the Academy. She gave all the magical beings in our world their power in the first place. All the tricks we know, she came up with first. And we only know about them because she told us. But she is rumored to have found a pathway far past simple magic, and discovered an answer that is truly unfathomable.” His eyes danced with eager hunger simply by talking about her. Even though he knew he was dead, he still wanted into the Armory. To Pandora. To steal that little slip of a girl I had freed upon the world.

  I would probably need to look into that later. But not now.

  Right now, I had a dish to prepare.

  Vengeance, to be exact.

  And I was about to serve it cold, pure, raw cold.

  I couldn’t think of anything else I really cared to discover, having already eliminated the danger and quenched my immediate rage. The second his lips stopped moving, I decided to let his soul burn. Right there. In front of me. Out of pure spite. So I could watch. I was a bit chilly and a fire sounded nice. I didn’t know if that was strictly allowed or not, but who the hell was going to stop me? Death could clean up my mess later. I made sure Gavin’s consciousness remained, so he could watch me watching his agony. I stoked the eternal flames hotter, enjoying the fact that he couldn’t actually burn away. When I made it hotter, his suffering was more intense, but he simply couldn’t escape it. He simply… burned hotter. So I made it colder. And I watched with way too much enjoyment as spirit-cicles began to grow on his eyelashes, his soul quivering from the sub-zero inferno. All with a thought. I didn’t know if it was a caveman thing or not, but I switched back to burning, as that produced more screams. The sound of his ragged wails was like Beethoven to my ears.

  After enjoying his torment for a few satisfying moments, I idly began to think about food. I don’t know why that was my first thought, but I was downright ravenous. My vision suddenly pulsed blue, and two sticks with marshmallows appeared in my clenched fist. I glanced down at it in surprise. Then I looked at Othello’s soul who was watching me a little nervously, like she wasn’t sure what kind of person could enjoy something so harsh. I averted my gaze to avoid the judgment in her eyes.

  Then I looked at her body.

  Why not?

  Charon’s boat interrupted my thoughts, appearing before us. I held up a hand for patience, smiling at the drunken Boatman. “Dick move, Charon. You could have told me.”

  He shrugged. “Not in my job description.” Othello’s soul flickered as if trying to escape the repulsive sound of the Boatman’s voice.

  I shook my head in amusement at his answer. Then I turned to Othello. She watched me with sad eyes. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but please make it quick, Nate. I never meant to hurt you. I just couldn’t let my innocent nephew die for this Armory. I thought I could do it all. Save him, protect you…” She trailed off, a spiritual tear splattering against her pale cheeks. “Don’t let me suffer.”

  “Not today, kid.”

  She furrowed her brows in confusion. I held up my hands, and the blue waves of power faded to green. I sensed Charon and Othello both watching me with interest, but I ignored them as I very ungracefully forced Othello’s soul back into her body.

  Charon grunted, impressed or disgusted, I didn’t know.

  After all, I didn’t really have any idea how to use Death’s power. I’m sure I co
uld have been a little gentler, but I was forcing someone back to life! Surely she could forgive me a few bumps and bruises to her soul along the way. Her spirit and her body melded together until only Othello’s battered body remained. I waited, fearful I might have done something wrong. Then her body arced up with a spasm, and she gasped as if being given CPR after drowning.

  “It’s aliiiiiive.” I cackled into the night. Charon rolled his eyes.

  Othello panted, eyes wild as she turned from me to Charon, patting her legs and chest in profound disbelief. Her wounds were gone, but she still looked unsteady. Then her gaze settled on me, and I almost felt like a hero from a storybook.

  “Pharos…” She whispered softly, her word filled to bursting with emotion. It was all she needed to say. Then she began to cry softly.

  “Bros.” I held up a fist. She glanced down at it, then, with a twinkle in her eyes, she pounded it with her own delicate fist.

  “Bros.” She answered softly, still sobbing as she seemed to understand my double connotation. We were friends. Nothing more. Nothing less. But what we had was solid, and would always be there. Dependable. Loyal. Unwavering.

  Bros.

  As a side note, definitely my hottest bro.

  I helped her to her feet, and embraced her in a bear hug, enjoying the background music of Gavin’s agonizing screams as his soul was set on charbroil. I stepped back and appraised Othello. She looked a mess, but her wounds seemed to have disappeared when I saved her. Which was good. They hadn’t looked promising. And I wasn’t sure how fast I could have gotten her to the hospital. I realized another added benefit of her not needing immediate medical attention. It gave me just the time I needed.

  I motioned for her and Charon to both sit down beside me on the gravel so that Gavin’s soul twisted and shuddered immediately before us, writhing in the green flames. I set him on a slow spin for aesthetic reasons. And personal satisfaction. My friends complied, and we sat before Gavin’s burning soul and roasted our marshmallows over him. “Want one, Charon?” I asked politely. He shook his head, pointing at his sewn-up lips hopelessly. I shrugged in agreement. I hadn’t really wanted to see him attempt to eat a marshmallow. Instead, he cracked another cold one from a sixer hanging at his rope belt. Othello blinked, then winced as he eagerly dumped it over his sewn up lips. “Okay. Just give us a minute. I’ve almost got it perfect. You see, it’s about that perfect brown color. You can’t let it catch fire but you have to let it get close to burning…” Gavin’s eyes watched me with pure agony as he shrieked, watching as his agony produced our delicious treats.