The Devoured

by Curtis M. Lawson

  The beautiful, naked witch of fair skin and fair hair took her gaze away from Nibelung's gold and turned her attention to Emmett.

  "Where did you get this?!" Her tone was not accusatory, but filled with excited curiosity.

  "From a wretched creature who resides in the realm of death. Keep it. I have quite a bit more."

  Fiona curled her fingertips around Emmett's and strode backward, leading him to her bed. She bade him to sit, and he did. Once Emmett was seated on her blood-red sheets, Fiona turned away from him and opened a drawer near her nightstand. She drew from within a small bowl, made from a black, mirrored stone that Emmett could not identify.

  "What's that?" Emmett asked as Fiona got into a cross-legged sitting position on the bed, and placed the bowl between them.

  "The stone is obsidian. I assume you didn't come here for a night of pirooting. This is the tool of my calling."

  "I haven't said yet why I'm here."

  "You obviously have a question that requires the skill of a seer to answer. I reckon you'd otherwise be hip-deep in me already."

  "I won't lie, the thought crossed my mind."

  "Of course it did. But we have more important matters, don't we? Ask me your question."

  "How do I open the gate to those realms beyond death and Hell? Where do I find the path to eternity? How do I claim that power that taunts and beckons me?"

  Fiona guided Emmett's hand to the rim of the black, mirrored bowl. "Keep those questions in your mind," she said as she pressed Emmett's hand against the razor edge of the obsidian bowl. The rim was so sharp that Emmett did not feel the cut at first, but only saw his blood pour into the basin. The dark red life that flowed from his palm looked black against the polished, pitch interior of the bowl.

  After a small pool of the young man's blood had formed at the base of the bowl, Fiona traced the rim of the bowl with her own fingertips, cutting into them deeply. The blood that dripped from her fingers had the same black appearance within the bowl as Emmett's had. Unlike with Emmett, who now had a red blood welling up in his palm, Fiona's cuts leaked out a viscous, black fluid.

  In the base of the bowl, Emmett's blood danced with the midnight sludge that had oozed out of Fiona. The two liquids repelled each other like oil and water, moving, changing shape within the basin. Fiona gazed into the bowl, watching the shapes like an owl following a mouse at night.

  "He calls to you," she said. "Even now,” Her voice was full of surprise and childlike wonder.

  "Who?" Emmett asked, knowing full well that she spoke of the other voice that would occasionally growl in his mind.

  The blood and ichor in the bowl moved about violently, only discernible by texture in the pitch-black vessel. The sludge from Fiona's veins formed a thick, lumpy background, while Emmett's blood took on a shape that looked like an angular letter "P” with the vertical line extending too far up.

  “Thurs.”

  Emmett's heart froze for the space of three beats at the mention of the name. His insides went cold, as if someone had cut open his viscera and pumped in the waters of the February Atlantic.

  "He is first amongst the devouring gods what lie past the veil. If the devil were real, he would tremble and piss in the shadow of Thurs." Fiona's words were reverent and sincere.

  "Why does he call to me? Of all people?"

  "You are a man of two worlds, cast aside by both," she said, gazing into the blue eyes that contrasted against his dark skin. "He is the creator of the earth and heavens, cast into the depths of a non-world."

  Emmett followed her eyes as they returned to her scrying vessel. The mixture swirled into images that seemed meaningless to Emmett, but from which Fiona was capable of divining answers.

  "You are a son, abandoned by your father. Thurs is the father of all, abandoned by his children."

  "My father didn't abandon me," Emmett insisted, his voice quiet but defensive.

  "Oh?" Fiona questioned. "Didn't he?"

  Emmett ignored the accusation and shook his head.

  "Again, why would something so powerful, the king of the gods or whatever, choose me?"

  "Perhaps he finds you familiar. Perhaps it is luck. My advice is to thank the stars for your good fortune."

  "And what does he want?"

  "The same things you want. To cross the veil and sup upon the power of another world."

  Fiona moved her scrying bowl to the nightstand by her bed, careful not to spill its contents. She then turned back toward Emmett, crawling across the bed on her hands and knees. Her movements displayed a grace that was feline and primal. Her smile was rife with predatory hunger.

  "The gate between our world and that place beyond death can only be opened from this side of things. Do you want to open that gate? Do you dare?"

  "I do. Want, that is, as well as dare."

  Fiona placed one hand against Emmett's chest and pushed him back onto the soft, sanguine sheets. He went down with no resistance and allowed Fiona to crawl forward and straddle him. Her hair fell in his face, smelling of roses and cinnamon. Her flesh, so soft and smooth, grazed his own. Her already damp cunt pressed against the hardness in his denim jeans.

  "I can show you the way to other worlds. I know the secret paths and I know the magic keys." An ear to ear grin—a maniac smile—stretched across her face. "But you must lie with me first."

  Her hands reached down and tugged at Emmett's belt buckle. As soon as it loosened, she stopped and locked eyes with him, still grinning like a lunatic child.

  "I would be most happy to oblige you on that front," Emmett said, his teenage heart beating like a war drum in his chest.

  Without another word Fiona pulled at Emmett's pants. He lifted his ass off the bed, making her job easier. Once his hard cock was exposed she lowered herself upon him, not taking the time to fully undress him. Her thighs moved her body up and down, working his hardness in and out of her. Emmett closed his eyes and sighed in ecstasy as the warmth and wetness of her sex brought him euphoria.

  Then he opened his eyes and nearly lost his mind.

  The seer of The Emerald Flower's snow-white skin was now riddled with black veins that crisscrossed her flesh. The black, spider-web veins were everywhere, from her pock-marked thighs, to her sagging and shapeless breasts, to the wrinkles around her bloodshot eyes. Her chapped lips opened in a show of carnal pleasure, revealing broken, rotted teeth and a tongue as white as her skin.

  Emmett tried to push the witch off of him, his strong hands grabbing her emaciated hips by the jutting pelvic bones. She hissed at his protest and brought a jagged, broken fingernail to rest an inch from his eye.

  "You want to cross the bridge, you best pay the toll." Her voice held no more of the soothing sultriness of before. Now it was the voice of a throat riddled with cancer.

  Emmett looked up at the vile thing that he had taken upon him and felt bile rise in his throat. Other thoughts fought for equal say in his mind—thoughts of the power he'd already gained—the ability to summon wealth and to trade one life for another—thoughts of what power, utterly alien to mankind, could still be tapped. He thought of his father, so strong, and smart, and perfect, and how he could honor him by surpassing him, if only in this way.

  With a deep swallow, Emmett choked back the bile. His hands gripped the witch's bony hips and pulled her back onto him, until he was all the way inside her. Black, viscous liquid ran from her lady parts, forming a chunky, clotted pool on his pelvis. Emmett could feel the vile ichor working its way into his pisshole and burning his insides. Despite the pain and disgust, the boy raised his hips, driving himself hard within her.

  "Show me the path, Fiona. Help me open the gate."

  She let out a sound somewhere between a cackle and moan as she dug her broken nails into his hips.

  "Thurs be praised!"

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Time wasn't on the old man's side. Time was a primordial thing. Time was Kronus eating his children. Time was a Devourer, perhaps the most terrible of the
whole lot. Time was the enemy.

  Still, there were things to be done before he could face Thurs. To be ill-prepared would spell failure. The old man was all done with failure.

  The priest's journal and train tickets had pointed the old man to where his war would end. An entry in the journal, scrawled with a shaky hand that was either terrified, drunk, or both recalled an up-and-coming town led by a raven-haired giant who could sway men's minds and darken their souls. His name was Mr. Thirsty, so called because of the cracked, dry look of his flesh.

  Within the course of a few months the town had transformed itself, under the guidance of Mr. Thirsty, from an end-of-track shithole into a thriving village.

  The journal was written in a broken narrative that mirrored fresh fear. Such a disjointed account would have struck the uninitiated as either the ravings of a mad man or shorthand notes penned by some dime novel author. Enough shared experience was held within the words for the old man to distill at least a vague sense of what the priest had seen.

  Winter's End. That was the name of the eastern Nebraska town where Thurs had built his lair—a place where "beneath the veil of normality the sinister lurks in every aspect," or so the priest had claimed.

  Winter's End. This was the name of the place where the old man would fight his last battle.

  It had been only hours since the old man and Hank had left Tanner's grove, and now the train was slowing to make its stop two hundred miles away at Winter's End. The old man wasn't ready for Thurs and had no intention of making his stand just yet. For now, they'd just wait on the train, and pass right through the enemy lines and onward to Omaha. If they were lucky enough not to draw the attention of Mr. Thirsty, that is.

  Hank grimaced at the screech of the locomotive’s brakes and the blare of its whistle. It was loud and ugly, bringing discomfort to his young, sensitive ears. It was a small price to pay for the experience of riding in a real train. Most folks who'd been born and raised in America had never been privy to such an experience. To see the world speed by you, to glide across the plains and through tunnels of bedrock—this was the magic of man. To hell with writhing, wooden messiahs and the secret rites of stone age shamans. The old man had shown Hank true power and beauty. The simple grace of a pistol. The red-hot rage of a steam engine.

  The past held only death and darkness. Hank felt liberated from it. From here on out he was a child of today, and believer in tomorrow. If tomorrow was going to be reached, he knew he'd have to help the old man destroy the evil things that wanted to take the world back to yesterday.

  The train slowed, halted, and rocked back a bit before coming to a complete stop. The old man looked out the window, over the town of Winter's End. He half expected a mob of witches or Thurs himself to be waiting at the station. This was not the case.

  Townsfolk went about their business, up and down the dirt roads lined with storefronts, workshops, and homes. Folks got off the train, and a few got on. Businessmen and traders mostly, none bearing outward signs of witchcraft or madness.

  Still, something about the place felt queer. To Hank, it was simply an odd feeling in his gut—an animal instinct that something just wasn't right. The old man was able to consciously pick up on the cracks within the facade. The thorn rune that took the place of the "p" on the swinging sign above the entrance to Patton's saloon. The smell of rain despite an open blue sky. The geometry and angles of the streets, designed for energy flow rather than ease of travel or economy of space.

  And then there was the centerpiece. Right in the middle of town, about five hundred yards from the train depot, was the church. It seemed a simple and humble thing at first glance. Adobe construction, in the southwest style, only two stories in height. Its dusty, terracotta tone blended in with the earth below, and on top sat a simple whitewashed cross of wood.

  Most travelers didn't give the church a second glance, and if they did, those folks would find themselves victim of nausea and vertigo. The great bulk of people who succumbed to these spells never gave it much thought. The old man knew the reasons for those sick feelings though.

  He forced himself to study the lines of the building, willing out the vertigo as his mind tried to comprehend the impossible angles and spatial paradox of the architecture. The chaos was subtle, but it was there. Setting eyes upon the building was like viewing the world through shards of stray glass. One's mind can compensate and complete the picture of what it should be, but the truth of one's senses is a hideous image out of touch with reality.

  For the space of five minutes the locomotive sat idle at the depot in Winter's End. During that span of time the old man barely breathed, anxiety crushing his chest like a weight. Part of it was the disorienting effect of the church. A bigger contributor to his anxious mindset was the knowledge that within that within the walls of that alien temple, just a few hundred yards away, his son was being held by a dark titan. There was another reason for his breathlessness as well, and a shameful reason at that. The old man was afraid of Thurs.

  Hank lowered his head, rubbing his eyes as if he were weary.

  "There's something weird about this place. It makes me dizzy."

  The old man replied in a whisper, without looking over at his companion. "This is the place."

  "So why are we still on the train?" Hank asked, darting up.

  The old man placed a hand on Hank's shoulder, still keeping his eyes set on the church of impossible architecture.

  "First things first. We got errands to run. Things to settle."

  Hank said nothing, only looked back out the window, trying not to set his eyes on anything that made him feel dizzy. When the train began its slow crawl out of the depot, Hank was relieved. He'd had enough of Winter's End for the moment.

  While the old man wasn't exactly relieved, his anxiousness did subside as the train left the damned town behind. He used to fear that when the time came he'd lose himself to rage and charge blindly at Thurs. It would seem that the final showdown would take a greater summoning of courage than he'd anticipated. On the positive side, at least fear would keep him grounded and focused. If it wasn't for the fear, the old man doubted his willpower would have been enough to keep him on road to Omaha so he could prepare.

  ***

  The sun was low in the sky, and the blue canopy that had covered Winter's End had shifted color to a yellowish orange by the time the old man and Hank pulled into Omaha. Omaha was a fine city, in the old man's opinion, founded upon the proper principles of honest trade and human advancement. It embraced the future and held a vested interest in the continental railroad. It was a testament to what the will of man could accomplish, not thanks to any gods, but in spite of them. A bit too congested for his taste, but a fine place to rest with Hank and eat what might be his last meal.

  The first stop was a modest wooden building with a simple whitewashed sign that read "Guns." The old man had ruined the business end of his best pistol back in his earthen prison months back. If he tried to shoot it now, the aim would be off at best. At worst, the barrel would explode.

  "We getting a gun for me?" Hank asked with an excited smile.

  "What the hell do you need a gun for?" the old man replied.

  "Killing witches."

  The old man grunted, sad that the boy had been exposed to the terrible things that lust for man's world. Part of him was a bit proud of Hank though. After what the boy had been through, it was amazing that he hadn't succumbed to insanity or constant fear. Instead he swallowed down the fear and was ready to fight.

  He's a good soldier, the old man thought, as he messed up the boy's overgrown hair.

  The door, a heavy beast of an entrance, was made up of thick planks of oak banded together with railroad ties. Hank tried to push it open, with all his might. He grunted, closing his eyes as he pushed with his legs. A few seconds later the door began to give. Hank didn't notice the old man's hand above him, taking the lion’s share of the burden from him.

  Inside the shop was dark, lit only by t
he fleeting rays of the setting sun as they came through the barred windows and open door. The space was small, but neat and well organized. Several rifles adorned the wall behind the register and old humidors on the counter were retrofitted into trays for ammunition.

  The sole proprietor was a young man, probably still in his twenties. A series of nasty scars left one side of the gunsmith’s face badly disfigured. The old man's best guess was some sort of shrapnel wound. The kid had been in the war, or at least the old man reckoned so.

  "Howdy," the old man said in as friendly a voice as he could muster. "I could use a repair on my barrel."

  The smith regarded the old man coolly, not yet saying anything.

  Taking special care to use slow, deliberate movements so as not to alarm the scar-faced clerk, the old man pulled his pistol, Donner. He eyed it with appreciation for a moment. He was uncomfortable giving it up, even for the night. It was a simple repair though, not one that required his personal touch, and he had other affairs to see to.

  After he placed the pistol on the counter, the clerk examined the gun with solemn appreciation.

  "A Colt Dragoon?"

  "Modeled after it, but not quite. A custom piece."

  For a moment the gunsmith nodded his approval, as he turned the gun over in his hands, looking it over like he would a beautiful woman. As his eyes came to the barrel's end a bitter expression overtook his face.

  "Whatcha do to this here iron? Drag it a mile 'cross granite?"

  "That's closer to the truth than I care to admit," the old man answered. "Can you fix it?"

  "If you got the money, yeah. Give me 'til tomorrow. Mid-morning."