by T. F. Walsh
One of the red demons stood on its hind-legs. It reared its head back, clawing at the air. It screeched as lumps moved and boiled beneath its skin. As it thrashed, it grew taller, the skin smoothed, the arms extended longer, the head grew less misshapen, more oval. The eyes came together, the nose formed, the skin paled.
“Marcus,” Daman breathed its name.
“Father,” Vincent cried. He took two nervous steps toward Marcus, revulsion and greed playing on his face. “You’re here.”
Marcus smiled, an evil grimace that made Daman’s blood run cold. It was that same smile he remembered seeing whenever Marcus was about to do something unspeakably horrendous to a poor soul.
“My son,” Marcus’s voice was strong and clear. He held his arms as if to embrace Vincent.
Vincent staggered toward his father. “I have sought you to come back to this life.”
“Vincent,” The creature’s eyes gleamed. “I have learned a lot since I’ve been here. It will do you good to learn my knowledge. Everything will be yours. You will be king on earth.”
“I am here for you, Father.”
“I need to occupy a body. I cannot sustain the strength to be part of the flesh and blood world without one.”
Victor turned to look at Daman. “There is one here for you.”
Marcus studied Daman. “Interesting choice. It still occupies a soul. But never worry about that. My friends here will help to … evict it.”
With an unseen order, the eyes of the red demons turned on Daman. Slowly they made their way toward him, limping on broken hands and half-formed legs and arms. Intent was evident in their eyes. Some salivated, drool dripping from their lipless, gaping mouths. The closer they came, the more intense the wretched smell grew until it invaded his head through his nostrils and his blood as it sank through his skin. He knew the end of his life had come. In a strange way, he felt no fear, was resigned to it, knowing the certainty that it would be a terrible death. The red demons would make sure of that.
They were so close that Daman saw distorted bones protruding beneath sunken skin. They cackled, eyeing him with delight. Daman trained his gaze on Angel. He had to watch something beautiful. Best not to see these … things. Best to let go and remember the last three days without them tainting the beauty of those hours.
A hand snatched outwards, plunging into his chest. Skeletal fingers wrapped around his heart, claws digging into the muscle. He shouted in agony as his heart constricted. His blood became sludge in his veins. A claw sank into his stomach, twisting his intestines in white, blinding pain. The hand came out of his body, entwined in a silvery haze. The pain had moved from his body to the glowing silver thread, disemboweled in the demons hand. His soul. His lifeblood. The bridge between this life and the next.
The shadows deepened, reaching for him. His vision blurred, heart slowed. The body was shutting down, finding stillness without the life of the soul. There was no way it would survive without the very essence of whom he was.
In the doom, Marcus stood over him, stooping toward him. The edges of his body blurred, like steam rising. The steam floated toward him. He was sliding without purchase, pushed down a slippery slope. His limbs became numb. Limp without physical feeling. He reeled, upside down, wrong way up, he couldn’t tell. One thing was a certainty — he was fast losing the battle to stay in this life.
There was a hideous, gleeful chuckle, then the rest moved in on him.
Chapter Nineteen
A brilliant, golden flash of light. The power of the sun glinted and sparked, enveloping his body, warming him, his soul was cushioned in glorious, comfortable heat. The pain ceased, the claws gone from their scraping and digging and pulling. He lurched back, dropping from a great height. He jolted. His body jerked, charged with something electric. His limbs were heavy, and he struggled to move. An arm flopped over his eyes. He had power over his body. He tested arms and legs; found he had control over everything. Felt his heart beat, the blood warm in his veins. He was back.
That’s when the pain started. His lungs constricted, begging for breath. The claws had gone, but they’d done their terrible damage. His body was thundering with the pain of a hundred cuts and scratches, inside and on his skin. A groan ripped from his throat. He fell to the floor as a wave of hurt cleaved through his mind and body. He shook uncontrollably, chilled and aching. He curled onto his side, awash with the torture his body and soul had taken.
There was a pocket of warmth. Daman turned to it. Slowly it melted into his skin, thawing his aching bones, easing tender muscles. He stopped shaking and the chill shifted and dissipated from his limbs. He cracked heavy eyelids. The blurred form of Antimedus crouched over him. His face was both impassive and eternally patient. He had his eyes closed in concentration, head bent as though in prayer. His hands were extended toward Daman, palms directed to his heart. The angel’s hands glowed with the golden light that spread to his body. Where the light touched him, he felt great warmth and peace. Antimedus had brought him back from the edge of wherever he’d been and Daman was immediately grateful.
“What took you so long,” Daman wheezed.
“I cannot interrupt the will of human nature, but I can cease the red demons from taking a soul that doesn’t wish to leave its body or deserve to be taken from it.”
“Oh, is that all.” Daman rested his head to the ground. He couldn’t see the red demons, but the smell of sulfur was strong. They hadn’t left. They were still close by. “Where are they?”
“Lurking in the shadows. Without this light, they will come back. It burns their skin, but they will wait until it goes. They can be very persistent.”
“They have eternity to be persistent,” Daman said.
He lifted his head to see they were surrounded in a glowing light. It shone from a halo that hovered over Antimedus’ head. The white light spread from the top of the halo, then broadened downwards to the ground like a bubble, entirely cloaking them. In the darkest shadows in the edges of the warehouse, Daman heard the scraping of claws on the concrete. Here and there was a flicker of a half-face, a long-fingered bony hand, a thin hairless tail that came close to the light. They were keeping away. Barely. Daman stifled a shudder.
“Angel?” Daman hooked his eyes on Antimedus. “Where is she?”
Daman half sat, resting on a crooked elbow. His muscles screamed against further punishment. His body had had taken about enough as it could take and weakness laced his movements. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it of the fog that had settled, making his thoughts and body sluggish. He had to get to her, save her from this twisted nightmare.
“I see you have a savior.”
Daman turned at the wheezing voice, spinning on his knees and standing in one, solid, painful step. He peered through the light dome toward the voice, struggling to stay upright.
He saw them just at the edge. Victor held Angel tight in his arms, positioned so that she was fully in front of him. A living shield. She was twisted at an odd angle. Daman wondered why she shied so much from him. Then he saw Victor had a gun pressed to Angel’s temple.
The horror he saw written plainly on her face made him start toward her without a thought to himself or the red demons that would surely jump on him the moment they could. At a slight movement of the gun, Angel jerked painfully. Daman stopped, toes at the edge of the light. There was a faint hissing from the shadows, a murmur of excitement from the demons.
He didn’t care. All he could do was stare at Angel. Helpless. Every feature on Angel’s face pleaded with Daman. For forgiveness, for lost hope, for their impossible predicament. For things that should be and never would. He felt every word, every feeling that she wore. He wore the same.
There’s nothing to forgive. I love you. There’s still hope. I will never give up.
Her boundless eyes widened. She’d felt his thought. Their connection could not be
broken by others. That was only theirs. Their unique link that Victor, or torture, or even death could not break. Together, they were strong. Anger welled from deep in his gut, so burning he started to shake. Vincent had taken enough from him. Daman had let Vincent take the last three years of his life and now he was through letting Vincent strip him of everything in his life worth fighting for. This was going to end tonight. One way or the other.
“Let her go, Lepski, you bastard, or by God, I’ll see you in hell before you do anything to her,” Daman said between clenched teeth.
Vincent turned his gun on Daman. The hollow black nose of the gun stared at him, hard and unblinking, but he was too enraged to care. All he could think of was getting Angel out of Vincent’s arms and out of harm’s way. His mind ticked through different scenarios in milliseconds, working out the best angle to attack.
“Don’t shoot him in the face. I don’t want to have to go through surgery as soon as I come back to life,” Marcus said, his voice floating from thin air.
“You’re never coming back on earth. The life you have now is the one you deserve,” Daman said.
Marcus chuckled, a mirthless, humorless sound. “There are more things to life as you know it.”
“Daman is not the only one here who’ll fight to keep you where you belong.”
“Father Joseph!” Angel gasped.
The priest merged from the shadows and boldly walked toward Marcus. He wasn’t scared. Sensing his strength, the red demons scattered away from the priest, letting him though in a pathway straight toward Marcus.
Father Joseph stopped in front of Marcus. His eyes never left Marcus’ face. Marcus was unable to move, hypnotized by the priest’s boldness. Father Joseph raised his hand, facing his palm toward Marcus. Entwined in his fingers was a rosary chain. The cross was cushioned in the center of his palm. The priest murmured a prayer. His lips barely moved, his voice was so quiet Daman could not recognize the words, but the strength of his tone mesmerized the beings in the warehouse.
Marcus’s pale face faltered momentarily. He seemed to collapse in at the chest, cowering in the presence of Father Joseph. With great effort, Marcus gathered inner strength and straightened his thin, bony frame and faced the priest.
“You can do nothing to me,” Marcus said.
“Repent. Embrace the light and you will journey with us,” Father Joseph said.
Marcus sneered. “You think I want that? I will be with my son. We will be together on earth. Our bond cannot be broken.”
“Nor can the bonds of the light. Cease what you’re doing. Show kindness for once in your small, miserable life.”
The sneer turned into a shadow of a smile. “You know what they say. Old dogs and all that.”
Father Joseph inclined his head. “As you wish.”
The priest started chanting. Old, meaningless words, but soothing to Daman’s ear. There was light and clarity, peace and restfulness in the timbre of the priest’s voice. The words filled the warehouse, dissipating into the shadows, merging and dancing with the light. In death, the priest had become more powerful than Daman had ever thought a person could be.
Pain twisted Marcus’s face. His mouth turned into a wretched grimace. His eyes screwed shut. He fell to his knees, face folding into his hands. He screamed, an unearthly sound. His skin changed color until it was burned crimson, his fingers grew longer, turning into thin red bones with long blackened claws. He dug his fingers into his face, dragging his claws down his cheeks. Black blood oozed from the cuts, but that still could not stop the pain of the priest’s words twisting his body into a misshapen creature. Marcus stooped onto his hands and knees. He clutched his arms, his chest. Where he touched, his claws dug deep, creating gouges. Black blood dripped to the floor. His back arched into a bony ridge, his head became a hairless skull. His mouth gaped open, lipless and unable to hide the triangular yellowed teeth.
“Stop!” Vincent’s used-up voice commanded as much as his crushed throat would let him.
Father Joseph’s voice grew louder. Stronger. Marcus’s screaming changed into a gurgle as the final changes to his body took place. There was a screeching from the shadows. The red demons emerged. At first, a hand out of the shadows, then as they became more courageous, a head and shoulders. They inched forward, writhing and hissing, toward the changed form of Marcus.
A hand snatched his tail. With a shriek Marcus turned, striking the hand, scratching the skin. Blood dripped from the fresh wound. There was a shriek. The blood set others behind the red demon into a frenzy. They snatched its hand, claws digging into its side. The skin ripped open, gouging long slashes over its ribs. Black blood oozed to the floor. Demons sniffed the air, the scent of blood capturing their senses. They attacked, dragging the wounded demon into the shadows, biting, snarling and ripping.
Marcus turned toward the pack, hissing. The demons’ black eyes turned to Marcus. They stalked him, nostrils high in the air, smelling the blood on Marcus’ body, on the floor. They slowly surrounded him in a tight circle. Marcus turned full circle, trying to keep the crimson claws at bay. A hand lashed out, striking his shoulder. Another slashed his hind leg. Black drops fell onto the ground. The pack sniffed, excited. Their eyes changed from black to shining, burning red.
“Get away from my father,” Vincent yelled. He shot at the demons, but the bullets only smashed harmlessly into the concrete.
Daman moved from the circle of light while Vincent’s attention was riveted on the horrific otherworldly scene. Slowly, soundlessly he stepped toward Angel. Their eyes were locked. She didn’t move, didn’t show Vincent any indication as to what Daman was doing. He saw the tension in her eyes, on her face.
He crouched, maneuvering into position while Vincent’s attention was riveted on the horror in front of him.
There was a terrible screech. Father Joseph’s voice rose, then fell silent. A crimson claw snatched at Marcus’s arm, claws digging deep in his flesh and held. Another latched into his leg and pulled Marcus to the floor. Claws dug into his side. Marcus screamed with rage and pain, limbs kicking and clawing at the bodies that attacked him. There were too many to fight off. The pack descended. Bones cracked. The scream gurgled and was buried beneath the excited hissing and screeching of the demons.
Demons writhed where Marcus once was, black blood coating their teeth, dripping from mouths and chins. Vincent screamed his fury, firing at the demons and the priest with bullets that could do nothing to them.
Daman seized the moment and charged at Vincent. His shoulder smashed into the soft center of Vincent’s stomach. Vincent stumbled. As he staggered backward, his hand slipped from Angel’s neck. Daman grabbed Angel, flinging her away from Vincent’s grip.
“I’ve got you,” Daman whispered in Angel’s ear. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.”
There was an explosion as Vincent’s gun spat another bullet. Angel stumbled backward. Her mouth gaped, silently screaming. There was blood on her arm, over her blouse. She’d been hit.
“Angel, are you all right?” Daman asked.
She stood unmoving, limbs stiff. Wordless. Unresolved pity shone from eyes filled with unshed tears.
“Are you hurt?” he asked again, stepping closer to her. Her eyes drew up to his, sadness radiating from their depths. Her mouth moved and he saw she said his name.
“Angel, you’re not making sense,” Daman said.
Vincent laughed, a guttural, mirthless sound. Daman spun to look at him, a frown pulling his forehead.
“You don’t know!” Vincent said, glee making his voice high and tight. “I should have made it more painful, then you’d certainly know when you’re dead.”
“Dead?” Confusion made him drop his gaze, seeking reason to Vincent’s words. That was when he saw his lifeless body, lying face down on the floor. A red stain leaked beneath his body, spreading over the co
ncrete. On his back, positioned where his heart might still be beating if not for the bullet that had ripped it open was a gaping, raw wound.
Daman patted his chest, feeling for a hole. There was no pain. There were none of the wounds that had been made to his broken body. He was dressed the same, felt the same, had the same feelings, the same emotions. It was like pulling free of an overcoat.
He looked to Father Joseph. Saw the confirmation on his face. Antimedus stood, arms crossed over his massive chest, a silent sentinel.
He was dead.
But that didn’t mean …
Excited, Daman faced Angel. “We can be together now. We’re free. You can change back.”
Angel shook her head. Her body trembled as she squeezed the wound on her arm. “It’s too late.”
“It can’t be,” he said. Foreboding weakened him. He stepped toward Angel, went to touch her, but his hand slid through her body.
She existed and he was — nothing.
“The prophecy. Flesh and blood for flesh and blood. You sacrificed yourself for me, Daman. I’m … human.”
The prophecy. Meaning stunned his mind as he remembered the words from the book. An Angel can become flesh and blood with a sacrifice. The bullet had ripped through him and injured Angel at the same time. His blood on the bullet had mingled with hers when it sliced through his heart and her arm, making her human.
And because she was now human, she couldn’t fix his body, or reunite his spirit with flesh and blood.
“But it shouldn’t be this way. We should be together. We have our lives to look forward to … ”
“You love the angel?” Vincent’s shoulders shook as he laughed. “You fell in love … with her? This is good. I couldn’t make this any better if I tried.”
“You bastard, Lepski!”
“What are you going to do about it? Hit me? Kill me. You can’t touch me!”
“Father?” Daman asked as he changed his gaze to the priest.
Father Joseph shook his head helplessly. “There is nothing I can do. There’s nothing I know.”