by Terri Garey
Faith slumped against the door, leaning her forehead against the wood. Nathan would be out of surgery soon; she needed to be there for him. “Let me out,” she begged tearfully, with no idea whom she was pleading with. “Please.”
“I will in a moment, but first we need to have a little chat.”
She didn’t understand where the voice was coming from. Unmuffled, no electronic echo or hiss, as clear as if someone were standing beside her—but there was no one there.
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but when your little boy gets out of surgery, you’re going to get some very bad news.”
Faith’s legs were suddenly boneless. She sank to the floor, unable to hold herself up.
“It doesn’t have to be the end of the world, however,” said the voice calmly, impervious to her grief. “I can still help you.”
“Who are you?” she shrieked, at her wit’s end. “What do you want?” No escape, no one to fight. “Let me out!”
The light within the chapel began to grow dim. As she crouched there, on the floor, the room darkened until she could no longer make out the cross on the wall, or the prie-dieu in front of it. The world shrank to a small circle roughly ten feet in circumference, illuminated only by a single track light in the wall above her head.
“I don’t want much,” said the voice, now coming from the darkness itself. A man’s hand, adorned with a thick silver ring, came into view, grasping the end of a pew. “Just your soul.”
Her blood ran cold, but she had no time to process, as the man stepped fully into the light. He was blond, he was handsome, and he was smiling. Smiling, the sadistic bastard.
She scrambled up from the floor, never taking her eyes from his face. Hoping the surrounding darkness would work to her advantage as it had to his, she eased toward a corner, keeping as many pews between them as she could. Once she reached the shadows, she ducked, and having nowhere to go, rolled beneath a neighboring pew. Maybe she could hide until someone came . . .
“Is your son’s life worth so little that you would cower away from the one person who could help you save it?” the man asked, but she didn’t answer.
Laying her cheek against the carpet, Faith fought to control her breathing, to slow the racing of her heart, to think.
“Ah, well. I can wait. Time is something I have plenty of.” Wood creaked as he settled himself in one of the rear pews. “All the time in the world, in fact. Too bad Nathan can’t say the same.”
More tears welled, slipping over the bridge of her nose to fall soundlessly to the carpet.
“He’ll be waking soon, wondering where his mommy is, I would imagine. Too bad he doesn’t have a daddy, by the way—boys need a father, after all, or so I’m told.”
Faith said nothing, refusing to think of her scumbag ex-boyfriend, who’d pressured her to get an abortion when she’d told him she was pregnant, and then dumped her when she refused. She’d let him go, knowing that anyone who could shirk his responsibilities that easily would make a terrible father. She and Nathan had done just fine without a man in their lives.
Just fine. Until now.
“Doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” the man went on. “Poor little tyke isn’t going to make it to his fifth birthday—”
Her breath hitched at the cruelty of the statement.
“—unless you come out of there and talk to me. I can make it all go away, you know.”
She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t believe him. He was just some lunatic who’d followed her into the chapel and somehow managed to lock them both inside. Sooner or later someone would come and let them out. And when they did, she was going to press charges, big-time.
“Remember how he used to call your cat Memmy instead of Emily? So adorable, though I’ll never understand why people feel the need to humanize their pets by giving them proper names.”
Her mouth went dry.
“What about the time he got hold of the baby powder and smeared it all over the living room? It looked like a sack of flour had exploded in there—such a mess.” The man chuckled softly. “Took you two days to wash and vacuum it out of everything, but you couldn’t bring yourself to punish him because he looked so guilty when he was caught.” He sighed. “Ah, memories. Hold on to them, Faith, for they’ll soon be all you have left of Nathan.”
“Why are you doing this?” she choked, unable to remain silent any longer. How did he know about her cat, about the baby powder? Those memories were her own, and nobody else’s.
“Come out,” he said firmly. “Stop hiding from me. Stop hiding from the truth.”
And so finally, because she felt she had little choice, she crawled out, feeling the cheap carpet burn her elbows. Then she stood up, keeping the length of the chapel between them.
“Ah,” the man said. “That’s better. Now I can see your face, and you can see mine.”
She didn’t believe that statement, unless he could see in the dark. She, on the other hand, could see him quite clearly.
The single remaining track light angled down on him like a spotlight, leaving him fully exposed. Coldly handsome, blond-haired and blue-eyed, dressed in black jeans and a gray T-shirt. He was leaning back in his seat, both arms resting on the back of the pew, a thick bracelet of braided black leather on one wrist.
There was another silence, in which she could literally hear her own heartbeat, thumping madly in her ears. He made no sudden moves, merely watching her watch him, and she got the feeling that he could see in the dark, because he was looking straight at her.
“Who are you?” Faith whispered, terrified. Strangely fascinated by his male beauty, and cold to the marrow of her bones, she knew the dizzying fear a mouse must feel when pinned by a snake.
He cocked his head, giving her a wry smile. “Can’t you guess?”
She said nothing, unable to formulate the words to express what she was thinking.
“Is it the lack of horns? No pitchfork or forked tail?” He sighed. “I only break them out on Halloween these days, or the occasional midnight Mass. Best to blend in.”
She was afraid to blink.
“Don’t worry, Faith,” he murmured, looking directly into her eyes. “I rarely get a chance to say this, but in your case, I truly am the lesser of two evils.”
Faith spread her hands against the wall, letting her fingers send her brain the message: This is real, this is happening.
“Let me go,” she said shakily. “I need to go.”
“Right now, as we speak,” the man replied, ignoring her plea, “your doctor has just removed some sample tissue from the base of your little boy’s brain. A quick examination under a microscope is going to reveal cancer cells, which will multiply, growing larger until the resultant pressure on Nathan’s brain stem costs him his vision, his hearing, his balance—and ultimately, his life.”
The choked noises she heard were coming from her own throat. Giving in to them, she leaned her head back against the wall and set them loose in raw, wracking sobs.
She no longer cared who he was, or why he was there. She only cared about Nathan—her sweet, smiling Nathan—who lay still and silent on a table somewhere, unaware of what was happening to him.
“There are options, I suppose,” the man went on, relentlessly. “Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation. All guaranteed to seriously affect Nathan’s quality of life before he ultimately dies. Vomiting, diarrhea, hair loss . . .”
With a shriek of rage and grief, Faith threw herself forward, hating him more than she’d ever thought it possible to hate anyone. Darting around the edge of a pew, she flew down the center aisle, wanting only to shut him up, to stop the words that spewed from his mouth like poison.
He watched her come, unmoving, with a dispassionate expression that made her want to rake her nails across his face until he felt some of the agony she was feeling.
She’d almost reached him when, in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Staggering to a stop, Faith grabbed the back of the nearest pe
w, unable to believe what she was seeing. It was a nightmare, it had to be a nightmare . . .
“You’re wasting time,” he said coldly, from somewhere behind her. “Do you want me to save your child’s life or not?”
Closing her eyes, Faith drew upon what little strength she had left. Her flare of rage had died as quickly as it came, leaving her feeling like a spent match. A deep breath, then another, as she fought to bring her sobs under control. “How”—she swallowed hard, willing her voice to work properly—“how can you do that?”
“I can do anything,” he answered, not quite so coldly this time. “For the right price.”
She felt her way along the edge of the pew until she could sit, facing the voice that came from the darkness. Swiping her hands over her face, she then clasped them in her lap to still their shaking. “What do you want?”
“Only what belongs to me,” he said smoothly, “and I want you to help me get it.”
Daring greatly, she swallowed hard, and willing her voice not to tremble, asked, “If you can do anything, then why do you need my help?”
His teeth gleamed in the darkness as he smiled. “I didn’t say I needed your help, Faith. I said I wanted it.”
He came forward, into the light, resting his hands on the back of the pew in front of her.
“And in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I have a devil of a temper when I don’t get what I want.”
She stared at him numbly. “You can’t be real.” Her eyes searched his face, as though memorizing his features. “You can’t be . . .”
“Oh, but I am.” He reached out a hand—a perfectly proportioned, normal man’s hand, no leathery scales or razor-sharp claws—and said, quite simply, “Take my hand, and come with me if you want Nathan to live.”
And because she’d do anything to make sure Nathan lived, she did what he said, and that’s when the nightmare truly began.
The instant he touched her, everything changed. One moment they were in the chapel, and the next they were in the operating room, where a small, draped figure lay facedown on a table, surrounded by people and equipment. It was Nathan; Dr. Wynecke was probing a bloodstained opening at the base of her son’s skull, the instruments in his hands sharp and shiny.
Faith cried out, shocked, but Dr. Wynecke’s concentration remained unbroken, and the nurses and the anesthesiologist ignored her as though she were invisible. The blond man squeezed her hand, and as much as she hated it—and him—the contact steadied her.
Pressing her other hand to her mouth, she struggled for composure, then froze at the sight of a shadowy figure lurking motionless in the corner. A seven-foot-tall, black-winged creature, watching Nathan’s surgery with eyes that glowed red.
“Don’t be afraid,” the blond man said soothingly, in her ear. “He’s not here for you.”
Faith tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let her, tightening his grip. “Let me go!” she shrieked, panicky. She had to get between Nathan and that, that . . . thing. “Dr. Wynecke! Nurse!” she shouted, abandoning all pretense of quiet. They needed to stop the surgery, do it another day— “Behind you! Watch out!”
The surgical team might as well have been enclosed in a soundproof bubble for all the attention they paid her.
“Meet black-winged Nyx,” the Devil said calmly, “who waits in the shadows, eager to pierce the veil between life and death.”
Horrified, she shook her head, unable to believe what was happening could possibly be real.
“Nyx is my chief soul eater, and he’s hungry. He awaits my permission to unfurl his wings and settle himself on top of your child like a psychic vulture, a vulture no one will see or hear or even begin to detect”—Satan ignored her moan of terror—“and then he will rend and rip at the invisible threads that bind the boy’s soul to his body.” He shook his beautiful blond head ruefully, as though sorry to be the one to give her such bad news. “The veil has already been thinned by the use of anesthesia . . . The boy’s soul floats above him now, vulnerable, and ripe for the taking.”
Faith clawed and slapped at him with her free hand. “Let go of me,” she shrieked. She’d throw herself on top of Nathan in the middle of surgery if need be, anything to put herself between her child and that . . . that monster, but her efforts to escape were pointless. Satan spun her like a toy and held her against him, back to chest, forcing her to watch the scene in the operating room.
“I can stop Nyx anytime I like,” he murmured in her ear, “but you must give me a reason.”
She whimpered, helpless and frantic, but no one heard her. No one, that was, except the black-winged creature, who raised its head and looked directly at her. There was no expression on its face, because there was no face, really. Just a black hole with glowing embers for eyes, the vague outline of pointed ears, a nose, a pointed chin.
Her knees nearly gave out.
The Evil One gave her a shake. “Focus,” he said sharply. “Your son’s life in return for one small favor. You choose.”
“Yes!” she cried. She’d do anything to get that thing away from Nathan. “Send it away, please! Whatever it is you want me to do, I’ll do it!” she sobbed, boneless with terror.
He gave a dark chuckle. “Good.”
And then they were back in the chapel, just like that.
Faith wrenched away, unable to stand his hands on her another second, and grabbed the back of a nearby pew. Mind reeling, dizzy, she wondered if she’d gone insane, or was just about to. “Send it away,” she repeated frantically, shaken and sick. “You have to send it away!”
“It’s gone,” he confirmed. “For now.”
Bile rose in her throat, hot, burning, but she forced it back, nearly choking on it.
“Calm yourself,” the Devil said. “Nathan is no longer in danger of dying today. I’ll even let him go home from the hospital this time.”
The casual way he said “this time” made her heart stutter. The pew beneath her hands was the only thing grounding her, so she gripped it as hard as she could and took a deep breath, refusing to give in to madness.
“We’ll make a bargain, you and I.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and hated him for it. “I’ll cure Nathan in return for one small favor. Your little boy will start feeling better the moment he wakes up, and you’ll be able to take him home. He’ll have a miraculous recovery. Whether he stays there, happy and healthy and completely cured, will be up to you.”
She forced herself to look at him, steeling herself against the cold male beauty of his features—a mask, she now knew, to hide the horrors beneath. “What kind of favor?”
“A small one,” he said soothingly.
“What favor?” she repeated stonily, not buying it for one second.
“Nothing you can’t handle, I assure you.” His smirk made her skin crawl. “I’ll give you one month to enjoy the improvement in Nathan’s health, and then I’ll come back and ask for your help in return. It’s just that simple.”
One month. It bought her some time, but then what?
“You must understand, Faith,” he said gently, as though he actually cared, “if you do nothing, Nathan will die. If you agree to do as I ask, he’ll get a second chance at life. What does it matter what the favor is? If you’re the woman I think you are, you’ll easily accomplish what I ask.”
The soothing tone of his voice was merely a façade, like his handsome face and stylish clothes. He was evil incarnate, and never in her life had she felt so helpless.
Just in front of her, in the back of a pew, was a worn Bible. It had probably been a source of comfort to many others who’d come to this chapel over the years, but it was no comfort to her today. Where was God when she’d cried out for salvation, and gotten damnation instead?
Faith steeled her resolve, realizing that once again—as she had when she’d found herself pregnant and alone—the only person she had to rely on in this situation was herself. Nathan needed her, so she did her best to compose herself, wiping the tears from h
er face with both hands. “Please,” she whispered. “I’ll do whatever you ask. Just let my son live.”
Chapter Three
“Great show tonight, Finn. You rocked the place, man!”
Finn Payne took the bottle of water he was handed as he stepped offstage, offering no comment except a breathless nod. His body and brain were still buzzing, still riding the crest of the wave; chaos, sound and fury, strobe lights and screaming fans, the siren-sweet call of the dark music that was his life. It was like a drug, all-consuming, tireless in its demand to be heard.
As he strode down the backstage hallway, mind and body racing, his eyes barely registered the people around him; security guys mostly, roadies and technophiles, the human machinery that kept his career in high gear. The music was still in his head, lower now, a raging river instead of a flood.
“In here, Finn.” Someone touched his elbow. He’d reached the door to the green room, held open by a security guy who kept his eyes trained on the corridor as he ushered him inside.
Once in, Finn caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Dark hair spiked with sweat, soaked white T-shirt, designer jeans that fit like a second set of skin. He was breathing hard, riding high.
Finn Payne, once a member of the rock band Apocalypse, now in the middle of a thriving solo career. Top of the world, top of his game.
The door closed behind him, and he was alone. The silence would’ve been deafening, save for the music in his head, slowing to undertones no one ever heard but him.
Two decades of decadence were leaving their mark; there were creases at the corners of his green eyes, and shadows beneath them.
Turning away, Finn tipped his head to guzzle the last of his bottled water. The notes within him still pulsed, throbbing in rhythm with his heart.
“Let me know when you’re ready to release the hordes,” John, the security guy, stuck his head in the door. “Every chick in Atlanta is banging on the backstage door tonight.”
Finn shook his head. “I’m heading to the hotel for a shower and some sleep. Where’s the limo?”