Devil Without a Cause

by Terri Garey

  “Faith . . .”

  “Leave me alone,” she shouted. “I hate you! This is all your fault! If you hadn’t brought us here, he’d be home with me—” Her voice broke, and she bent over double, clutching the sodden stuffed dog to her chest.

  He said nothing, because there was nothing he could say. There was nothing he could do to make it up to her, nothing he could do to fix this. Instead, knowing she would put up a fight but doing it anyway, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, pulling her to him. He wrapped his arms around her, wishing he was as dead as she wanted him to be, having nothing to offer but the comfort of his body, a flimsy and useless shield against the cold, uncaring world.

  She didn’t fight him, though; all the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Her face buried against his chest, the dog between them, she wept as though her heart were broken; which, of course, it was. He put his lips to her hair and closed his eyes, fighting back tears of his own. He had to be strong for her now, whether she wanted him to be or not. “We’ll find him,” he said, tightening his arms around her. “Faith, baby, sweetheart . . . don’t cry . . .” He barely knew what he was saying, just knew he’d do anything to make it better. “He must’ve just dropped it. We’ll find him.”

  “Finn!” Far away, barely heard above the storm, someone was calling his name. He lifted his head and saw John, waving frantically at him from the dunes.

  Faith heard him, too, and looked up, her face ravaged.

  “He’s here.” John waved them in, pointing toward the house. “He’s up here.”

  They both took off at a run. Finn had only one thought in his mind: Let him be okay. If he still believed in God, he’d pray for it, but since he didn’t, he just kept repeating it over and over in his mind, hoping it would be enough.

  “We found him in the pump house,” John said urgently, as they got closer. “Trina’s with him now.”

  “How is he? Is he all right?” Faith was ahead of him, and missed the glance John shot him over her head.

  “He’s . . . ah . . . he seems a little woozy.”

  “Woozy?” she asked sharply, pushing past him toward the house. “What do you mean, woozy?”

  John fell into step beside him, avoiding Faith’s eye. “Confused, I guess you could say. He . . . um . . . when I found him, he thought I was an angel or something.”

  Finn would’ve laughed at the uncomfortable look on John’s face, except there was no laughter left in him.

  “Where is he?”

  “We put him in the guest bedroom, where he was before.”

  They hurried there, Faith bursting through the kitchen door and running all the way to the guest room he’d put them in when they arrived last night.

  There was Nathan, lying on the bed with Trina sitting beside him, looking worried. She rose, making way for Faith, who rushed to the bed.

  “Nate.” Faith leaned over him, touching his head, heedless of the water that dripped from her clothes, her hair. “Nate, wake up.”

  His eyes fluttered open, and Finn breathed a silent sigh of relief.

  “Nate, it’s Mommy,” she said to the boy gently. “Where’ve you been? You scared me to death.”

  “Don’t be scared, Mommy,” he told her drowsily. “I told you not to be scared. It’s pretty there, with lights and music, and lots of flowers.”

  She sank to the bed, her hand never leaving him. “Where, sweetie? Where did you go?”

  “To Heaven,” the boy said simply. “The angel took me, and then he brought me back.”

  There was a deathly silence within the room, as if no one dared breathe. Above their heads came a low rumble of thunder, as if punctuating Nate’s statement.

  “It was just a dream,” Faith whispered, smoothing her son’s hair, as she must’ve done a thousand times before. The gesture was already so familiar to him—so heartbreakingly familiar. The doorjamb was against his shoulder, and Finn was grateful for it, as his legs seemed unwilling to hold him without support.

  Nate said nothing, his eyes drifting shut at the touch of his mom’s hand.

  Finn stepped back, into the hallway, beckoning John to follow. Trina joined them, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her. The three of them moved down the hall and into the living room. Larry was already there, sitting on the couch and looking incredibly guilty.

  “Is the kid okay?” he asked, without preamble.

  “I don’t know,” Finn answered tersely. “What the fuck were you guys both doing in the garage, anyway? Didn’t I tell you to keep an eye on him?”

  Larry eyed him uneasily, but John was the one who spoke up. “Sorry, man. We let you down.”

  “You sure as hell did,” he returned, running a wet hand through his wet hair as he turned to the window. Outside the storm was still raging, wind whipping through the palm trees, rain spattering hard against the windows. Lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the horizon, followed quickly by another roll of thunder. He couldn’t get the image of Nate out of his head, so small and so helpless. What was all this talk about angels?

  “What was he doing in the pump house?” he wondered aloud. “It’s barely big enough to hold the generators.” When you were on a private island, you had to have your own generators.

  “Maybe he thought it was a playhouse,” Trina offered, in a subdued voice. “The bigger question is why he was outside at all.”

  “He was looking for Finn.” Faith came into the room, heedless of her wet clothes and hair. She looked like a china doll who’d been left out in the rain, her face white, brown eyes huge in it.

  “Trina, get Faith a blanket.” Finn didn’t move from where he was standing, afraid to shatter the eerie sense of calm that seemed to surround her.

  Trina went to do as he asked without saying a word, which should’ve worried him, but he was too worried about Faith and Nate to care.

  “He thought you might’ve gone down to the beach to watch the dolphins without him,” Faith said numbly. “I’m afraid he might’ve had a seizure while he was out there.”

  “A seizure?”

  Trina was back, gently draping a blanket around Faith’s shoulders. He wanted to do it himself, wanted to wrap her up in it and hold her tight, but he didn’t dare move.

  “The doctor warned me it could happen,” she said, staring at the floor. “If the tumor”—her eyes squeezed shut at the word—“if the tumor grew. Seizures, hallucinations . . . it’s all happening.”

  Stillness be damned. He couldn’t bear seeing her like this, and was at her side in three strides. The blanket was already slipping, and he caught it, wrapping it around her as he led her toward the couch. Just as on the beach, she didn’t try to fight him, but let herself be led, like a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Larry,” he clipped, “go start the boat. We’re going back to the mainland.”

  There was a silence, during which nobody moved. He glanced up to see Trina, John, and Larry looking at one another, but Trina was the one who spoke up. “Do you really think that’s a good idea? Those seas are looking pretty rough, three or four feet at least. A bumpy ride in an open boat . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  She was right, dammit.

  “Call the coast guard, then,” he said, feeling Faith tremble beneath his hands. “Get them to send a helicopter.”

  John looked doubtful, but went into the kitchen to do as he asked.

  “You should both get out of those wet clothes,” Trina said briskly, apparently deciding she’d been quiet long enough. “You’ll be no good to anyone if you get sick. Finn, you need to let me see to your arm.”

  He’d forgotten about the cut. It seemed so long ago that he and Faith had stood in his workshop, facing off over the ring. The goddamn, cursed ring.

  “It’s nothing,” he told her brusquely, keeping his arm around Faith’s shoulders. Her docility frightened him; up to now she’d fought him tooth and nail, and now she acted as if he were invisible, despite the fact that he was right there, heart in hi
s throat.

  “Faith,” he murmured, squeezing her gently. “It’s going to be okay. I promise it’s going to be okay.”

  She finally looked at him, eyes swimming with tears. “You can’t promise that,” she said simply.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said urgently, desperate to wipe the hopeless look from her face. “I’m so sorry about all of this. I never meant for it to happen, I swear.”

  “I know.” Her forgiveness made him feel even worse. “I guess, in a way, I should thank you.”

  Beginning to fear that she’d snapped completely, he shook his head. “Why?”

  “Because now, if Nate”—her voice caught on a sob—“if Nate goes to Heaven, I’ll be able to follow him there.”

  Larry and Trina were still in the room, but they might as well have been on the moon for all he cared.

  “Nate’s not going anywhere,” he told her fiercely. “We’re going to get help for him.” He didn’t even notice his use of the word “we.” “He’s going to be all right.”

  John came back into the room and dropped a bomb into the emotionally charged silence. “The coast guard says all flights are grounded—it’s not just an afternoon thunderstorm, it’s a tropical depression. They’re clocking wind bursts of sixty miles per hour on the mainland. Another fifteen, and we’ll be looking at a category one hurricane.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  A storm was brewing in the underground skies above Sheol, and the time had come to unleash its fury.

  “Thamuz!” the Prince of Darkness thundered, “Come forth!”

  For this audience, Samael had chosen the Throne of Tears, high above the Chasm of Lamentation. The weeping and wailing of the damned, far below, were the perfect backdrop for the screams that came from the throat of the blackened imp being dragged toward him by four of his own kind. Thamuz’s own private guards, all laughing and cackling with unholy glee at their former ruler’s plight.

  Secretly he’d always despised the imps, having created them only out of necessity. So many souls to torture, so little time. They’d been born of the fears of the humans they now tormented, plucked from the nightmares of the evil and the damned, long before they died. Serial killers, child molesters—the Great Shaitan had no real need to seek his victims among the innocent, for there were so many humans who weren’t.

  “You have failed in your duty, Thamuz.” Despite the din, the Wicked One’s voice was heard by all, for the Throne of Tears amplified both sound and fury. Carved of black onyx and cushioned with spiderwebs, the back of it rose several feet above his head, depicting the giant horned head of a ram, eyes glittering with rubies the size of baseballs. The armrests were capped with human skulls, their empty eye sockets regarding both the gathered demons and the restless dead with an utter lack of mercy. “Your laxity put the life of my son at risk . . . If you cannot manage your own people, you are not fit to rule them. For your weakness, you shall be made an example of what befalls those who fail in their assigned tasks.”

  There was a collective gasp of surprise from the imps, followed by much muttering, for this was the first time Samael the Fallen had publicly acknowledged Cain’s existence. He’d briefly considered having the boy beside him during this audience, but had decided against it; what was about to happen was not fit for the eyes of a child, no matter how precocious said child might be.

  “You said he wasn’t your son,” the imp shrieked, struggling and flailing against those who held him. “You said Selene lied, and that it didn’t matter that the boy escaped!”

  Samael was not about to admit that he’d known nothing of the boy’s existence, for lack of knowledge over something so important would most assuredly be seen as a weakness.

  “It was a test of your cleverness, Thamuz,” he lied. “A test which you unfortunately failed. You seem unable to tell truth from fiction. The fact remains that you lost a child you believed to be my son and heir. Worse, you took orders from Selene without checking with me first, nor notifying me after.”

  He steepled his fingers, looking coldly down from his throne. “Finally—as if I needed any further reason to kill you, which I do not—you allowed foul rumors to be spread about me—rumors that I no longer had a care for the good of my people.”

  “Punish Ashtaroth! Ashtaroth is the one who spread these rumors, not I!”

  The Mighty Mephistopheles smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “Ashtaroth is made of grief and despair, while you are of flesh and bone. Which do you think burns better?” His laughter was cold, uncaring. “Snap, crackle, pop,” he said lightly. “The breakfast of champions, as the humans say.”

  “No!” Thamuz squealed, snapping with razor-sharp teeth at the taloned hands that held him. “Please, Master! Give me another chance, I beg you!”

  “Beg away,” Samael answered, “by all means. And do so loudly, so that all my subjects may hear you.”

  Frenzied, gibbering, bulbous eyes rolling, Thamuz fought like a mad thing, but it did him no good.

  “I hereby sentence you to be torn apart, limb by limb, then gutted, gelded, and spitted like the worthless piece of meat you are, roasted in the flames you were created to tend.”

  Demented laughter rose from the chasm, quickly replaced by screams of agony as the imps within the pit quelled it with their whips and pitchforks.

  “All this shall be done while you still live,” Samael added, giving specific instructions to Thamuz’s guards. “Be sure to leave the head intact. It will be no fun otherwise.” A quick flick of his finger, and dozens of imps scurried forth to do his bidding, swarming over themselves in an attempt to rend Thamuz into bits.

  Another group rushed toward the largest of the already burning bonfires, thrusting their pitchforks into the flames, heating them until they were red-hot and glowing. Their cackles and squeals of glee grew louder and louder, drowning their former leader’s shrieks of agony.

  Watching, Sammy gave a bored sigh, knowing how important the spectacle was to his subjects, but also knowing he would be forced to do it again sometime in the near future. And again, and again, and again . . .

  When the low rumble of thunder sounded, heralding the arrival of Ashtaroth, the Dread Demon of Darkness, it was almost a relief. Here, at least, was a challenge worth facing.

  “Infernal Majesssty,” came the rasp of a thousand voices, “we sssee you are dissspleasssed.”

  The gleeful shrieks of the imps turned to shrieks of terror as they cowered beneath the gathering darkness above their heads.

  “I am,” stated the Great Shaitan, “and well you know why.”

  “We are dissspleasssed alssso,” spoke the Darkness, “for we are denied what is oursss by right.”

  “By right?” Samael remained seated, hands gripping the skulls that made up his armrests. “You have no rights but those I give you; I believe I made that clear the last time we spoke.”

  “Not ssso,” came the voices, “for you promisssed usss the boy, a blood sssacrifice.”

  “Oh dear,” Sammy said lightly. “I do hope you’re not taking me to task for lying, since it is—after all—what I do best.”

  A rumble of thunder set the walls of the Underworld shaking. “Beware, SSSamael, SSSon of Morning, for asss we grow in numbersss, we grow in power.” Several imps near the edge of the chasm lost their footing and fell in, shrieking.

  “Staging a coup, are we?” Samael the Fallen smiled thinly, drumming the fingers of his right hand atop an empty skull. “I think not.”

  The bonfires surrounding the Throne of Tears blazed up, as if on cue, sending showers of sparks into the air to dance upon currents of heat, rising and twisting. Within the orange-red sparks, shapes began to form. Sinuous, writhing, growing and lengthening, reaching higher and higher, until each bonfire became a creature unto itself; towering serpents of flame that stretched toward the Darkness, illuminating the billowy, smokelike entity.

  “Ssstop,” commanded Ashtaroth, but the serpents did not heed him. They grew taller, thicker, casting
their light over the quivering, abject imps, who moaned and whimpered their fear, covering their eyes. More sparks fell to the stony ground, and from them sprang more serpents, needing no fuel save that of Samael’s anger, which grew apace with the flames.

  A hissing began, growing louder and louder, though whether it came from the hellfires below or the Darkness above wasn’t clear. Twisting, twining, burning, the flaming serpents rose higher and higher, their tongues licking and flicking at the clouds of darkness. They began to strike, mouths open wide, fiery furnaces feeding on the soul-filled mass of doom and gloom that was Ashtaroth.

  “Noooo,” came the legion of voices, “ssstop!”

  But the serpents didn’t stop, maddened into a feeding frenzy that lit the Underworld with hellish flame, driving back the Darkness, pushing it farther and farther away from the Throne of Tears, and the man who sat upon it.

  Samael the Seducer, Ruler of the Abyss, watched, smiling grimly, as Darkness was consumed by fire.

  “Infernal Majesssty . . .” The voices were weaker now, far fewer of them than there’d been before. “Have mercccy on usss . . .”

  “Mercy?” He laughed. “You seek mercy? You, who prey upon weakness and despair?” He stood, unaffected by the heat of the flames surrounding him, or by the shrieks and screams of the panicky, cowering imps, who were blinded by the unholy light that now lit the Underworld. Their bulbous eyes were used to bonfires, not conflagrations, and their charred, leathery skin was used to heat, not infernos. “Will the Lightbringers show you mercy, I wonder, if I step aside and allow them sway over humankind? World peace, the milk of human kindness, brotherly love and selfless sacrifice—these are your enemies, Ashtaroth, not I.” He sneered at the shrinking, fragmented Darkness, torn asunder by the voracious, greedy flames. “How quickly you forget where true power lies.”

  “Forgive usss,” rasped the voices. “Forgive usss.”

  Samael’s face was hard, the line of his mouth bitter. “Forgiveness,” he said, low beneath his breath, “has always been denied me. Why should I give it to you?”