by Sawyer Black
“That was impressive, Henry. But too little, too late, I’m afraid. I would like to thank you for this ring, though. And for finding the horn. Adam will love being a part of The Order.”
“Adam?”
“What, your angel friend never told you? Adam is a very powerful child, but he will be the most powerful man in the history of the world.” Peterson looked up at the ceiling with Mike Serafino’s eyes slitted in rapture. “He is the one destined to bring order from chaos. Not just the opposition to the identity of Christ, but a reigning king of Earth. A conqueror. A true savior.”
He looked back at Henry, and tears streamed down his face. He transferred the ring, and Peterson’s feline grin split his dark face. He spun and walked out. As he passed through the Tracker’s waning light, he said, “Put him in the hole.”
The Tracker stepped forward with weary shoulders, his growing song seeping into Henry’s brain. Bone glistened beneath the rips in his face, and still the Tracker’s eyes shone with sympathy.
Will you take my offer now?
And an end to your suffering?
“No fucking way.”
The Tracker held his open hand above Henry’s head, and the pain dimmed to a dull throbbing. His face healed, knitting in the light spreading from the Tracker’s fingers.
I will defy them, though at great risk to me.
Only because of your efforts to save the innocent souls within these walls of filthy commerce.
Child, I can only make the offer this once.
“I’ll take my chances.”
The Tracker nodded, his face crumpling with sorrow.
So be it.
He grabbed Henry in a rough embrace and lifted him from the chair. Henry’s moan of pain was lost in the folds of fabric covering the Tracker’s shoulder above his armor. Vertigo bubbled the acid in his stomach, and he fell.
To the bottom of a shaft, with his stomach rising into his throat, and the circle of the Tracker’s light shrinking above him. He crashed to the wet rocks. Ribs splintering and stabbing. A bright lance of pain as his skull cracked on a jagged stone. Warm blood mixing with the cold water that swirled around his head.
Light dimmed, and an object filled the shaft, growing as it fell. Mandyel’s body, his overcoat flapping behind him like the frantic wings of some giant tan bird. It landed in a jumbled heap across Henry’s legs.
Blood and water splashed up into Henry’s eyes. The angel’s felt fedora floated down like an autumn leaf.
The grinding of the cover stone vibrated through the walls as the Tracker sealed Henry off from the light.
Panic burst through his mind, and the searing pain swelled as the net bit into his burning skin.
The walls reflected the red glow of his burning wounds, and Henry screamed his daughter’s name.
CHAPTER 25
Henry was blinded by thoughts of murder. And dying. Maybe he would just waste away in the dark while the net ate through his body, leaving little chunks of his old self in the steaming water on the well floor.
No.
First, I’ll kill that fucker Peterson.
Drink his blood while he watches me tear his dick off.
He thrashed his hips until Mandyel’s body rolled off his legs. His broken ribs dug into his chest, and he licked blood from his lips. He looked up to where he remembered the stone lid dropping over the hole and strained to slide his hands up under the net. If he could only get his hands free.
“If anybody’s listening,” he croaked, “I sure could use some help right now.”
Maybe he could bang some rocks together. Get out of the net and scale the walls. Burn the rest of his suit and send a fucking smoke signal.
A signal.
He halted his efforts to loosen the net. He took a calming breath and crawled his hand up his body like a blind spider. The net sizzled into his knuckles, smoke rising from his claws. He dug his hand under the flap of his shredded lapel and felt a lump in his interior pocket. His mouth watered with the thought of the bag with the food, but he could tell it wasn’t the Sack of Three Squares. It was the whistle.
He got the edge of the leather sack between two fingers, then slid his hand out with the slow patience of a beekeeper gathering honey with a case of the shakes. Laying the bag flat on his chest, he worked his burning fingers past the copper wire holding the neck closed.
He poked his fingers into the bag, his claws clinking against the copper whistle. Skin on the back of his hand blistered and puckered under the net. He fished the whistle out, pulled it into his fist, then paused for another breath and rolled off the rocks with the pain in his ribs knifing through his chest.
He ended up face down in the brackish water. He held his breath and submerged his burning hand into the cool soaking his front. Soothing relief, but his back started burning where the net touched skin. He held himself still for a slow count of ten, and he jerked his head out of the water, rolling back for the rocks to stab into him, his ribs screaming in agony that took his breath away.
He worked his hand up into the crook of his neck, the net burning the water away. With a final push, his fist burst free and he punched himself in the chin. Henry bit his tongue and blood filled his mouth.
“Gawldamma muttafucka sit!”
He spit the blood, working the rest of it to the back of his mouth. He swallowed and licked his lips, smearing the blood in a frothy swirl. He raised the whistle and took a breath.
Thank God I didn’t keyster this fucker.
He blew as hard as he could but heard only a sputtering whisper. He drew another breath around it and then blew harder. The whistle shot from his mouth and his lips farted with bloody spit spraying his shoulder. The whistle splashed into the water next to his head, and Henry did an impression of a panicked salmon, flopping to get his face lined up with where the whistle had fallen.
He took a breath to plunge his face down and froze in a painful arch when the stone grated above him. He spun to his back, and the well opening filled with a writhing shape that dropped to land with a splash next to his head.
A shadowed hand reached out to grab the net, jerking back with a hiss of pain. The hand came out again, and a clawed fist grabbed Henry by one of his horns. His savior climbed the algae covered walls, dragging Henry behind. He thought his head would tear off, the bones in his neck grinding and popping. Or the horn would yank the skeleton out of his meat sack where it would rattle against the stone.
At least I’ll be out of this fucking net.
He slid over the lip of the well like a fat paralyzed snake, then looked up into a pair of glowing eyes set into a gray smiling face. “Hello, Master Henry.”
“Ezra!”
The goll nodded, his tongue wagging out of his wide jaw like a dog waiting for a stick to chase. The last time Henry had seen him, he’d been guarding Samantha’s hospital room after her overdose. He always thought Ezra had broken some kind of rule by bringing him to her room, but he’d never gotten the chance to ask. He sure wasn’t gonna ask now.
“How’s it hangin’, Ezra?”
“With great difficulty, Master Henry.”
Burning pain rolled up Henry’s body in shivering waves. “Tell me about it.”
“I would like to Master Henry, but we should flee first.”
“Fuck, Ezra. I want nothing more than to flee, but I’m kinda stuck here.”
Ezra leaned forward to scrutinize the web holding Henry in its holy cocoon. The goll looked at his hand, singed from contacting the Tracker’s net, and his eyebrows shot up in understanding. He bent over and pulled a bag around to the front of his waist.
Henry hissed in fresh pain. “Rocking a fanny pack, huh?”
Ezra ignored him. He pulled his hand from the bag and held it over Henry’s body. He rubbed his fingers together like a chef seasoning his dinner, and a sparkling purple powder cascaded down. The threads sparked and shattered.
The pain stopped bit by bit, until the net fell away, its magic broken. Henry stared at
the ceiling with tears streaming from his eyes. Tried catching his breath against the sobs that jerked pain through his broken ribs.
He turned to Ezra, and the goll looked back with a sweet smile that Henry wanted to kiss. “Oh, that fucking sucked.” He sat up, holding his arm pressed into his side. “I’m gonna kill that rat bastard piece of shit motherfucker with my own goddamn hands, Ezra.”
“Of course, Master Henry.”
Henry struggled to his feet. Black dots swirled in his vision, and he felt the maw of the well open behind him. Ezra reached out and steadied him with a hand on his forearm. “Can we flee now, Master Henry?”
“They killed my daughter, Ezra. Raped my wife. And now they have the horn.”
Ezra leaned forward, his eyes fierce in the dim light. “What horn, Master Henry?”
“The Horn of the Lamb.”
Ezra’s jaw hung open and his eyes widened to their limits. Terror filled his face. The goll trembled in his grip. “We need help, Master Henry.”
“Tell me about it.” Henry swayed, fighting to keep his feet.
Ezra tightened his hold, claws digging into Henry's burned skin.
“Come!” The goll shouted in a hissing whisper.
Henry’s guts folded in on themselves as they vanished. He didn’t have the energy to scream this time.
CHAPTER 26
Henry heard a baby crying. As if from a great distance. In an alley. Its lonely voice bouncing off the featureless walls of the building looming above it.
He opened his eyes. Henry was in Nowhere on his side, curled into a ball. His head hung over his shoulder, scraping the dirt with his horn.
Mist clung to the base of a crumbling city. Thick, swirling, like unseen objects pushing blindly along, afraid to step into the clear air. The baby’s cry rose again, and Henry thought of San Diego.
After Samantha’s second miscarriage, after little Avery had failed to enter the world, he took her on a trip. A little ocean and a lot of sun. They could sit and talk and try to come to terms with a world that wouldn’t even let them bring a new life into it.
Fog had rolled in so thick on the second morning, he hadn’t even been able to see past the railing of their shitty little balcony. It had lasted for three days, only breaking during the early dawn just before the sun. By the time the light was bright enough to see a path to the beach, the fog was back to slapping the window. They spent the entire time watching South Park reruns and eating delivered pizza.
Henry pushed off the ground to a sitting position, raising his arms and stretching with a jaw popping yawn. Scraping footsteps, and Henry looked over to find Ezra sitting on his haunches, watching him with a smile. “Good morning, Master Henry. How do you feel?”
Henry cocked his head and considered the question. He looked himself over, and had to admit it. “I feel pretty damn good, little buddy.”
Ezra clasped his hands in front of him, and his smile became a grin.
The memories of the last couple of days pushed to the front of his thoughts, trying to harsh Henry’s mellow. But he wasn’t ready. He shook his head and forced a smile. “Thanks, Ezra. You really saved my ass.”
The goll’s cheeks darkened in a blush, and Ezra looked aside. “It was nothing, Master Henry. I heard your whistle and came. Happy to be of use to you again.”
The pitiful wails of the baby floated out of the mist. Henry wanted to get away from it. Put it far behind him. He stood and stretched again, turning to leave the Forgotten at his back.
Thick roots pushed through the ground a few feet in front of him. He ran his eyes along their twisted length, following them to the gnarled trunk of the massive Tree. Under the swaying branches was a small stone table littered with chess pieces. Instead of the long table Henry remembered, it barely held room for two. A man with his back to Henry leaned with his elbow on his knees. A shining white suit hung perfectly from his shoulders. His black hair smoothed back in styled waves.
Henry felt his heart swell with confused joy.
Mandyel?
The man on the other side of the table leaned over his side of the chessboard, flowing white robes sweeping the ground at his feet.
Randall.
Henry’s good mood soured, and his face twisted with disgust.
Great, I thought maybe somebody else would be on the night shift.
He looked at Ezra with a shrug. “Well, let’s go say hi.”
Ezra bounded off like a puppy ready to run for miles. He stopped next to the table, dancing from foot to foot. He pointed to Henry’s approach, and Randall looked up, his mouth twitching in a smile. The other man stood, smoothing his slacks before turning around with his hand extended in greeting.
Boothe.
Henry’s rage flashed like a grease fire. His vision clouded over with a red haze, and he charged the remaining steps in a blur, swinging his fist up with all his hate to fuel it. Boothe’s face snapped back from the impact, and his body followed the recoil, sailing over the table and scattering the game with his shiny white loafers.
He crashed into the ground flat on his back, but bounced immediately to his feet, eyes blazing with red fire and lips drawn back over bloodied teeth.
Henry charged in and swung again. His hand was met by Boothe’s raised arm in a block that jolted through his bones like he’d hit a steel pillar.
“Motherfucker!” Henry drew back his hand, baring his claws. Boothe vanished with a rush of air. Henry sensed him reappear from behind. He spun with his hands raised in defense, but Boothe stood on the other side of the table, smoothing his hair with a silver comb.
“I’ll allow that one, Henry. I may even deserve it, but I won’t ask for your forgiveness.”
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch! You don’t deserve my forgiveness.”
The skin around the demon’s eyes tightened. He sucked his teeth with a nod. “That is probably true, as most things go. Still, I will continue to make amends as best I can.”
“Make amends?” Henry stared, his shoulders dropping and hands flopping on his thighs. “What can you possibly do to make amends?”
“Why, save your daughter, of course.”
Henry’s knees wobbled, and he stumbled to the lump of stone Boothe had been using as a chair. “The only one who can do that is gone.”
“And who is that, Henry?”
“Mandyel. He died last night. Or whatever fucking night it was.”
“Mandyel died, did he?” Boothe exchanged a look with Randall.
“I saw him die.”
Randall stood and put his hands behind his back. “Did you?”
“Yes, Goddamn it. I saw Peterson eat his fucking heart.”
“Peterson?” Boothe frowned. “That sot from the Viazo Grand?”
Henry put his head in his hands and his elbows on the stone table. “He’s the head of the Order From Chaos cult.”
Boothe laughed. A breathless guffaw that startled Henry out of his self-pity. The demon held his stomach and shook his head. “I hardly think Peterson is the head of anything more complicated than the hotel kitchen.”
Henry jumped to his feet and leveled a clawed finger at Boothe’s face. “Maybe not. But he raped my wife and helped kill my daughter, and I’m gonna fuck his ass.”
Boothe sobered. He wiped his eyes with a square of silk then returned it to his pocket. “And I’m sorry about that, Henry. Truly, I am.”
Henry dropped his finger with a shrug. “What difference does it make, anyway? He has the Horn of the Lamb now.”
Randall’s knees unhinged, and he grabbed the table to ease himself back into his seat. Color drained from his face, and he looked into the distance past Henry with eyes wide with shock.
“Henry?” Boothe’s voice was quiet, without the mocking lilt that made Henry feel so inferior. “Are you certain?”
Henry nodded. “Mandyel came with me to the Purveyor’s place. We were gonna trade some stuff for the horn, but Peterson was there. He had a Tracker chained up like a dog. Stabbed
Mandyel through the back with a black sword. Peterson was pissed because me and Nadia tore his kiddie carnival a new asshole.”
“I heard about that. Very well done.”
“Mandyel was pissed. I thought he was gonna kill me.”
“Oh, no,” Randall said. “That one is thousands of moves ahead. You probably did exactly what he wanted.”
“I don’t know. I seemed to be fucking up all the time, and the ring was making me walk through life like I was asleep, kinda. I don’t know anymore.”
Boothe mimed putting a ring on his first finger. “Was it silver? A frog eating a snake which was then eating the frog in turn?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“And where is this ring now?”
“Peterson’s wearing it.”
Randall and Boothe shared another look.
Henry bristled. “Stop doing that shit. Come on, what?”
Randal bent over with a grunt. He picked up the white king and placed it on the table where the board had been, then flicked it with his finger. The king fell over, and he leaned back with his arms crossed.
“The fuck does that mean?” Henry demanded.
Boothe whistled. “It means, Dear Henry, that Mandyel is a master, and we are but pawns in a game he plays with a skill earned over a day stretching into eternity.”
Henry threw his hands in the air. “You fucking people. Or whatever you are. Just answer one question with a straight fucking answer. Just once.”
“And what is your question, Henry?”
“Is God gonna honor Mandyel’s deal?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“Once He receives the thing He was promised in return, Henry.”
“Why would the devil give up my daughter?”
“I’ve tried to tell you so many times. There are rules. And we must all abide by them. Even Lucifer, though he does bend them to their utmost limits.”
“Will he trade her for Adam?”
Boothe blanched. “He would trade the universe itself for that boy.”