Monstrous 2

by Sawyer Black

  What is this fucking place?

  Dead silent and empty.

  Henry skidded to a stop, his claws digging into the plush burgundy carpet. Adam careened in a spastic arc to land on the desk, his wings scattering paper into the air like glossy white leaves. He ran from one end to the other, his frantic steps slapping an echo like a snare drum.

  Henry swung his head from side to side in confusion. The rage left him, and he shivered with a chill racking his spine. Like dialing his mental radio to an empty spot in the spectrum, he heard a buzzing in the background. Something trying to intrude on his station. Demanding his attention.

  Adam dropped to the floor, wings wilting into his back, his little boy’s face folding out of the demon’s rage to look up at him with his exotic eyes wide and crying in frustration.

  It was Adam. It was the boy’s frequency overloading his antenna. Henry closed his eyes and spun the knob. The city’s oppressive sorrow burst into his brain, bringing clarity to his thoughts. His own anger dropped to ride the symphony in his mind, and an undercurrent of satisfaction flickered in his attention.

  Laughter floated out into the lobby. Low and dark. A sinister chuckle that paralyzed Henry.

  “Where is everyone?” Adam cried.

  Come rushing in here without a plan.

  “Why aren’t they here?”

  Like a fucking little kid.

  Adam’s tiny fist pounding into his bare thigh. The laughter’s rising strength as a shadow stretched from the depths of a hallway. Another shadow at its side. A third.

  “Answer me, Henry! Answer me right now!” The child’s commanding power washed over him, crumbling as it passed. Henry shook his head and pointed to the approaching shadows.

  “Answer it yourself, kid.”

  A dusky man in an expensive suit and an open-mouthed smile stepped into the light. Dark laughter rose from his thick chest, and his eyes sparkled with genuine mirth.

  Hennessy Lucius stood at the man’s shoulder, a brass horn held out in front of him.

  Oh, fuck.

  The old man lifted his shoulders in a deep breath and pursed his lips.

  God damn it.

  Hennessy pressed the metal spiral to his mouth and blew.

  Adam spun as a piercing note rang through the air. It doubled and tripled, blaring from the distance. Ringing in Henry’s mind.

  The little boy screamed, slapping his hands to his ears and falling to his knees.

  Hennessy blew again, and when Adam screamed a second time, blood burst from his mouth in a bubbling gurgle.

  Blood poured from his nose. Seeped from the corners of his eyes. He tipped to his side, gasping and coughing, his wide eyes fixed on Henry’s. Horror and panic painted his face, and Henry scooped the boy off the floor.

  Hennessy blew again, and Adam convulsed in Henry’s arms, his eyes squeezing shut in agony as more blood pressed through his gritted teeth.

  “STOP IT!” Henry screamed, looking at the mayor’s brother with seething hatred. “You’re killing him!”

  “For God’s sake, Hennessy. Henry’s right.” The voice dug into Henry’s heart, and the third shadow solidified.

  Pastor Owen dropped his hand on Hennessy’s shoulder. “That was not supposed to happen.”

  Henry struggled to maintain his grip on the dying child in his arms. His grip on reality. Adam gasped and moaned, bloody tears tracking down his cheeks.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” Hennessy said. “Now that he’s found his champion, the horn should draw him to us. It should just work.”

  Henry gently laid Adam on the blood-soaked carpet, putting his right hand on the child’s chest the way he had when Amélie had been rushed to the hospital with pneumonia. They thought she was going to die, and if she had, he and Samantha wouldn’t try again. Three strikes and you’re out.

  He looked up at Hennessy, his vision dimming with the red cloud of his rage. “He doesn’t have a champion, you dumb fuck.”

  “Then how is he commanding you?”

  “He’s not. He can’t. I’m somebody else’s champion.”

  Hennessy shook his head, but Pastor Owen’s eyes sprang wide in understanding. “Of course. Amélie.”

  Hennessy's faced wrinkled in disbelief, and he brought the horn up, pulling air in through his nose.

  Henry flashed into the shadows, stretching across the floor to pool at Hennessy’s feet faster than a thought. The old men sent his air into the horn, and Henry shot out of the darkness spreading out from the old man’s shoes.

  Time slowed as he sent all of his pain and frustration into the strike, his left hand rising from the shadows. He could still feel Adam’s dying heat beneath his palm.

  Every time he yelled at Amélie. Turned his back on Samantha in anger. Hurt somebody. Hurt himself. Adam’s terrible panic, his eyes begging Henry to help. It all went into the muscles of his shoulder. Filling every fiber as his claws descended toward Hennessy’s wrinkled forehead.

  Pastor Owen threw himself to the side, suspended in the molasses flow of Henry’s awareness. The suit on the other side, Petrov Obisev for sure, ducked and threw his hands up to cover his face.

  Henry’s claws sunk into Hennessy’s flesh, parting his skull like clay. Blood erupted in a sparkling wash. Tinkling in his ears like music as it bounced and rippled through the air, each drop a silver bell ringing out.

  His claws continued unabated through the old man’s face, the remains spouting out like a melon collapsing under the blast of a shotgun. Henry thought it was beautiful. If only the moment could last forever.

  He shredded through Hennessy’s shocked expression, then connected with metal as the horn sang its final note. Pain exploded up his arm.

  A crushing wave blew Henry back as his left hand burst into flames. His fingers crumbled into ash as he flew, the light filling his eyes and his thoughts, drowning the scream that rose from the hollow of his soul.

  As light consumed his senses, Henry felt nothing. Not the flight, nor the landing. In a final brilliant flash, the light dimmed, pulsing as it went.

  And in the darkness, Henry felt only the pain of failure.

  Henry ached. A deep throbbing that spread from every joint. His left hand was swirling agony. His skin puckered with blisters. He took a deep breath, and it almost felt stolen. The burning chains kept his chest from expanding. He looked down through swollen eyelids, breathing through his nose.

  He smelled like a steakhouse.

  Black charring like a dark star extending from the center of his chest and down the fronts of his thighs. His burned cock flopping over to show healthy red underneath the split crust from base to tip. Rusty iron links digging into the skin across his shoulders and stomach. Around both ankles.

  He flexed, but the chains glued his arms and sides together.

  Henry raised his eyes to the flickering light as it danced across the floor. They were in the Lucius family tomb at Prince Hill. Bloody pentagram on the floor and empty mirror, but no Hennessy. Fuck him, anyway.

  In the center of the pentagram was Adam. Ropes snaked out from bolts in the walls to knot around his wrists and ankles, forcing the boy to spread out like the points of the star he was held to. His naked flesh was covered in drying blood, and he was wan and gray.

  His chest fluttered with his breath, and Henry sagged in relief.

  The crypt door opened, and the candles danced, guttering black smoke into the air. A pair of figures in Order From Chaos robes stepped inside. One was the familiar form of Pastor Owen in red. The other was his new friend. Petrov Obisev.

  They crossed to the mirror, making a wide birth of the bloody symbol on the floor. Obisev crossed behind the iron frame and slid the robe from his shoulders. The pastor followed, and the two men stood nude in the orange light.

  The pastor’s chest was a rainbow of ink. The cult’s symbol surrounded by colorful demons swirling around his ribs, each one stabbing into his skin and bringing out a torrent of inked blood that flowed into t
he runes all around them. Obisev was a dark blue blur of ink from knees to neck to elbows.

  Henry tried to speak, but his dry throat seized. He worked some spit from the depths of his asphalt tongue and tried again. “The fuck is this?”

  Pastor Owen smiled bitterly. “This is what Plan B looks like.”

  Henry grunted a chuckle. “What, are you trying to summon that goat-foot bastard? I saw him the other day, and I gotta say. I wasn’t that impressed. Kinda looked like a pussy to me.”

  Owen folded his robe and placed the neat pile at his feet. Obisev copied him, almost in perfect time like a military drill team.

  “Yeah,” Henry continued. “He just disappeared in a poof when he saw me. To be honest, I think it was penis envy.”

  Pastor Owen looked over with a pained scowl. “I never cared much for your comedy, Henry.”

  “Ouch, man.” Henry nodded, continuing to wriggle his right hand under the chains, working it toward his lap. “That hurts my feelings. I mean, kill my kid and rape my wife, fine. But insult my comedy? That’s just downright mean.”

  Pastor Owen sighed. “Henry …”

  “Too soon?”

  “Henry. I didn’t rape Samantha or kill sweet Amélie.”

  “Don’t you fucking dare say their names!”

  “Henry, it wasn’t me who has caused you so much pain.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then who was it, fucker?”

  Pastor Owen dropped into a squat, resting an elbow on his own knee. His other hand rested on Henry’s thigh, and he looked up in sympathy. “It was you, Henry. That’s what everyone’s been trying to tell you.”

  “The fuck outta here, you son of a bitch.”

  “Son, it was your voice that made you a target. Your immorality that brought you to our attention. Your little followers who hung on your every word. As I’m sure your angel friend told you, your choices put this in motion.”

  Looking into his eyes took Henry’s breath away. Exhaustion battled his mind, and his eyelids sagged. “You evil fuck,” he croaked. “Did you ever believe in God?”

  “Oh, Henry.” The pastor’s face split into a loving smile. “Who do you think this is for. God wants this child dead. He wants to be safe in his own home like anybody else. Just like you did. And if the result is for my power to rise here on earth so that He can remain on his throne in Heaven, so be it. He will prepare for a battle that I allow Him to wage, all the while waiting for me to ascend and demand payment due.”

  Henry grunted with the effort to move his hand the final few inches that would put the chain in his grasp. He closed his fingers over the burning metal and heaved.

  Black dots swirled in his vision, and he let go of hope as the chain remained unbroken.

  Pastor Owen reached up and stroked his cheek. “Close your eyes, Henry. We just need the blood of a Paladin. It doesn’t have to be his Paladin. Or his blood.” He pointed to the boy spread out on the floor, and Henry caught his breath, his chest constricting with a loss that hadn’t yet happened.

  “Sleep, Henry.” The pastor’s voice echoed in his mind, and the power of his command followed Henry into slumber. “There’s no need to watch, my son. You’ve seen enough.”

  Henry’s guilt was swallowed by his relief, and once again, he let himself turn away from his problems.

  CHAPTER 35

  A small stage about a foot off the floor. A single microphone on a silver stand. A circle of light shining against the brick-wall backdrop like the opening of a portal.

  Henry sat by himself at a small round table right up front. He glanced around, and the rest of the audience sat waiting for the next comic, they’re faces open in anticipation. Wait staff dodged through the crowd, bringing fresh drinks and removing the empties.

  As one, the faces focused on the stage, and their hands shot up in applause. Thunderous and joyful, peppered with whoops and whistles. Henry turned to see what could have possibly churned them so much.

  Mike Serafino stepped out with a grin and a wave. He shielded his eyes against the spotlight, pointing to someone off to the side. Then he grabbed the mic from its stand, jamming his hand into his pocket. Same way Henry had started almost every show of his life.

  He looked down at the floor, and the applause tapered down to a pocket. Mike raised his eyes to lock gazes with Henry. The applause died, replaced with expectant silence. “The fuck are you doing?”

  A titter washed over Henry from the crowd. He looked around, but all eyes were still on the stage. Henry turned back, and Mike was still looking at him, his eyebrows a question. He stepped forward and put his hand on the empty stand, leaning on it the way Henry remembered doing a thousand times. “Seriously, what the fuck are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That kid’s gonna die, Henry.”

  “So.”

  “So?” Mike shrugged, and the crowd snickered. “If you don’t do something, that kid will fucking lose his soul.”

  “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Then what about your daughter?”

  A pop of laughter and Henry waited for it to die. “There’s nothing I can do,” he whined. He couldn’t figure out how to make them understand.

  “We’re not talking about her dying, Henry. She’s already dead.” Roaring laughter, and Mike talked over them. “She’s in Hell, buddy. The devil himself has her in his arms.”

  Wailing laughter like they had heard the planet’s greatest punchline. Mike dropped his hand, and the mic stand wobbled in a spiral as he paced the stage.

  Henry leaned forward. “You don’t understand,” he shouted over the rolling laughter. “There’s nothing else I can do.”

  Mike spun, disgusted anger twisting his face, and the crowd erupted in a collective guffaw. “Goddamn it, Henry! I’m sick and fucking tired of your bullshit.”

  Henry felt anger redden his cheeks. The laughter rose to a maniacal wail. Pain at the edges. Panic filled the breaths in between. “Hey, fuck you! You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “I don’t know what it’s like? I am what it’s like, you fucking simpleton!”

  Joy turned to pain. Screams of laughter became wails of anguish. Mike charged to the edge of the stage, leveling an accusatory finger at Henry’s face.

  “You can’t barely try and then give up, you cocksucker! That bus ain’t gonna back up to let your wheezing fat ass catch it. You gotta run! Nobody gives a flying fuck about your troubles but you. That little boy isn’t sparing a single thought about how hard your charmed goddamn life is! Do you think your daughter gives one absolute SHIT about your struggle?”

  The air split with applause, cutting through the cries and moans of pain. Henry shrank in his chair, trying to duck under the judgment at his back. He just wanted everybody to shut up and leave him alone.

  “But that’s all you ever wanted, isn’t it?” Mike’s voice was a near whisper. The applause and screams fell to match. “The impact without the responsibility. But I’m here to tell you, buddy. You’re fucking nothing. All the money and the fame. The laughter and the awards. That shit … it’s what you wanted more than anything. And the thing that you claimed to want more than anything? The love? Whatever. The world held its hand out to you, and you spit in it. Over and over.”

  Henry denied him. Wiped the tears away and denied that any of it was even happening.

  The screams grew louder.

  Mike wiped his own tears away, and looked at Henry with grief. “There’s a guy pushing a boulder uphill, and he barely has the strength. And you know what? You’re not that guy.” He slipped the mic back into the stand and leaned against it with his shoulders drooping. “You’re the fucking boulder.”

  In a blink, Henry stood where Mike had been, leaning against the microphone, looking out over a crowd covered in flames. Writhing in agony.

  Amélie sat in the center with Adam in her lap. They held each other in a desperate embrace and looked at him with terror-filled eyes. Pleading. Begging.

  H
enry nodded and took a breath against the weight of his own guilt. He pulled the mic back out and held it up, whipping the cord behind him to give himself room.

  “Stop me if you’ve heard this one.”

  The crowd’s screams washed over him, the crackling roar of the flames blowing heat across his face. He opened his eyes, and the mirror’s surface rippled with the fire shining in its depths. Hell was on the other side of the reflection, and Henry thought he heard Amélie’s voice screaming out from her torment.

  He snapped awake to find Adam writhing on the floor, his eyes fixed on Henry’s face. Pastor Owen stood chanting on the other side of the pentagram, a knife raised in front of his chest like an offering. Dark words issued from his mouth like bile. The glyphs in the vines of the Order From Chaos symbol given voice, and Henry knew if he listened too closely, insanity would follow.

  Obisev stood in front of Henry’s knees, echoing the pastor’s chant. His voice rose into ecstasy as the mirror’s surface bent into the crypt, and a tentacle dripping lava to the stone floor broke through, twisting in the air. Questing like a blind snake.

  “Adam,” Henry shouted. “I need your help, buddy!”

  The boy stilled, and stared into Henry’s eyes. Even during this torture, he shone with beauty. Despite the demon that had manifested in the car, this little boy was a true angel.

  “Come on, buddy. I need you to sing. The song of the Tracker, okay? I promise you I’ll get you outta here. I’m a Paladin, remember?”

  A Paladin.

  Henry froze.

  A champion.

  Henry smiled.

  No chains can stand before my claws.

  The crowd’s laughter echoed in his mind.

  Holy shit!

  Adam nodded, his eyes wide in understanding. Henry twisted and wriggled, drawing his hand out from under the chain inch by inch. His fingers finally popped free, and his claws pushed against the thick links, sinking into the metal with a grinding squeal that set his teeth on edge. He smiled and tensed his shoulders.