by Hunter Shea
“Holy crap!” Shane exclaimed.
Cain collapsed to the floor, writhing like an eel on a hot skillet. Shane tipped the garbage can over so he could finally spill out onto the pile of newspaper he had used as a bed.
Cain stopped flailing long enough to grab the crucifix and yank it from the crown of his skull, immune to its mystical inscription. Blood spurted from the wound like a fetid water fountain as crimson and obsidian gobs of iridescent sputum and pustules splattered onto the pavement. He heaved it back at Father Michael, who caught it just before the blade buried itself in his chest.
“Can’t a demon find a peaceful place to change around here?” Cain raged.
Father Michael thought to retrieve his trident from his gunnysack, but he feared taking his eyes from Cain. There was a mortal life at stake here and, after the Vermont debacle, he was in no mood to witness any further “acceptable losses” on the battlefield. The mortal with the odd hair was back on his feet and pressed against the wall to Cain’s left. Father Michael saw him reach into a loose pile of refuse and pull out an empty liquor bottle. There was something different about him, something that Father Michael was sure the defiant yet terrified man wasn’t even aware of himself.
“I thought you’d still be in that shitty town licking your wounds, Michael. Imagine my surprise when I feel you sticking needles in my head.” Cain wiped the blood from his eyes and shook his head like a dog after a bath. Blood splattered across the walls in tiny raindrops. “Well, what can I say? You found me. I’d like to stay and kill the mortal, not to mention carve out your eyes and feed them to a rat. Alas, I have more pressing needs that demand my immediate attention.”
Cain’s body erupted into blue flame. The skin of the good-looking stockbroker melted away, forming a bubbling, steaming pool of blackened meat. Father Michael threw a pair of daggers. Cain shifted to his left to avoid them. They buried themselves into the brick wall with a loud thunk. Shane took that moment to break the bottle against the wall and jam it into Cain’s naked collarbone.
“How does that feel, asshole!” Shane screeched..
The millennia-old demon flashed an oily smile at Father Michael before raising a flayed, glistening fist in the young man’s face.
Cain spat at Shane. “I’m not done with you.” His index finger stretched until it was almost a foot long with a needlelike point. He jabbed the finger into Shane’s right eye and quickly pulled it back out, the download of Shane’s mind completed in a split second.
Every thought, feeling and emotion that belonged to Shane rushed into Cain with the intensity of a jet stream of blood from a severed artery. Cain absorbed every drop, taking them in like a womb hungry for life-giving seed. Images great and small, pains, pleasure, hopes, defeats, dreams and nightmares, all became known to him, including those things kept within the locked recesses of Shane’s subconscious. Cain now knew Shane better than he knew himself.
“Ow! Jesus Christ,” Shane shouted as his hands flew up to his wounded eye.
“You’re getting rusty, Michael. Your aim is off,” Cain said, eyeing the spent crucifix-daggers. “You’ll have your chances again. Remember, you must practice, practice, practice.”
Cain darted to the far wall and jumped, his hands and feet sticking to its surface like a spider’s. He scaled the wall and disappeared onto the rooftop before Father Michael could pull out another dagger from his overcoat. His mad laughter faded away as he scurried across rooftops as fast and erratic as a housefly.
With the threat of Cain momentarily halted, the priest ran to Shane’s aid.
Shane was rocking on the balls of his feet, his head buried in his hands.
“I think my eye is busted,” he said when Father Michael approached.
“Let me see,” Father Michael said.
He gently removed Shane’s hands and inspected the eye. Blood trickled out of the corners and the eye itself had turned a combination of blue, red and purple. It had been fatally wounded.
“Don’t move,” Father Michael ordered.
Shane did as he was told and gritted his teeth. Father Michael placed his fingertips over the eyelid and slowly shut it. Closing his own eyes, he whispered a small prayer, and removed his fingers.
“You may open your eye now.”
Shane cautiously lifted his eyelid and a smile spread across his face.
“How did you do that? It doesn’t even hurt anymore. I can see just fine.”
Father Michael walked away to retrieve his crucifixes.
“What’s your name?” Shane asked. “I never saw a priest like you, man. A guy who throws knives at the heads of,” he paused, “hell, I don’t even have a clue what to call that thing. How did you know to come here?” He was jittery with excitement, his body juiced from the sheer insanity of the past few moments.
“You’re a very special person,” Father Michael replied. “You have been chosen for something. To have survived Cain’s attack tells me that God has other plans for you.”
Shane scratched his head. “Hey, I don’t even believe in God, dude. I don’t know what just happened here but I am so glad you saved my ass.”
Father Michael fixed him with an opalescent gaze. “You don’t understand. I did not save you. You were saved long before I arrived. You may want to think about that before you denounce God.”
Father Michael’s words hung heavily in the air.
“You’re just saying that because you’re a priest.”
“I say that because it is truth and truth is stronger than individual convictions. Come.”
He stalked from the alley.
“Come where?” Shane asked, running to catch up.
“Do you have any family or friends in this city? Someone you love above all others?”
It seemed a weird question but Shane answered, “Yeah, I do. My girlfriend, Aimee. She’s all I got here and I don’t know why I even have that much.”
“Then take us to her. She is in danger.”
“What?”
There was no time to question or argue. The priest was already running for the street, and after what had just happened Shane was in no mind to make rationalizations. He quickly caught up to him and led the way to the only safe haven he had in the world.
Chapter Ten
Cain sat below the dilapidated piers by the Hudson River and brooded. After the incident in the alley, he had broken the neck of a man repairing a vent cover on a rooftop, slithered into his skin and wandered the streets of Upper Manhattan. He ended up under the docks, most of the wood rotted and splintered, the cold spray of the Hudson pelting him like icicles.
A stray gray-and-black-striped cat approached him, perhaps looking for food or a warm body to snuggle against. In Cain, the cat found neither. It had frozen in its tracks and hadn’t taken its wary eyes from him for the past ten minutes.
Cain spoke to the frightened cat.
“Maybe you have some answers, hmmm?” He reached out to stroke its fur but the cat backed away a step, hissing. “I have that effect on animals. I don’t take it personally. What bothers me, little pussy, is that homeless kid. A return of his kind is quite troubling. And to have run into him in a city of millions tells me there’s more going on here than meets the eye. I don’t like that.”
His essence, the vile, demonic soul that made him such a reviled creature, had been asleep for many years before his recent awakening. Nestled in the darkness of an abandoned coal mine in Albania, Cain was called from his slumber and drawn to the United States. There was never any grand scheme or inspired design awaiting him when he was “revived”. It was understood, just as a heart knows its job is to pump blood, that he was to wreak havoc. For that was his true function, to rain mayhem and menace. He was governed by chaos and anarchy and a personal penchant for flair and originality. He reveled in the kill and hated his forced suspended animation. Only when he was immersed in death did he feel alive.
Meeting up with Father Michael was nothing new and he always looked forward to
their confrontations. In a sinister fashion, he even respected the papal defender. Throw in the protected boy and it was starting to feel like battles of yesteryear.
Cain smiled when he thought back to the boy’s life that’d flashed within him when he had pierced his eye and mind. He saw the boy, Shane Baxter, and his link to a woman named Aimee DeCarlo, and her link to the mayor of the city. In an instant he knew all, including his ultimate plan. There was no such thing as coincidence and this awakening, above all, would alter human history.
“Tell me, little pussy, what surprises does that bastard Yahweh have in store for me? Have things changed so much while I was away? Here I am, alone in my endeavors and Father Michael has a warrior dropped in his lap. It’s not fair, little pussy.”
With lightning reflexes, Cain reached out and grabbed the cat by its neck. The cat yowled in pain and swiped at his face.
“Well, if Father Michael is to have little helpers, it looks like I’ll have to make my own. Oh, that and make a teeny-tiny house call to some whore.”
Cain grinned devilishly at the helpless cat. “It’s truly vexing, this business of mine. Thanks for the talk. Sometimes a sympathetic ear is all I need to work through my piddling issues.”
He swung his arm and bashed the cat against a wooden beam. Licking the blood from his fingers, he walked back to the city streets whistling an old nursery rhyme.
Shane Baxter ran out of gas about five blocks into their sprint. He rested against a parked car with his hands on his knees. Father Michael looked none the worse for wear, despite the fact he was obviously older and carrying what looked to be a heavy bag.
“I’m really out of shape,” Shane said between desperate gasps for air.
“Is it much farther?” Father Michael asked.
“She lives in the Village. About eleven more blocks. By the way, I’m Shane.”
He held out his hand but the imposing priest did not take it.
“Not much for talking, are you?”
Father Michael stared down the city street.
“My name is Father Michael,” he murmured. “If you value the life of your friend Aimee, you must rise.”
Shane straightened himself with a grunt and started a slow jog. He couldn’t help thinking, What era did this guy drop out of? He sounds like one of those dudes that worked the Renaissance Fair.
Father Michael kept pace beside him. Dark clouds were forming over the city and it felt like a snowstorm was in the wings. They passed by a cart selling coffee and muffins. The aromas brought an angry gurgle to Shane’s stomach. Deliverymen carried boxes and handcarts in and out of buildings while many others braved the cold to shop or sightsee. Steam billowed out from sewer caps in great white plumes.
After two more brief stops to catch his breath, Shane arrived with the priest at Aimee’s apartment. She lived in the basement of a brownstone on the Lower East Side that had seen better days. He remembered asking her why she’d picked there, of all places, to live. She had replied that she liked being close to CBGB’s, a legendary punk rock club. Even though it had closed years ago, it was still regarded as a holy site for the countless people who went or played there. For a professional girl raised in a wealthy section of Westchester, Aimee had a wild streak that at her age had faded from teenage rebellion to a bona fide lifestyle choice. Which is why, Shane assumed and was grateful for, she bothered with him at all.
Shane knocked at the door and rang the bell simultaneously. There was no answer.
“Jesus, I’m an idiot,” he said.
Father Michael tilted his head. Shane wondered what was going on in the priest’s mind. It was hard to tell behind the dark glasses.
“I forgot, it’s Monday. She’s at work. She won’t be home until six or later.”
“Then we must go to her place of work.”
“Easier said than done, Padre. She works in the mayor’s office over in city hall and security is tight. I’m not sure they’ll let a guy like me and a knife-throwing priest the size of Jason into the building, much less her office. Do you think that thing will definitely come after her?”
An icy gust of wind slammed into them, freezing the sweat on Shane’s exposed skin.
Father Michael adjusted his coat and walked back onto the sidewalk.
“Well, do you?”
The steady hum of the copy machine was slowly putting Aimee DeCarlo to sleep. Preparing for the graduating class of police cadets called for enough paperwork to deplete half the remaining rain forest.
“Paperless work zone, my ass,” she muttered at the copier.
She had worked from home until well past three in the morning and was back in the office at eight o’clock. The past three weeks had been murder and coffee was no longer having an effect on her overwrought senses. She had considered popping a Dexatrim but remembered how much it had screwed her up in college. Sure, she could stay up and work harder and longer hours studying. The kicker was, she always seemed to crash just moments before she sat down to take the test she had strived so hard to prepare for. This wasn’t school. She needed this job and could not afford to crash and burn at a crucial moment.
Patty Wilson, her best friend at the office, came into the copy room, her arms filled with papers and folders. Her curly, red hair was pinned up, with a few stray locks uncoiling around the sides of her face.
“You still at it in here?” she asked.
“Not much longer,” Aimee replied with a yawn.
“You need a vacation.”
“If I can get through the next week, my regular workload will seem like a vacation. The graduation is Saturday and I already took a couple of days off after that so I can do nothing but sleep.”
Patty unceremoniously dropped her bundle of paper onto a table.
“Does that mean you won’t be catching the Underbelly show at Roseland’s Saturday night?” Patty asked, a hint of hope in her voice.
Aimee gave her a mischievous smile.
“Of course I’ll be there. I’ve been dying to see them for two years now. You know I have a weakness for British punk-ska bands. You sure you don’t want to come? I have an extra ticket.”
“That’s okay. Pop bands are about as hard core as I get when it comes to music. I’m touched that you offered your extra ticket to me, though.”
“Don’t say I didn’t ask,” Aimee said. The copy machine went quiet. Aimee collected the collated packets and placed them in a cardboard box. “I’m sure Shane won’t have a problem scalping that ticket.”
Patty bristled at the mention of Shane but Aimee ignored it. She had heard every complaint about him from everyone who knew about their relationship. She loved him, and that was all that mattered. He was also very proud and it was his pride that kept him on the streets and not living with her like she’d asked countless times. Shane was literally a starving artist. The one concession he made was to store his paintings, because of Aimee’s insistence, at her place. It was fabulous work and Aimee hoped above all that it would be discovered well before his death, unlike so many of the great artists of the past.
“I’ll bring you back a T-shirt,” Aimee said and lugged the box back to her desk.
“And here I was hoping for a belly chain or spiked choker,” Patty said and laughed.
“You let me take you to get your bellybutton pierced and I’ll get you the chain,” Aimee called from her desk, which was unfortunately positioned near the busy and noisy copy room.
Her phone rang and Aimee never heard Patty’s reply.
“Here’s a list of requests I received from my radio show last night. See that everything I’ve outlined gets done, especially in Mrs. Winston’s case. You tell her landlord that if he doesn’t get up there to fix her heat, I’ll personally wring his neck.”
Mayor Peter Spinelli was a flurry of activity, handing over files, loose papers, discs and anything else on his desk that required immediate attention. Brendon Smythe, his most trusted staff member, watched the pile grow by the second. It was a nightly
ritual that had taken him over a year to adjust to and now, five years later, had become just another task easily completed or at least delegated.
The mayor paused for a moment, looking Brendon in the eye.
“Scratch the wringing his neck part,” he said.
“I figured,” Brendon replied, “but with you, I never know.”
That brought a smile to the mayor’s face.
“This being your last term and with your sworn vow to retire to Maine so the public could recover from your two terms as mayor, why not have some fun?” Brendon added.
Mayor Spinelli was a tough man running a tough city. He had his detractors but even they had to admit he did a great job cleaning up a city that had been quickly turning into a cesspool. He’d said worse things to people early in his first term—damn the opinion polls. Time and experience has a tendency to soften even the hardest edged man and Spinelli was no exception. He had learned the intricate dance of politics but sometimes an outburst of honesty could feel better than sex.
“Here’s a compromise,” Spinelli said. “Don’t say that I’ll wring his neck. I’ll just actually do it if I find out that woman is still freezing come this time tomorrow.”
“Got it, chief.”
“Okay, that’s everything. I’m on my way home for a shower, change of clothes and then to the Children’s AIDS Benefit. If you need me…”
“I’ll page you. Good night, you prince of Maine…”
He winked. “Sometimes being mayor feels like running a colossal orphanage. Be good and be here tomorrow at eight for that meeting with the P.B.A.”
Mayor Spinelli grabbed his winter coat and briefcase and headed for the elevator.
Shane and Father Michael sat on a bench in Battery Park, just outside city hall. Bitter-cold air blew off the slow-moving Hudson River. Father Michael had insisted they be there when Aimee left work to escort her home. There was no telling what could happen to her along the way and, after all he had seen, Shane was quick to agree.