by Mike Duran
Roth chuckled. “Really, now. Do you think we didn’t know about his experiments? About the rune? About … your mother?”
“I’m done with it!” Fergus shook his head defiantly. “Mum ain’t comin’ back. She never was. And I don’t care ’bout the fetch, or whatever you call ’em. That was NOVEM’s doin’.” Fergus stepped toward the man and sneered. “They’re tricksters, Roth. Dark fairies. They been usin’ us, just like they’re usin’ you. But it’s over. We ain’t stickin’ around to see that hellhole bust wide open. We’re outta here!”
Fergus pushed away from the bed and hobbled to the tiny bathroom, where he splashed water on his face.
Roth’s footsteps sounded behind him. “Stay here, Fergus. We can make it worth your while.”
Fergus hunched over the sink, staring into the porcelain basin. “Yeah? How so?”
Roth stepped into the doorway of the bathroom. Fergus raised his eyes and studied the man’s reflection in the mirror. Roth’s eyes glistened behind his glasses. “We’ve learned how to make it go away, Fergus. The voices in your head—we can stop them.”
The statement nearly made Fergus gasp. The voices—could they really make them stop? After all these years? The headaches, the blackouts, the taunting voices? Could they really silence the fetch? A wisp of hope curled its way inside him. Fergus looked in the mirror.
What he saw snatched that frail hope from inside him.
His skull was swollen to one side, and his lips sagged from his jaw, revealing gray gums and crooked teeth. Faint trails of blood trickled from his ears. He was changing, now no longer a man but the elephantine offspring of some sideshow freak.
His heart plunged into a new cold darkness.
Roth smiled and stepped away from the bathroom, back into the shadows of the room.
Fumbling under his flannel, Fergus removed the pistol. His skull seemed to encumber his body with immense pressure. He managed to aim the gun at Walther Roth.
“Whadda they done?” His hand trembled so bad he thought he might drop the firearm. “What’s h–happening ta me?”
“There, there,” Roth said unnervingly. “Shooting me will not stop the metamorphosis.”
Fergus stumbled forward and fought to steady his gaze.
“Your old self is dying, Fergus.” Roth gazed darkly. “You’re becoming one of us. Part man, part angel. Imagine the possibilities!”
Fergus’s mind was growing gray. A noxious odor snatched his breath from him, and he lurched upright, struggling to remain lucid.
“All we needed was the parts.” Roth wandered to the other side of Pops’s bed and stared down upon the gaunt sleeping figure. “DNA, cell strands. The rest is adaptation. Who would’ve thought it? Angels cloning humans. Partaking of the plasma pool. Neurons and taste buds. Glorious! We’ve had eons to tinker. To experiment. And feed. Did you know that memories have a distinct taste?”
“Ghaww!” Fergus managed to aim the pistol at Roth’s head.
Roth grinned. “That won’t stop us. Do you realize how many of us are down there? Just waiting for the right person. Waiting to get back at Him! Waiting for symmetry. You see, once you’re swapped, we will have complete control. Legions of fallen ones—can you imagine? Cast into outer darkness, now set free upon the earth. Shooting me won’t stop the process. I’ll migrate, find another body. There are so many to choose from.” He chuckled.
“No.” Fergus panted and let his arm dangle to his side. “Shooting you won’t stop the process. But shooting me might.”
Fergus kissed the barrel of the pistol and put it to his temple.
As he did, Fergus noticed that Pops’s eyes were wide open. His mouth was forming unspoken words, and his trembling hand grappled forward. Pops wasn’t staring at Fergus, however, but at some point behind him.
A rustle of movement sounded nearby. Fergus spun about to see Weltz’s bed vacant, the sheet thrown to the side. A figure rushed at him.
It was not Weltz, but something dark and inhuman. Something with a face like Fergus’s and eyes that blazed amber.
Seer, seer.
He could not move. Nor did he want to.
Come hither yonder hill.
Its breath was foul, reeking of eons of decay.
Where the hollow waiteth.
Its mouth lolled open, jaw unhinged and gaping, an ancient crypt seeking to swallow the living.
And the word is yet unhewed.
The unhewed word. Maybe he could speak that word and banish this demon.
As Fergus opened his mouth to speak, a faint scream left his lips. That utterance was snatched by the fetch. As the cat draws the baby’s breath, so Fergus’s vitality drained from the pores of his being. His lungs deflated, and his breath left him. Its cold hands touched him, caressed him. Every cell in his body yielded as the fetch—Fergus’s look-alike—gorged upon him as a tick does a mule deer, feeding not on blood but on breath, memory, and regret.
Roth had walked across the room and gently closed the door. His eyes now shone with a newfound glory, like glowing embers in black sockets. His smile gaped, wide and insatiable.
“I told you we could make the voices go away,” Roth said gleefully. “Now NOVEM will be complete. Now we have a prophet of our own! The world that would be, now is.” Roth raised his hands, a hideous triumph in his face. “My kingdom come, my will be done!”
And then Fergus Coyne was no more.
Chapter 43
After lengthy debate, most of which involved Zeph interrogating Little Weaver about his pseudoscientific assertions, the three agreed to return to their homes rather than remain at the Vermont. Little Weaver was adamant about the danger that now prowled in the shadows and crevices of the city and encouraged them to reconsider. Looking at the bizarre corpse, it was hard to dispute the Indian’s claims. But the thought of spending the night in that creaky old theater with people he didn’t know was equally disquieting. Especially now that Zeph was expected to save the world.
Tamra’s grandmother, while seeming quietly suspicious of Little Weaver, also appeared enthused that her longstanding theories were finally finding some validation. She remained fixated upon Zeph, intense and critical. Which could not help but remind him of his mother.
“They are extremely fragile in their transitory state, and they hate the light,” Little Weaver said, instructing them how to defend themselves if they were to encounter a dark angel. “In transition between dimensions, shadows becoming substance. Little more than ghosts, they require humanity to complete themselves. Foul beings! Pah!” he spat. “Indeed, the pure of heart are their worst enemy. The soul eater’s strength lies elsewhere. It captivates its double by sheer madness, paralyzing its victim with fear and wonder. Whatever you do,” the Indian warned, “do not look in their eyes. No! Seeing one’s double is, truly, the harbinger of death.”
“How can we tell them apart?” Annie asked. “How can we know who’s who?”
Little Weaver’s eyes narrowed. “Like their lord, they are deceivers. Be on your guard!”
The cryptic answer seemed to set them all on edge.
They left the Vermont near midnight. The lights of the city and the black swath of mountain were infused with an ominous new mystery. Annie had agreed to stay at Tamra’s for the night, although she vowed she was not afraid of the devilish fetch and would return to her apartment in the morning to gather more of her belongings. Tamra seemed encouraged by her grandmother’s concession.
Zeph loaded Tamra’s scooter into the back of his truck. They squeezed into the cab with him and drove to Marvale, while Little Weaver followed in his jeep. At the retirement facility Annie scanned her key, the door opened, and the odd foursome tiptoed through the quiet hallways. Thankfully Little Weaver had abandoned his crossbow for what looked like a black powder pistol with a long barrel and a flintlock trigger mechanism, a piece straight out of the seventeenth century. It only steepened Zeph’s questions about the hulking Indian and his mysterious body of knowledge.
&n
bsp; Annie went through her apartment turning on lights, and then she retrieved the leather journal they had discussed. Little Weaver quickly strapped it into a canvas pouch and slipped it under his army jacket.
As they parted, Little Weaver exhorted them again. “The light—the dark angels hate the light. Go home and turn on every light in your house. The shadows are their essence, and the Holy One is their bane. When morning dawns, open all the blinds. And in your hearts—aha!—unfurl the shutters.” He laughed. Then he turned to Zeph, his features rigid with intensity. “Tomorrow, at sunrise, we shall go to the Rift, my friend. Perhaps I can cull their secrets.” He tapped the place where he’d stuffed the journal under his jacket. “And maybe the prophet can summon his strength.”
Yet Little Weaver’s steady, mirthful gaze evoked a newfound fear in Zeph.
Tamra lived on the eastern edge of town near Hooper’s trout farm in a modest newer tract of homes surrounded by chain-link fences and quaint brick planters. An older model turquoise sedan sat parked outside the garage and appeared to be collecting dust. Zeph pulled along the curb, directly under the street light, as a chorus of barking erupted.
“Hush!” Tamra tapped the truck window in an attempt to silence the dogs. It didn’t work.
The screen door flung open, and someone lurched onto the lighted porch. A bearded man wearing just pajama bottoms stood there staring.
“Tamra!” he blurted, in the rambunctious voice of a child. “You’re late!”
“Oh, dear.” Tamra hurried Annie out of the truck. “Dieter! Quiet.”
The dogs nuzzled up against the fence, barking, pawing, and flinging saliva as they eagerly welcomed their master.
“Grandma!” Dieter shouted, clomping toward Annie with his arms open wide and hugging her over the fence.
“Deets.” Tamra tapped her finger to her lips. “It’s late. Quiet.” Then she turned to Zeph and said, almost apologetically, “He’s my little brother.”
“Little brother?” Zeph glanced at the young man while unloading Tamra’s scooter from the back of the truck. He brushed off his hands and turned to meet Dieter. The dogs snuffled excitedly as Zeph approached the fence.
“And who is this?” Dieter tromped over, straining to see in the dim light.
“His name’s Zeph.”
“Zeph? Uh-uh! No one’s named Zeph.” Dieter gawked over the fence and then pointed frantically. “Tamra! His face! What’s wrong with his face?”
“Dieter!” Tamra scolded. “That’s not nice.”
Zeph brushed his hand through the air. “It’s all right.”
“Well there is somethin’ wrong with his face!” Dieter protested. “Just look!”
“Deets, please. We know.”
But Dieter ignored Tamra’s protests and seemed supremely interested in Zeph’s scar. He slung his arms over the fence, and his tongue squirreled around in his mouth like a little kid. Dieter definitely weighed more than Zeph and had more facial hair, yet Tamra’s little brother seemed to have the innocence of a six-year-old. For that reason Zeph obliged the inspection.
“What happened, Zeph?” Dieter’s words were laced with wonder.
“Well, Dieter,” Zeph glanced at Tamra. “Do you believe in monsters?”
“Course I do!” Dieter snorted. “Everybody believes in monsters, silly.”
“Of course. Well, I got attacked …” Zeph lowered his voice to a whisper, “by a monster.”
“Did you win?”
“Actually,” Zeph straightened, “she’s still chasing me.”
Dieter gasped and began scanning the street.
“Okay, big guy.” Tamra stepped between them. “It’s way late. Grandma’s staying the night. So why don’t you and her go inside? I’ll been in, in a minute.”
“Grandma!” Dieter did a little skip in the grass, which excited the dogs and set them barking again. Then he marched to the porch, chattering to himself.
Annie closed the gate behind her and stood with her bag of nightclothes. The crickets chirped. Behind her the stars twinkled like pinpricks in a nuclear canopy.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” Annie said to Zeph. “This is your time. It’s what we’ve been praying for.”
Zeph looked away. “I wish I shared your confidence.”
“Nams,” Tamra objected. “Give him some space, okay?”
“I’m not crowding him,” Annie said. “No more than anything else.”
“Listen,” Zeph looked at Annie. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here. I’m just going along for the ride.” He closed the lift gate of his truck and dusted his hands together. “Besides, after seeing that thing at Weaver’s, I don’t know if I have a choice.”
“We always have a choice,” Annie said. “That’s what makes us human.”
A cool breeze blew past them, and a night bird twilled overhead. The three stood in an awkward silence. Finally Tamra said to Annie, “Go ahead, Nams. I’ll be in in a sec.”
Annie nodded but seemed reluctant. She walked toward the house, stopping midway to look back at them.
“You can use the extra room,” Tamra said.
“C’mon, Grandma!” Dieter yelled from behind the screen door. “Nice ta meet ya, Zephy!”
Zeph smiled. “You too, Dieter.”
She and Zeph stood on the sidewalk. Tamra slung her helmet over the handlebars of her scooter and patted the seat. “Thanks for giving Silver a lift.”
“Silver?”
“That’s what I call ’er,” Tamra licked her thumb and dabbed at a spot on one of the mirrors. “Silver. As in ‘Hi-ho, Silver.’”
Zeph laughed.
“I’m sorry ’bout that.” She jabbed her thumb toward the house.
“About your brother? That’s no problem.”
“He’s a little slow, as you could probably tell.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“We’ve been on our own a lot. Dieter’s twenty-one. He can take care of himself just fine. But the lady next door checks on him once in a while when I’m gone, just to make sure. Other than that, he’s really sharp in other areas. He’s great with numbers. You’d be surprised. But my mother was a drinker and all, so …” Her gaze drifted.
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’m not.”
Zeph did a double-take.
“No,” Tamra said. “I mean, of course, I’m sorry that my mother did that. But he’s a blessing. Plus he helps me keep my priorities straight.”
Her admission struck a chord of guilt. What most people would use as an excuse to curse their existence, Tamra Lane came to see as a blessing. Instead of renouncing heaven, perhaps Zeph should have used his disfigurement to help him get his priorities straight.
Zeph put his hands in his pockets and pretended to look down the street. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her hair shining under the street lamp, a silky champagne glow. One didn’t need a supernatural gift to know that Tamra Lane was full of grit and tenacity. However, intuition told him that her toughness was fueled by something tender.
“You sure you guys’ll be all right?” He motioned to the house.
“Yeah. Unless those dark angel things can mimic dogs. I doubt anyone could make it past them without causing a ruckus.” The three dogs were back at the chain link, watching expectantly, dark eyes glistening. “I volunteer down at the animal shelter once a week, which probably doesn’t help. I have a soft spot for strays. Probably because I am one.” She reached over the fence, and the canines tussled for her attention.
Zeph chuckled and gazed down the street.
“Did you really do that stuff?” Tamra asked, with hesitation in her tone.
“What stuff?”
“You know, that stuff in the paper. Miracles. Healings. That stuff.”
Something inside him shrunk back.
“Let me put it this way, Tam. If anything really happened, it didn’t come from me. But if you’re after a performance …”
Tamra frowned. “That’s no
t nice to say. I don’t want a performance.”
She turned away. He had offended her.
“I’m sorry. I—” Zeph shifted his weight. “It’s just that all my life, ya know, people find out you have a gift, and suddenly they want to deify you. Or treat you like a pet monkey. Then when you fall or mess things up, or don’t perform on cue, suddenly you’re a wannabe. It’s a no-win situation.”
Tamra seemed to ponder this. Finally she said, “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a gift. I mean, just because people take advantage or misunderstand you doesn’t mean you don’t have something to offer.”
He had heard this before, and the reminder seemed to carry a divine nudge.
Zeph allowed his gaze to drop to the ground. “Are you trying to fix me?”
“Ha!” Tamra waved her hand. “Just tryin’ to help, that’s all.”
“Well, I’m nothing special. I only wish your grandmother knew that. They act like I’m the savior or something.”
“They just see more in you than you do yourself.”
She was sounding more like Mila Rios every minute. Zeph shrugged. “I dunno. I just have always had a sense about people. And sometimes—this is gonna sound weird—these words pop into my head. Prophecies. Premonitions. I’m not sure what you’d call them. I’ve always called it the Telling.”
“The Telling.” She issued a tiny little laugh, not in derision but amazement.
“I’ve had it since I was a kid. Sometimes it’ll come as a word, or a string of words. Sometimes it won’t come at all. But whenever it does, things seem to happen.”
Tamra eyes widened slightly, anticipation glimmering in them. “Like what?”
Blaise Duty flashed into Zeph’s mind, laying gray and lifeless on the church carpet. How could he explain something like that without seeming like a freak?
“It’s hard to explain,” Zeph said. “My mother, she had a lot of beliefs. Strong beliefs. She told me I could develop an ear for it. Become proficient. That’s what the prophets did, she said. They learned to listen to the still, small voice. I dunno, it just seemed wrong. Like trying to train a tiger or a killer whale. Some things are best left wild.”