The Telling

by Mike Duran

  Annie turned her head away from him. Zeph was in no condition to stand against something of this magnitude. Little Weaver and the boy prophet were heading into a trap! And Annie was partly to blame.

  She heaved herself upward again, biting at the gag. Finally, she thudded back to the concrete in exhaustion, tears clouding her eyes.

  “Save yerself, please.” Easy chuckled. “And if you’re lookin’ fer this …” He pulled Annie’s Swiss Army knife from his pocket and shook it before her. “Don’t.”

  She looked down at her skirt.

  “Hope ya don’t mind. We’ll just go ahead and stash it somewhere for good keepin’.”

  He stepped into the washroom, bent, and huddled over a dark form that lay on the floor.

  It was Easy Dolan’s—the real Easy Dolan’s—body, lying crumpled next to her.

  Annie released a garbled yelp.

  The man stuffed the knife into Easy’s pocket.

  “Someone’ll be along for the both of you shortly. You wouldn’t wanna go ruinin’ yerself before we get a chance to use ya.”

  She could smell the stench of his breath, a dry rotten flume of hot air.

  Annie scooted herself into a sitting position with her back against the washer. She frantically scanned the room. Unless she could manage to free herself, there’d be no way to escape. She glared at the man, her face now wet with perspiration.

  “I know what you’re thinkin’.” Easy held up his finger. “But we ain’t demons. No, sir! We like ta think of ourselves as messengers. Messengers of a better way. We were special, Miss Annie. A new order, you could say. But before we even had a chance to spread our wings—so ta speak—we was incarcerated. Learned too much, apparently. Got too powerful to suit Him. So He locked us up! Ya see, that’s no parallel dimension ya’ll pierced. That’s a prison. You done unlocked the madhouse of the universe!” He cackled.

  Annie’s mind was spinning. They were demons, fallen angels. Hellish organisms that could, somehow, duplicate human bodies. She tried to steady her breathing and fought to keep from swooning in the presence of such evil.

  “We’ve had plenty of time to tinker, and now we’re on the verge of symmetry.” Easy’s eyes glistened. “A sustainable fission between two worlds. Pops woulda been proud! All we needed was the right person. And ta think he was here all along. But you don’t need me to rattle on. You’ll understand soon enough.” He nodded. “Trust me, you’ll understand.”

  Annie glared at him and shook her head, as if to deny any part of this.

  “It’s not somethin’ ta fear, Miss Annie. You’ll become part of us, somethin’ new. That awful Dictator of yours ain’t the only one who can create. No, sir! He made you in His image, but we’ve made ourselves in yours. Ain’t never been somethin’ quite like us.” He spread his arms and beamed proudly. “Genetically human. Metaphysically divine.”

  A shadow moved in the hall beyond him. Annie’s gaze was frozen upon the approaching figure. Eugenia stepped into view.

  She smiled. “We’re changin’, Miss Annie. Just like any new species. Evolving.”

  Annie looked at Eugenia with pleading eyes.

  “Eugenia’s gone,” the woman sneered. “I got the sequence and what’s left of her. It’ll do for now. When the time’s right, I’ll find another.”

  Then the woman walked in and put her hand affectionately on Easy’s shoulder. He turned, slipped his arm around her waist, and they kissed.

  “Ah, the flesh!” Easy turned back, smiling with delight. “It’s no wonder ya’ll get addicted. Touch, taste, smell. It’s a whole new world! One that we been refused for eons.”

  Then his demeanor grew grim.

  “In a bit, I’ll have to conk ya out again. Stevie, the grounds guy’ll be by, and he’ll take you up. There’s tunnels in the boiler room, just like you said. Go all the way up to Poverty. It’s a bit of a walk, but that’s what happens when you give up your wings. Anyway, there’s someone dyin’ to meet you.”

  He licked his lips, his red-rimmed eyes little more than creases.

  “And I do believe you’ll be dyin’ ta meet her.”

  Chapter 51

  After the events of last night, even this gray morning felt glorious.

  Tamra parked her scooter under the shade of the ash tree, removed her helmet, and stared at Zeph’s house. Chickens wandered the front yard, pecking away, and pigeons cooed somewhere in the hazy daylight. Other than that, the neighborhood was still.

  She had not slept last night. How could she? Visions of dark angels had niggled into her mind. Now every corner and closet seemed laden with some dreadful presence. Tamra could not close her eyes without seeing the face of the wretched entity hunched over Zeph. She and Annie had lain awake in Tamra’s bed, reminiscing about broken dreams, occasional triumphs, and the fantastical world they had stumbled into. Two days ago Tamra’s life was boringly normal. Suddenly she was a sidekick to a rebel prophet on a mission to save society from fallen angels and dimensional fusion. Who knew?

  She walked along the front of the fence, opened the gate, and started down the path to Zeph’s house. Two things immediately caught her attention, and she stopped in her tracks. Zeph’s truck was gone, and the front door was open.

  As she stared through the darkened doorway, the memory of the fetch riffled through her mind, and she came to an immediate halt. She looked down at the Vermont. Had they left already? If so, why would they leave the front door open? Tamra glanced at the Book Swap, but the cottage was dark and the Closed sign was still in place. What was going on?

  She went to the porch and stood at the base of the steps.

  “Zeph,” she called out. “Zeph!”

  There was no answer.

  The thought of that hideous creature hypnotizing Zeph, entwining itself around him, drew chills along her spine. But she couldn’t just stand there. She slowly climbed the steps, staring into the darkened house.

  Moisture pattered the ground, dripping from the dewy rooftop. The porch creaked with her weight. She stood before the front door and called out his name again, but there was no answer.

  Something scampered from inside the house, something small and dark, aimed straight at her feet. Tamra gasped, danced out of the way, and stumbled into the porch swing. She fell into it and lay swaying wildly.

  A Chihuahua licked frantically at her ankles.

  A wave of relief rushed over her. She sat up and reached toward the dog. It leapt into her arms, knocking her back into the swing. The Chihuahua was on her chest, lapping at her face. Tamra wrestled the dog away, laughing.

  “What’s wrong, guy?” Tamra stroked the shivering dog. “Zeph didn’t tell me about you.”

  As she sat trying to calm the nervous critter, a thud sounded inside Zeph’s house, and she bounded out of the swing. The dog leapt from her arms and tumbled across the porch. It skidded to a stop, scrambled to its feet, and stared into the house, growling. A ridge of hair bristled along its spine.

  Tamra’s heart was practically in her throat. Should she run? If it was a dark angel, there was no way she could compete. Little Weaver had assured them the wicked angels could not stand the light. They were fragile in their transitory state, he’d said. But the thought of hand-to-hand battle with such a hideous thing made the impulse to flee more immediate.

  Yet if Zeph was in trouble, as her grandmother had feared, Tamra had to risk it.

  “Zeph!” She stepped to the doorway. The dog scampered behind her. “Zeph! It’s Tam. Are you in there?”

  But there was no response.

  She called out again. Again there was no answer.

  From here she could see the den where Zeph had wrestled last night with the creature.

  Then something happened inside Tamra. The dreadful fear that only moments ago threatened to yank her heart out of her ribcage now seemed as far away as the stars were from the earth. Had she been asked to explain it, Tamra Lane would have needed a dictionary, a thesaurus, and a lot of time to think abou
t it. At the moment she didn’t have any of them.

  Only the sensation of assurance.

  Yesterday’s discussions about miracles, healings, and prophecies had left Tamra’s head spinning. While she conceded the miraculous, until last night she had never witnessed anything she considered to fit that category. Nevertheless, she could not deny that what was stewing around inside her right now was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

  And that sensation was so profound, she could do nothing but respond.

  Tamra Lane knew, without a shred of doubt, that Zeph Walker was in trouble. Equally as strong was the sense that she was called to protect him.

  “Zeph!” She strode through the front door with a newfound confidence. “Zeph! Is that you?”

  No answer. Dim light shone through thick curtains. What was she supposed to do? She remembered Zeph describing the Telling and how he would have to be still and listen. Maybe it would work for her. So she listened, hoping for some still, small voice.

  Instead the Chihuahua scuttled in behind her and hurried toward the hall where it stopped, turned, and gazed up at her with its big, wet eyes.

  “What’s up, fella? Whatcha want?”

  The dog skittered down the hall.

  Tamra guessed that she had her answer.

  She followed the dog into the hallway. It passed a kitchen. A combination of smells came from this room. A bottle of meds sat on the counter. Uncapped. Empty. The dog was not here. The hallway ran to the back of the house, and several doors stood open along the way. The dog stepped from one of those rooms and looked anxiously at her.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Tamra followed the animal to a darkened bedroom. She felt for the light switch and turned it on. A small lamp whose shade sat cockeyed on a crate cast an oblong shadow across white walls. The room looked odd, disorienting, something that she could not immediately identify. She stepped into the room.

  Sheets of paper plastered the walls. Individual pages of print. Hundreds of them! The room, from floor to ceiling, was one big collage.

  She wandered to the wall closest to her with her hand outstretched. With her fingertips she brushed the Bible pages. Genesis, Psalms, Mark, and Revelation plastered randomly, in overlapping seams. Some pages were large print. Some yellowed and torn. Tamra removed her hand and did a slow, 360-degree turn.

  Zeph Walker’s entire bedroom was wallpapered with pages from the Bible.

  As she gawked, allowing her mind to absorb this oddity, a rustle sounded and she turned to see someone standing in the doorway.

  Chapter 52

  Little Weaver stood in the doorway to Zeph’s bedroom, his features sullen, his gloved hands hanging limp at his sides.

  Tamra’s voice was wedged in her throat. The bad vibes were capering in her mind again. Annie was suspicious of the Indian, and standing alone in the bedroom with him, Tamra couldn’t help but share her grandmother’s wariness.

  “What’s going on here?” She motioned to the walls pasted with Bible pages. “Why’d he do this?”

  She said this partly as a way to stall and, even as she watched him, begin contemplating a plan of escape. If they’d gotten to Weaver, there was no telling what he might do. Take her back to his lab for some god-awful experiments? Maybe run her through with his javelin. Her throat felt like sandpaper. Perhaps there was something nearby she could use as a weapon. If it came to brute strength, there was no way she could overpower him. But she couldn’t think about that. If she was really supposed to protect Zeph, then God would watch over her. Even if it meant hand-to-hand combat with this mammoth Indian.

  “A sad story indeed. But one that must wait.” Little Weaver glanced down the hallway.

  She swallowed dryly.

  “It is worse than I feared,” Little Weaver said. “Brother Walker has gone to the Rift. Alone.”

  Tamra stared at him, emotionally unyielding.

  Little Weaver cocked his head. “You do not trust me.”

  “Should I?”

  “Perhaps I could say the same about you.”

  They squared off, eyeing each other.

  Then he looked to the ground and drew up strength. “I am Little Weaver, heir to Big Weaver. Guardian of the gate.” He raised his head, and his eyes flashed with fury. “Those of the Third Column have no part of me!” The atmosphere seemed to resonate at the force of his words.

  Tamra took a step back but continued staring at the man.

  Then a kind smile crept across his face.

  She sighed and slumped forward. “He’s in trouble. I know it.”

  “Yes. The journal reveals far more than I imagined. Brother Walker’s heart has turned for the good. We should be thankful. You have helped him find his way. But he has no idea of the power of the Rift and those who dwell there.”

  Tamra’s gaze drifted about the room, the walls and ceilings plastered with pages of Scripture. What kind of angst and torment could have brought the young man to do this? Something else stirred inside Tamra, something more profound than dark angels and mad professors—the possibility that she had really played a part in helping Zeph Walker find his way.

  “I must go to him,” Little Weaver said. “If there is still time.”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “There is great danger involved.”

  Tamra shrugged. “Well, yeah.”

  “Ha! Then let us go, Warrior Soul!”

  He nodded, and they hurried out of the house together with the little dog at their heels.

  A dirty white car was parked behind Tamra’s scooter. It sat inches from her tail light. A large man with a cowboy hat and a scowl leaned against the hood of the car with his arms folded, watching them descend the steps. A second man wearing a rumpled white blazer circled the vehicle.

  “I trust we have not been summoned here without good cause.” This man had a southern drawl and a head of white hair that would have made Colonel Sanders envious. “Especially this early in the morning.”

  “You can say that again,” the cowboy grumbled.

  Little Weaver glanced at Tamra, as if he were trying to communicate telepathically. Then he lifted his gloved hands as if in surrender. “I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I am aware of that, Mr. Weaver.” The white-haired man ambled to the front gate. “Question is, what brought you to this house at this ungodly hour of the day? Especially when you have heretofore professed no connection with the young man who resides here.”

  Tamra was so enthralled with the detective’s linguistics she did not see Little Weaver’s reaction.

  As the white-haired man reached the gate, the Chihuahua charged the fence, yakking fiercely. Tamra hurried to the dog, lifted it, and attempted to calm the animal in her embrace. It remained snarling at the men.

  The detective curled his lip at the dog. “Irritable little things, aren’t they?”

  “You’re … cops?” Tamra cast puzzled glances between the men.

  “Detectives, ma’am. A. J. Lacroix. And this is my partner, Detective Chavez.”

  The cowboy was staring at the neighbor’s house and nodded sternly without looking at her.

  “And I take it you are Ms. Lane.” Lacroix tilted his head.

  “How did you …”

  “As I alluded to, we received a phone call this morning, the content of which I am not permitted to divulge. It was, however, rendered by the owner of this house.”

  “Zeph?” Tamra said. “He called you?”

  “You sound surprised,” Chavez said. “Was he not supposed to call us?”

  “Well, I—”

  “He inside?” Lacroix motioned to the house.

  Tamra looked at Little Weaver, wondering what signal he’d been attempting to send her. As she did, he took her arm.

  “Something has happened,” Little Weaver said, motioning toward Zeph’s house. “A struggle of some sort. We’re worried, Detectives.”

  Chavez pushed himself off the car, glaring at the house, while
his partner opened the gate and ducked under the arbor.

  Tamra had to fight to keep the Chihuahua from leaping out of her arms and assaulting the detectives. Either this dog had a thing against cops, or these cops were not what they seemed.

  Lacroix squinted at the animal. Then he stepped back and scanned the property. “Despite the dissuasion of our superiors, we have been following your escapades with interest. And until this morning, I would have thought they could get no more queer. But at the moment, my suspicions are growing exponentially.”

  “Huh?” Tamra puzzled over the statement.

  “He thinks yer in on somethin’,” the cowboy said, ducking under the arbor and removing a handgun from his boot.

  Tamra gasped.

  “We’re gonna have a peek inside,” Lacroix said. “After which we will have a few questions for the two of you. So, if you would, please.” Lacroix motioned them toward the street. “Wait right here, and let’s see if we can extract some answers about what is goin’ on between the three o’ you. Hmm?”

  Chat walked up the steps with his firearm clasped at the ready, Lacroix following behind him. They crept into the house, disappearing into its shadow.

  “What’re we gonna do?” Tamra whispered, stroking the shivering dog. She looked at Little Weaver for a response, but his eyes were focused elsewhere. She followed his gaze to the house next door.

  The screen was slightly ajar, and a woman stood behind the mesh, watching them.

  Last night they had asked Little Weaver how to recognize a dark angel in human form. But at the moment Tamra needed no instruction.

  Little Weaver nudged her arm and pointed across the street. “My jeep. Hurry.” He started to move that direction.

  “But—” She glanced back at Zeph’s house. She had never received a speeding ticket, been fined for loitering, or run from the police. And she hated to have her streak broken.

  You can’t find the truth without risking something.

  “What about him?” Tamra lifted the Chihuahua.

  But Little Weaver was already jogging across the street in the pale morning light.

  She set the dog down. “I’ll be back, buddy. And be nice to those cops, okay?”