by Duncan, Lex
Max roared and thrashed against his constraints, but those cuffs wouldn't come off and Dante refused to go away. He held on, lifting his wounded hand to Max's mouth and letting the blood drip inside.
“What's going on?” Gershom asked.
“Shut up,” Aralia and I snapped.
His upper lip curled in an offended snarl. “This is an outrage! You can't keep me here! I didn't do anything―”
“Shut! Up!”
He did.
Dante stood. Max threw himself on the ground, screaming and writhing, mouth stained with Dante’s blood. I couldn’t look away. This…this wasn’t normal. This was something that transcended the standard banishing ritual. This was something derived from a deeper source of power, a deeper shade of evil.
Public perception of demon hunting, summoning, and even banishing was that it was the Devil's work. If that was true, what was this?
Dante pulled his knife out again, rolled his right sleeve up past his elbow. Aralia tensed at my side.
“I hate this part,” she murmured.
With that same measured calmness I'd come to admire in him, Dante took the blade and buried it into his upper arm. I gasped, hand flying to my own arm in sympathy.
The blood came shortly after. It spurted between his fingers and hit the ground in steaming specks. Max’s lips peeled back against his teeth, a horrible scream ripping from his throat. He was going to need a ton of cough drops come morning.
Dante looked back at Aralia and I. “Aralia,” he said.
They must have practiced this before because Aralia knew exactly what to do when he called on her. She ripped a long piece of fabric off the bottom of her shirt and tied it tight around his bleeding arm immediately after he lifted his hand. When that was done, the two of them shared affirmative little half-smiles, then Aralia retreated back to her spot next to me.
I didn't think Dante was capable of smiling―really smiling―at anyone but his dog.
“Right,” Aralia said, squaring her shoulders. Her gaze lingered on Dante's kneeling form. I noticed something different about her, then. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. But it was definitely different. Softer, maybe.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
I was ninety-eight percent sure that she was lying, but we had bigger things to worry about right now. Like how the hell we were going to get Max back to normal.
Gershom was certifiably insane, but he was right about exorcisms. They didn't work. Priests and pastors everywhere tried getting them to and failed miserably with each unfortunate death. As with so many demon related things, no one knew why they didn't work. We just knew they didn't. They were performed as last resorts by desperate people, and if the victim was alive afterward, they were shipped off to a maximum security hospital somewhere, never to return. An all too common story these days and I hoped it wouldn't be repeated here.
Max went from thrashing and kicking and screaming to a whole lot of nothing. His body stiffened like a board and the veins in his neck bulged against his skin in a startling shade of blue. Too blue. Like Rosie's.
Dante smeared his fingers with the blood soaking through Aralia's tourniquet. His lips moved with words I could neither hear clearly nor understand fully. Taking another breath, he knelt to the ground and began drawing the shape of diamond with the blood. When that was done, he drew a circle inside of it. Big enough to accommodate Max’s entire body.
“What kind of banishing is this?” Gershom whispered.
Good question.
Inside the circle, Dante drew an inverted triangle, then inside it, another circle. A triquetra went in the middle, but he didn’t stop there. He dragged his fingers down from the inner circle to the apex of the inner triangle, then connected the adjacent angles with another horizontal line, creating something that looked like the Venus symbol.
I'd never seen this sort of seal before. It was drawn like a normal banishing seal, counterclockwise, but the diamond, the blood? Why couldn’t he have just used chalk?
Tonight, like a lot of nights I'd had recently, was full of surprises.
Finished with his seal, Dante turned to Max, wounded arm streaked red. With a stern grimace, he grabbed Max by the collar of his coat and dragged him into the seal. Max snapped out of his stupor and screamed the entire way, but Dante ignored him, wielding his knife in one hand and shoving Max to the ground with the other.
Dante bowed his head. He positioned his feet equal lengths apart, held his knife with both hands so that the blade pointed to the ground. His lips stopped moving. Max’s eyes widened, gaze reflecting both hatred and fear so deep that it didn't appear to have an end.
Then, without further ado, Dante began the rite. More foreign words with sharp syllables and hard consonants, every one raising the hair on my arms. This wasn’t Latin. It wasn’t English. It wasn’t Russian or Spanish or French. It was nothing we spoke here on earth. Demonic. Had to be Demonic.
The effect it had on Max was awe-inspiring in the way a car wreck was. So devastating and so shocking that you found yourself unable to do anything but stare from a safe distance while the braver people did their jobs.
But this wasn't a car wreck. This was possession. A fate worse than death. This was Dante, trying to correct it. This was Max, who fought against his saving grace with everything he had. His body contorted itself into grossly misshapen angles, back arching, muscles straining with the effort. He threw himself to the edge of the seal, screaming as he realized he couldn’t get out of it.
Despite Max's best efforts to resist, Dante kept on, his incantations growing louder as he lifted his knife. I felt the same shift in the atmosphere I did when I banished the demon from that dog, though this shift was anything but subtle. Whereas my banishing was a tiny tear in the space-time continuum, this one was a gaping rip. A gaping rip that manifested itself in the blowing winds, the gathering clouds, the shadows that pressed in like living things. They slithered across the ground to lap at my feet.
“What the―” I jumped backward, tried to kick the shadows away. They swarmed the space where my foot had been, swallowing every inch of surface in their inky blackness. “What the hell is this?”
“The Veil ripping,” Aralia said. Just before the shadows consumed her.
And then, they consumed me too.
Nothing like the complete and total absence of light to make you realize just how dependent on it you were. Light was nice. Light didn't rob you of your senses or fill you with gut-crushing, soul-twisting dread. Light didn't crawl up your neck like a cold fingertip, chilling you all the way down to the marrow of your bones. Light didn't threaten. Light didn't deceive. Light was light. Until it was gone.
Even the bustle of the city and Max’s awful screaming had been filtered away, abandoning me in total silence.
I had no idea what to do. Or where I was. Aralia said the Veil ripped, which, to me, opened up a number of different possibilities: One, I was in some alternate demon dimension. Dis, probably. Two, I wasn’t anywhere at all, just suspended in some unknown void. Or, three, I was still on the roof of The Inferno, relatively safe and sound.
I really wanted it to be the third one.
Feeling oddly weightless in the shadows, I tried my best to stay calm and retain some sense of self. I wiggled my toes in my boots, pulled faces to make sure everything worked correctly, hopped in place a couple of times. Then, as I was flapping my arms around, the darkness imploded, sucked away as though by a vacuum. The world as I knew it returned to its rightful place and all its associated noise roared to life in my ears.
It was like someone turned the reality switch back on.
“Beatrice?” Aralia said. “What on earth are you doing?”
I hadn’t realized that my arms were still raised mid-flap. I let them fall. “Uh, nothing.”
“It’s done,” Dante’s hoarse voice drew me back to the reason why I was flapping my arms in the first place. He arose to his feet, bloo
d still oozing from his arm to drip from his shaking fingers.
“Max!” I ran over to welcome my not-boyfriend back into the land of the unpossessed.
Dante put a hand out to stop me.
“Don't touch him,” he said. His nose was bleeding, too. “We have to get him back to the house and attend to the wound.”
“What wound―Oh.” The knife he’d used to cut himself was buried in Max's chest so deeply that only the hilt was exposed. Max didn't seem to mind. He was still breathing, the expression on his face was calm. Peaceful. If anything, he looked like he was sleeping. “What did you do?”
“What was necessary,” Dante said. He wiped at his nose with the back of his hand. “I'll take care of Gershom. You and Aralia need to get Max home. She'll know what to do.”
I nodded, turning to do as he asked. “Okay.”
“Beatrice,” he said. “Wait.”
I waited. “Yeah?”
“He would have died without you. All of them would have.”
My face grew hot. I did my best to hide it, brushing my hair over my shoulder to act as a curtain. “I guess. I mean, I just tackled the guy.”
“You were very brave,” Dante said. “You risked your life for the sake of theirs. That's...commendable.”
Dante was never particularly mean to me, but he wasn't this nice, either. I'd gone from impressive to commendable in a matter of weeks. It was good to know that he didn't hate me or think of me as some annoying charity case he had to tolerate for Mother Arden's sake.
“You helped too, y'know.” I touched the bruising around my neck. “Gershom kinda threw my phone off the roof, so I didn't know if you got my text or not.”
Frowning, Dante closed the distance between us to cup my chin with his not-bloodstained fingers. He studied the bruises closely. “Put ice on that when you get the chance. It should help.”
“Uh,” my face somehow managed to get redder. He shouldn’t have been allowed to fluster me this much. It wasn't fair. I didn't fluster him. Well, nothing flustered him, but still. “Okay. I'll do that.”
His hand fell away. “Good.”
I hitched my thumb over my shoulder. “I'm just gonna―”
“Of course.”
Smooth, Beatrice. Real smooth.
Twelve
I wasn't good at a lot of things. Math, Latin, writing poetry, dancing, cooking. Add shooting to that list, because I wasn't very good at it, either. For every shot I made that hit the target, I made five more that didn't.
Dante and I stood at the back of the house with Mo chaperoning. It was Monday evening and my training had officially started. What began as an exciting new adventure culminated into me wanting to throw my stupid pistol in the ocean. My aim sucked.
“I think this thing is broken,” I said after my next missed shot.
Dante shook his head. “You're aiming too high. Lower your hand and you'll be fine.”
Huffing, I did as he instructed and...missed. Again. “Oh my God!”
“Calm down,” he said. He lifted his own gun and pointed at the target. “A clear mind is key. Especially when it comes to hunting. Take a breath. Focus. And shoot.”
The bullet exploded from the barrel and hit the target in its unblemished center. Show-off.
Determined not to let him beat me at his own game, I took a deep breath, focused on getting my aim just right, then squeezed the trigger. I clasped my hand over my eyes so as not to spoil the surprise. Please hit the target, please hit the target, please hit the target.
I peeked through my fingers. “Did I hit it?”
Dante hesitated and that was all the confirmation I needed.
“Damn it!” This gun was going in the ocean. “Why do I suck so badly at this? I'm doing everything you say! Hitting a damn target shouldn't be this hard!”
“You're letting your anger get the best of you,” he said. “And you probably shouldn’t discharge a gun with your eyes closed again.”
“Thanks for the tip, teach.” The dumb thing was still getting tossed in the ocean.
His brow quirked upward, lips set in the faintest of smiles. “You need to relax, Beatrice.”
Ha. That was funny. Relax was a foreign concept to me. You didn't get to relax when you had a three thousand dollar bill to pay or a dying best friend. “I don't know what that word means. Use it in a sentence.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I just did.”
“Definition, then.”
“Yoga helps, I'm told.”
“That wasn't a definition.”
His almost-smile was replaced by the usual exasperated look. “Is everything a joke to you?”
I shrugged. “Probably.”
He sighed and glanced up at the sky. “It's getting dark. We'll try this again tomorrow.”
I was okay with that. Any more of this target practice and I was going to rip my hair out.
Heading inside, Dante took my gun and put it wherever he kept his secret weapons stash while I wandered to the kitchen to find something to eat. Aralia was already there, lounging on the table and sipping a glass of wine.
“Well?” She said. “How did you enjoy your first day of training?”
“I didn't.”
I opened the door to the pantry and pulled the string that dangled down from the light bulb, turning it on. The shelves were largely bare. A half loaf of bread, two boxes of opened cereal, cake mix, canned goods with years of dust on them, spaghetti noodles. My stomach growled in protest at this pathetic excuse for food.
I skulked out of there and shut the door. “When was the last time anyone went grocery shopping around here?”
“Hmm...” Aralia tapped her chin with her index finger. “Last month, maybe?”
“Last month? How do you people survive?”
“You ate all the real food,” she said. “The rest of us make do with what we've stored up.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “So you're squirrels?”
If looks could kill, I would've been dead ten times over. “No, Beatrice. We aren't squirrels. We are busy people who don't have time for grocery shopping.”
“Whatever,” I said, pulling the phone from my pocket. Dante gave it to me after the incident with Gershom. It was slim and sleek and cost more than my entire wardrobe put together. “I'm ordering pizza.”
Aralia paused mid-sip. “Are you really?”
I dialed the number to my favorite place, The Pizza Shack, and waited for someone to pick up. “You've had pizza before, right?”
“Not in a very long time.”
“Well, then, today's your lucky day.”
I ordered a large with pepperoni and extra cheese to Dante's address, which I had to ask Aralia for. The guy taking the order sounded confused, commenting that he didn't think anyone lived out here. I assured him that I was indeed a living, breathing human being and he reluctantly agreed to send the pizza my way. So glad we got that settled.
Rolling my eyes, I hung up. “We have thirty minutes to kill before it gets here. Maybe longer if the delivery guy gets lost.”
“Who?” Dante lingered in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He was in his casual clothes for once―jeans and a black thermal. I wondered if he owned any pajamas.
“I ordered pizza,” I said. “I hope you like pepperoni.”
Mo appeared like a shadow at Dante's side. He padded past his master and pressed his muzzle in my hand.
I scratched him behind his torn ear. “Do you like pizza, Mo?”
He whined.
“Taking that as a yes.”
Dante stared at me. He was just jealous that his dog liked me better than him. “Max is awake. He asked for you.”
“What?” Aralia and I said in unison. We'd been doing that a lot lately.
Dante blinked. “Max is―”
I ran past him and bounded up the stairs. Excitement made me light and giddy. Max was awake! He'd been out since The Inferno and a part of me was afraid he'd never wake u
p, but it didn't matter now because he was awake!
“Oh, Max?” I sang as I rounded the corner to his room. Temporary room, that is. He usually stayed in the basement with all his tech stuff, but Dante made the executive decision to move him upstairs until he got better. I edged the door open.
There he was, lying in bed, buried in layers of blankets. His hair stuck up every which way and his glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose. He was Max again. Messy Max, flannel shirt and all. He never looked better.
He smiled when he saw me. I smiled back.
“Hey,” he croaked.
“Hey yourself,” I said, pulling up the nearest chair. These extra rooms were just as big as the main ones. Fully furnished, covered in dust. Lit by candles that looked like they’d been here since 1876. Very romantic. “Have a nice nap?”
He laughed. Then he winced. Then he clutched his chest where the knife had been, where bandages were now. “Ow.”
I patted his hand. “Sorry. I'll keep the jokes to a minimum.”
“Thanks.” He glanced out the window. The burnt shades of evening were fading quickly, bowing to the dark of night. “What day is it?”
“Monday.”
He groaned.
“It was a really long nap.”
“No kidding.”
“Did you have nice dreams, at least?”
That adorable blush colored his cheeks. He shifted against his pillows. “Well―”
“Oh my God,” I gave his shoulder a gentle, gentle nudge. “You were totally dreaming about me, weren't you?”
“Kind of―”
“Hah! What was I doing? I wasn't naked, was I? That's gross, Max. We're not at that point in our relationship yet.”
He pressed his palms to his heavy eyes, but his smile was still firmly in place. “You were yelling at me, okay?”
I tried not to laugh. And failed. Badly. “That's amazing. What was I yelling at you about?”
“You kept telling me to wake up. Except, you know, in more...Beatrice terms.”
I had my own terms now? Cool. “Oh, c'mon. I need details. Don't be stingy, Morrison.”
“I can't remember exactly, but you had your hand on your hip like you do when you get mad―”