“You see, Tyler, one thing to me is abundantly clear.” Robinson’s face was positively beaming. Whatever was about to happen, it wasn’t going to be good. “You are alone in your freedom and your friendships. There is nobody here for you and as such we will be able to…”
Suddenly, the door to the room burst off its hinges, hitting the floor with a loud thud before breaking into several pieces. Four shadowy figures strode in, one leading with three behind.
“To do what exactly?” asked an assertive voice, shrewd and pointed.
It was Jane and upon seeing her, the department heads began their whispered conversations anew.
She had come as soon as word arrived from Quileth that some of his most troublesome guards – at least when he was in charge of security – were escorting Ty to one of the old Inquisitor’s chambers. As luck would have it she picked the correct one, the grandest of the four.
Ty's heart leapt at seeing her, knowing that he wasn't alone.
“We shall do what we want within the purview of our authority,” Robinson replied, his bobble-like head frantically jerking around as if riding the muttering around him. “Unlike you and the rest of the Council, who stick their noses in places they don't belong, all the while exceeding their authority at every opportunity as easily as some draw breath.”
“Does your purview include inquiries of this kind?” Quileth asked, stepping from the shadows. Robinson was not pleased to see him and his face grew so thin that his eyes could have met his lips. “It seems quite archaic… forgive me, what's the human phrase?”
“Old school,” said Joey with an air of cockiness, bounding from the shadows to Quileth’s side.
“What is the business of men to a pussy and a little boy?” Sullivan chimed in, his massive arms crossed.
“As much as it is yours in asking Ty these questions, especially when you already planned to make an example of him,” Quileth replied. “Come on now, ladies and gentlemen, we aren't all children here.”
Robinson grew tired of entertaining the rabble, realizing his security detail wasn't coming in.
“Guards!” he called. “Guards!”
Tyrol was the last to emerge from the dark, cracking his furry knuckles before sliding his beastly hands up his long horns.
“I don't expect they're going to be able to hear you,” Tyrol said in his deep voice. “At least not until they regain consciousness, which could be a while for that one named Dukat. Never really liked him.”
“You see!” Robinson told the other department heads. He was in a near rage, as evidenced by his wide eyes, frothing spit, and not so subtle fingers. “This is EXACTLY the thing I have been telling you! The Council thinks that they can dictate whatever they want!”
“We have done no such thing,” Tyrol stated.
“You sent Gage Crosse and his band of misfits across the sea…”
“Which is within our right to do,” Tyrol countered.
“For what? It seems to me that it was to help the enemy destroy one of the most historic cities in the world!”
Jane was appalled. She glared at him, breathing deeply to stem her emotions.
“Mr. Robinson, are you implying that Gage, AND US, had a hand in this devilry?”
Even the other department heads thought that Robinson had stepped out of line, Gretchen making her displeasure known by getting up and scurrying out of the room, followed closely by Bill.
“If the shoe fits…” Robinson sneered, unaffected by their departure. “For all we know, Dajjal scooped up his little helper and they are plotting against us as we speak.”
“This is LUNACY!” Jane spat, unable to control her tone. “If you would open your shortsighted little eyes you would realize how wrong you are. By being there, untold numbers of citizens were saved from a creature Dajjal had summoned!”
“W-well the destruction was r-rampant, RECKLESS. They destroyed the Eiffel Tower for goodness sake!”
“What's reckless is that you're dividing us from within with your selfish grab for power!” Joey cut in, having had enough. “Did Gage, Marcus and every other man, woman and kid we've lost while preparing for this encounter die in vain? It sure as shit seems that way to me! All this ‘band of misfits’ has done is provide you with a heads up for the Noctis from day one, and helped you work against Dajjal when he came onto the scene. Lord knows I went through some shit.” Joey paused, giving enough time to waggle his non-existent fingers. “What have you done from behind your desk? Worked toward a fatter paycheck and even more authority? Don't you get it? There's not going to be anything for you to have authority over if Dajjal gets his way!”
Joey motioned for Ty to join them and he did so. He gave him a welcoming hug that took away any remaining feelings of abandonment.
Robinson tried his best to dismiss Joey, planting his attention firmly toward Jane.
“This is not over, Carter.”
“Lawrence I didn't expect it to be,” Jane answered as kindly as she could. “But you must see reason. The Council has always been the overseeing body in the Order, since its inception by King Solomon. We only wish the best outcome for all…”
“Such things can be easily changed,” Robinson muttered, not paying any attention to the substance of her words.
“As can the hearts and minds of people.” Jane turned, ready to leave the room. “Lawrence, I will be more than happy to address everything with you… once this apocalypse is averted and we can have an extended debate. But for now, there is still much work ahead of us and far too little time. Good day.”
Jane marched out of the chamber, her entourage not far behind. A few more of the department heads rose from their seats, taking the opportunity to leave while Robinson was still in the midst of a fit.
THE SOUND OF thunder shattered the tranquil afternoon, causing a flock of robins to flee their shelter in the evergreens. A loathsome smell of sulfur followed, smothering the pines, but as if the Earth herself were fighting back, gusts of crisp air remedied its unnatural presence.
Dajjal appeared beneath a dappled canopy, swiftly scanning his surroundings. All he could see were trees – thick ones, thin ones, tall ones, short ones – spreading out as far as his eyes could see. It looked just like the other seventeen stops he’d made across the region; the only exception to the perpetual green was a thin strip of bleached, gray pavement – Connecticut Route Twenty – barely visible to the south.
“FOR FUCK SAKE!” he roared, a nearby doe scampering away into the hedge-like overgrowth. “Morax best enjoy himself while he is still breathing, which won’t be for long unless…”
Dajjal’s words waned; something had caught his attention. It wasn’t anything tangible, nor audible or visible either. Just a feeling, nearly imperceptible, that pulled his gaze like a lasso. Whatever it was, it felt right, and that was enough to get Dajjal’s feet moving.
“At last… they’re here,” he said, making his way roughly northeast. The ground rose gradually and as he moved, he tried not to scuff his new brogue shoes by avoiding the wild roots that wormed through the hard soil and shards of broken saplings that sprung up like spikes through the brushwood.
Having made his first stop in Waterbury, principally an attempt to get his bearings, it dawned on Dajjal that his gray suit was still coated with bloody scraps and stains from his recent dealings in the manor. Fortunately for him, the kind denizens of the city directed Dajjal to an amicable clothier that graciously provided his new ensemble, this time a black number with a vivid turquoise shirt and matching tie. He liked how it fit, though hopefully he could find someone to fashion him a perfectly fitted one in the future, considering this particular tailor had recently departed.
The woods carried on, unchanging for the next half hour until suddenly, it grew less dense. Dajjal took full advantage of a quicker pace, though the sun did the same with the thinner canopy and fewer clouds, beating down on him ruthlessly. It grew hot, though Dajjal was used to it and continued north, unhindered along the veile
d pathway. He could sense magic more strongly with each step, finally feeling close to his destination – whatever that may be – an hour into his travels where the trees came to an abrupt end at the edge of a wide clearing.
Dajjal took another step, nearly overcome by a surge of energy as he met an unseen barrier. It resisted him, but he pushed through. His skin became clammy, sticky like it was consumed by fever, and he grew lightheaded. Falling to one knee, he nearly lost consciousness, but when he could hear his host’s voice speaking off in the distant recesses of his mind, he fought the urge to faint and won.
“Goddamn witches and their spells,” Dajjal cursed, looking around for any obvious wards or an oncoming attack. Sluggishly standing when he didn’t see anything, he took his hand and wiped his trousers. A majority of the muck came off easily enough, but a large area was left stained.
He continued, the rigid and uneven ground of the forest replaced by an extensive sweep of grass. Ahead was a two-story cabin, rising like a timber island in the middle of a sea of swaying green. Its exterior was ramshackle and uninviting, and Dajjal expected the interior would be a close match. Murky glass ensured that whatever was inside remained a secret; there was nothing discernible through the opaque windows.
Out in the yard, which was more a rough area of patchy grass and weeds, old oil drums were scattered amongst a collection of antique farming equipment. Between one of the barrels and a rusty hay rake squatted a large, cast iron cauldron, filled with a dark maroon sludge.
A few trees grew closer to the house, their bark hewn away in parts. Simple wards were carved along their spindly trunks, initially giving Dajjal cause for pause, but he soon remembered that any harmful curses these witches could cast would easily be dispelled by Manus Fortuna, one of the Solomon Six that he wore. With refreshed assurance, he looked at their emaciated branches and saw dangling figurines fashioned from twigs. They were shaped like people and also stars; probably worrisome to some, but Dajjal found them quite charming and with the tiniest flick of his hand, they were shattered.
In the middle of the lopsided porch, the door that had been closed during his approach was now open. Under its warped casing stood a tall shape, dressed in tattered and tarnished clothes. It was a man, his face young but worn as shown mainly through his eyes, which were sunken and grim. His skinny arms were down at his sides and clasped firmly in his right hand was a gnarled branch, whittled to a fine point like a dagger.
“S-Stop right t-there!” he ordered, pointing the branch like a wand. His voice crackled with worry and Dajjal lowered his gaze, hiding his eyes. “Don’t t-take another step! You managed to set off quite a ruckus coming on our property… a-and t-to see you there, still standing despite our defenses, well, we’d rather have no trouble. S-so just turn yourself around and head back from wherever you came.”
Dajjal did not look up.
“Are you deaf?” the witch asked in a momentary fit of anger. “I said get the fuck out of here!”
Dajjal continued to stay motionless, except for his lips, which sneered as he addressed the man.
“That is exactly what I plan to do, once I get what I came here for.”
The witch raised an eyebrow, wand hand twitching.
“And w-what might that be?” he asked, tilting his head, trying to get a better look at Dajjal’s face.
“Information,” Dajjal replied assertively. “Do you have that for me?”
The witch stayed quiet as he scrutinized the well-dressed man. There was an air about him: sinister, dark, evil. This was obviously not some lost businessman, despite his outfit, or a hiker, which the group encountered more often than not – even in these backwoods. They were prime candidates for replenishing the coven’s stores; innards and other fresh body parts excellent fodder for immoral spell work. Something told the witch this one would not be so willing to fill that role.
It was then that Dajjal unexpectedly took a step forward, snapping a stray twig beneath his leather sole. The sound caught the witch off guard and he shuddered, sending a flash of red light soaring from the tip of his wand. It struck Dajjal squarely in the chest and the spell caused him to stumble back. The silk tie burst into flames as glowing chains began to curl around his body, binding him. The witch was chuckling, but only until the conjured bindings began to flicker, melting away in a gossamer rain that pooled on the ground beneath Dajjal’s feet quicker than they had appeared.
“What are you?” the witch asked, his laughter fleeing from fear. He raised the wand defensively and it hummed.
Dajjal took a while to reply, the silence working the witch’s nerves.
“One day everyone will learn what I am,” he said, at last revealing his eyes. They were burning brightly. “The end of all things, born to …”
“Make… you… suffer…” the witch gulped, his blue eyes growing wide when he realized exactly who stood before him. “Dajjal!”
The demon’s hellfire was already spawned, slithering toward the witch. Desperately, he swept the wand in front of him and a wall of water appeared out of thin air, rising like a rogue wave to douse the flames. It failed, his magic no match against the might of Dajjal’s. Steam rebounded, fire and water burning the witch till he was unrecognizable.
“You know better than to play with fire,” Dajjal scoffed over the witch’s excruciating moans.
For a split second, he was tempted to put the poor soul out of his misery, fingers at the ready for a snap, but Dajjal decided against it, pulling them down and into his pocket. He walked up the few rickety steps and onto the porch. Stepping over the writhing body, he entered the darkness of the cabin.
Slamming the door, Dajjal could hear the scuffle of sprinting feet.
“Come out, come out wherever you are…” Dajjal teased. “I know that you're in here. I'm just here to talk, hopefully longer than the conversation I just had…”
Dajjal sought out the others who were hidden, looking across the dark walls of the living room. They were illuminated with pale light filtering in through the cloudy glass, stained with splatters that stank awfully. The furniture was sparse and what was there had a rustic feel, down to the deer and wolf heads displayed on the walls. The sofa looked like it had once been a shade of cream, but that was now obscured with stains that resembled coffee, but smelled nothing like it.
Dajjal continued his search, unable to pinpoint his prey. Ahead was an open archway that led into a messy kitchen and beyond, the sink overflowed with unwashed dishes. A hallway was to the right and on his immediate left, a narrow staircase ascended up to the gloomy second floor.
Heading for the kitchen, there was a loud thud from the right; something heavy had fallen on the floor. Having already looked that way, he moved in the direction of the noise, reaching the start of the hall. His crown roared with flames and its orange light frolicked toward an open bedroom door. Dajjal proceeded confidently down the passage, entering the room.
It was gloomy, filled with dust and a musty smell. The furniture was drab and old fashioned, and along the walls various staves, blades, and a crossbow were hung, likely used for hunting or other, more wicked sports.
A shine caught in his eye from the corner and he turned toward it. Two people were there – another man and a woman – huddled in the far corner with their backs pushed hard against the wall. They had nowhere else to go or hide and were filthy, smelling much worse than they looked.
It was no matter, as there was business that needed attention. Dajjal held out an arm and a rumble followed, their wands snapping like the twigs they were. The woman fell forward and the man tried to grab her, but a force like great, unseen hands did two things: one pulled the woman across the floor, bringing her kicking and screaming to Dajjal while the other pressed down on the man’s chest, pinning him against the wall with no choice but to watch.
“Shhh,” Dajjal insisted, bending over to grab the witch by her long black hair. “I need to ask you a few questions.”
Pulling hard, he yanked her all t
he way up to his lips and she let out an odd scream. It was a soft squeal mixed with a pleasing moan. He took his hand and gripped her throat, the rusty Demon’s Bane smiling as he squeezed, waiting for her to start gasping for air.
“Ah… yes… there we go,” Dajjal said while grinning. “Now, what is your name?”
The witch started to thrash around and everything fell out of her mouth a garbled mess.
“What was that?” Dajjal asked, relaxing his hold.
“P-Paige,” she answered, “and h-he’s Darryl.”
“Your kind has done well at being elusive, Paige,” Dajjal continued coldly. “Even my predecessor had difficulties seeking you out in order to gather support for our cause. It makes me wonder how you were able to do it so successfully. Not that I need your ilk around to bring my plans to fruition, of course. I am just… curious.” He brought her closer, his lips touching hers as he continued. “But the burning question is this: now that I've found you, whatever shall I do with you?”
“That d-depends, w-what is it y-you want?” she said between sharp intakes of breath.
“Answers.”
“We’ll give them to you…” said Darryl, still pinned in the corner of the room. He looked up toward Dajjal through his jet black hair, most of it stuck to his sweaty forehead. “…my Lord.”
Dajjal crooked his neck, giving Darryl a stare that would scare most lesser demons into the middle of a puddle of piss, but instead he found adoration staring back at him. Returning his attention to Paige, he found the same there. Witches were known for their lust-filled glorification of the Devil during the heights of their time, though he had never seen it in the flesh.
“Given your affinity for…” Dajjal paused, struggling to say the name which was like glass in his throat, “Lucifer… I gather you are familiar with who I am.”
“Yes, my Lord,” they said in unison.
“You are the one in charge, who happens to be Master of All,” Paige said softly.
Dajjal was pleasantly surprised – he hadn’t heard that title before – but was still suspicious of their intentions. He needed proof that their apparent fealty was real, so drew the Paige close to him and kissed her, dipping his head forward until it set her hair alight. It burned and smoked, and reeked, yet she did not scream. Not even once. Her levels of passion seemed to grow hotter than the flames, tempered by the wetness that formed between her legs. It was potent and Dajjal could smell her wants.
Running on Empty (Journeyman Book 6) Page 4