Then they were in a room by the sea. The window was open. Billowing in the ocean breeze, the sheer saffron curtains danced in slow motion. The bed was on the floor with no headboard, no frame, a plain white fitted sheet covering it. She was on the bed and Will was next to her. He had his shirt off. The ocean waves crashed outside and she ran her fingertips over his chest, tracing imaginary patterns, her desire for him building up inside until she felt she would burst. She stared at his disparate blue eyes, the one deep blue, the other lighter, crystalline aqua. She fell headlong into his welcoming gaze.
Her lips trembled as she yearned for his kiss. She felt herself wanting to clearly proclaim her love to him, but the words were chunky and jumbled and awkward, and her lips would not move to release them. She was sure she was moaning, but he seemed not to hear as he continued to gaze at her adoringly. Then she tore her eyes from him and looked out and saw something in the distance. The sky was ruby red now, the setting sun a threatening black orb. And riding toward them on a skeletal stallion was Death himself.
A chill ran through her. Will was standing now, his back to the window, his back to Death. She leapt up and tried to pull him away from the window. She screamed as dark fatal hands entered the room and encircled Will, wrapping around his neck. But he was so entranced with her, so in love with her, he barely noticed. Natalie heard crying and woke up. It was Emily, crying in her sleep again.
“Hey, Em, hey, it’s okay . . .” Natalie stroked Emily’s cheek and, even still asleep, Emily seemed to calm at Natalie’s touch.
“Shhh . . . you’re safe, I promise. Dream of good things.”
Natalie waited until Emily’s breathing was deep and regular, and then rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, where shadows thrown from the swaying branches outside danced to and fro. She couldn’t help but face her fear that by encouraging Will Hunter to love her, she could be bringing about his ultimate demise.
Will was dreaming, too. His mother April was just ahead of him on a busy street, a sidewalk teeming with faceless souls bobbing by. He kept calling to her, but though she would turn and smile at him, she would never answer his pleas for her to stop and wait for him to catch up. He had so much to tell her! He yelled and yelled, but she just kept walking. He ran but made no progress, the sidewalk moving beneath his feet, the pedestrians jostling him, blocking him, now clawing at him as their eyes changed, yellow eyes seeping black, hair and nails growing longer as they shrieked and began to surround him and, yes, up ahead, ensnared April, clutching her, now offering her to him, to the Dark Lord, his gaping mouth opening to . . .? Will reached for his mother and the dream went white.
His heart was throbbing, his jaw clenched tightly as he ground his teeth. Then his breathing became more regular as his dream ship found new routes, changed course, and he was now following Natalie up a long stairway, the world falling off on either side. She was beautiful. She giggled; this was a game for her, a race to the clouds. Will redoubled his efforts, and the stairs crumbled into dust behind him with each precarious step. Finally he caught up to her and took her into his arms and whispered to her, the words like notes from a song. She melted into his embrace. He kissed her, gently at first, then more fully, tasting her, joining her to him. Then the scene shifted rapidly, and they were in his old bedroom, back in Corpus Christi where he’d lived with his mother and her second husband, Gerald, surrounded by Will’s childhood artifacts. Model planes hung from the ceiling. Sports posters adorned the walls. But the bed was an adult bed, and in it they did adult things.
White. And more white. Clouds, now a horizon, Will was on wings, drifting, now dropping down slowly, light as air, a spring breeze. Now a church with a towering steeple. The bells were ringing. Will didn’t know why, but this made him feel good inside. He looked down. There! Coming out of the church, young newlyweds, smiling their way through the ranks of well-wishers tossing bird-seed. Will swooped lower, eager to see the happy couple. He recognized the girl first: Natalie, fiercely beautiful in her white dress, and more in love with her new husband than she had ever imagined possible. And her husband was Will. He saw himself smiling, and Natalie kissing him. And then suddenly his teeth begin to fall out as the church and the guests were sucked into a vortex and went down and down.
The hospital corridor was cold and shiny, the fluorescent lights casting a sickly green light. Will floated down the hallway, see-sawing back and forth, seriously out of whack. He heard a young woman’s cries and moved faster now, into the maternity ward, passing nervous expectant fathers, nurses, a doctor. Now into the room where Natalie was pushing, pushing, and he was by her side, helping her breathe deeply, coaching her, It’s gonna be okay, you’re at ten centimeters. . . . Now the head, it was coming out! What a blessed moment: a child, Our child, Nat, the product of our love. But Natalie didn’t respond. She wasn’t moving. She wasn’t breathing. The baby cried. The baby opened its eyes. They were liquid black. They were the eyes of a demon.
Will woke up in a pool of sweat, the certainty that he could never consummate his love for Natalie bearing down upon him, clenching his gut, squeezing his heart. The images from his dream still clung to him, made him despair even further of ever being able to be with Natalie the way he wanted to. If there was any chance, any chance at all, that he could cause anything even remotely demonic to grow within Natalie—well, he knew he couldn’t take that chance. Ever.
He got up and took a shower, standing for a long time under the hot water, cleansing himself of the dream, needing a rebirth, needing to recalibrate his system—needing to go from teenager to warrior. He twisted the hot handle to off and balled his fists as the water turned cold, his skin tightening, his resolve steeling. He stepped out of the shower and toweled off, brushed his teeth, pulled on a T-shirt, and stepped into his underwear and jeans. He looked in the mirror. The young man looking back at him wanted to be a lover, but it wasn’t worth the risk. It wasn’t good for him—it was a distraction—and it was potentially deadly for Natalie. If he loved her—and of course he loved her, more than his next breath—the right thing to do would be to set her free so she could find someone else and have a normal life. As soon as it was safe, he’d send her and Emily away. Natalie would fight it, of course, but someday she’d understand.
Down in his lab he loaded a cache of weapons into a satchel. Rudy, floating in the Demon Trapper, mouthed silent, sorrowful pleas. Will stepped over to the Demon Trapper and read Rudy’s lips. Please, he was saying, help me! I won’t cause any trouble, I promise. Just please let me out of here. You’re my best friend! Let me out!
“Sorry, buddy, no can do. Not until I create the antidote.”
Will shook his head sadly, not knowing if that day would ever actually come. Just before plunging to his death, his father—his adopted father—Edward, had told him that his grandfather had discovered a treatment for demonic infection. And it had worked for him for many years. Will just had to find the formula, and he could liberate Rudy from his present state. He owed it to Rudy to save him. It was his fault the guy was like this—the same way it would be his fault if anything happened to Natalie.
As Will backed away from the Demon Trapper, Rudy went ballistic, writhing within the confines of the trap and raking at the Plexiglas with his nails. Will again read his lips, and this time Rudy was not so polite. I’m going to get out of here! I’m going to kill you! I’m going to rip the flesh from your bones and watch you die!
“Yeah, I love you too, bro,” said Will. Sometimes his whole world was pure madness.
Will turned away from Rudy and zipped up his backpack, picked up the satchel, and exited the lab. One minute later he was backing his Mitsubishi EVO out of the garage. Upstairs, Natalie woke up at the sound of the garage door and rose from her bed. She rushed to the window, parted the curtains, and stared down at Will as he pulled out through the big iron gates and sped away. She wondered if this would finally be the day that he never came back. She didn’t even get to say goodbye. She shuddered. Come b
ack to me, Will, please come back! Natalie felt arms encircling her from behind. It was Emily.
“He’ll be okay. I know he will.”
But her words were nothing more than a comforting lie. Because deep down, neither of them knew any such thing.
As they had for several weeks now, hundreds of followers of the Dark Lord gathered at the apex of Mount St. Emory. Among them was Rocco Manelli, an imposing six-foot-four-inch Alpha demonteen from a Seattle high school. Rocco shouted orders and punched people to get their attention. Also there was a phalanx of girls from the same school, drill team members who had changed out of their uniforms and into black gear. They were wicked and fast and deadly, already high on the crystal meth that amplified their strength and speed. Though they were mind-blowingly beautiful, no boys approached them. They knew better. It was well known that no guy ever scored with them.
The whole gathering of demons proceeded to get high on drugs and booze, and then fanned out in every direction, resuming their tireless search for their master. They covered the same territory repeatedly, leaving no stone unturned. They dug up the earth and felled trees. They searched in streams and rivers and caves. But again and again, after hours of searching, they came back empty-handed and angry. Insults led to fights. They were becoming desperate. If they couldn’t find what they needed to save the Prince of Darkness, who would lead them? What would happen to their kind? They drank and smoked and snorted and howled in agony, beseeching their leader to somehow reach out and guide them. A few demons claimed to have heard the Dark Prince’s foul curses riding on the currents of the night, but no one could tell from whence they came, and the vast majority of followers, when listening for their leader, heard only the wind. The elite among them lashed out at the incompetence of the others, a brief bloody skirmish ensued, and then the elite flew off into the night to search on their own. But after a few hours, they too gave up, preferring to retreat rather than face the rising sun in defeat.
Exiled in his peculiar limbo, the Dark Prince waited, none too patiently. Where were they? How could it be that they had not found all of him yet? Did they not hear him calling to them?
But he knew the answer. He could not communicate with them directly. With those with whom he shared blood, he could easily ride waves of thought into their heads. He could plant explicit thoughts there; he could send them dreams, smells, sounds, and words. He could invade their dreams, invade their consciousness. But the Dark Lord could not do the same with just anyone, let alone his legion of followers.
His disciples were not, as a rule, consistently intelligent and coherent creatures. While many had the capacity for superior intellect, their penchant for indulging in vices often sabotaged their ability to concentrate. They had fury, power, strength, and cunning, but they were easily distracted by avarice, wrath, envy, and a general need to be malicious toward every living thing. They drank alcohol, they smoked tobacco, marijuana, crystal meth, crack cocaine. They were addicts on every level: addicted to food, drugs, booze, sex, and violence. They were easily provoked and brawled frequently. They craved mayhem. They could not be counted on to use their brains. Which meant the Dark Lord would have to find another way to reach them. He proceeded to send a torrent of blood curses into the atmosphere.
DAVENPORT, WASHINGTON
A freak hole in the ozone, that’s what some would report. Detective Mears studied the bodies and then glanced at the sky. Impossible. But who could say, really, with all the havoc the weather was causing? There were two of them in the field, naked as the day they were born. On a blanket, both middle-aged, their flesh sagging. The man’s hair graying, the woman a bottle blonde. Both wore wedding rings, but Mears would bet dollars to donuts they weren’t married to each other. They were adulterers, plain and simple. They had to have been having an affair; why else come all this way to do the dirty deed in a field?
Danny Anderson and Pam Mead were in love. Danny was sick of his wife and her constant nagging and her addiction to TV. Pam said she still loved her husband Randy, even though he was morbidly obese and spent all his free time stuffing his face and playing Demon Hunter and other online games. But she didn’t really love him; she just didn’t have the heart to ask for a divorce. It would hurt the kids. This way was so much simpler. She could make love in a field with a man like the heroes in the romance novels she devoured when she wasn’t working at ValueMart or cleaning up after the kids. So they had started the affair after meeting on church bowling night. Danny had told Pam she had a great toss. And she did, bowling a 212. They all had beers afterward, and Danny lingered, his hand finding Pam’s on the bar. He bought her a Cosmopolitan and she got tipsy, and when he walked her to her car, the friendly goodnight kiss evolved into something more delightfully wicked.
They met again in the middle of the day on their lunch breaks. Randy was over in Portland on business, so it went down in the Meads’ rec room on the pool table. After that, Danny and Pam couldn’t keep away from each other, both reliving those golden high school days when sex was brand new. It was heaven. But today had been different, the guilt of the whole thing finally bubbling up in them both, and they held each other, weeping, deciding that this was the last time, that from now on they would stop sneaking around and honor their wedding vows. Danny wiped the tears from Pam’s face. Pam had worn her new jeans, but she didn’t stay in them long. They drank some wine, not the usual box stuff Pam kept in her fridge, but an expensive bottle from Costco. Tipsy, they disrobed and began their final adulterous dance, in full view of the universe. The taste of the wine, though, went sour in their mouths. They couldn’t identify or articulate the taste, but it tasted somehow . . . wrong. Their flesh heated up, and for perhaps a minute they both thought that it was their passion that was searing them. Then the pain became all too real as the sun’s rays intensified. It was as if someone were holding a giant magnifying glass above them, and they burned, their naked white bodies reddening and then breaking out in blisters. No one was close enough to hear their screams as they slowly and agonizingly burned to death.
Chapter Five: The Pig Demon
Will was on his way to find his mother. He parked two blocks away from the U-Send Postal Annex and looked up at the gray sky as sunlight cracked through the ubiquitous cloud cover. Sunshine. A sign that everything was going to be okay. He walked in a roundabout manner to the small shop, his eyes sweeping the surrounding area. You could never be too careful and he refused to make any mistakes. He was going to find his mother and bring her into the fold, and then somehow make the world safe again.
Reaching the storefront of the U-Send shop, Will looked around for the third time and then went inside and walked directly to box 999. He’d chosen the box number because some thought it was the antithesis of the demon mark of 666. Heavenly 999. He punched in the combination but paused before opening the small metal door. He shot a glance at the friendly looking clerk behind the counter, a tubby guy with an orange T-shirt and a day’s growth on his sad chin wearing a Washington State Cougars baseball cap. He was chewing something. It looked like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to spit it out or swallow. He swallowed—ugh!—then went on stamping packages with postage.
Again Will looked at the mailbox. Inside he expected to find a postcard from his mother informing him of her whereabouts. He’d given her this address when he put her on the private plane out of Harrisburg and instructed her to send the postcard here. He reached again for the box. But then the skin on the back of his neck prickled.
He jerked his head to the right and thought he saw a flash of black in the clerk’s eyes. Bending time, he leapt over the counter. He had a half-dozen Concussion Shockers in the side pocket of his cargo jeans, but he opted to go physical instead. Sometimes it was best to get the job done bare-knuckle style. Besides, more and more often, it just plain felt good.
“Hey, what the hell?” squealed the clerk, rearing back as Will grabbed his shirt, ripping it. Will punched him in the throat. He made frog-like gurgling noises.
“Don’t talk,” Will ordered.
Will grabbed the guy’s hands and checked his palms. Sometimes demons had eyes, or even mouths in their palms. This guy’s palms were smooth. But that didn’t mean he was clean. There was another way to check for sure, a method Will had stumbled upon while combating demons in the forests surrounding Mount St. Emory. He squeezed the guy’s temples and watched his eyes closely. If you forced your thumbs against the temples of a demon, their eyes invariably shaded up to that sickening inky black. But the clerk’s eyes only got more bloodshot. This guy wasn’t infected.
“Sorry,” Will said, releasing his hold. “My mistake.”
“M-m-m-m-mistake?” the guy stammered, his eyes round with fear as he rubbed his temples. Will took out his wallet, peeled off five $100 bills, and dropped them on the counter.
“Sorry for the trouble. Buy yourself a new shirt.”
The guy gaped at the money, then quickly snatched it up and stuffed it in his pocket. Shirt, hell, I’ll buy myself some weed! Suddenly his temples didn’t hurt so much anymore.
Will went and opened the mailbox. It was empty.
He stood for a moment, panic clawing at his stomach, silently admonishing himself for not getting here sooner. Had April gotten the chance to send the postcard in the first place? Or had she sent it, and someone had just gotten here before him? How long had she been in danger? Finding and fortifying a new base of operations before coming to get her had been necessary, but why had he wasted time hanging out with Natalie and Emily, trying to lead a normal life for a few hours? He wasn’t normal and he never would be. He just hoped that the mistake wouldn’t cost him.
The Rising Page 4