Geez. Give it a rest. Nobody cares. Especially Shipley. This guy will never understand. Feigned interest in the professor’s class will earn him no extra graces. There’s no additional work, research, notes, shoeshines, back rubs, etc. that will impress the little white-haired teacher. You don’t believe. You don’t see what’s going on around you. You will never understand him.
I’m going to my dark place again, my disdain for the goodie-two-shoes overachiever is palpable. I grip the Harpe’s shaft in my hand and feel a surge of power. I could snip the life from him, and nobody would ever find out. The perfect crime. I could reap the soul from his body and never be suspected. My bottom lip is sore, from biting it as I consider the act.
Why not?
I lift myself from my chair and move slowly down the steps to the front row. The excitement is overwhelming. Murder. I can’t believe I’m about to do this… and get away with it. I’m in striking distance now and move slowly and deliberately. The Harpe feels light in my hands, hungry for action and the taste of ethereal body matter. I raise the sickle high over my right shoulder…
The door swings open behind me and in floats the professor, stopping dead still when he sees me.
He can see me! I forgot. He said he can see the Algolim, too!
Crap.
Shipley turns calmly to the teacher’s pet, who sits unaware that death’s blade was only a flicker away from his neck.
“Mr. Robins, would you mind getting me a glass of water? I’ve forgotten to take my pills this morning.” I can hear Shipley’s every word… and clearly! That’s new. I can’t hear people in this dimension. Only the occasional cry, echoing from a distance, from some unknown soul.
But I can hear the professor’s every word.
Mr. Robins bounces up from his seat and quickly leaves the room, fueled by the errand and his lust for brownie points with Shipley.
We’re alone. Just me and the professor.
“I see you’ve summoned the Harpe,” he says dryly. Disapproval drips from his voice. He’s caught me redhanded, playing in a sandbox not meant for mortals.
I hold the sickle out between us for him to take a closer look.
“I hope you were able to use it… as intended?” His eyes jump from the obsidian blade to meet my own.
His eyes are hollow. There’s no blue glow, no spark. The Seal of Perseus doesn’t glisten on the back of his neck. Everything is confusion.
“I… yes. No, actually. Well…”
“You’re not making sense, Mr. Halfmoon.”
“You can hear me?”
Shipley nods, smacks his lips, and raises his white bushy eyebrows in boredom. “Yes. And I can see you as well. I’m guessing, based on your fellow classmate’s oblivion to your presence that you have failed to cross back over.”
“I’m stuck,” I confirm. “I missed the window.”
“Careless, boy…” It’s a snide remark that raises my agitation like the hairs on a wolf’s neck. A demon wolf.
“I was busy fighting off Amalek! I held him off until the moon set. He vanished. I could have just let him take that woman, you know!”
Shipley grunts and shakes his head.
“Couldn’t strike him down, eh? Perhaps you’re not cut out for this, Halfmoon.” The comment drives me to the knife’s edge of my sanity as Shipley continues his lashing. “So what! You decide to sulk? Come here and reap innocent souls? Take out your anger on others? Is that it?”
The old man’s empty eyes burn into mine.
“I had to choose.” My arms shake with anger, and the Harpe begs me to swing away. The urge to feel the power of the blade is wild, almost untameable.
“You’ve accomplished nothing more than stranding yourself. The woman… She belongs to Amalek. But if he can’t have her, he’ll simply choose another. And now that you’ve tipped them off that you know where they’ve been choosing their victims, Amalek will simply hunt somewhere else when he returns. You’ve failed, Mr. Halfmoon.”
The icy sting of the professor’s words are punctuated by the silence of the room that follows. I know he’s right. I’m angry at him for his cold scrutiny and blunt criticism. But he’s still right.
“So, what now?”
“Our only hope is to stop them from completing the ritual. But I’m unsure when or where it will take place.”
I grip the Harpe and stare at the blade. Do I have what it takes to take on all nine Annunaki at once? I’m doubting myself again. I couldn’t even properly dispatch Amalek. Perhaps there’s another way.
“Tell me about the ritual.”
Shipley grunts again, “The nine women will conduct a blood sacrifice. And the sacrifice will open the gateway to Tartarus long enough for one of the Fallen to escape.”
“Tartarus?”
“The Abyss, boy! Didn’t you read Masonic Commentaries on John’s Revelation?”
“You’re referring to the place where the fallen angels were locked away for breeding with human women?”
“Yes. The Genesis 6 event.”
“…when the sons of God, knew the daughters of men and had children by them.” I know the passage well. The Nephilim were the unholy offspring of the union between fallen angels and human women—an aberration in God’s eyes. They were the twisted immortal souls created without the divine image and likeness of God. They weren’t human. They were allegedly giants, whose spirits had no hope of redemption.
“Correct. Those angels were punished for their violation of the natural order by being locked away in Tartarus for eternity. The Annunaki are the spirits of Nephilim kings. The children of the Fallen.”
“Demons.”
“Yes. Demons are the disembodied spirits of the Nephilim. And the Nine were the kings of that race. And now the time has come for them to release Semjaza.”
I know that name. The Book of Enoch names Semjaza as that angel that instigated the rebellion, and convinced other angels to create offspring with human women. According to one rather fringe Christian mythology, God wasn’t happy about this, sending a worldwide deluge to wipe out the Nephilim, and locking the fallen angels in the Abyss eternally.
“And what if Semjaza is freed?”
“We’ve been over this already, Henry. Semjaza will impregnate one of the nine women. That child will usher in the end of all things.”
“The Antichrist?”
“The Beast, yes.”
The door suddenly swings open, and Shipley’s teacher’s pet floats into the room. The professor takes his glass of water and offers an insincere ‘thank you.’ The conversation is over, for now.
I watch the room slowly fill with the spirits of my classmates. Shipley drifts to his lectern and eventually begins his talk. I decide to stick around, since Shipley is the only spirit I can hear and understand while stranded in the spiritual dimension. But he’s talking about the Mayan calendar and end-times prophecies that were proven inaccurate. Boring. I duck out early with a two-fold determination. I have until the next full moon to figure out when and where the ritual will take place. And I have a death angel’s sickle, thirsty for demon blood. With plenty of Algolim in Greenwich Village, I aim to hone my skills and get a little more experience hunting them down.
Chapter 20
A full month in the spiritual plane feels like a year. Everything moves at a half speed that makes the hazy foggy world unbearably monotonous. If it weren’t for the constant danger of Nephilim spirits, and the thrill of combat, I’d consider going rogue as a reaper. I wonder what the interview process is like for that job. ‘So tell me, Mr. Halfmoon, how do you perform under pressure?’ ‘Give me an example of a time when you had to deal with a difficult coworker to achieve results?’
The thought is laughable, yes, but I’d seriously do anything to be a reaper, if this whole ‘Demon Hunter’ gig doesn’t pan out.
And there’s a good chance it won’t.
The ritual will take place soon after the next full moon. And if I can’t stop it, then I think being
a reaper would be perfect for me. If we’re talking about the Beast coming onto the international scene, and the end of times, reapers will be in high demand. Lots of people are gonna die. That is what the Christian Bible says. Disease, famine, wars; pestilence. Lots of reaping going on there, right?
It’s not my first choice. I’d rather fight demons. I’d rather fight Annunaki. That’s my true calling. I can feel it. I don’t think reaping human lives would bring me the lusty satisfaction I sense when I plunge my obsidian blade into the flesh of a gargoyle, or slice the legs off a fog wolf.
But I’d be good at it, nonetheless.
The full moon is finally rising this evening. I’ve made it an entire cycle. I’ve seen the Demon Star, Algol, wink nine times over the past month. Each time, a new Algolim falls from the sky like a meteor. Interestingly, they come straight to New York. It’s not always been that way, I’m guessing. New York isn’t the only place suitable for demons. The world is full of evil. Always has been. I’m sure ninety years ago, Algolim dropped out of the sky, heading straight to Berlin. Two thousand years ago, they were doing the same, straight to Rome.
But the concentration of evil now is in New York City. They can feel the tide rising, the odds waxing in their favor. The End is coming. The Beast is coming. And the Algolim want a front row seat.
That would explain why this city is so rife with crime, mental illness, and addiction. I guess you could say that about any big city, but the root cause of this city’s dark problems is spiritual, and a growing ravenous anticipation is evident in the cackles and hisses of the demons that nest here.
I could use a break. And I look forward to crossing back over. I’m not tired. There’s no fatigue in this realm. And sleep is impossible. But I still want to rest. I want to rest from seeing what’s truly going on behind the veil. I want a rest from hearing the torment and menace of the demons. I’ve considered just staying here. Amalek will be making another appearance somewhere. Not at Grand Central. Shipley was clear about that. But somewhere. Well, in New York, there are a million somewheres, and there’s only one evening to find the one somewhere that matters, and then somehow get back to a portal in time. I don’t want to be stuck here for another month. But there’s no real chance I can stop Amelek. He will find his victim.
My best course of action is to find out where the ritual will take place and somehow stop it. And if that doesn’t pan out, well… I don’t know.
I head to Times Square so I can step back through the Seal of Perseus. On my way, I think about the trip that Fritz and I made all over Midtown over a month ago.
I miss my friend. ‘You don’t know what you got ‘til you lose it all again…’ The words of one of my favorite songs drifts through my mind. It was a song from my parents’ generation, and I remember my dad singing along with the radio in his car when I was little. That was before music was digitally on tap and streaming was a thing.
There’s a lot of wisdom in some of that old music. This song is a perfect example. My generation gets whatever we want when we want it. For free. And we don’t understand the value of something great, until it’s long gone, out of our grasp and in our past. Mine is the generation of regret. I cringe to think about the emotional state of millennials when they reach old age, if they reach old age. They say that my generation is so enamored with fitness and diet that the life expectancy of the average millennial adult will rise high into the nineties. Some say that living to one hundred will be commonplace.
That’s all horse crap. Why? Because of regret. Our life expectancy will go up… right along with the suicide rate.
Suicide. The idea at one time made sense to me. Lost in world that abandons the supernatural realities, and the hope that something, or someone greater has plans for us after we die, many people will drown in their own hopelessness. At some point, life without the supernatural becomes one long unbroken chain of grief, loss, and misery. I get it, though I’ve never struggled with suicidal thoughts. I believe in the possibility of the supernatural and spiritual. And because of that, I don’t want to take the chance of getting it wrong. The fear of death and the hope that someday I’ll know what’s going on, if there’s a God or not, keeps me from entertaining suicide.
Side note—reapers hate suicide.
You wouldn’t think that’d be the case. You’d think it would be the other way around… you’re basically doing their job for them, right?
Wrong.
They’re accountable for every soul they’re commissioned to reap. And there’s a satisfaction that comes from a job well done, and a soul well reaped. Suicide robs them of that.
How do I know all this? I don’t, for sure. But I’ve now had a glimpse at what they do, and I’ve experienced the thrill of a supernatural commission.
It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.
Finally, I arrive and quickly bound up the steps leading from the subway platform. As I emerge onto the street, a flock of gargoyles scramble away from me in a panic. That’s right. You know what’s up, now, don’t you? Filthy little cowards.
I push through several white spirits, not bothering to go around. I just pass through them. It’s a normal thing now. They can’t feel a thing, and I’m on a mission. A mission to get home. When I round the railing of the subway entrance, my blood runs cold. The Seal of Perseus has been scrubbed from the sidewalk. It’s gone.
I feel like someone has slammed a door in my face. The Seal at Grand Central was scrubbed away as well. That’s how I got stuck here. Now the Seal at Times Square, too? Not good.
The moon is now well above the eastern horizon, and evening has begun. I move as quickly as this dimension will allow, beating a path for St Patrick's Cathedral. As I think about being stuck here another month, my determination to get back to the normal world doubles. Fortunately, nobody sees Fritz and I duck behind the monument next to the church. And the Seal is so well hidden from view, that not even a maintenance man or groundskeeper would ever notice unless they were basically standing on top of it.
But I’m wrong. Again. There’s no Seal of Perseus behind the monument at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Someone did in fact find our handiwork and scrubbed it clean away. There’s no way that Fritz would do that. Just because he’s opted out of my supernatural quest (that I was basically forcing him to take), he’d never intentionally sabotage me. There must be someone else who’s onto me.
There’s only one portal left. My apartment. And only Fritz could possibly know about that one.
A chill ceases me. If that Seal has been scrubbed from the floor of my small flat above Village Vapes, I’m stuck here for good. It’s over.
But Fritz wouldn’t tell anybody. There’s no chance.
“Son of Halfmoon.” The airy voice behind me causes my body to jolt, and I trip over the corner of the monument.
The reaper towers above me, casually leaning on his sickle. His bony fingers loosely clap the shaft and although there’s only a dark void under his hood, I could swear he’s smiling.
“What are you doing here?” It’s a dumb question. This is his domain. But I want to know what he’s doing here.
“You seek the Seal. But as you can see, it has been removed.”
“Thanks, Captain Obvious. What are you, Einstein’s ghost?” It’s the best I can come up with as I get to my feet and dust myself off.
The reaper turns his head in boredom. “No. But he was difficult to reap. So much genius. So much kindness in him. He bore the Seal, you know.”
It was a sincere boast, but bragging reapers are very off-putting.
“So…” I flick a glance at his blade. “I hope it’s not my name on that thing.”
The reaper turns his black hood back towards me and whispers with a deep thirsty moan, “Not yet.”
“Well, there’s the silver lining, I guess. What have you been up to lately?” I flippantly ask. Obviously, he's been doing his job unzipping hell and reaping souls.
“I’ve come to warn you. No human souls. Not
unless the Harpe names them. I saw you raise your scythe to strike down your classmate.”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“Saw that, did ya?”
“If your professor had not intervened, I would be scrawling your name on my blade as we speak.” The words flow out of his dark cowl with a hint of pleasure… longing.
“I got it. No human souls.” Crap. There goes my ambitions to become a bona fide reaper. “I’ll just stick to demon hunting, then.”
“For now, please. Yes.” The reaper looks up and gauges the position of the moon high overhead. “The night is half over, Son of Halfmoon. There isn’t much time to reach your last Seal.”
How the hell did he know about the last Seal?
“You should start homeward… with haste.”
“Well, since you’re so, in the know, perhaps you can tell me if it’s even worth it. Is it still there? Or has it been erased like the others?”
“The Seal burns brightly even now.”
I nod, thanking the dark spirit as I leave the courtyard of monuments and headstones. I look back over my shoulder several times, but the reaper doesn’t move, nor does he follow me. But I see him floating through the fog several times as I make my way to the subway. When I step off the N-line near my apartment, I see him again, just briefly, raising his sickle over the head of a homeless addict lying in some back alley gutter and convulsing from his withdrawals.
I’m a little jealous. I won’t lie.
Finally, I arrive at home. I pass through my door without opening it. The room feels warm and welcoming, even with the roll of fog that covers the floor. This is the only space I’ve experienced in the past month, that’s both demon free and void of any white, hazy figures. It’s a sanctuary. Even now, as the Seal of Perseus casts up its dazzlingly blue cylinder of light, the quiet emptiness of the room is a balm to my soul. I take one last look around the room and jump back, startled. The reaper is suddenly there. He simply materializes in front of me, standing opposite of the Seal from me.
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