“Back so soon, Jackson?” said a familiar female voice from the shadows.
Jackson turned to her with a pointed glare, “Ayres.”
She paid him little attention as he wandered in, broken and beaten from his hunt. “Do you require assistance? Were you followed?”
Ayres spoke to Jackson, yet remained focused out the window to the world below.
“Hmph, not this time,” he grunted mockingly, hobbling his wounded frame further into the apartment. “I should be fine, but keep an eye out tonight? Found that Scarab hive, leader got away.”
“Unfortunately, I am not permitted on your missions, Order,” she said with a sigh. “You know this, otherwise we may have brought him down.” Her tone held something from Jackson, but he could almost recognize that hidden anger; he had it himself. “How about your wounds?”
“Right,” Jackson said, removing his long jacket. Under it he wore a black button-down shirt that was frayed and scuffed. “Ribs are broken, possibly a dislocated shoulder...” He threw his jacket over the chair beside him. “I’ll sleep off the concussion.”
“Excellent, I’ll get you some ice,” she said, wandering toward the kitchen.
“Ice? That’s it?” he said, befuddled.
He watched as she opened the freezer door at the top of the fridge and ruffled through the freezer burnt items inside. Jackson could almost feel himself healing from his gifts, and his body bent and contorted to combat his injuries; no dulling of the pain. He clenched his jaw and clutched his ribs that throbbed in bass drum kicks, then took a sharp breath. Jackson looked back at Ayres, who was deciding which bag of old, frozen, expired vegetables would work to numb his wound and which would work as dinner. He recomposed himself with thoughts of microwaving the freezer-burnt vegetable medley against the expired peas and carrots, and that’s when he heard a flush come from the bathroom down the hall.
3
Worldeater
“Oh, damn it all,” a voice called from down the hall.
A shot of light streamed from the opening door spotlighting a small silhouette onto the hallway wall. The little figure emerged from the bathroom holding a large book under his thin, scrawny arm. His attire was that of a much older man but his face put him less than a teenager. The boy was wide eyed, pale faced, with an overly gelled comb-over that twinkled in the bathroom’s lighting, an adolescent on their way to boarding school in the 1800’s. A black turtleneck was tucked into his dress pants and strapped with an old, brown leather belt that matched his faded dress shoes. And, over it all, laid a thick gray tweed jacket, the kind with leather elbow pads that would visibly itch if worn on bare skin.
Jackson stood stunned, a hand placed on his weapon that sat sturdily on his hip.
“I did not mean for that to take as long as it did, sir, and for that I must say that I am truly sorry,” he said. His voice was so young, shrill and pitchy yet with the pattern and phrase of an old soul. There were twists and inflections that screamed London, but an aged and forgotten London. “Aldrich Winston, and I presume you must be Jackson Crowe, the newest Order.”
The boy’s eyes flickered up harmlessly and childlike at the scruff Jackson in a polite wonderment. But then his cheeks pushed out as his lips drew thinner and spread to reveal the white of his teeth as a smile gleamed at the Order. The smile of the Un-Ascended.
“Yes,” Jackson said in his baritone, the foreign rage twisting in his gut like a burrowing snake; he had almost come to welcome its presence. His hand clutched the grip of his Arm, able to pull it in an instant if needed. He clenched his jaw. “You’re a... demon?”
Aldrich chuckled deeply in his child voice as he approached Jackson with the grin he had seen plastered on the faces of many Un-Ascended before. “My good man,” he said, making whirling gestures with his hand, “our dear sweet Azazel must not have given notice of my coming and my presence, for that I am once again truly apologetic.” With that he pushed a hand forward for a handshake with the large, gruff man. “And do not call me demon.”
“He is fine, Order,” said Ayres entering the living room once more holding a two decade old bag of peas. “As I am the hand of Lady Usra, he is the underarm of Azazel.”
“Oh please, fair angel, I consider myself the anus if anything at all!” Another chuckle with his tiny hand still extended.
Jackson shook the small, weak hand gently in his much rougher, calloused one.
“Pleasure,” Jackson said sarcastically as he wandered toward the couch and sat with the solid brick of old peas pressed against his rib cage. It stung him at first like the sharp pain of an angry hornet, then it slowly numbed him until he could focus once more. He stared down at the freshly cleaned carpet, the smell of lemon and chemicals hung in the air that while pleasing to some, only reminded Jackson of what he had lost. He gestured to the spot on the floor with his free hand as the other two approached. “Who cleaned this?”
There were no answers given, and the anger boiled within him, calling to him again in a language of pure fire. He felt primal, like that of an animal removed from its home and put somewhere that only vaguely resembled what it lost. But, for Jackson it was not a home at all without her, without some small piece of her.
“Who fucking cleaned this?!” He blurted in a spit of rage.
He clenched his eyes from the sharp skid of pain that rolled through him from his outburst and pressed the cold peas more to numb what he could. For all of his gifts, and all of his new strength, he was still just a man. No amount of assisted healing factors can fix ribs instantly, and nothing would ever fix the hole that she left within him that now was full of an alien hatred.
“Who…” he grinded his teeth once more.
Aldrich made his way to the single seat recliner and climbed up into it. He opened his book, removing the silken bookmark that held the printed image of a rose against a white background, and placed it in his lap, his legs dangling over the edge of the seat. “Not I. Believe me sir, I thought this place could use the splash of color,” he said without glancing up, like that of a vampire testing his standup comedy act in the remains of New York City, following the Christian riots. No one laughed or noticed the boy’s joke, so he snickered to himself and flipped another page.
“It was me, Order,” Ayres said, repositioning herself in front of the large window. “If we are to live here then I want to make this place livable. That includes blood removal. Yours, or anyone else's.”
Jackson felt the stir within him again. It came and went, a throbbing fiend to remind him that he was weak. His mind spun as it rolled around the final thoughts of her, almost like her memory was nearly all contained in that single area of brown and red scab over the carpet. His gaze pointed toward Ayres as he took a few steps forward, standing where she laid for the last time; there was no trace of her, only the damp fibers that smelled of lemons and chemicals. The thing within him called for him to feel the grip of a gun, the pull of a trigger, and point a cold barrel at Ayres before warming it with a burst of gunpowder. He ran rough fingers over the grip of the Arm at his hip and wondered if it would end her the same as the Demons.
The Order exhaled a sigh of hot air as if to restrain himself, painfully, against actions that held mystery as the only consequence. The anger within him settled like a rabid cat falling into a slumber, and he recoiled his hand from the weapons grip. He gave Ayres a final stare, almost void of emotion now, before heading down the dark hallway in silence and throwing the door closed behind him.
Once again, he was alone. This time it was with his own thoughts that reminded him of who he truly was on the inside. He thought of the blood, of how much it reminded him of her. With a swift shift of his eyes he looked at the doors he swore he would not open again.
Jackson made his way towards the sliding doors. They creaked stubbornly as he pushed them open with one hand, while the other continued to ice his ribs. Inside was a plethora of garments from men’s attire, which were visibly too small for him now, and an assortment o
f brightly colored women’s clothing. Floral prints burst with pinks and greens, bright blue blouses, and skimpy black night attire with lacey trim. Jackson dug through for a moment, amazed at how well the clothes had been preserved after all of this time. He reached toward the back of the closet, fumbling around in the dark until his hand was grazed by something familiar. Smooth velvet swept over his coarse hand, and with that he tugged the fabric loose. In his hand was a small, red dress
Jackson sat on the edge of his bed, dress in hand. His face contorted in a way that he had not felt in many months, perhaps in reality many years; eyebrows bent, eyes shutting, nostrils flaring. The corners of his mouth tugged low toward his lower jaw and his throat felt full of stones. Soon his breathing was a sputter, deep and quick. He held the dress up to his face as he hunched over, the only noise echoing the small room was the sound of his inhaling and the soft creak of the old bed.
Then, Jackson Crowe wept.
Morning light cut through the windows of the apartment with a warmth that could only be the Sun. Jackson exited the room, same shattered attire as the night before and same scowl permanently stained on his face. Ayres stood in the same position as last night, arms crossed staring out over the now shimmering, lively city. The old boy was slumped back into the chair, eyes pressed closed and mouth open wide. His book laid in his lap, also open. No one moved as Jackson entered.
Jackson gave a simple grunt, both in frustration as well as a simple greeting, and made his way into the kitchen.
“Order,” she responded, unmoving.
Jackson paused, and for a moment considered not answering at all. He may have others with him now, but deep down Jackson was all but alone on his mission of revenge. Just himself, and the hate that had festered in his core.
“Jackson,” he answered reluctantly. “Or, anything other than Order.”
“Jackson will do fine,” she said as if she was the one making the choice.
Suddenly a panicked breathing and startled awakening broke the air. Aldrich sat up, his book collapsing onto the ground. He quickly pulled up the sleeve of his jacket to check an old wristwatch.
“Damn this youthful body to hell!” shouted Aldrich. “Positively no internal clock at all!”
He leapt from the couch, with the other two watching him puzzled. Aldrich padded down his old man clothing, straightening his jacket and tried to make himself presentable. He stood in the living room ignoring the others and said a word barely loud enough for them to hear.
“Azazel…”
In a burst of black smoke there stood a figure. The clouds bubbled, coiled, and curled at the ends before vanishing entirely. There was the thin man, yellow haired with a pinstripe suit. He scoured the room and smiled with a pointed grin as the Un-Ascended are prone to do.
“Lookin’ a lot better in here, Jackie. Last time I visited there were more… well, pools of dried blood I guess. Smell’s better too, less like a newly-awakened corpse and more like lemon… what is that? Is it lemon?” The pointed grin continued.
“Good sir, I am quite sorry for the delay it was absolutely rude, and I accept my punishment justly. If I must enter the North-Lane I shall…” said a bowing Aldrich.
“Nice try, Old-Timer. But you ain’t gettin’ off that easy,” Azazel cut in with a snarky tone. “Now Jackson, let’s get to it with this next case.” He took a seat on the chair that Aldrich had slept in the night prior and crossed one leg over the other. His elbows rested on the chair’s arms as he clasped his hands together in front of his face, barely covering his grin.
Jackson walked toward him, and threw on the jacket he had left draped over the sofa. With each movement a sharp pain shot through his still healing rib cage. There was a mild pressure from putting his arm through the sleeves when the fabric grazed his bruises. He winced only for a moment before recomposing himself; he was much too determined now to focus on physical injury. The Guts bestowed from Azazel gave a bit of relief, although it kept him far from invincible.
“Case?” said Jackson, still pulling on his long jacket. “We should just call it your errands since I am no closer to finding my target.”
“Case sounds a helluva lot better than murder, don’t it?”
“Not murder… More like an exorcism,” and he sat on the sofa, his boots right over where the blood once had dried. Her blood, and his own. He thought of the vile, disgusting humans who joined the Demons in the purchase of young, new bodies, and he sighed. “And, some murder…”
Azazel chuckled as the two new roommates watched on like a studio audience. Aldrich took a seat beside Jackson, flipping through the pages of his large book to find the spot he had lost from before. Ayres stood stern, unflinching and staring at Azazel with a grimace. Jackson could see the way she looked at the Ender, the way her pose suggested she would attack him at any moment if she thought she would succeed; Jackson could recognize that motive instantly, as he felt the same only a single night before as he stared at Ayres. Yet, the two, Jackson thought, seemed to have a history that he only hoped he would not be a part of.
The room was full of Azazel’s unholy laughter that he shared with no one, and it only aided the already thick tension that formed between the group within the confines of a dead man’s apartment.
“I like that, Jackie. Reminds me of the days when people gave me all sorts of nicknames! El Diablo” he said in a Spanish accent. “The Tempter was one I enjoyed, Evil One was more straightforward. Beelzebub was among my least favorites. But I had a special spot for one name in particular.” he said with an intense stare and even more intense beaming smirk, exposing his glaring teeth.
“Lucifer, I would guess,” said Jackson with a low, whisper. His unease was contained, but only barely, in the presence of the Ender still.
Azazel’s eyes had a fiery expression to match the name. He unfolded his hands and leaned forward in the seat. He fixated on Ayres, a stare to match the one she nearly burned into the side of his head, and their eyes locked. It was as if streams of electricity shot from either one and slammed into each other. Jackson stayed neutral to the hostility either by carelessness or by choice, for he only wanted to find his assailant and everything else in this returned life seemed of no use to him.
Aldrich cleared his throat, not looking up from his pages.
“With the hastily passing of time it is my belief that we should push forward with the case, my lord,” said Aldrich loudly following the flip of a crisp page.
“Where does the time go, right Angel?” Azazel said before removing his glare and pointing it back towards Jackson with a much less frightening expression. “Now, Jackie, this case is a little different than the last one. Might need a little discretion on your part.”
“Explain,” replied Jackson. “And Jackson is my favored name, so we are on the same page.”
“Well, Jackie,” he said, ignoring his request, “we got a unique one. The body’s name is Dorian White–”
“Like Dorian Gray?” interjected Aldrich who now looked up. “No?” He said to the puzzled room, “as in the novel by the absolutely wonderful Oscar Wilde?”
“No, you fool. White, totally different shade. Ya see, this fella was a real terrible human. Won’t bore ya with the details but let’s say no one misses him. Now, the guy who took him over was the neighbor, Scott something or other. Not important. What is important is that well… he is not doing anything wrong.” said Azazel.
“Demon is still a demon. Should have moved on,” retorted Jackson.
“Un-Ascended, sir. I have told you this once before and I will not tell again.” An annoyed Aldrich jumped in. “My guess is the chill that comes from your voice makes its way from the cold of your heart.” With that he continued his reading.
Jackson threw his hand on to his weapon, and the flash of purple blurred from the inside of his jacket to right against Aldrich’s head. “I said Demon,” he replied in a raspy whisper. Aldrich did not look up from his book.
Before any move could be made, A
zazel disappeared in a fast cloud of black smoke and reappeared right before them both. The black cloud was thick and all Jackson could see was the blink of an arm descended from the smog, clutching the barrel and dragging it from his grasp into the smoke. Before he could even look deeper into the swirl of ash, Azazel had already appeared back on the single seat recliner, leg crossed over and the amethyst gun in his hand.
“He does not enter the North-Lane until I allow it. Understood?” he said, keeping his smile and tossing the weapon back to Jackson who grabbed it out of the air and holstered it back on his hip.
Jackson was not pleased, but he followed orders knowing that to ignore them would not end positively for him. To him, all of their kind should be expelled without exception, even under the direct control of the Ender himself. He did not fear the North-Lane, especially after having already succumb to death before. His true dread, the dire and lurching feeling that tumbled his guts, was of the ways Azazel could make the after life difficult for him. The only fate worse than the one he was already in was a death where he would not pass through the North-Lane, out into the vast sea of stars where his Dust would find her again, and where they would discover what comes next together as one. For her he would do anything, even work for Azazel, or, worse, work with these two. He would not grin, but he would bear it.
Jackson could hear his own teeth grind against one another as his jaw clenched tightly, and swallowed his pride like a shot of sour medicine and let it boil in his stomach.
“Well, Jackie, this has been a lovely visit. But, think ya got a job to do! Enjoy the company.” With a stark, final wink towards Ayres he vanished beneath the pile of thick smoke once more.
Order of Dust Page 4