Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  She cupped his hand, shifting her fingers so his own could feel the skin beneath the dress, her chest heaving with the rhythm of a heart that did not really exist or beat. She rested her palm on the outside of his wrist, pressing it deeper.

  A guttural moan escaped him as something inside of him burst, breaking clear and running wild through his arm, an electrical discharge that turned into a frenzy. The scars along his skin lit with a horrendous red light, the edges of each trailing as magma coursed through his flesh and into the symbol on his palm.

  The succubus' eyes widened as she brought her head backward, the light within his palm spilling from the pressure of it in her dress and he pushed harder, cutting through the flesh-that-wasn't until he felt bone beneath.

  He grimaced as the dam broke, spewing the magic and holy fire from his body into her own. Her head snapped further and a shriek pierced the darkened den, shuddering to higher octaves that he bared his teeth to.

  He had to cover his ears, deafening crescendo crushing his senses, but he thrust his hand further inside of her, and brought his other, hanging limply to his side until now, around her waist to force her to remain in place while her own limbs floundered, seeking purchase against him.

  When she kicked him in the gut and propelled herself aside from his grip, the light from his hand illuminated the room. She skittered backward, scrambling against the floor after thumping into it hard, her eyes wide and mouth still emitting the screech that shook him to his bones, but the spot on her breast that had been touched directly by the power drooled dripping flesh, ignited by his touch.

  It reminded Carver of a steel mill, the way it fell from her in droplets that hit the deck and scattered into nothingness. She brought her hand to her heart to try to contain her essence that was fleeing from her, but it did little good. It poured from her fingers to the ground just as the rest.

  The changing of her face was instantaneous, shifting from the gorgeous woman into something from his nightmares, the mouth all teeth and the skin peeled back from the eyes to reveal a skull that looked more like a panther than a human being.

  The howling came again, and the bric-a-brac on the shelves along the walls trembled, vibrating loudly. Another scream accompanied hers, the man still struggling to gain his feet from the couch only a meter away, watching the tableau happening before him with his hands on his head, pulling his hair until it was as taught as it could be without breaking.

  Carver bent, grabbing the shotgun and in the same move, cocked it ready. The shell entered the chamber and he whirled it on the demon and jerked the trigger.

  The sound was huge, filling the room with an echo that rang for long seconds after the shell flew and penetrated the chest of the being on the floor. Gun smoke, acrid and heavy, combined with the burned scent of herbs that had been mixed with the lead.

  The demon jerked as it pierced her, shattering what must have been bone beneath the skin. She was pushed a few inches from the force of it, her spine slamming into the floor as the weight of it crushed her.

  Carver dropped the shotgun and sprinted, covering the distance in only a few steps. He slammed his hand down on the creature's forehead and let loose the magic again.

  This time it was controlled, and the demon screamed once more as the fire surged through her head and into the rest of her body. Smoke rose from her skin as it melted, swiftly turning to ash in seconds.

  With a final clarion ending in a growl, the demon was gone, leaving behind embers on the floor, sizzling in the cool air of the room.

  Carver fell to both hands and knees, struggling to breathe as the erotic power the demon had over him released and his mind cleared, cobwebs fading as rapidly as they had come on. Trails of vapor lingered, erupting from his skin as the heat waned.

  He pulled himself back up, wiping the sweat pouring into his eyes and stood as still as he could while the shaking in his body subsided.

  Then he went down to a crawl again as the vomit flew from his mouth onto the floor of the stranger's house, gagging against the stench of burned flesh and foul sulfur.

  "What's... What's going on?" a voice muttered from nearby. Carver glanced over to see the man, his eyes less gleaming than they were, the color already starting to return to his skin. "So many times. I can't believe I fell for it again..."

  He shook his head. There was no need to explain. The stranger would either figure it out or he wouldn't, but Carver owed him nothing, and didn't have the gumption to try to help him do it. The succubus was gone, would torment him no further, and that was all Carver could be expected to do.

  "Just rest," he offered, getting up again and picking up the gun. The man glowered at the sight of it, but was probably too out of it to even recognize what happened. The strange hypnotic power of the demon had this man in its sway much longer than it had Carver, and it would take a while for the guy to fully come back to a sense of normalcy.

  Carver looked around the room a final time, seeking any signs that he could be blamed for the damage done here, but, as far as he could tell, he was leaving no traces. He hadn't touched anything other than the floor, and the vomit would, hopefully, lose any trace of his own body rapidly.

  Using the shotgun to pull open the door, he stepped into the night, taking a deep breath of fresh air, clearing his head even more after the heavy aromas still pervading the house.

  His bones ached, the joint in his knee sore after the effort, but he had a long road back home and needed to start before anyone came looking to determine what was happening here. The sound of the gun going off had to have attracted attention he didn't need.

  He took the first step off of the stairs and skittered to a halt, his feet sliding on the cement an inch or two.

  So much pull. The presence of entities extremely close by was so strong he lost his breath for a moment.

  He squinted but could see nothing in the darkness.

  Taking a deep gasp, he closed his eyes and turned on the sight.

  Carver shuddered as his gaze caught the presence of demons In the yard, outside the fence, along the city street, as many in one place as he had ever seen.

  They stood silently watching as he crept down the sidewalk, whirling to catch a view of all of them. Dozens? No, hundreds, a small army of shadow forms all marking his every move.

  Fear gripped him, his breath caught in his throat and the sweating beginning anew as each pillar of night turned with him, stalking his movements.

  Whenever he had consecrated a demon, those nearby always scattered, terrified at what happened to one of their fellows. Yet, these were still there, the hatred of him pouring off of them almost physically, their teeth bared and hisses and growls tracing him, pulsing through him.

  They wanted him. He could feel it as a presence within, picking up their thoughts, perhaps, with the pull of so many of them around. They not only wanted to do him harm, they craved it. They burned for it, to shatter his flesh apart and scatter his blood on the pavement he now crossed.

  Carver opened the gate, holding the shotgun out, aiming for the center chest of the nearest demon, his finger on the trigger but steady, despite the quaking of his muscles as the tide of fear hurtled through him.

  A flash of movement to his side as one of the beings swept toward him caused his finger to jerk and the gun erupted, sending its heat into the nearest body of smoke and shadows. It scattered, exploding into nothingness as the herbs and lead pierced it, and a red glow hovered in the air for a split second before dissipating entirely.

  Then the one that moved was on him and he had to drop the gun. It landed in the grass, sliding across the dampness like ice.

  The thing was on his shoulder, clawing into his meat with talons larger than its small body should have had, but he reached up with his hand and ignited it with his power. It shrieked as it disappeared, but that scream was not alone.

  A large group howled as they watched two of their own destroyed, and leaped for him, pushing him down before he had a chance to do anything t
o brace himself.

  Carver flailed and fought, his fingers digging into flesh that should not exist, ripping one form off of him after another. His holy light arced out time and again, filling the night with glorious illumination and exposing all of the demons to it. They growled and screamed as their fellows died, exorcised by the power he carried within, but, with each one he struggled off, two more hit.

  His own screams joined theirs as bits of his flesh were rendered, blood flowing out across his clothes and skin as they shredded him. Teeth and claws, scratches and gashes caromed through his body as the horde came down on him.

  He threw three of them away from him, their bodies slamming into the pavement and skidding across it. They twisted and leaped to their feet, but the brief respite gave him a chance to reach the pack at his waist and pry it free.

  He grabbed the first thing his fingers touched, desperately trying to do anything he could, but his strength was flagging so quickly he knew he could not last much longer.

  The small stone was hot in his fist. He spared a fast glance at it and recognized it.

  He grimaced as another two jumped on his back and raked their talons across his skin, flaying the shirt and his body beneath. Blood coursed everywhere, dripping along the pavement as gobbets of his flesh landed and he screamed again as he put the ancient focusing stone in the hand with the symbol.

  He poured all of his vigor into it, the holy fire within him bursting outward as he held it up.

  A gout of red and yellow flew upward like a spike, bathing all in a sickening glow. It hung for a split second before dropping back down again into the stone, then erupted outward, a bubble of supernatural flame in an explosion so loud it deafened him.

  His knees buckled, the power fleeing him through the stone crippling him into submission, but as his body came down, the demons around him sparked, touched by the conflagration. A cacophony of death spread from each of them, touching the next and the next until all were pinioned by pillars of flares of their own.

  Their mouths opened and the flames jutted from them until, as one, they burst apart at the seams, leaving behind ashes and dust.

  His sight faded away as his head pounded into the dirt.

  Chapter 9

  Carver's eyes blinked rapidly, blurred as the dim light pierced his vision.

  He smacked his lips once, twice, his tongue caked to the roof of his mouth and his throat desert dry, raw and painful.

  He bolted upright as awareness he was alive came into his mind and he whipped his head around, ears alert for the clacking of demonic teeth searching for one more bite of his body.

  It was for only a moment, though, as the weakness reasserted itself, the cracked and painful jagged cuts on his skin crying out at once with his movement.

  "Rest, brother," a voice cut through the haze, a deep basso that seemed familiar and warm. "You've had quite the time."

  He pried his eyes open again and stared into the bearded face of Malachi, a small smile beneath the salt-and-pepper fur covering his lips.

  Where were the demons? He was on a cot of some kind, the softness of it cushioning the sores on his back at least some. Where had they gone? And where the hell was he?

  He tried to speak but only managed a squeak. He crossed his chest with his arm and touched along the other one, bare of clothing but what felt like bandages replacing what he had been wearing.

  "Don't try to talk," Malachi said, putting a hand gently on his chest. "Not yet. You're safe. Rest more."

  Carver managed a small nod and closed his eyes, the exhaustion overwhelming him. A soft muttering accompanied his consciousness into the black.

  When he next awoke, his mouth and throat did not feel nearly as abused, and the scent of something cooking brought him into full awareness with a clattering of his stomach, rumbling its emptiness throughout the chamber.

  He sat up, though painfully; every muscle screamed in protest and the deeper cuts made their displeasure at being disturbed well-known. But if there was one thing he was grateful to be the Hallow for, it was the rapidity with which his body healed from injuries. These would not last much longer, he hoped. Another day or so, there would be no trace he had suffered anything at all.

  The room was modest, bare except for the cot he occupied and a couch nearby, with a long table between the two that held a few bottles and a plate of old food. Remnants, perhaps, of Malachi keeping vigil over him while he recovered.

  The large body of that man was across the place from him, standing before a stove with a wide pot filling the limited space with steam and the scent of vegetable soup. Carver's mouth finally broke its dryness as saliva squelched over his tongue. Another byproduct of being the Hallow and the healing he was capable of was an increased metabolism while that process was active, and the manner his stomach rumbled, he must have had a lot of mending to do.

  Malachi noticed him shifting. "Won't be long, another five minutes or so."

  He, too, knew the way Carver worked, one of the only other humans to have any understanding of what he went through.

  Carver smiled, though it was wan; despite having had more rest, he was still exhausted from his ordeal with the demons.

  What happened? How long had he been here? This was not Malachi's church; he had been through most of that place in the years they were friends. This was something else. The windows of the room were covered in thick curtains, showing nothing of what was happening in the outside world and, for all Carver knew, it was an entirely enclosed space.

  The last thing he remembered, he was going to die. The demons were on him with a vengeance and the last-ditch effort of using the focusing stone with his consecration power might have been enough to destroy some, but there were so many demons around him he didn't think it would have taken them all out.

  He tried to stand, but his legs were too weak. He collapsed back to the cot with a huff, the cuts on his body screeching in horror over the movement. His face twisted in a wince, sucking in a deep breath as the flare of pain settled again.

  He was riddled with gashes, the bandages covering him damp with blood, more brilliant reds filtering through the gauze since he tried to move. Nothing seemed broken. That would take much longer to heal, though still much less than an average person. Days, not weeks. He was glad he did not have to deal with that, at least.

  Small blessings.

  "Where's..." the word caught on his throat and he gasped and coughed a few times to clear the muck out of his voice box. "Where's Lisa? Is she okay?"

  Malachi nodded as he stirred. "She's fine. I didn't want to move you until you were ready for it, but I called her to make sure."

  "Thank you, my friend." Knowing she was okay, he leaned back against the wall, wincing again as the scrapes along his spine came in contact with the wood surface, but it felt good to have pressure off the rest of himself.

  Malachi noticed his distress. "There's a couple pills on the table," he said, pointing toward a cup of water nearby. "Should help take the edge off."

  Two small white tablets were next to the glass, and he bent forward, gulping them down without the water. There was enough spit in his mouth to take them in. They were bitter and metallic tasting.

  "I was going to suggest waiting until after you've had some food, but whatever," Malachi said, his face splitting into a grin.

  "I've had worse," he muttered back, a thin smile returning to his own. "Where are we?"

  "It's a Syndicate safe house," Malachi replied, ladling some of the soup into a bowl and crossing the room with it. It steamed heavily as he handed it over to Carver. "I thought it as good a place as any to bring you."

  Carver nodded and spooned the food, blowing on it to cool it a bit before taking it in. It was delicious, and he swallowed the second bite within seconds.

  "How long?" he asked between bites.

  "Ten hours or so." Malachi went to the kitchen and grabbed a bowl for himself. "Should be fine enough here for a while yet."

  The Syndicate..
. Carver's relationship with them was tenuous, their attitude toward him one of being as hands-off as they could be, though they knew his usefulness to them.

  That particular group of humanity had been around since nearly its inception, gathering information and hoarding it like a banker on a binge, each piece of knowledge they gained lorded over and traded as a more valuable commodity than gold.

  Carver, himself, had funded a lot of his work by selling information when it was necessary, and, while most members were happy to get it, they also did not know how to take someone like him. He was an unknown factor in a balance they had always been able to keep, remaining as neutral between the warring parties of heaven and hell as much as they could, all for the sake of more knowledge, artifacts, and power able to be gathered.

  Carver Dax was a disruption to that harmony, a force they could not quite fathom, and for a people who relied solely on the passage of information, that made him dangerous.