Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  Whatever else might be going on, whether his powers came from Biel, God, or inside of his own body, it didn't matter. He had come to rely on them far too much to let them go, and would use them to defend himself and his child until they or he were gone.

  That, too, perhaps, was an addiction, just as was the case in the former life he led before coming into his own as the Hallow. A pride was there, shining from his spirit, each time he sent a demon to hell or into oblivion, a feeling of accomplishment that he had made, at least, some sort of difference in the world. There was a satisfaction in that.

  He packed the lid back on the box and put his hand on top of it, thinking the way he kept these things around was like an ex-smoker. Sometimes, they would keep an old pack of cigarettes, pulling them out once in a while to sniff them, caress them. Maybe even give in to the temptation to try out a puff, to go through that familiar sensation of the heat and tar smacking the lungs and the subtle high that came to their heads after they exhaled it.

  They might never get that far, but the feel of it was there in their memories nonetheless, and the scent of the old tobacco, stale and sickly sweet, would be sufficient to trigger it all.

  And when that moment of temptation-nostalgia was done? It would be put away again, hidden behind the pile of socks in the drawer so the wife wouldn't find them and yell at them about smoking again, or tucked behind a set of books on the shelf for the next time the urge came along in those desperate moments of stress or despair.

  It was never enough to start up again. That part of their life was passed, they had moved on from it. But to know it was there, to understand if they decided they wanted to do it again, they could, was adequate. It satisfied the subconscious need to let them be at peace.

  Reminders, and nothing more. Markers on the path in the rhythm of addiction, there to keep the mind and spirit in check.

  The baggie of heroin and the needle inside the box were the same parts of his cycle, a world no longer existing but so powerfully filled with the memories of it he sometimes could not resist the sensations.

  But a new cycle had begun for him, a new addiction, perhaps worse than the one his body had craved so desperately he felt he could melt into the streets when it was not fulfilled.

  Power, and the desire to use it.

  He smirked to himself, leaning further into the chair until it squeaked, vibrating against his skin.

  The switch had been strange and subtle, but it was there. He was addicted to the verve being the Hallow gave him, the sensation of the energy leaving his body rendering him empty, the fleeting moments of the high he got after one of the damned things went to wherever it came from and knowing he did that, he was responsible for cleansing the system of the filth and depravity it caused.

  Oh, yes. It was as cloying of a need as the heroin in the box had been, in some ways more so. He liked seeing the evils despised him and feared him all the same.

  If he was to be damned for it, then so be it. He was already heading there, anyway. If he could take out the ones who made it their pleasure to send the world into chaos on his way, so much the better.

  Carver slid the box into its proper space on the shelf and stepped away, glancing over his solitary confinement briefly before turning and flipping the switch. The light blinked out and he closed the door behind him, leaving the crumbs of his past where they belonged.

  Chapter 13

  Carver threw the remaining bandages into the trash can, their edges already curling with the steam from the shower waiting for him.

  He stepped in and washed away the last traces of the tape left behind on his skin, the wounds from the demons that attacked him completely gone now. Only his normal scars remained; there was no trace that he had ever been injured in the first place.

  It was, perhaps, the best advantage of being the Hallow, the swift healing and completeness of it by the time it was finished.

  He soaped everything off and sent out a silent thanks to Malachi for helping him when he fell, knowing if the man had not come along to help him when he did, he might still be a body laying on the pavement, rendered asunder by the claws of the horde that came for him that night.

  His strength was returned, the traces of power within him humming as he closed his eyes and relaxed into the warmth of the water and scent of the heavy soap he liked to use. Lisa had her own, a bit of frilliness he could not stomach, preferring something more musky.

  Even as his body eased with the heat, he was unbalanced inside, knowing the attack on him in the street was extraordinary. For them to come at him with such ardor, egged on, perhaps, by the much more potent being behind them, was unheard of. Malachi claimed he wanted to discover more, but Carver had been unable to get hold of him in the past couple of days to find out what he learned.

  It was not like Malachi had never disappeared before; he had his own life and it sometimes took him to distant places in the search for knowledge or another artifact. But Carver thought he should at least have heard something from his friend.

  Maybe he just gleaned nothing new yet and was waiting until he did?

  Still, there was something else he could try, though he was loathe to leave Lisa alone while he did it.

  He stepped from the shower and dried off, the soothing calm of the action, wrapping himself in the thick, long towel, normally relaxing. This time he was too nervous, his feet constantly shifting around and the tremble in his fingers too annoying to really enjoy the sensations.

  He dressed and went downstairs, his hand sliding along the banister until he reached the bottom.

  Lisa was on the couch, the television blaring soft music as another cartoon came on. He smirked; she did not like the banality of most cartoons. This one she seemed to enjoy, though, and she spooned another mouthful of cereal in, turning her head just a little and nodding when she saw him come down.

  "Morning," she muttered behind the chewing. "Sleep well?"

  He crossed the room and patted her forehead with his lips, smiling. "Good as I can, baby. How are you feeling?"

  "I'm okay, dad, stop worrying," she replied, her eyes slightly rolling.

  He pulled her chin toward him, a spot of milk still on her lip, searching for any sign she was not telling him the truth. It had been two days since their encounter with Indris, and indeed until last night, she was nervous as she went to bed.

  But she seemed much better this morning, no worse for wear, perhaps, from the meeting, and he let her go with a smile.

  He grabbed some breakfast for himself and sat with Jessup between the two of them while he ate, staring at the television but not really watching.

  He knew she would be okay, especially with Jessup there to watch over her, but he still hated to leave Lisa, even for something as important as this. He desperately needed information, though, and there was truly only one place he would find anything of use.

  When he finished eating, he took the plate to the sink and turned on the tap.

  "Don't worry about that, dad," Lisa called out. "I'll wash them. Just get ready."

  He shut the water off and beamed at her, grateful once again for how much she had taken on herself with the house and her school work. Even if she was home schooled, she kept at it like a champion, and didn't seem to regret not having the social interactions with girls her age like normal. He had to change that for her, he knew, but for now at least she wasn't any worse for wear, taking everything in her life in stride.

  He was lucky with her, well aware of how things could go with kids her age. It was bad enough as a parent to know the dangers out there. How much worse for him, knowing the true evils children could fall prey to?

  The demonic loved adolescents. Corrupting innocence was the best form of pride for them, rending the heart that could have been for one of depravity and enslavement to a darkness they would never be able to escape from.

  Lisa was different, of course. She knew the truth, understanding what was out there, even if she could not see it with her eyes. Hopefully
she would manage to keep from the horror show some ended up subjected to.

  With the pack around his waist and a light jacket to stave off most of the cold, Carver stepped out of the house, leaving Lisa to her own devices and Jessup to guard over her.

  He did not step away until he heard the locks click in place and the spells come into focus. Once done, he crossed the clearing to the shed.

  The return to Trading Circle was no easier than last time, the scintillating colors hard to pierce through but not blinding, and the pulling sensation as his body was rent from one spot in the world to another no less disconcerting for its familiarity.

  He stepped into the alleyway, the portal closing behind him once more, the stone of the wall becoming normal again.

  Before making his decision about what he was going to do, he thought about seeing Tania again. She would probably know more than she was letting on, having her fingers on the pulse of all the players who walked the streets of this place, but the last time went badly. Tania brooked no trouble in her shop, and he brought nothing but that to her.

  She might be forthcoming again, but he doubted it. The ire in her eyes as she kicked them out of the building and shooed them down the road was still embedded in his memory and he did not crave facing that again.

  For all her appearance as a kindly old woman, Tania was a force of nature all her own, and none messed with her twice.

  Instead of heading the way he had before, he turned the other direction, walking along the street with his hands in his pockets. He didn't wish to appear combative, despite there being more demons than there were before.

  It was disconcerting to see so many of them around, both in their natural states and possessions, each watching him as he walked past.

  Trading Circle might be neutral ground, a sacred space devoted to the balance, but right now there seemed to be much more of the dark side lining its shops than there ever had been before, and Carver was not sure how to take it.

  He kept his face passive, his steps nonchalant, but inside he was screaming. His teeth grinding together as the flutters of evil washed over him, casting their way into his being through every rheumy and gleaming eye of the place. He caught tendrils of their thoughts, their desires and needs, the sensations of flesh between their fangs or the subtle whispers into a human's ear as they drove a knife into a friend's heart. Memories, shadows of thought, riding the waves of energy into him as the darkness within his own body called out in response.

  Demons could not read minds, not really. They were cognizant of the emotions of their targets, though, sensing them like dogs sniffing the wind, catching a scent of the prey they desperately wanted to tear into. Carver was sure they were aware of his addictions, his craving of the heroin even as he stepped through the stinking streets here, passing by one shop after another, the dozens of individuals gathered in the restaurant down the path. All of these things, these entities of evil desires, were weapons, designed solely to take out the resistance of the human soul and render their inhibitions null.

  None approached him, but he wondered, as his feet took him toward the center of Trading Circle, if the golems were not there, if the people wielding power in this place were to step away, would the foul things come for him?

  Probably. Their detestation of him was as thick as the smoke rising from the small braziers that filled the whole of the place with a heady perfume.

  Trading Circle was like a giant bubble formed out of the rock of an anonymous mountain, cut straight in with no entrances or exits other than the portals people could make use of to get in. Where on earth it was, he was not aware. Maybe no one really did anymore. It had been around for so long, there was likely no living being, other than the eternals, themselves, who would remember its formation.

  The streets went in concentric circles, each a bastion of its own with golems guarding over them, making sure peace and security was kept at all times. Those beings were, perhaps, as old as the dome itself, and could have been created out of the very rock that Trading Circle was hewn from. They, too, had been around as long as anyone could fathom, as much a part of it as the magic keeping them alive.

  Maybe it was not even on earth. Malachi suspected it could be a place of no place, somewhere away from the world at large and hovering between heaven and hell.

  Carver's steps took him to the center of it all.

  There were no shops around The Flow. The air as he got closer thickened considerably, the smoke rising from the rest eventually making its way here, following the paths and the symbols that gradually began to emerge from the ground itself, ignited with a subtle glow of blue and white.

  He took care not to step on any of the patterns, unsure if anything would happen if he did. Others, too, seemed to avoid this space, perhaps subconsciously pushed away by the power coalesced into The Flow.

  Even the golems avoided this junction of paths, leaving Carver to walk the street alone, his hands in his jacket sweating with the thought of what he had come to do.

  He hated the idea. It was truly the last thing he wanted to do, but he saw little choice in the matter. He needed to find out what was going on, why the demons were being so prevalent now, and if he was really the cause of it all. What did it all mean?

  He stopped when he reached the apex, the confluence of markings on the ground gathering into a singular large circle that glowed with an eldritch light, small bits of what could be dust, fae lights, shone and sparked within, as the glow subtly swirled.

  The other paths leading here all came to a stop at the middle of the circle, their own marks vivid enough to need to squint to see clearly.

  Only one other occasion had Carver been to The Flow, a moment of desperation that he forced Malachi to join him in. His friend tried to warn him away from it, but Carver felt, as now, he had no choice in the matter.

  So few entered this spot, a testament to the power that it made the denizens of a place dedicated to the gathering of it too nervous to approach.

  When he came the first time, it was to reach into the circle and touch the aether, to caress its power and call out a particular word that desperately had to be spoken.

  He ached for Sasha, and The Flow could let him touch her, if it were only for a unique moment. Just a hint, the whisper of a caress, would be enough for him to know she was still there and real, and that his life was not merely a nightmare he could not awaken from.

  The Flow let him find her, the gentle scent of her skin tracing its way into his senses for a brief moment before flickering away again.

  He grieved for it weeks after, barely able to function.

  It was a rule that the dead should be left alone, to accept their eternity whether that be in the glory of the heavens or the torments of hell, and to reach out to them was to invite terrors beyond comprehension.

  Even touching one in heaven, for the barest of seconds, could drive one to insanity, leaving the seer bereft of reason until they, too, finally entered into their place of rest. The aether was not for mortals, and yet Carver felt he had no choice but to once again try to reach into it for answers.

  He had to, for the sake of not only himself but for Lisa as well. He needed to escape this feeling of being a pawn in the game of players he could not fathom, when that game could be decided by the decisions he had to make.

  He had already given his life to save Lisa. He would give everything else if it meant she would be free from all of this, too.

  Carver's breath chuffed out rapidly as he stepped near the bubble, the containment of chaotic energies beyond the rim of the circle so great they urged the hairs on the skin of his arms to raise as he neared. He kept his eyes planted in the center of it, the whirling swirling mass held at bay by the light, wild as storm clouds in a hurricane.

  He hoisted his palms toward it, the electrical tingle playing across his body focused on his fingers the most and winced at the feeling. Ozone and smoke mixed in his nostrils as he dragged one more step and his hands entered into The Flow compl
etely.

  He twitched furiously as pain rendered him asunder, his mind breaking from his body and pulled to the energy, siphoned from his form into that of the aether.

  He was blinded, taken up with the cascading energy as nothing but light and sparks entered his vision. It was only a few seconds, though, and they cleared away until he could see the same smoke clouds swirling around him. The feeling of being in an elevator was powerful, his consciousness uplifting so fast he wanted to reach out to hold on to something, but had no hands with which to grasp.

  The whirlwind in his ears slowed until there were only echoes, and each one of them carried voices with it. At first they were solo and indistinct, but a few moments later they became a chorus, each calling out his name.

  Hundreds, thousands of voices crashing into him as the clouds swirled away, becoming images of people he could not recognize. These, too, lasted only a flash, the colors of the rainbow cascading through him.