by Ira Robinson
There was nothing.
His gaze lit on the thin alleyway across the pavement, darkened to a pitch the street lights could not cut through.
There.
He jumped from the cab, swinging the door closed before Jessup could join him. The dog yelped, in indignation, perhaps, or anger he was being blocked from lending himself to the service of finding Lisa, but Carver didn't think about it. His eyes were focused too completely on the blackness ahead.
No. It wasn't quite the edge he thought it was, though the absence of light did lend an ebony taint to the whole place.
Some filtered in from the street and the moon above, its circle cracked by the edges of the buildings surrounding the alley. Cans and bits of paper, gum-stained cement and the detritus of the lack of hygiene filled the alleyway, its three dumpsters large and blocking most of the path. A car would not be able to fit, let alone a garbage truck, the contents of the things overspilling everywhere his eyes could see.
And there, in the back of the alley, the small man lay on the ground, his torso turned on its side and trembling in the chill damp air.
A few tattered excuses for blankets covered him, clinging to the hope they would give a shred of warmth, but they did little good; the wind here was, at the least, cut off and affording some means of shelter.
He was not Carver's target, however bad off he might be. Instead, the slim, barb-coated, scaly creature bent down and whispering into the man's ear was, its long claws dug partially into the pitiful excuse for a human being beneath it.
Carver bared his fangs, his body piercing through the darkness of the alley, the burning in his fingers driving them apart as the scar embedded into his palm flared to life. Ivory light tinged with pink swept through the narrow space, igniting the brick and mortar of the buildings, little more than scabs on the skin of the city.
A wail erupted from his throat as Jessup howled behind him, and the demon whirled his head around to see what was happening. He was on the thing before it could react, pounding his palm into its face.
His spirit called for it, begged for him to release everything he had into the punch but he held it back, gritting the teeth in his jaws so tight they ached. Don't destroy it. Don't kill it. Got to leave it alive.
The sight of it tumbling backward off of the man, though, was deeply satisfying. He lunged forward before the creature could recover its bearings.
He grabbed its throat with the hand emitting light, the sizzling of his power cutting through some of the scales beneath his own. It screamed, high pitched and wailing, as it tried to scrabble out of his grasp and make its escape. He held it tighter, forcing more of the holy light to seep from himself into the thing, and its keening increased as the burning skin and wafts of smoke were carried by the breeze.
A shuffling behind him made him turn for a brief moment, enough to see the homeless old man beginning to stir. Carver lifted the demon into the air and bashed it into the ground, ignoring the sounds of skittering as the man ran for his life from the sight of the battle.
Jessup howled again, his loud voice lancing through the thin alley as Carver got on top of the creature's body and pushed again with the hand flaring light.
He huffed, the stench of the demon muddying his breathing as it exuded smoke, the rancidness of the alley, piss and garbage left for months, combined to make his head daze, but he held tight regardless.
"Where's my daughter?" he hissed through clenched teeth, pushing again into the soul's throat.
It heaved and bucked, trying to throw him off, but whether from the sheer weight Carver had on it or the draining of its energy by his power, it could not get him off. He adjusted himself and pushed harder, the eyes of the thing wide open and searching with hatred.
"Dead!" it managed to gasp as Carver moved. It strained its hands at him, digging its claws into his muscle, but in spite of the pain, Carver did not let it go.
The word it spewed spurred him more. "Where is she?"
"Dead!" it howled again, its voice billowing over his face with the stench of a thousand rotting corpses, flesh split and gangrenous ooze spewing from its teeth. "She's dead, hallow!"
"You lie!" Carver screamed, his vigor flaring brighter as his stomach roiled.
The scaly skin broke away, pieces of it falling to the cement beside it as it flailed, umber goo spilling forth as its insides began to unravel with the exorcistic power of Carver's magic. "Where is she?"
"Never!" it managed to gasp. White glow seeped from its throat, filing the darkened maw behind the razor-sharp fangs. It slashed again with its claws, the skin on Carver's arm breaking open more, and his own blood joined the ocher mess surrounding the creature as it lay on the hard, grimy cement. "I tell you, I die," it hissed.
"Tell me," Carver leaned in close to its teeth, his eyes boring into those of a malevolence any other human would run in terror from. "Tell me, or you will end, right now."
The thing coughed, once, twice, sulfuric smoke rising from its cavity and nose as its insides burned with the holy eminence. "Die, hallow," it muttered between gasps. "Die and be damned."
It closed its lips, blocking some of the smoke wafting from it, and then opened it once more to spit in Carver's face, the gobbet of black and green goop smashing into his cheek. It singed him as it dripped down, the acrid odor and acidic heat of it cutting through the first layers of his skin in an instant.
He wiped it away with his other hand while he screamed, letting loose the power that desperately wanted to claw its way out of him.
White fire leaped from his grip into the creature, and its screams were louder than those coming from his throat as the magic rampaged through and lit it from within.
Its skin unfolded, the foul materials held inside its guts drawn to the surface as its flesh began to disappear, unraveling from existence with the fury of his holy magic.
Carver jumped up, his palm still outstretched toward the thing as it squealed, every atom destroyed one by one before his eyes as he tried once more to hold it back, to stop it from happening, but his rage overpowered his logic and more power flowed from him.
His hand shook as his mind fought his body, trying to close his palm to the flow, but his fingers splayed wider as the creature before him parted, its agonized and horrible cry shaking it until, with a final gasp, the whole of it stopped and sank into ash.
Carver closed his grip as the remains of the demon scattered away in the soft breeze whistling its way through the alley, his breath caught in his pulse.
What had he done?
In his rage, his stupid violence, he had lost a chance to find Lisa. Now what was he to do?
Carver got up, quaking as the rage calmed, and he turned to look at his truck on the other side of the road.
Jessup's eyes watched his every move, shining in the street lights. Carver wondered if there was judgment there at the foolishness of the human he was stuck with.
Chapter 18
"Wait here," Carver intoned, pointing his finger at the passenger seat. "I'll be right back."
Jessup didn't nod, but laid his head on the console, his breath huffing out of his nose as he watched the human shut the truck door and walk to the residence.
Dawn was coming, and with it a haze of fog that could hang for hours after the sun rose; the thick soup, perhaps, was a harbinger of the storm well on its way.
Though they had been gone for a while, the house had not been disturbed. The gaping hole that once was his window looked like it was laughing at him as he opened the front door and stepped in. The glinting of the dew in the soft gray light as the first bits of sun tried to hurl themselves through the goop that was the air stick to his shoes and dampened the legs of his pants, as freely as the carpet as he moved a few feet inside. He ducked for a moment and picked up the shotgun, then dug into the box for more shells.
He grabbed a mix of the bullets he made with Lisa, the herbal and mineral combination he learned would be effective if used against something of supernatura
l origin, as well as ones useful against more mundane targets.
He didn't know what he would need, so he tossed as many as he could into his jacket pockets and hefted the weight of the gun to his shoulder as he closed the door again.
The shotgun clattered noisily into the bed of the pickup and he threw a bit of tarp over it to hide it should anyone try to take a quick glance.
Good enough.
He swung himself into the cab and put the truck in drive, heading back to the road once more.
He didn't want to do this. This was a bad idea, one born of desperation, and he didn't like the thought at all.
No choice in the matter, though. He could keep going through demon after demon for the rest of his life and still find no answers or clue of where his daughter was, and that was unacceptable. None would be forthcoming, even with the threat of death. If there were someone bigger than them involved in all of this, they would do nothing to risk their ire.
Jessup was silent company as the miles chewed away beneath his tires, the roadway clear but for a few passing cars to parts unknown. The gloom that had veiled the countryside contributed, perhaps, to the lack of traffic, as did the weekend morning he realized it had become.
The fog, as he thought, did not clear, despite the burning of the sun above, the clouds obscuring a lot of its effect as the haze deepened even more, pooling thicker when the truck rose and fell among the hills.
Two hours later, a turn off the highway led him to a long lane with large houses, each barely eking out of the foggy mire the chill air brought.
He turned the headlights off, the bright light blinking out and letting the gray gooey mist before him seep back into place as he rounded two curves and pulled the truck to a stop.
The entrance to the drive was there, peeking through the fog, but the house he remembered lay too far beyond the spot he parked to allow him to see, veiled completely in the bank.
He switched the ignition off, the engine vibrating as it kicked itself down, and unrolled both windows. Jessup shifted in the seat, sitting up as he sniffed the air.
Carver rubbed his arms, the claw marks on his skin aching more than he would like, but the gashes were already well on their way to being healed and should not interfere. It was distraction he didn't need, though, and if he could, he would have waited for this another day, at least.
There was no choice. Not while Lisa was gone.
He signaled to Jessup to be quiet, the dog slowing his breath in obedience, while he moved his head to stick it out of the window, snuffling. He gave no hint he smelled anything strange, which afforded Carver a bit of comfort. Maybe they had not been noticed.
He perked his ears, listening, but the wind carried only the rustling of the towering grasses around the fence before him, the rows of wood spiking through the fog barely visible; they were nearly the same color as the cloud, itself.
No footsteps, no cries of alarm at the truck parked on the street, no indication anyone was there at all.
Good. That was something, at least.
Carver pulled the handle, widening the door as quietly as he could before shifting himself out of the seat, his shoes crunching into the gravel of the unkempt lane. Pock marks of small holes and old stones lined the road everywhere, but was put down so long ago that most were embedded into the dirt they once tried to cover.
He waved to Jessup, and waited for the dog to slide out of the pickup to the ground, as well. He shook himself, the gauze on his side sliding loose a bit as he did. Carver didn't try to strap it back on, though. They had to move.
He pulled the shotgun from the bed, wincing as he accidentally scraped it across the metal, but it had, perhaps, been quiet enough for no one to notice.
"Come on, boy," he whispered and crept around the truck to the lane.
They used the dirt only to pass the fence, slipping into the grass and ducking low as they walked through the heavy fog toward the house Carver could not yet see, but knew from the past was there.
Malachi brought him here, once, two years ago, passing it by and pointing it out only long enough for him to get a clue where it was. It stuck with him, though, because of what Malachi said about the people who lived there.
These were worshipers, humans in a type of cult that dedicated themselves to the demonic, and spent their lives by rules no one else would understand. It was a sanctuary to those who would be ostracized, shut away, perhaps, for being so far from the normal they would be treated as insane.
Malachi told him there were enclaves like this everywhere, hidden in spaces sometimes so plain of view it would shock those who would want to have no business with them. They could be anyone, according to his friend.
Teachers, businessmen otherwise of high standing in the community, politicians, even pastors and priests. They lived two sides of life; the masks they wore and the darkness they harbored.
Small patches of light, pinkish-white and hooded, began to emerge from the fog. Carver and Jessup slowed their steps, the grass clinging to them and dampening them with a chill.
Carver hesitated, watching the square shape of the lights, waiting for a long moment for any clue it would change.
But they remained steady, the outpouring of the lamps inside the house unbroken by the passing of anyone moving.
They approached closer, ducking lower to the ground and listening to the wind, the edges of the house coming out of the murk as shadows more than anything, the gray ooze slowly gaining illumination as the sun rose higher.
A large, extended porch lined the whole of the front of the building, an old house that was once, perhaps, that of a farmer's family. Even with the fog making it hard to see, he could tell it had been left to fall into disrepair. Peeling paint, once white and glossy, was now shredding to pieces with the passage of years and the grass he crept through was unkempt and wild, getting worse the closer to the place he came.
Jessup seemed to thrive, unaffected as much as his human master. His eyes glinted in the diffused light, his fur matted with water so heavy he glistened. Carver, on the other hand, breathed heavily as the strain of ducking and carrying the shotgun uncomfortably in his arms the way he had to forced an ache into his spine he wanted nothing more than to stretch up and away from.
Still at least thirty yards to go; he stayed as low as he could to the ground. He sucked air through his nose, keeping the intakes slow and steady as he pushed one clump of grass after another aside.
"Damn it!" he hissed as Jessup broke into a run, growling and snarling as he crossed the distance between himself and the house within seconds, his body shifting as his form mangled the grass and brambles into his dire shape, the transformation taking place between one stride and the next.
Carver stood to give chase but saw the movement of a human form at the house. He had no time to react before Jessup pounced, his jaws locking onto the throat of the guy who was sidling along the outside of the building, a long rifle strapped to his shoulder and back.
A loud crack and crunch followed by a deep gurgle as the man choked on his own blood carried across the distance to Carver's sensitive ears and he gasped.
Jessup took him to the ground, biting once more as the body thrashed uncontrollably, the spasms of his death jerking the dire wolf form as the animal hung on tight, keeping him from making noise.
Carver had been paying so much attention to the door and the surrounding lights from the windows, he had missed the approach of the guard. His eyes wide, he whirled, looking for any other signs of movement, but there were none, nor did anyone seem to notice inside of the house.
Lucky. If Jessup had not been with him...
He crawled the rest of the way as Jessup bounced back to him, the paws padding silently on the soil; only a slight hiss of the grass sliding along his fur accompanied his movements, a soft pant escaping his blood-coated lips.
Carver said nothing, but shook his head in amazement at how fast Jessup was in his dire form, grateful to have him on his side.
; He hesitated at the edge of the grass, five feet of dirt between himself and the stairs of the porch. He was covered, for the most part, but would be spotted, he was sure, if anyone happened to be looking out the window when he moved.
Now or never. The slight coppery odor of the blood seeping out of the corpse nearby, his sweat pouring off of his body and the wet dog beside him overpowered his sense of smell, even damping the grass he was surrounded by. Calls of birds in the distance, muted, as well, by the fog, perhaps, joined with a low cadent vibration coming from the house.
He leaped up and ran for the door, his feet carrying him across the dirt in only a few motions before stomping up the wood steps onto the dilapidated porch and slamming, shoulder-first, into the front door.