Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  Carver had power of his own, yes, but he was only a small and desperate human being heading to a place to come face to face with something as ancient as the world itself and malevolent in ways no one could fathom.

  His stomach lurched at the thought of what Lisa would be going through in his possession, the things she must be seeing and exposed to. If he got her out of this, brought them both from it freely, neither of them would be clean. Of that he was sure.

  He touched his heart, willing it to slow down, but it did not want to listen, keeping pace with the spinning of the tires just as much as his mind.

  None of this situation was right. Why was Biel sending him into something he probably would not make it out of?

  But if Lisa were there, if he wasn't being sent to the warehouse on a lie, to face down a dragon of deep despair and evil, he would get her free or die trying, and God be damned if He allowed him to fade before he had a chance to set her loose.

  Even as he thought it, he regretted it, gritting his teeth as the darkness poured through him. If Biel was to be believed, he might just need the help of heaven to bring his little girl out of the mess he had gotten her into.

  The old guilt niggled at him, but he tossed it aside. Time enough for that later, if there was to be any left for him. He could not afford it, the energy it took away from him so needed right now for other things.

  Malachi's message in flames and blood swept through him as he neared the town the warehouse was in, the final act of a man who might have foreseen his death coming. Had Malachi been given a glimpse into Carver's own future and tried to warn him? What did Biel have to do with this guardian angel of guardian angels? What was the connection between the two he was missing?

  Biel had been so confident in Carver, the way he just assumed Carver would be able to do something about the prince that stood in his path of the rulership of hell. Why would Biel want such a thing, to begin with?

  Carver was nothing more than a servant and despised it, wishing he could get out of the hands of the demon in some measure, but he was stuck with it, pressed into service against his better will, all for the sake of his daughter.

  And yet that same action had caused the chain of events she was mired within, taken captive by something nearly as terrible as the cancer that had ravaged her for so long.

  What had he done?

  But he was in it now, fully committed. Lisa's only hope was a father who failed her so many times before. He would not do it again.

  Too much rode on his strength, his ability to hold on like a ship tied to moorings threatened by a hurricane. How much more would he have to take on before his ropes broke and he was cast adrift, reaching out for a child he adored beyond anything else in life?

  The springs in the seat squeaked quietly as he shifted in the chair, gripping the wheel tighter as he breathed through the nervousness. Jessup stirred a bit but fell back into his sleep within seconds.

  Carver glanced ruefully at the dog, envious of his rest. He shook his head, trying to toss away the cobwebs his brain became fogged by. A deep intake of air and a heaving sigh cleaned them.

  The cloak draping his body clung in places he was not used to, but Carver was glad for it. Abandoning his thin jacket had been a good idea, replacing it with the heavy cloak Malachi had in his closet was a better one.

  Malachi was always so proud of the thing, even if it hugged the large man too tightly. Carver's smaller frame had no problem with it, though, and it drifted behind him as he walked to the truck like a cape, an old style which reminded Carver of something out of England in the 1800s. Black fabric dense enough to turn a small blade if held right, and more pockets than Carver knew what to do with.

  He had them filled with things he grabbed from Malachi's study. He didn't recognize most of them and had no idea what they could do, but desperation called for measures he would not usually take. Playing around with magical artifacts and objects older than life itself might lead one into dangerous territory, but Carver had little choice at this point.

  Maybe something among the items would give him an edge he would be able to use to help, even briefly.

  If he had to, he would throw everything and the kitchen sink at Azazel and whatever minions he had surrounded himself if it meant his daughter would be broken free.

  Carver glanced at the GPS before returning his stare at the road ahead. Twenty miles to go. Twenty short miles to get his mind straight and his focus clear before he encountered something he never, in his worst nightmares, thought he would have to come to.

  The glow of the sun faded into full darkness, the lights of the cars passing by on the other side of the highway, bright and glittering, as he bit his lip and tried to slow the beating of his heart.

  Jessup let out a snort in his sleep, one leg kicking softly as he dreamed.

  Concentrate. Focus. Draw on training.

  Carver's mind circled as the rest of the drive lay ahead.

  Chapter 27

  The warehouse waited a football field away, the streets around it lit with the light on lamps that were as old as the city, itself, covered with so much soot and grease from the industrial area they tried to illuminate were almost useless.

  The orange-yellow cast of the sodium lights was enough to show the face of the place Carver had showed up to find his daughter in, the shadows deep and murky, broken up by small bits of light thrown through windows considerably grimed.

  It was huge, taking up nearly the whole of the block, its brick, and metal containing who knew how many rooms, once, perhaps, a storehouse that was one of the centerpieces of the town as it grew.

  Now it was in a state of disrepair so thick it could crack apart, the entirety of it falling away into dust and jutting metal if the right breeze were to happen along.

  While Carver could not feel Lisa's presence nearby, the trill in his stomach told him demons were there. How many he could not be sure, but his eyes were wide, the whites glistening in the sodium lights.

  Jessup crept in silence next to him as he moved to a bush, ducking behind it with his cloak dragging the ground slightly, warily watching for any signs they had been spotted.

  Carver's eyes slipped closed, just for a moment, sufficient to switch to the hex-sight. The headache started in immediately, and he winced as the arcing lights above came into sharp focus, contrasting everything in strange ways. Their glow extended, filling up his sight and warping it all that became difficult to acclimate to, but with the vision he discerned more of the movements of objects and traced each one.

  Garbage, most of it dregs, swirling in the industrial swath, discards of the throwaway society come here to rest. The soft wind carried particles with it, traces of tiny motes that spun and shot like infinitesimal, wicked bullets.

  No demons paced the area, no guards that he could make out at all. Strange, he expected there to be much more activity.

  He switched the sight off, heaving a sigh of relief as it faded away, clenching two fingers against his temple as he thought.

  How to approach? There were no apparent guardians around the place, but there could be things lurking in the deep shadows he would not have been capable to see, even with the extra sight. They weren't overtly aware of his presence, the latent effect of being the Hallow blocked him from them sensing him directly. But if he started moving, came closer to the lumbering hulk of a building that was the warehouse, they might spot him.

  The presence he felt as the pull inside of him was strong, so robust it was nearly overwhelming, but if a creature like Azazel were at the center of it all, it would go far to justify the lack of others being there.

  Someone as dominant as he would have little use for the sycophants that floated near the leaders, the strange remora-like way they gathered around the powerful ones an inherent part of them. But Azazel might have different ideas. With his high power, he could only have his closest lieutenants as an entourage, discouraging anything else.

  It would also explain the heavy pull, the run
nel in his guts that was hard to ignore. Azazel might be like a hundred in one.

  It was a good thing he was there at night; the darkness would add some cover from the entities that did happen to be on guard. As mistrustful as the Prince might be, Carver was still sure there would be at least a few he would need to watch out for.

  Don't get overconfident, he reminded himself.

  The hours he spent training in stealth, in the ways of moving from shadow to shadow without a sound, taking a breath and holding it while sprinting, breathing slowly to keep any cramping down, all of it would help. His muscles strained to start, the coil of his legs set to run.

  Where would Lisa be inside of this place? Would the Prince have her near himself, or would she be kept elsewhere? Biel hadn't shown him, and he had nothing else to go on but his guts.

  Azazel would probably have her close. She was his card against Carver and must have an idea he was coming for her. Carver was sure the monster had enough experience with humans to know how they would react to the kidnapping of their child, that they would come straight for them if they knew where to look.

  The demon prince was not stupid. His cunning was the stuff of legends.

  As was his evil.

  Carver checked off two openings along the sides of the building he could perceive. One entry was a double-set of metal doors, illuminated by a single bulb in what resembled a wrought-iron case. The other had no lamps directly shining on it, but the street light on the other side of the road did shed some radiance that way.

  The scabbard on his leg was beginning to cut off the circulation, the numbness in his right calf tingling. He rubbed at it distractedly while searching the three-story structure for any indications something was there. Another pair of minutes passed before Carver steeled himself to move.

  He ran his hands over his body, the pack on his waist secured and the case in place with the magic blade at the ready. His cloak was open and large enough it would not interfere with his movements when he started going, and the Velcro grasping the pockets inside of it closed would hold the items he grabbed in check.

  Now or never.

  He shifted a bit, letting the circulation go back into his right leg entirely as he bounced a couple of times to prepare himself to bolt.

  "Let's go," he whispered to Jessup, the dog sticking to his small form. Carver was grateful Jessup was as smart as he was; he seemed to know this was not the occasion for a full-bore attack.

  Carver's soles slapped against the concrete as he crossed the street, the padding of Jessup's feet behind him marred only by the scratching of a claw every few steps as the dog paced with him.

  He did not pace full strength, but they moved to the less-lighted side of the structure, the single door another hundred feet away by the time he pressed himself into the face of the frame and let go his breath. He panted a little as he spun his head back and forth, making sure no one was coming.

  Jessup's tongue lapped at the air but he gave no indication he was worn from the run, his body healed from his last encounters.

  No cries of alarm joined his breathing, no claws cracking the ground or howls of fury from the demons he knew were nearby. They were safe for the moment but horribly exposed.

  Two windows waited between the door and themselves, large industrial sized ones that seemed to be coated in more grime and muck than the warehouse itself, and he scooted along the wall until he reached the first.

  His head lifted up, and he spun himself enough to peer through one corner of the window, trying to catch a glimpse of what waited inside.

  It was a darkened room, barely illuminated by the light from outside, but he caught the edges of the walls and the shelves within, and no sign of movement.

  He pulled away from the window and cast a glance toward Jessup.

  If they could use it to slip in, things might go a little easier. Even though he could not see any demons around, that didn't mean there would not be one or two waiting on the other side of the door he originally planned on assaulting. Any cry of alarm now would be a disaster, bringing down the fury of hell when he wasn't ready for it and in a bad position.

  If they could manage to get into the room, it would, at least, be more defensible than being caught outside.

  He peeked again, staying at the window a moment longer to make sure missed nothing before he tried to pry it open.

  It ended up being far more straightforward than he expected.

  The window flipped outward, not locked in place. It was an old style, fitting the building well, extending quite a ways away from the sill and thankfully made only a little noise as it moved. He didn't think it would be sufficient to notice.

  "C'mon, boy," he muttered quietly, reaching his arms around Jessup's belly and heaving him up.

  Jessup's eyes widened, and his mouth closed as a soft grunt emitted from both of them, but he managed to lift the dog, the animal's legs kicking frenetically, to bring his front paws over the edge of the window sill. Jessup scrabbled against it, pulling himself inward as Carver shifted his hands and began to push.

  A few seconds of terror passed as Carver's stomach clenched with the noise. Jessup flopped through the entry, a crazy reverse-birth. His nails scrabbled for purchase as he landed on the other side. At least he didn't yelp as he went down.

  If he had been in dire mode, there would have been no way Carver could have lifted him up like that without straining his resources to the brink, let alone the animal fitting through the window at all.

  Jessup's nose popped through the opening, a snuffle and a few pants in Carver's face before turning away again into the room. Carver heard shuffling and sniffing, claws against a metal floor passing through the sill.

  Carver braced himself as he grabbed the ridge between his hands and pried himself up.

  Jessup was on the far side of the dark chamber by the time he managed to eke himself across the opening and crashed into the floor. He winced, a jarring in his shoulder sparking a bit of pain, but by the second he roused himself to his feet, it had become unnoticeable.

  He checked himself over, making sure nothing took the opportunity to drop out of his pockets, and that his waist pack and sword were still in place. No movement outside, either.

  The window came closed with a soft snick, and he backed from it, taking in the room.

  Storage shelves sat sentry along the walls, perhaps utilized as part of the warehouse in times past. Now they held dust and ancient bits of paper packaging that had gone unrecognizable from neglect. The floor, too, contained a layer that he could discern their movements in, the long furrow of grime where Jessup had landed and scrabbled away, the bigger one from himself, revealing the old metal the flooring was comprised of. Without a flashlight, there was enough light coming in from outside he could tell the store had not been used for at least ten years, maybe more.

  Not by humans, anyhow.

  A single door led from the compartment, closed. Other than Jessup's footfalls nearby as he sniffed the area there were no markings of it having been opened since the place was vacated.

  A small bit of light, yellowish and dusky, filtered from the crack beneath the entrance, sliding its way into the room with soft tendrils in the dust propelled up.

  Carver padded to the door, putting his ear against it and listening with his breath held. Jessup, too, fell into silence, his sniffing abandoned as he kept himself still.

  Nothing. No trace of sound resonated the wood, though he closed his eyes and listened as hard as he could.

  They may have escaped notice, after all.

  He whispered a silent prayer, not knowing if God would be bothering to listen to this tiny human caught amid so much hardship, but the act helped steady his nerves.

  His left hand halted on the knob while he flexed his right, the scars along his palm itching in anticipation of what was to come.

  He jerked the door open, a soft squeal of the hinges on its sides protesting the movement, and lifted his right hand, ready to fire a fl
ame of fury at anything daring to stand there.

  His palm closed and he lowered his arm, the short corridor beyond the storeroom empty.

  Jessup padded into the hall, sniffing hard and growling low, his body tensed.

  Carver glanced around, the sides covered in posters that had surrendered their color and gloss to the dirt coating them, the dingy walls dimly reflecting the fluorescent bulbs lining the ceiling at regular intervals.

  A drinking fountain tried to gleam proudly in the light halfway down the gallery, but it was so disused it had lost all but a tiny bit of its shine to decay.

  On one side of the hallway, a closed door waited, a huge window in the center revealing darkness in the space beyond. Carver assumed that would lead to the entryway he spotted and initially thought of using. At the other end, another stood open, a large area dimly lit by more bar bulbs.