For reasons I still didn’t understand—and that still irked me—he’d warned me not to risk texting or saying anything personal, even on the burner phone he’d given me, for fear it could be intercepted. Of course I’d asked, “By who?” He’d said it was safer for me that I didn’t know. So, I didn’t mention the symbol being on Ray Anne and me.
I strummed my guitar a little while, my go-to diversion when I needed to chill out, then lay down and stared at the tacky speckled ceiling, rehearsing the assignments of the four overlords—Slumber, Addiction, Despair, and Strife. And I speculated about the assignments of the remaining three, contemplating dysfunctions common across America. I also replayed the bats’ instructions—Molek’s malicious plot . . .
“We’ve marked all thirteen. Every one of them must die.”
“Kill them at once!”
I tried to piece together who the thirteen might be, and also why the kingdom of darkness wanted them dead so badly and so quickly. And I imagined ways the Rulers might go about it.
Another school shooting by a demon-possessed gunman?
My stomach churned. I hoped not.
“Lord . . .” I worked to keep it a humble request instead of an impatient complaint. “Help me understand.”
It took a minute, but I paused breathing in the middle of an exhale when a connection registered: Gentry had a paranormal mark on his neck. Was that it? Was he one of the thirteen people on Molek’s hit list, marked to die? Yeah, I had a new supernatural mark too, but mine was born of Light. Not at all like Gentry’s jagged black streak.
Thinking to the monotone soundtrack of the spinning box fan in the corner of my room, I tried to come up with another explanation for the mark on Gentry, but I only became more convinced he had to be a target. I still had no clue why, though.
I shoved my pillow over my head, like I could actually smother the disturbing mental image of Gentry’s black line, as if his throat was scheduled to be slit. I remembered the way he used to be, when he was younger. He’d looked up to me and trusted me enough to tell me what Lance never dared: that behind closed doors, his stepdad drank all the time and was brutal toward all three boys in the house. And his mom did nothing about it.
Of all people, I could relate to having an alcoholic parent. Also one who refused to confront reality.
Right now, I needed a break from harsh realities. I flipped on the 1990s television set and tried to get interested in some lame Western, but I was still plagued by intruding cosmic feelings of strife-filled hostility. I decided to mute the TV and focus on God, desperate to know what he wanted from me, especially concerning Gentry. So I asked him out loud. Then I lay there, honestly not expecting any response. Yet an internal whisper came. More like an inner knowing.
FIGHT FOR HIM.
It was so subtle, I could have dismissed it as a coincidence—my mind merely recalling the old man’s advice that I help people. But I knew better. Although I didn’t hear it often, I was starting to recognize that inner voice. All peace. Zero hostility.
“How, Lord?”
I waited and waited but heard nothing but the box fan. I sat up and clutched a pillow against my chest. This wasn’t the first time I’d felt the overwhelming responsibility to save someone’s life, to protect a person from diabolical forces that he—or she—never suspected existed. But when it came to rescuing lives, I’d lost more times than I’d won—an undeniable fact I couldn’t escape, even after I unmuted the TV.
God, help me.
I wondered what other forms of witchcraft Eva (aka, Veronica) had introduced Gentry to and how they related to his mark for assassination. There are no coincidences in spirit-realm operations on either side of the kingdom equation, light or dark.
It was late, so instead of calling Ray Anne, I texted her, explaining what I believed about Gentry’s mark.
I got out of bed and was brushing my teeth, hoping I’d be able to fall asleep soon, when there was the loud sound of glass shattering somewhere beyond my room. I slammed my hand down on the faucet and turned the water off, standing at attention. Then came another noise . . .
A baby crying?
Daisy’s nails tapped the dilapidated wood floor as she paced in front of the locked door of my room, her gaze fixed toward the hallway on the other side, ears raised like she heard the crying infant too. Or some intruder.
I grabbed my flashlight and my Louisville Slugger, then stood poised by my door. It occurred to me to call 911. The problem was, I didn’t know which realm the crashing sound or whimpering had come from. A squalling baby made no sense in either dimension.
I clung tightly to my trusty baseball bat and opened the door ever-so-softly, flipping on the hall light before beginning my cautious descent down the hallway. I made it to what was becoming my familiar stakeout—the second-story choir loft. I leaned forward against the waist-high balcony and shined my flashlight down, scanning the sanctuary. None of the stained-glass windows were broken, but the infant’s cries were so loud now, I was convinced someone had abandoned a baby in one of the pews.
I charged down the stairwell and flipped light switches on the panel at the back of the sanctuary, illuminating the whole sanctuary and stage. It was clear the cries were coming from my left. I hurried over there, my heart racing, convinced that any second now, I’d find a newborn. The distinct sound led me down the aisle of the second-to-last pew, where I stood looking down at the precise spot where, based on everything my ears were telling me, a baby should have been.
But there was nothing there.
I lowered to one knee and searched the floor. Just gray tiles.
Surely this blindness had nothing to do with me lacking compassion.
I rose to my feet and scanned the surrounding pews but was quickly drawn back to the original spot—the unmistakable source of the crying. It was so real, I reached down, as if I could touch the child. But my hand only brushed the tan pew cushion.
I felt the uneasy sense all over again that someone was looking at me, spying on me from behind my back. I spun around and eyed the center aisle near the stage—the exact location where I’d sworn an invisible stalker had loomed the night before.
I was already questioning my sanity when the freakiness escalated to a whole new level. As if some sort of frequency was vibrating against my chest, I could physically feel the presence across the sanctuary now—so tangible I knew it was moving up the aisle, headed in my direction.
I wanted to sprint out of there and speed away on my motorcycle, confident my dog could fend for herself for the night. But no. That’s not how faith responds.
“God hasn’t given me a spirit of fear but of power and love and a sound mind.”
It didn’t take long before I felt the unseen threat looming at the end of my row, undeterred by my use of Scripture. I stood facing it, sideways between two pews, the mystery baby still crying hard. When I sensed the presence advancing, coming directly toward me, I gripped the back of the bench on my left and balled my right hand into a fist.
Lord, help me!
I stood my ground with every shred of courage I had. Every ounce of bravery God provided.
For a single, agonizing second, I felt something horrific pass by me—more like through me. It was like my old stalker, that Creeper named Murder, was back, invading unseen and breaching my aura.
Believe it or not, the situation actually got worse. From the sound of things, the invisible baby fell off the pew onto the cold tile, then its cries moved away from me along the floor until they grew faint—seemingly outside the building, fading into the night.
I didn’t move for a while. Just stood there wondering if, God forbid, I was losing my spiritual senses, then second-guessing what I had or hadn’t just experienced. I wished this was just another vivid nightmare.
Needless to say, I didn’t sleep well. At 8:00 a.m., Ray Anne called, out of breath and begging me to come over. It wasn’t until I turned onto her street that I spotted a black Suburban in my rearview mirro
r. I pulled over in front of a random house, unwilling to lead them to Ray Anne’s. The vehicle, with its dark-tinted windows, passed me and kept driving, but I still found it suspicious.
The SUV didn’t circle back, so I went ahead to my girlfriend’s.
Mrs. Greiner had taken Jackson for a walk in his stroller, so Ray Anne and I sat alone in her garage apartment, side by side on her futon. It was awesome to have her all to myself, but she was anxious and fidgety. I put my arm around her shoulders, but she stayed tense.
“Something happened this morning,” she said, “while Jackson was sleeping.”
“Okay?”
She pulled her knees into her chest and rocked back and forth. “I was watching a YouTube video—some man talking about spiritual symbols—and I felt a blast of cold air, then saw something out of the corner of my eye. I looked up, and just like the other day, a hooded Creeper was hovering over Jackson’s crib, peering down at him. Its back was to me, but I could tell this time, it wasn’t built like a normal Creeper. And there was no odor.
“I commanded it to go, and it groaned—not in pain, but like it was really furious—and balled its fists, but get this: the hands looked normal, like a human’s. Then it turned and glared at me. I got a clear view of its face before it vanished, and Owen, I’m telling you . . .”
She was trembling now. I pulled her close, into my side. “Go ahead.”
“It was Veronica.”
SEVEN
“RAY, YOU KNOW CREEPERS CAN APPEAR AS PEOPLE.”
“I understand, but the way she stared me down—it looked just like her.”
“Trust me, I know.” I still carried humiliation over having fallen for Molek’s manipulation—his cruel disguise as my father, the one man I’d been desperate to meet my whole life. Then there were the spirits that looked like Walt and Marshall, and Lucas too, all exact replicas of departed people, sent to torment and trick me. The charade finally ended the night I beheld each of them in their true form: Creepers, not human spirits. No shred of humanity at all.
I’d never be so gullible again.
“Ray, we have to focus on resisting the Rulers and purging my land of evil—there’s no time to waste. This is just a distraction to scare you and derail your focus.” Maybe the same was true for last night’s crying baby ordeal, but I was still too confused by it to even bring it up.
She stood and faced me, her arms crossed. “I get what you’re saying, and I know Veronica’s in jail, but still, I’d feel better if I had concrete proof.”
I stood and pulled her to me. “You mean more proof than the fact that she’s behind bars three hours away at the Hilltop Correctional Unit? Ray Anne, she wasn’t here. It’s physically impossible.”
She looked away and twisted a strand of her beautiful long hair. “I know you’re right. I mean, of course there’s no way. But . . .”
She paced the room, still talking about it. I meant to listen, but my gaze drifted to her legs. Off topic as it was, they looked really good in her denim shorts. She’d lost muscle tone after being injured, but her thighs and calves were built back up now, as attractive as they’d been in high school.
“Owen, my gut tells me Veronica’s up to something, even though she’s in jail.”
Gut feelings. The new normal in my faith-based world—a total antithesis to how I’d lived my life as an atheist. It had its risks and its rewards.
“Ray, take it from me—gut feelings can be way off.” I gazed into her captivating blue eyes. “Jackson is completely safe from Veronica. It was an imposter Creeper, but you ran it off. Mission accomplished. Now, don’t go taking matters into your own hands. You do not want to go see Veronica in jail.”
I was sure that was exactly what Ray Anne wanted to do, and I had to talk her out of it. According to Elle, and based on what I’d witnessed myself, Veronica was a witch. I’m talking a full-blown, spell-casting, devil-conjuring witch. I didn’t want Ray Anne anywhere near her.
I finally made an offer I thought might calm her. “If it makes you feel better, Ray, I’ll go question Veronica myself. Just please, don’t go near her.”
It took some convincing, but Ray Anne finally agreed to keep her distance and let me handle it.
I switched to a new subject before she could change her mind. “You hear from Jess lately?” A dismal topic, but it was the first thing that came to me. Ray Anne sighed while walking to her small desk on the far side of the room. I was already aware Jess hardly ever bothered to call and check on her son, which I found inexcusable, probably because I knew what it was like to grow up not knowing one of my parents. Jackson was worlds away from both of his. But he’d hit the jackpot when he got Ray Anne. No one loved as deeply as her.
Ray Anne powered on her laptop. “I haven’t heard from Jess in three weeks. I hope she’s okay.”
Although Ray Anne never admitted it, I got the idea she was relieved that Jess took little interest in Jackson. Jess had a legal right to show up and take him back any time, and by now, Ray Anne was intensely, irrevocably attached. I’d warned her like a million times to guard her heart, but she couldn’t help herself.
Neither could Mrs. Greiner. She entered in typical fashion—no knock—and rolled Jackson’s stroller into the center of the room, then gave me a warm shoulder pat. While unstrapping Jackson and hoisting him into her arms, she accidentally called him Lucas, her deceased son’s name. Ray Anne and I looked away, pretending not to notice. Mrs. Greiner set Jackson on the floor with some toys, kissed his head, then hurried out of the apartment, teary-eyed.
“I feel so bad when she does that.” Ray Anne stood motionless, wrestling with her own unhealed emotions, I think. The two-year anniversary of her brother’s suicide was just a month away.
Mrs. Greiner opened the door again and poked her head in, clearing her throat like nothing sad had just happened, suppressing all trace of grief. “Ray Anne, while I was on my walk with Jackson just now, Dr. Bradford was driving in our neighborhood, and he pulled over to say hello. He asked who the baby was.”
Ray Anne slammed her laptop shut. “Mom! What did you say?”
Mrs. Greiner winced. “Calm down, sweetheart. I just told him his name. It was obvious to me Dr. Bradford has no idea Jackson is his grandson. I can’t believe Dan didn’t tell his dad he’s a grandfather.” She teared up again. “Kids need their grandparents.”
Ray Anne picked Jackson up and held him close. “It’s not our place to tell Dr. Bradford anything, Mom. Please don’t ever discuss Jackson with him.”
Mrs. Greiner huffed. “I don’t see why not.”
Of course. She didn’t know what Ray and I did—that Dr. Bradford was fully aware Jackson was his grandson. I’d seen Dr. Bradford in the woods the night of the auction, shouting curses from behind an animal mask, consenting that Jackson be fatally harmed—the little guy would have died if I hadn’t rescued him. I was sure at the time the masked man was Dr. Bradford, and I hadn’t questioned it since.
“Mom, Dr. Bradford abused his own son. Dan would show up to school with black eyes.”
“You can’t honestly believe his father did that, Ray Anne,” Mrs. Greiner scolded. “Dr. Bradford single-handedly supports Masonville’s food pantry, and he’s underwritten and participated in medical mission trips to Mexico for over a decade. Such a warmhearted, generous man deserves to know he’s a grandfather.”
Ray Anne had been convinced her mom was too fragile to handle the truth about Masonville’s occult society and had warned me more than once to never disclose anything about it to either of her parents. But I felt the need to at least clarify, “Making some hefty tax-deductible donations and a few trips to Mexico don’t mean Dr. Bradford is a warmhearted man.”
Mrs. Greiner pursed her lips, visibly annoyed with me, and intentionally kept the conversation between her daughter and her. “All I’m saying, Ray Anne, is the man has a right to know about his grandson and see him. Spend quality time with him.”
“No!” Ray Anne clung tighter
to Jackson, like someone was trying to rip him from her arms. “No one has my permission to take Jackson out of this house, away from me, understand, Mom?”
Mrs. Greiner furrowed her brow. “That’s hardly fair, Ray Anne. Now may not be the time, but you and I need to discuss this.”
Ray Anne glared, unrelenting. Mrs. Greiner studied her daughter as if she knew something was off. Finally, she shut the door. I was surprised it didn’t open again. Mrs. Greiner was the most obsessive woman I’d ever known, especially when it came to her daughter.
Ray Anne sighed. “Can you imagine if Dr. Bradford got his hands on Jackson?”
I shook my head. “No, I can’t. I’ll never let that imposter get anywhere near him.”
Ray Anne put Jackson in his playpen, then went to her computer, printed off a document, and handed it to me—a spreadsheet listing the four Rulers, including their assignments, features, even garment colors. So Ray Anne.
“Why do they speak English?” she asked me. We’d nearly always heard demons talk amongst themselves in their own otherworld language—choppy syllables, not at all like the Watchmen’s flowing dialect.
I gave her my best theory. “The old man said the Cosmic Rulers reign high in the atmosphere over America. Maybe they’re so entrenched in our culture, so familiar with us, they use our language.”
“Makes sense, I guess.” She clutched my hands. “You’re up for going back tonight, right? Maybe the other three will show up.”
“For sure.”
She reached out and gave me a hug. I held her tightly, overcome with gratitude to have her in my life. We finally let go, and though I hated to ruin the mood, I felt the need to warn her, “Ray, please pay attention to your surroundings and be on the lookout, especially for a black Suburban. I think Detective Benny has people tracking me, and they may be keeping tabs on you, too.”
Ray Anne turned and watched Jackson roll onto his back, obviously more concerned for him than her own safety. She gave me her word she’d be aware.
The Defiance Page 6