The Defiance

by Laura Gallier

  I moved to the front left corner of the house, then leaned forward to sneak a peek.

  Molek was only buried up to his waist, and he used his long spirit-world fingers to claw away physical-world matter, scooping dirt and tossing it aside, freeing himself from his soil prison. Next to him, his boxy throne poked out of the dirt, and he worked to unearth it as well.

  I continued spying as one of those hateful bats descended, landing on top of Molek’s thorn-crowned head. The Lord of the Dead tilted his head back and opened his mouth so wide, he could have swallowed the fat winged creature. Instead he let the bat spit that black-grit death dust concoction onto his outstretched tongue. There was no telling what conflict had created this latest batch—which Lights were feuding instead of loving.

  The bat flew away, and Molek resumed digging, faster now, still chewing his nasty potion.

  Out of nowhere, he turned his head my direction and froze.

  “I’m breaking free.” His voice was the sound of a thousand high-pitched whispers, aimed at me. Mocking me. Scorning my heavenly assignment to defend and liberate people. “I am free,” he asserted, “but you’ll never be.”

  That horrible agony traveled up through my midsection again, and I knew . . .

  The war raging over my town was about to come to an inescapable standoff. And so was the turmoil inside of me.

  TWENTY-NINE

  IT WAS ALREADY DUSK, so I had to speed to my property to make it to the Caldwell Cemetery in time. With Molek strong enough to have nearly dug his way out, the Rulers were bound to execute their deadly assignment against the thirteen marked students, including Gentry, any minute now, while also ramping up for their full-on takeover of Masonville. I hoped to spy on the Rulers and get some idea of their next move, then interrupt their plan somehow—with wisdom, not fear.

  I was no stranger to these woods, even at night—the eerie squeals and rustlings that could just as easily be a demonic tyrant as a forest animal. But I’d never had to journey out here with an invisible baby crying its lungs out and a hidden stalker pressing in on my still-throbbing insides.

  “What kind of punishment is this, God?” I kept asking.

  Despite the pain, I managed to jog part of the way in the sparse moonlight. I finally arrived at the Caldwell Cemetery. Well, at least where the fenced-in graves and Mary statue normally sat. Now a blistering portal lay open in the earth like a sweltering, gaping mouth. All seven Rulers—including two-faced Mother Punishment—hovered at the edge of the pit, gazing at those big cone-shaped bone platforms spinning over the crater.

  I assumed they’d mount their demonic pulpits, but I was wrong.

  Molek’s messenger bats flew up and out of the pit, circling overhead. “The time has come,” they demanded in unison. “You must combine your powers.”

  The Rulers growled and hissed at one another as if they loathed the thought. But the bats threatened, “If you refuse to do as our Master says and this territory is lost to the Light, you’ll be cast into outer darkness with him!”

  It didn’t matter that the Rulers outranked Molek—he’d used the currency of hell to order them around. Fear. And I found the strength to inflate my chest at the bats’ words: lost to the Light. They were afraid of the power in us. The presence we Lights house within.

  It was also a sobering reminder of the responsibility we had to engage in the spiritual battle.

  The Rulers seemed oblivious to me as I looked on from behind a tree—except Mother Punishment. She stood stiff, her white-robed side facing me, her narrow eyes scanning the exact spot in the woods where I was hiding. She whipped her paddle against her palm and smiled.

  I sensed she was welcoming me to watch and listen to their plans, as if I could never dare stop them.

  A four-fingered scorched hand the size of a battleship—I’m not exaggerating—reached up from the pit, grabbing all six massive platforms and crushing them with such force, I wondered if it could be Satan himself.

  The bones and rubble snapped and cracked, rolling like pebbles inside the huge palm, and the fragments cried out like they were alive and could feel the pain. Then the hand opened, and amid the crushed platforms, numerous winged beasts the size of my Labrador retriever flew out. They had heads like wild boars and insect-like bodies. The gruesome creatures quickly assembled the bony wreckage into a single structure using their double set of arms and hands that looked as human as mine.

  They constructed a giant, lumpy chair of crushed bones—a single asymmetrical throne, suspended above the blistering abyss. All at once, five of the Rulers charged toward it, colliding midair like debris in a tornado, punching and clawing and tearing at each other, striving to be the first to the throne. But not Mother Punishment. She stayed planted on the ground, eyeing the dogfight. She lowered her white-cloaked head, as if pretending their savagery actually grieved her. Then she began floating up into the air like cigar smoke.

  She reached the airborne brawl, reared back with her paddle, and struck Lust in the back so hard, he went careening down into the pit, howling the whole way. One by one, she pounded the other Rulers, beating them until she was the only one left. With her green witch’s chin lifted, she sank onto the hovering throne, sitting tall with that threatening grin of hers. Immediately, the bones cried out again.

  It was dizzying watching her morph from the self-righteous saint in white to the pointed-hat witch in black, like a disorienting kaleidoscope of spinning colors.

  Lust sailed sheepishly up through the air and out of the pit, his head down, facing away from Mother Punishment. He lowered onto the throne, disappearing inside of her. One by one, Despair, Strife, Addiction, and Slumber did the same, succumbing to her dominance.

  “You disabled the radiant one?” the encircling bats called out.

  The Rulers answered in unison, but the Mother’s voice overpowered them all. “She’s under lock and key.”

  Who? I wondered.

  “You know what must be done to the thirteen,” the bats sneered.

  Mother Punishment nodded. “Under the cloak of darkness tomorrow.”

  An inevitable deadline. But at least now I knew part of their plan.

  Instantly, the spirit-world spun like I’d seen it do before, and all earthly matter returned as the Cosmic Rulers vanished. It was only then I realized the infant had stopped crying while I watched them. But now it was back. I squeezed my head, off balance and despairing. I squatted on the forest floor, desperate for relief. “God, you have to help me!”

  Instant, inexplicable silence and peace. And the feel of a warm hand on my shoulder.

  I clamped down on the old man’s fingers with my own. “You have no idea how glad I am you’re here.” I jumped up. “How’d you do that—stop the torment so fast?”

  “It’s what mercy does.”

  Even in the dark, with only our auras for illumination, I could tell he was grinning at me.

  “Why are some baby and horrific presence after me?” I pled.

  “That’s a question for God, not me.”

  “I’ve asked and asked. He won’t answer.”

  “That’s a lie, and you’d be wise to never utter those words again.” He hadn’t ever put me in my place like that. “God always answers, in his timing and way.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” I rubbed my stomach, relieved my insides were no longer being ravaged. “I have a million questions for you, like how to stop the Rulers and save the thirteen students tomorrow. But first . . .” I had to know. “Are you a heavenly being? Some kind of messenger from God?”

  “Knowing who I am is far less important than knowing who you are.”

  I barely resisted sighing. “Please don’t get philosophical with me—there’s no time. Just tell me who you are.”

  He stepped so close, the brim of his cowboy hat nearly grazed my hairline. “I will. As soon as you tell me who you are.”

  My hands balled into fists—now more than ever, I needed straightforward answers, not some rabbit-trail
essay prompt. “All about me” was a weird conversation to have standing next to a cemetery in Creeper-ridden woods at night, knowing thirteen students were scheduled to die in twenty-four hours.

  But fine.

  “Uh, I’m Owen James Edmonds.” I couldn’t contain this sigh. “I turn twenty next month. Besides teaching myself to play a guitar that burned up in a fire with the rest of my stuff, I hardly know what I do and don’t like to do anymore, because my life has been turned completely upside down and consumed by some calling I’ve been given to save the people of Masonville from demonic dominance—plus thirteen people targeted to die tomorrow. And I have a red glowing seal in me that says I’m a defender, even though I’ve never been good at defending people.” I waved my arm in front of his face. “See?” I crossed my arms and huffed. “Okay, your turn.”

  “That was only a description.” He pressed his index finger into my chest. “You haven’t told me who you are—your identity, as you see it.”

  Maybe it was Strife’s influence, or having narrowly escaped dying in a fire—or my nonstop concern for Ray Anne, or having just seen Molek nearly back in action—but I couldn’t handle this. I exploded. “That’s enough! I’ve dealt with secrecy all my life, and I don’t need it from you.” As bad as it sounds, I did want to punch the old man now. Or tackle him to the ground and physically force him to tell me what I needed to know, even though he was as muscular as me.

  “I’m trying to help you,” he said. “That’s all I’ve ever done.”

  “Well, it doesn’t help when you keep stuff from me.” I was so loud, a flock of birds took flight. “And how am I supposed to make sense of who I am when no one wants to tell me who they are? Or every time I finally think I know someone, it turns out they’re not who I thought they were?”

  I didn’t realize I was spitting in his face until he gripped my shoulders and gently pushed me back. “You’ll never have peace, much less win the war on Masonville and fulfill your destiny, until you’re certain of who you are. And just as importantly, who you’re not.”

  My heart was pounding, but what else was new? “Look, I’m trying to figure it out, okay? But it’s kind of hard when your own parents have lied to you over and over and let you down more times than you can count.”

  He flipped on a flashlight I hadn’t noticed he had with him, and—I couldn’t believe it—turned his back on me and started walking off.

  “So that’s it? You’re leaving?” I huffed. “Guess I should be used to people doing that by now. You especially.”

  He stopped but stayed facing away. “You gonna stand there and keep whining about how bad you have it or walk with me?”

  The second time tonight he’d put me in my place. “Fine.” I caught up with his aura.

  He shined the flashlight ahead. “Neglect and abandonment cut deep, Owen, and there’s no shame in mourning a painful past. It’s a crucial step. But it’s not the final destination, Son. Never let the rejection suffered at the hands of others define who you are—how you view yourself.” He quickened his pace. “Now, there’s something you need to see.”

  We strode further, through a section of woods I’d never traveled before. I didn’t smell or spy any Creepers, but then again, they always gave the old man lots of space. I stayed close to him, relieved that with him near, my tormenting symptoms were staying away.

  As we neared the road that ran along the backside of my property, the old man finally stopped. He aimed his flashlight in the distance, illuminating a large pavilion constructed of thick wood beams that formed a roof over a dilapidated wood-plank floor. It was like a log cabin, only without walls. It took my breath away.

  “This is the place my father just told me about, where the occult people took him twenty years ago and nearly beat him to death. Where he made an oath to give his firstborn child to them. Me.”

  The old man handed me his flashlight, and I stepped into the pavilion, aiming the light overhead. “My father said there were ropes hanging from these massive beams.” A single frayed one swayed in the breeze now.

  The old man removed his cowboy hat. “Back when T. J. Caldwell ran his plantation out here, this was where he held public lynchings. Generations that followed kept up the sick practice.”

  I wanted to vomit. “Shouldn’t it be covered in vines and greenery by now?” The question had no sooner left my mouth than the realization came to me: people were still using this place. Masonville’s occult society.

  I vowed right then and there, “I’m going to bulldoze all of this to the ground!”

  The old man motioned for me to give back his flashlight. “Or you could use it for good. That’s how you really turn the tables on the kingdom of darkness.”

  His comment was a sobering reminder. “Molek is about to dig himself free,” I said, “and the Cosmic Rulers have converged into one on a giant throne. They’re plotting to strike down thirteen students tomorrow night, but I have no idea how. Time is running out.”

  The old man nodded. “That’s why I must show you this now.”

  He turned his flashlight off, immersing us in the dark, and instructed me to get down at the center of the pavilion floor. I hesitated, but he assured me he’d be right next to me.

  We knelt down, and he rested his palm between my shoulder blades. “Use your hands to dig.”

  “What?” I pressed against the wood planks. “I can’t dig through this.”

  He said nothing else. So I cupped my fingers and, idiotic as it seemed, began to scoop. I gasped when the wood supernaturally shifted and piled like particles of dirt. Soon, I was digging deeper, past a cement foundation, into actual soil.

  “What do I do now?” I asked.

  “Keep digging.”

  Needless to say, I had no idea what I’d find, and I was slightly creeped out. But I trusted him enough to keep plowing with my hands, eventually stretching out onto my stomach to reach further down.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “You will,” he asserted. “And you’ll never forget it.”

  THIRTY

  A FULL ARM’S LENGTH BELOW THE EARTH’S SURFACE, the ground gave way, and my hand slipped into chilled air. I pulled my arm back and peered into a dim underground hole. The cold air reeked of death and decay.

  From my vantage point, prostrate on the pavilion floor, I stared down into a small underground cavern, the edges dim with green-tinted light. The space was as long and narrow as a grave, walled in by soil. I spied the back of a Creeper’s battered head and shoulders protruding from the dirt, occupying most of the space. The demon shouted in English.

  “You’re supposed to be dead!”

  “Do your family a favor and end your misery!”

  “Death is your only way out!”

  “You can’t live like this much longer!”

  On and on the instigator spewed suicidal insults, and having no need for breath, didn’t even pause between sentences. The Creeper’s foul mouth faced away from me, yet its hatred rose up like lethal fumes, its murderous words provoking me to give up.

  The Creeper jerked backward, disappearing underground. That’s when I saw the shadowy form of a stiff body wrapped in what looked like thin layers of gauze, encircled in chains and cords from the shackled neck down. The only skin visible in the mummified shroud was the pale face of a young man, his eyes shut.

  I shuddered. “It is a grave.”

  The old man patted my back, but it didn’t take away the dread.

  “Why was that Creeper bullying him to kill himself when he’s already dead?” I asked.

  “Keep watching.”

  Now a different kind of light filled the grave, pure and soothing. The young man’s eyes opened, blinking, as he began to breathe, slow and steady.

  “He’s alive!” But as the color returned to the boy’s face, I slapped a hand over my gaping mouth. It’s Gentry.

  A robed Watchman pressed his glorious head through the side of the underground chamber, resting his left cheek agai
nst Gentry’s chest, his gaze fixed on Gentry’s face. The Watchman was so enormous, the distance from his dark hair to his perfectly defined chin stretched the entire width of the grave. He spoke, his voice youthful, yet deep and assertive.

  “You’re meant to live, Gentry.”

  “God willed that you be born.”

  “He has a meaningful future planned for you.”

  “God loves you and longs to heal your pain. All of it.”

  I inhaled an incredible aroma, like fragrant incense, overpowering all stench of death.

  Gentry’s face was dormant and expressionless, yet a tear trickled from his eye. I watched in stunned wonder as the Watchman’s hand breached the soil wall, clutching a glass bottle the size of a salt shaker, as ornate as Mrs. Greiner’s crystal vases. There was shimmering liquid inside. The heavenly giant touched it to Gentry’s cheek, guiding his tear into the bottle.

  The Watchman backed out of the claustrophobic space, and instantly, the harsh green light returned, along with the rancid smell of death. Even worse, Gentry stopped breathing. It was a helpless feeling, looking down on him as all color left his face and his eyes collapsed shut. That Creeper shoved itself back into the grave, assaulting Gentry with the same cruel remarks as before.

  I scrambled to sit upright. “What’s happening to him?”

  The old man exhaled a heavy sigh. “This is the state of the human soul when a person attempts suicide, yet survives.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The man stood, then gripped my arm, helping me to my feet. “The moment Gentry set out to kill himself, the demonic world dug a spirit-realm grave and trapped his soul inside. Night and day, they call to him, accosting his mind and emotions, seducing him to murder himself again—to finish the job this time. But the voice of hope calls to him as well.”

  I stepped back, afraid that my foot might slip into the grave.

  “So, Gentry’s soul is stuck out here, on my land?”

  “No.” The old man used his work boot to slide dirt into the hole, covering the nightmarish spectacle. “Gentry’s soul is inside his body, but wherever he goes, his soul remains trapped in a spiritual grave, battling conflicting voices. Despair versus destiny.”