by Davis, Jarod
“Who?”
“Her.”
“Who her?”
“Jenny. Jenny her. What other her is there?”
“At five,” Jeremiah said, “it might be the Queen of Freakin’ England for all I know.”
“No, I saw Jenny.”
“Fine then. How’d you screw it up?” Jeremiah asked. Then he smirked, maybe waking up, “You had to have screwed up, otherwise you wouldn’t care enough to wake me up and possibly cause me to kill you. Because we both know no jury in the world would convict me. Prosecutors would have a better shot against a pair of puppies trying to squeeze into the same slipper.” Arms stretched over his head, he yawned long and hard. “What’d you do?” Now he planted one check against his fist.
“I’m screwing up.”
“Yes.”
“I’m screwing up, because I’m not doing anything about her.”
“There seems to be an obvious solution to inaction.”
“But I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you want?” Jeremiah asked. “It seems like an easy question, but have you thought about it? Have you said it out loud?”
“I…”
“No,” Jeremiah interrupted, “You’ve never said it out loud. To be honest, I was kind of surprised when I was right. I see you mooning at the neighbor girl and I think you’re just interested in the—let’s say the shape of her jeans. Instead you keep doing it and it turns out I’m right.” Now he laughed, “Great isn’t it? How I’m right even when I’m not trying.”
“So what do I do?”
“What’s your goal?”
“I want to get to know her?”
“Get to know her?” Jeremiah laughed, “What are you? Victorian?”
“Victorian?”
“Never mind. It’s a lit major thing.” Jeremiah leaned back, the grin gone from his face, “So what is your goal, your real goal?”
“I want to be with her?”
“How? Be specific.”
“That’s not specific?”
“Peh, no,” Jeremiah sneered. “Are you looking for something spiritual? Intellectual? Carnal? Romantic? Platonic? Do you want a friend? Someone you can share gardening tips with? What do you want? What is the return you hope to enjoy after some degree of effort?”
“Romance.”
“Interesting.”
“What?” Timothy asked.
“Most guys wouldn’t use those exact words. Kinda girly, but whatever.”
“So what do I do?”
“Tell me your goal.”
“I want a relationship with her.”
“Okay,” Jeremiah explained. “Now you need to figure out what you have to do.”
“How?”
“What are the obstacles in your way?”
“She doesn’t know me.”
“And?”
“And I can’t talk to her?”
“There’s something else.”
“What’s that?”
“She has a boyfriend.”
“Is he more attractive than you?”
“What? How would I know?”
Shrugging, Jeremiah guessed, “I don’t know. Maybe study what our culture says is attractive in a dude then compare him to yourself and see who scores higher. But then I guess that’s not the important question.”
“What is?”
“How are you going to get rid of him?”
“How can I do that?”
“Murder, bribery, manipulation, deception, kidnapping,” Jeremiah ticked through his options. “There are lots of ways if you’re willing to do what it takes.”
“I have to do something immoral?”
“Only if you want to win.”
“That’s all you’ve got?” Timothy asked.
“Hey, don’t wake me up at five in the freakin’ morning if you want moral advice.”
The rest of the day went normally. From sunrise to sunset, there were no hallucinations or anything else that might imply Timothy’s mind had melted like a toy soldier stuck in a microwave. He went to work, passed out mail to the cubicle drones he hoped to one day never become, got something to eat, and went to his two night classes. He listened to lectures, got bored, and started doodling in the margins of his notes as teachers told him about Peruvian art and the best way to outline a speech. Class got out, and darkness had settled over campus, but nothing strange happened so Timothy called it a victory.
Yesterday was a fluke, he decided. His hands balled in his pockets for warmth, Timothy walked across the campus. He tried to hunch down as much as possible, ball up to hold onto every bit of warmth. His coat was thick and lined with plastic polymers and faux fabrics, but it didn’t help every time a wind washed over his face.
He glanced at his watch, trying to figure out how fast he should walk as he passed under the trees lining the sidewalk. After all, he didn’t want to get to the shuttle stop too soon or he’d have to wait there in the cold. At least when he walked his muscles warmed a little. That thought felt important until someone reached from behind him, a damp cloth in hand. It smelled like chemicals.
The hand was small, Timothy realized, the wrist too. Without thinking he tried to drop down, then kicked out, jumping a few feet only to fumble another two steps. In the next second, Timothy turned back, looking for a threat. But he didn’t expect this girl. Despite the cold, she wore a blue tank top and denim shorts. Dressed for summer, she didn’t seem to notice the cold. Her wavy blond hair blew with the breeze. Her lips were bright with the kind of makeup designed to make guys think she was cute and innocent.
“That was rude,” she said, one hand flat against her hip, the other holding the cloth.
“What?” Timothy felt his cell phone in his pocket, but she didn’t look like much of a threat. Then again, anyone crazy with a gun would be a dangerous, but she just had a cloth. “Who are you?” He didn’t run since she was thin and small. This had to be a joke, he guessed. The running would come later.
She ignored him, “Morgon, he’s going to be difficult.”
At first Timothy had no idea what she meant until he heard the thud from behind. Timothy twisted around to see a chest standing at eye level. Timothy only saw Morgon’s face when he tilted his head to look up those extra three feet. This guy had to be at least eight and a half feet tall, and he wasn’t lanky or thin. His muscles were thick and bulging—comic book bulging. Green eyes half squinted, Morgon tightened his lips with the disdain of someone about to smash an ant.
Timothy ducked and ran.
The giant lunged down to grab him, but Timothy was an inch faster.
Swinging his arms for extra speed, he sprinted for the shuttle stop. His backpack bounced against his back with every step. Reaching for his cell phone, he fumbled to keep his speed even as he heard Morgon’s steps behind him. A quick glance and there was that huge guy, only a few feet away, reaching out with a meaty hand to grab him.
Timothy leaped to the side, avoiding the meaty hand and losing a lot of speed, but it wasn’t so bad because Morgon’s momentum kept him moving and forced him right past Timothy. No time to enjoy that tiny victory, Timothy ran again. He dropped his backpack, deciding that twenty pounds of textbooks on folklore and effective communications wouldn’t be useful.
Without that weight, he had better balance and got a lot more speed. Timothy tore down the fifty yards of sidewalk that would lead to the shuttle loop where most of the public buses pulled up. It was late and there wasn’t anyone around. Timothy grabbed his cell phone and started dialing 911. Numbers in, he was ready to hit send when a rock slammed into his fist. Pain and heat shot up his arm as the phone fell from his fingers, crashing into the pavement.
From somewhere behind him, the girl shouted “See that! I got him!” Timothy glanced back to see her hop up and down with the enthusiasm of an over caffeinated cheerleader.
He could run or double back for the phone.
Timothy turned right at the edge of campus, heading across the bridge
over the Sacramento River. At nine o’clock, cars streamed by, but they thought he was a jogger. No one cared that there was another very big, very mean looking runner followed a few feet back.
Timothy wouldn’t stay ahead for long. He wasn’t good for distance. He might be quick in a sprint, but with every foot he felt his lungs get heavier. Every second and they felt smaller. His legs burned with motion, groaning for some rest.
Timothy got to the other side of the bridge. A public place, he realized. He had to get to a public place. To the left side of the street were overpriced apartments that catered to freshmen who didn’t know any better. To the right sat empty offices. That left the couple of strip malls, bookstores, and restaurants half a mile up ahead. Timothy didn’t think he could run that far.
But he had to try.
A squirrel dropped down in front of him. At first he ignored it. Then thirty feet ahead, that squirrel shifted and grew, bright with light as it expanded, first inches, then feet. It became a column of light and grew arms, a head, a human head with locks of blond hair and the same face he saw before.
“What the hell?” Timothy panted.
“Close,” the girl smiled.
Behind Timothy, Morgon loped up and those burly arms locked around his shoulders, trying to bind him in a bear hug. Timothy wasn’t a ninja or wrestler. He didn’t think he’d be able to break this kind of hold. Ripping free from concrete would have been easier.
That didn’t stop Timothy from struggling, from trying to jerk or squirm his way out. Strategy didn’t matter when panic or instinct drove every act. He didn’t remember to stamp the guy’s foot, scream for help, or slam his head against his attacker’s chin. Fighting hard, Timothy fought and jerked back and forth to break the hold.
The corners of his vision went dark. They didn’t blur. Shadows covered the edges of his perceptions, then he felt Morgon’s arms give way like they weren’t there at one moment. Timothy was secure, unable to get away, then he stumbled forward, as if Morgon just let him go. Timothy couldn’t explain it. He didn’t care as long as it meant he got free.
Head titled, Morgon spoke for the first time, “Isis, it’s true!”
“He did it,” she said.
“Cordinox will definitely want him alive.”
“Well, then,” Isis said with a wave at Timothy, still stuck between the two of them on a bridge, a hundred feet over a river. He could jump and he could die on one of the logs or a block of random concrete.
Trying not to look obvious, Timothy glanced at both Isis and Morgon, trying to figure out who’d be a greater threat: muscle-man or shape-shifter. At the same time, he watched for cars. Both directions were clear. They’d be clear for just a second. Fair Oaks was a busy street. And there were rises in both directions meaning he’d get all of three seconds to get out of the way.
Screw it, he thought and jumped into a street which could be filled with SUVs and speeding compacts at any second. He ran as hard as he could.
A car appeared, screaming its horn, the twin suns of bright white burning at Timothy’s vision. A vine of shadow shot from his wrist, yanking his arm as it coiled around one of the bridge’s metal beams. Then it felt like his arm would get jerked out of its socket as the tendril pulled him up. Timothy lost his stomach in that second, then the car was gone, and he hung there.
The tendril seemed to be suspended by nothing but shadow, a dark mist of something that shouldn’t have been solid. It looked like the tendrils from his dream. He tried to swing or pull, anything to get it to let go. A second later it did and he fell, landing on his feet, tumbling to his knees, everything jarred under the weight of gravity and pavement.
Morgon pounced at him again.
“Don’t be clever,” called the girl. “Just hit him.”
Timothy tried to dodge out of the way, but this time he felt something slam into the back of his skull. Somewhere he knew it must’ve been a fist. It still felt like a metal club slammed into his head. Somewhere far off, he thought he heard ringing.
Light pressed against his eyelids. Timothy saw splotches of scarlet orange as the back of his head reminded him how a giant’s fist punched the back of his skull. After a few seconds, Timothy scrunched his eyes and tried to roll over. On his back, he opened his eyes to an uncovered light bulb. It wasn’t bright. His head hurt with the kind of headache he expected from a smack by an asteroid. The floor was cold, hard, smooth, and stone. Forcing himself to his hands and knees, Timothy couldn’t see any windows.
There was a metal door with a lock. White walls surrounded him. There was a man standing to one side, leaning against one shoulder, his legs crossed as he watched Timothy try to remember how to stand. “Isis seemed pretty impressed with you,” said this new person. His clothes looked black and expensive, tailor made. It didn’t match the dingy room.
“Where, where am I?” His throat felt raw and jagged.
“You’re safe.”
“Right,” Timothy poked the back of his head. He felt dried blood, and his touch stung. “Who are you?”
“Erzu Cordinox,” he said and held out a hand. Decked out in a black collared shirt, equally dark pants, and shining dress shoes, Cordinox looked like a very expensive assassin or a mortician. He stood straight, like one of the business majors at school who wanted to prove they were serious.
Ignoring Cordinox’s outstretched hand, Timothy shook his head and asked, “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” After another second, he remembered his discarded backpack and wanted to know, “Where’s my stuff?”
Erzu smiled like a real estate mogul or chess player. “As to your last question, your books and whatnot are with Isis. I believe she was even kind enough to retrieve your cell phone. Regarding your other questions, you’re here because you became interesting when you managed to kill one of my allies,” Cordinox said. “Isis tracked Cipher and found some leftover energies in a church downtown. Then she tracked you down. Apparently you carry his scent now. To her at least.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Of course you did,” Cordinox said.
“There wasn’t a body. It was a dream or something else.” Timothy stopped, irritated. He didn’t want to say he suffered from delusions.
“Right.”
“C’mon,” Timothy tried to find the balance to stand. “This has to be a joke or something. This isn’t really happening.”
“Of course it is.”
“What happened?” Timothy asked, “Really. What happened?” What could explain this?
“Cipher was attacked by one of Despada’s followers. Cipher, from what I’ve been able to learn, killed his opponent, but then got dunked in a font of holy water by some kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. Dunk a demon in holy water and what do you think is going to happen?”
“Demons aren’t real. And even if they were, they wouldn’t be in churches.”
“Ordinarily no. Churches are boring, though I suspect Cipher didn’t know what building he fled into. More likely he got ambushed, wounded, and needed some cover. Little did he know he’d run into the college kid who’d toss him in a holy bath.”
“This can’t be real.” It sounded lame to Timothy. Too many memories said it was true.
Hands behind his back, Cordinox strolled over to Timothy. “What do you see?” he asked, holding out his hand again. He flipped it over. Timothy didn’t say anything, guessing this was a trick, or maybe he was just sick of not knowing what happened. “It’s a hand right? Well, how about now?” A blink of energy and the skin solidified into black scales, the fingers tipped with points of sharpened bone.
“What are you?” Timothy asked, pushing his sight up to Cordinox’s face.
“A demon,” Cordinox said.
“How is that possible?”
“We’ve always been around. Ever since the beginning of time we’ve appeared, growing out of broken souls. Sometimes taking human bodies, sometimes creating new ones—custom models if you will.”
“Demons,” Timothy repeated. “Shouldn’t you be from hell then?”
“Hell?” Cordinox asked with a smirk, “Not as far as we know.”
“And holy water kills you?”
“Anything blessed with a love for others will hurt us. You see Nicholas Santos, we are creatures of self-love. Not evil, just very egocentric. Don’t confuse the two.” He glanced at the ceiling like he had to pick exactly what he’d say next, “That’s something which really irritates me. See, you hear people talk about demons and evil and they think that if you’re selfish, you must be terrible. Evil, they think, is selfish. But we’re not evil, not in the sense people think. Sure, we don’t say we’re good, and we don’t work to help others—unless it’s in our best interest. But look at the average human, and there you go. People do charities, usually because it makes them feel good. People take care of families because they love them. A mother is happy when she takes care of her child. That child makes her happy. Each one gets something out of that relationship. None of those motivations are beyond us. We’re just more honest.”
“And you work together?”
“It’s in all of our best interests,” Cordinox explained. “There’s protection in numbers. Go it alone, and you’ll get yourself killed. Thousands of bands across the planet. Hundreds of demon lords spread out across the continents. Trust me, you don’t want to be alone.”
“And you are?”
“I lead this little band.”
“This is real,” Timothy said, not sure if he made a statement or a question.
“Very much so.”
“How do I fit into this?”
“You killed a demon. That wasn’t supposed to happen. As far as I know, it’s never happened before. But don’t quote me. I’m not much of a historian. See, demons fight to get stronger. We’re very predatory that way. Kill another demon, and you get his strength. All of your opponent’s life and strength and power flow into you, his killer.”
“I’m not a demon.”
“You weren’t. Now you seem to have bonded with Cipher’s soul. It’s inside you now. You’re a demon now, a human with a demon soul. Something new. Congratulations.”