by David Green
Two million people live in Haven and there might be even more dead. With a population that size, there’s a good number of folk who’ve had experiences like me and Ruby. Some get jobs as psychics and mediums. Sad part is, they have to try not to be too accurate because that’s how witch hunts get started.
There’s cults too, and plenty of them. Without the guidance of folks like Ruby and Harry, some people have their own interpretation of this big, old underworld we’re living in and they can get pretty out there. Not that I blame them. There’s a lot going on down here that’s not easy to understand.
And then there’s the devil worshippers. Freaks. I try to steer clear when I can.
Regular folk stumble across the truth from time to time, and there’s some whose families discover the truth about Hell and pass the information on, making it their mission to learn what they can. The latter’s who I need to confer with, and I know just the people—Harry and Maeve.
I flag down a passing taxi and climb in, murmur the address I want, and let my thoughts drift to the Wheelers. It bothers me that Dean’s dead. Part of me wanted to be the one to kill him. That road would have led to too much heat, and now I know Heaven’s real, I want to save my place. Killing Wheeler would be wrathful, and that’s one of the Seven Deadly right there.
My excitement at the prospect of Expunging him, like I did with Francis, worries me even more. I need to be sure I’m righteous when I do it, or I’m just a murderer like they are. Worse, because I’m eradicating them from existence. At least the girls Francis killed can move on, just like I should’ve.
Might seem strange, planning to kill a ghost, but it can be done. Expunging isn’t about the body or the blood or the heart. It’s about the essence and the soul. Anything in Hell can be Expunged.
I know I’m not above the desire for revenge—I’ve fantasized about it long and often—but Expunging is more than that.
Picture the universe as a rug, made up of a multitude of cotton threads of equal importance. Every person in Hell, alive or not, is a thread. Expunging someone unravels them entirely, stops them from ascending to Heaven or remaining in Hell. Sometimes, it’s necessary, but do it too much and holes start to appear. The fabric wears thin and, before you know it, the rug tears apart completely.
I don’t imagine the big bastard upstairs or his friend down here would be too happy about me ruining their carpet. And look, despite appearances, I got a conscience. I’ve looked into the Expunged’s eyes when they realize what’s happening to them. They’ve peered into oblivion, the endless void staring back, and they understand there’s nowhere to run.
That kind of expression haunts a guy.
…
The cab pulls up on Norris Street, where Harry and Maeve live. It’s in a sleepy part of Haven. Idyllic really, if it weren’t for a handful of shades roaming around, reminding me I’m in Hell.
I linger outside as I stare at a name and number on my smartphone: Rosa’s.
On the way over, my thoughts drifted to her, as they often do. The stranger who stopped to save a dying man. We became close after, but it didn’t work out. I’d have ascended to Heaven if it weren’t for her and I couldn’t just forget that. Everywhere we went together, I saw the ghosts and demons and knew I wouldn’t be seeing any of it if she’d just kept walking.
She never gave up on me. Not that night in the alley and not after, like she was still trying to keep me from bleeding out. I couldn’t leave that open wound alone, got personal with it, asked her who she’d lost that I’d become the one she needed to save.
I think her last words to me were, “That’s bullshit, Nick. Call me when you’re ready to wise up.”
I never did call.
Rosa knows the truth; I told her everything. The cell phone’s heavy in my hand and the old bullet wounds itch beneath my shirt. I stare at the photo on her profile. Damn, I remember taking it myself. Feels like yesterday, or like years ago, that we were solid. Then I fucked things up again, pushed her away, grew distant, threw myself into cold cases just as things started to heat up between us.
No doubt about it. I’m a grade-A schmuck.
Well, no time like the present to make amends. Not when the past has already walked itself right to my door. I press the call button, though it’s more like a stab as I change my mind mid-action and my finger lurches forward. The coward inside me hangs up, but not fast enough. My phone vibrates. Rosa, calling back.
“Nick?” I hear her voice, filled with concern, as I press the phone to my ear.
“Hey, Rosa, sorry. Must have pocket-dialed you.”
A beat of silence.
“Right… Answered pretty quick for a pocket dial. Well, nice hearing from you, Nick.”
“Wait,” I say, with a little too much desperation. “That’s a lie. Guess I wanted to hear your voice, is all.”
“Nick, what’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in about a year. Now you’re lying about calling me at 10:30 on a Friday night? Are you drunk?”
I laugh, but it’s a little strained.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Not sure I even knew what time it was.” I pause. I can hear her breathing and the soft murmur of her TV playing in the background. I bite the bullet. “Listen, Dean Wheeler’s dead.”
“Good,” she replies with heat.
“That’s not all. His widow wants me to work for her. She says he’s following her around, but something doesn’t feel right.”
“You think?” I can picture her head shaking at my dumbness, dark skin creasing into a frown around those features I came to adore. “That’s a little coincidental, don’t you think? I know that scumbag wouldn’t let death stop him from being a creep, but are you sure you’re not getting played?”
The air’s gone cold in a matter of seconds, and I can see my breath fogging in the air. I glance around but see nothing. I’m alone in the deserted street. The ghosts that lingered here moments ago have vanished.
“No,” I say. “But you shoulda seen his wife. He did awful, disgusting things to her, Rosa. I don’t want more blood on my hands if I can help it.”
“Nick, is this about revenge? Because if it is… Well, you know better than that. I hope.”
A shiver runs through my body. Not at Rosa’s words—I’ve been pondering them myself—but at the cold. Frost glints on the sidewalk beneath my feet. This ain’t natural. Not by a long shot.
There’s an aggressive absence of sound, making Rosa’s breathing so loud it beats at my skull. I detect the stench of animal musk in the air and something else. Trouble.
“Look Rosa, I gotta go,” I say.
Her garbled voice chops in and out in my ear until my phone beeps and the call drops. No service. Shit.
Mist oozes from the asphalt, and the trouble I sniffed before is pungent.
Drawing my Ruger helps my stomach unclench, but I know I’m under-prepared. I think of my survival kit, sat in my office, and I’d chide myself if I thought I could get a word out without choking. Have to admit, I’ve not kept on top of my supplies recently. Getting sloppy.
My consecrated bullets will only work against certain Hellspawn, and as I recount every demon, devil and device that could cause instantaneous winter, a figure padding out of the fog confirms my worst fears.
I fucking hate Amaroks.
Fast, powerful, intelligent and far too wicked for my tastes. Picture a wolf, but more. Thick muscle hulks beneath its silver fur as it pads on all fours through the mist, keen eyes fixed on me. Parts of it glitters as the moonlight catches the shards of ice protruding from its spine and shoulder blades, like freezing-sharp armor. They say the best offense is a good defense, right?
Yeah, Amaroks love the colder parts of Hell, but they tend to bring the weather with them. Its red eyes glint at me through the gloom. Saliva drips from its razor-sharp fangs. It sizzles when it hits the floor.
>
There’s a plus side. Unlike normal wolves, an Amarok hunts alone. Not that I’m thanking my lucky stars just yet. This beast is still the size of a small pony.
It begs the question: What the hell does it want with me? As far as I know, I’ve done nothing to piss off an Amarok for some time. Learned my lesson the hard way.
“Well, shit,” I mutter, as I pull out what might be my last cigarette. It isn’t just for pleasure. Amaroks hate fire, and though the amount my lighter emits is small, it’s all I’ve got. “Mind if I finish this?”
The Amarok howls, saliva shooting from its maw, sizzling where it lands. Its cry curdles my blood, makes it twist in my veins. I wanna turn, run into the night, but I know the Amarok will chase me down, sink its claws and teeth into my spine. Instead, I grind my teeth and try to stop my legs turning to jelly.
You know that sensation when you wake in the middle of the night startled and afraid, but you don’t know why? That’s one of these bastards howling close by. A normal human doesn’t hear it, but on some level they feel it. Well, right now, I’m facing the full brunt.
As the cry dies down, another answers, and it’s too close for comfort. I spin around and, sitting twenty feet behind me, is another goddamn Amarok. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I think it’s smiling at me.
“Well, fuck me.”
I take one last, sweet lungful of my cigarette, sucking back on that fucker because I need to get my money’s worth, then toss it to the ground. I hold my lighter like a shield, forcing back one Amarok, and aim my revolver at the other.
Realization floods in. I’m shit outta luck, and that ember, dying on the ground, is the last nicotine I’ll ever fucking inhale.
“The One Who Wheels sends their regards,” the newcomer growls, the words awkward in its maw.
I’ve no time to think. The wolf to my left lets out a snarl and pounces. Leaping back, I swing my aim around and pull the trigger, fighting the urge to keep firing. There’s only so many bullets. The Amarok changes direction mid-air to avoid being hit and lands with a gymnast’s grace on four legs. Bastard’s fast.
Despite the cold, I tear off my jacket, a plan forming. I seize the hip flask in my inner pocket and douse my favorite coat, the one that’s been with me through thick and thin. It’s just the latest in a long line of things Wheeler’s taken from me. I hold the lighter to the dripping fabric and the flames burst to life. I throw my makeshift fireball between me and the Hellspawn.
It ignites with speed and I circle it, trying to keep the conflagration between me and the Amaroks. They’re intelligent creatures, but their lone-wolf instincts play in my favor. They seem confused at the prospect of working together.
I add to the confusion. I charge at one, lighter in hand, like a desperate Olympic torchbearer gone mad. The thing’s the size of a small horse and I’ve got nothing but a puny fucking lighter. I suppress a giggle at the thought of it. Maybe I really am crazy.
But crazy works. The Amarok scrambles backwards, and changing direction, I spin and fire at the other. My bullet strikes home, grazing its cheek and embedding itself in the massive wolf’s left shoulder, snapping off a shard of ice that melts as soon as it hits the asphalt. It lets out a pained yelp as steam rises from the wound. The holy water’s doing its work. The hit won’t kill it, but it’ll slow it down.
My heart’s slamming on my ribs like it’s trying to tell me just how much goddamn danger I’m still in, but I’m stood there grinning like an idiot. I let my guard down too long and the other Amarok recovers and pounces onto my back, knocking me aside with a backhanded swipe of its paw. Pain explodes as my face scrapes the ground and my arms shred on the rough asphalt.
Instinct takes over and I roll, keeping as much space between them as I can. As the sizzling pavement shows, an Amarok’s saliva alone could burn through my flesh, never mind fangs and claws. I’m lucky they’ve not landed a good hit on me yet.
It’s only a matter of time.
Fuck off.
I’m afraid, sure, but that’s nothing new, and I can’t give in to it. I won’t. Scrambling to my feet, I point the Ruger, ready to fire as soon as I see the reds of the Hellspawn’s eyes.
But I’ve lost my advantage. The injured Amarok sends me spinning as it charges past me, clipping me enough to knock me onto my back, and driving the wind out of me as I crash to the ground again. That cracked rib Cyril left me howls in protest.
I’m having a very bad night.
As my revolver and lighter spin from my grip, as my breath comes in labored gasps, I realize I’m fucked. The Amaroks prowl closer, the flames of my burning jacket dying behind them. I close my eyes, hoping it’ll be quick and that Heaven still waits for me. I’ve lasted longer than I should have against two Amaroks. That same, crazy stubbornness that kept me from ascending the first time.
As I wait for one of the beasts to snap their jaws into my neck, I think of all the things I’ll never be able to tell Rosa, and how Michelle Wheeler’s helpless against whatever her husband’s got planned.
Then a warm glow washes over me, and my eyes snap open. The monstrous wolves shrink back as a figure steps past. I laugh, filled with sudden relief. Perhaps I’m not about to die again just yet. Look, I’m not ready, and the last five minutes has painted that in bright red fucking letters.
“About goddamn time!” I cry.
It’s Maeve, a Strengthened ghost. Don’t think I mentioned that. Well, right now, I’d be happy to see Lucifer himself so long as he’s on my side.
Her presence fills the street, chasing away the Amarok’s frost. My oppressors whimper, their mighty tails drooping between the legs. They ain’t beaten yet. The injured wolf nips at the other, urging it forward. They’re intelligent creatures and know a Strengthened ghost has limits. By rights, a Hellspawn should have the advantage,
The Amarok steps forward.
A projectile tears into it, bursting into flames. The beast howls as its fur burns, cries of rage, of pain. Pathetic whimpers from such a powerful creature, but ones I’m delighted to hear. The stench of cooking, putrid flesh fills the air, followed by the unmistakable stink of shit as its fur singes too. It looks at its partner in desperation as it collapses, bones turning to liquid from the heat, the ice protruding from its flesh melting.
Turns out an Amarok’s bones are made from ice too. Who knew?
The monster melts before our eyes. Its partner flees without a backward glance.
I struggle to my feet, my cracked rib keeping me from drawing a full breath, not to mention all the new bumps and scrapes. The burning Amarok is now a steaming puddle of blood, marrow, ice and fur. Maeve watches me, and I nod to her.
“Thanks,” I say. “Maybe don’t leave it so late next time?”
“Well,” Maeve replies, still watching the Amarok with a thoughtful frown. “Call when you’re coming over next time. Made enough of a commotion though.”
“And we had to prepare the grenade,” a voice calls.
It’s Harry, Maeve’s husband. He’s alive, but comes from a long line of ‘Truthers’—people who’ve known about this world for generations—and when they met, he brought Maeve in on the secret too.
Harry’s a healthy eighty-seven. He and Maeve died in a car accident back in the 60s. He came back to the land of the living, and she didn’t. When Harry woke in his hospital bed, he found Maeve waiting for him, dead but unwilling to move on without him. He blamed himself, being the driver and all, but she wouldn’t hear of it.
They helped each other acclimatize to Hell, one living, one dead. Their history as Truthers would have helped, but their bond, stronger than ever, saw them through those early, uncertain years. They’re so in love they want to ascend to Heaven together, but Harry still lives his life, and Maeve’s by his side, every step of the way.
I envy them, but I’m never happier than when I’m at their place, and tha
t’s the truth. I’d bring Rosa here sometimes. Harry and Maeve loved her.
I asked Harry if he ever thought of remarrying, with Maeve’s blessing. He said the thought had never entered his mind, and wouldn’t speak to me until I apologized for even bringing it up. That’s the thing about Truthers. Even death doesn’t do them part.
“Much obliged,” I mutter, fingers itching and throat dry for another cigarette. I sigh as I remember they were in my jacket.
“Two Amaroks!” Harry cries, slapping me on the shoulder. My rib throbs and I wince. “Unheard of, my boy. A fine battle.”
I shake my head, looking around for my Ruger. “No. Way too easy. They shoulda killed me without a struggle. Let’s get inside. We need to talk.”
OCCULT’S A DIRTY WORD
“Dean Wheeler,” Harry says, with a whistle. “If he can bend a pair of Amaroks to his will, four weeks dead, then I’d hate to see what he’ll be capable of in another month.”
We’re sitting inside the old man’s study. I’ve given him and Maeve the blow-by-blow of the day, wincing through the cuts, scrapes, cracked rib and bruises.
I shake my head. So much drama in such a small amount of time. Just hours ago, me and the ghost in my office were reliving my teenage years listening to Nirvana. Now, I’ve watched as a Nephilim decapitated a demon I didn’t even dislike, hit up an ex-flame I ain’t spoke to in almost a year and been hunted by a pair of Amarok in the middle of Haven’s suburbia.
That’s a wild Friday night by anyone’s standards.
“What do you think Wheeler wants with you, Nick?” Maeve asks, her translucent stare kind and wise. She’s a beautiful ghost, looking the same as she did sixty years ago when she died, despite the washed-out look. From the old photos scattered around the room—one or two in color—she resembled Rita Hayworth; fiery red hair and intelligent brown eyes. Death hasn’t dimmed the sharpness of her stare. “It’s obvious he’s trying to use you for something. You intend on confronting him?”