by David Green
I flick my eyes around the room. I love visiting these two. The study alone holds enough books for a library and the house is crammed with Truther curios gathered over a lifetime. The fireplace is a pleasant touch, if careless with all the paper scattered around.
Harry’s family researched Hell and its creatures for centuries. The old man continued the tradition, but his line will die with him; Maeve died before they had children. Harry reminds me of Doc Brown from the Back to the Future movies. He has the same crazy, white hair and wild look in his eyes. From the way he looks into Maeve’s youthful face, I can tell he never gave a second thought about moving on from her. I never really needed to ask.
Still, I’m a curious type. Have to be in my line of work.
“I do,” I say, answering Maeve’s question. “Best way to disarm a bear trap is just to set it off. I know he’s planning something. Ruby at the Styx told me Wheeler’s interested in the occult.”
“Pah.” Maeve would have spat, if she could produce saliva. “That’s a dirty word. You know better than that.”
I hold up my hands and wince, recognizing my mistake. The denizens of Hell object to the word ‘occult’—they say it has negative connotations, and they ain’t all bad.
“All right,” I say, with my most charming smile, the lopsided one that makes me look boyish and disarming. I think. “Sorry, you know what I mean. He’d researched Hell before he died. And it was more than just morbid curiosity. He came around asking questions, knew more than he should.”
“Interesting,” Harry muttered, stroking the white stubble on his chin. “Things are strange in Hell. Two Amaroks hunting together is more than enough proof of that. Then you had that unpleasant business with the demon trying to summon Lucifer. Which was utterly ridiculous, I might add. You can’t summon the devil with random sacrifices, else he’d appear four times a day across the globe. You need to tap into a specific energy. Cardinal sin. Even the timing has to be right.”
“Maybe Francis should have come and talked to you first.”
He ignores that. “There’s something in the air recently. You’ve felt it, haven’t you, boy? How did Wheeler die?”
“Suicide is the official word.”
Harry and Maeve share a glance. It speaks volumes, and I don’t like it.
“Shoot,” Harry says, getting to his feet. I marvel at how spry he is. “Didn’t offer you a drink. Tea, coffee, something stronger?”
“Coffee,” I reply, winking at him. “Think it’s gonna be a night.”
Harry laughs and heads for the kitchen, leaving me alone with his wife. I try to pinpoint when I became so at ease in the presence of the dead but realize it doesn’t matter. They’ve always been around; I just couldn’t see them.
“So, Dean Wheeler committing suicide is a problem,” I say. It isn’t a question: their reaction made it clear.
“How’s Rosa?” she says instead. “Seen much of her?”
I take a quick look at my smartphone. Eleven missed calls from her. It makes me feel… wanted? Making a mental note to call her back as soon as I can, I point at Maeve. “Don’t change the subject. His suicide is bad. How?”
“Yes. Consider most people, when they die, have no idea about the reality they’ve been living in. Then they either ascend or stay in Hell in some form. Some, like you, get a second chance. But then, there’re folks like me—aware of all this,” Maeve says, spreading her arms wide, “before they pass. If a man like Dean Wheeler prepared for this, then he’s dangerous. Look at the speed of his Strengthening. He’s a cruel man who strives for domination. Being dead takes what he can do to a whole other level. Stalking unseen, persuasion of the spirit. Possession. God only knows what else. If he felt like he’d reached the limit of his power in life, his suicide may have been intentional.”
Harry shuffles back in, holding a tray laden with cookies, a coffee pot and everything that goes with it. He sets it down with care in front of me. I think for a second as I pour out a little cream, enjoying the crackle and pop from the fire. The warmth is comforting.
“Harry,” I begin, “it’s a last resort, but the Amarok attack changes things. It’s clear Wheeler knows his wife spoke to me and wants me out of the picture. He’s planning something for her, and my only option left might be to Expunge him. Tonight.”
Maeve shudders. Ghosts carry over tics like that from when they were human. It’s like muscle memory, without the muscles.
Harry nods. “Two left. You must bring me more ingredients to craft more.”
He moves to his bureau and unlocks a drawer with a key kept on a chain around his neck. The Expungers—palm-sized, flat devices forged from iron and covered in infernal glyphs—are inside.
I can make them, but Harry likes to keep busy. Gathering the ingredients is the arduous part. Some are straightforward enough to gather, like garlic or holy water. The last items on the list are the dangerous ones—fae blood and wings. Now, these aren’t Tinkerbelle-cute sprites with leaf dresses and dainty slippers. They’re vicious, fanged sadists that delight in human suffering. I don’t enjoy Expunging, but I’ll gather the required items with pleasure if it means there are less fae in Hell.
I suppose I’ll have to answer to Lilith herself one day. If Hell’s taught me anything, it’s that everything comes at a price.
Harry hands them to me. They’re harmless to the living, but my fingers tingle when I touch them. Residue from my near-death experience.
“I’m thinking this isn’t a straightforward haunting with intent to harm,” I say, looking at Maeve, then Harry. “Let’s track this. A proper piece of work delves into the—sorry, Maeve—occult, then commits suicide. What’s the angle?”
“Power,” Harry mutters with a shiver. I do, too. The air is frigid again, and I notice the flames in the fireplace are dying. “There’s powerful magic in a meaningful sacrifice. Your demon friend Francis got it wrong, committing random murders; they didn’t mean anything to him. The stronger the connection between the victim and the aggressor, the more potent the spell.”
“And no one loved Dean Wheeler more than Dean fucking Wheeler.”
“Precisely. He can never make it to heaven, but here, in Hell, he can use his own sacrifice to become more powerful than any ghost.”
“Michelle Wheeler said her husband wanted to possess her. Maybe that’s literal. He could control her every move that way, keep her a prisoner in her own body.”
“And continue to run his empire like nothing had changed, with all the abilities of a Strengthened ghost.”
“Sonofabitch…”
Maeve’s been silent for a few moments. I glance at her, wondering what she’s thinking, then realize she’s frozen. It’s like she’s a video and someone’s hit pause.
“Honey?” Harry says, standing in front of her and peering into her eyes. Her pupils move with frantic jerks. “Nick, can you…”
He doesn’t finish. The fire snuffs out, plunging the study into darkness. Shooting to my feet, I grab an Expunger in one hand and my Ruger in the other. Green smoke slithers under the door, oozing into the room, writhing through the shadows. Dread clenches my stomach in its fist. I stagger against a table as my legs tremble. Harry’s dropped to his knees, tears cascading down his cheeks.
A hooded figure stands by the study’s door. Its presence steals the light, leaving just a black silhouette. My instincts scream at me like I’m in that alleyway again.
Wheeler.
For a second, Hell holds its breath.
Dean points at Harry. The old man lifts off the ground, limbs stiff and splayed like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. I swing my revolver around, but his hooded head twitches in my direction and his eyes pin me in place. I can’t move. I want to—Christ I need to—but my body just won’t respond. Like having three bullet holes in my chest. Sweat beads on my forehead as I strain, but all I can do is watch.
> Harry vibrates, teeth bared and clenched. Blood rushes from his eyes, nostrils and ears. Shit, his eyes! I can’t look away as the crimson tears pour. He’s begging with them, wide and disbelieving, pleading with Wheeler. Then he looks at Maeve and wails her name.
I want to scream too, but my jaw won’t come loose. A mewling sound escapes through the gaps of my teeth. Instead, I weep as I watch my oldest friend’s skin tear away from his body. Slices of it at first, but the curls of flesh come faster. He’s like a pencil run through a sharpener. Blood gushes from widening tears, oozing to the floor in pools beneath his feet.
God, please, let it stop. Let me look away. Please!
My ears pop at the sudden intake of air, like Wheeler’s sucking all the oxygen out of the room.
Harry implodes. One second he’s there, suspended in mid-air, being flayed alive. The next, nothing but a crimson stain on the floor.
I blink as a spotlight shines down from above. My fear and grief wash away as its gentle warmth touches me. The Gates of Heaven are open, and they’re calling Harry home. I’ve seen it a few times since my own ascension, though not everyone went up. More often than not, the opposite happened.
Someone else is watching the spectacle. Still unable to move, my eyes shift to the study’s corner.
He’s there. Charon. Gazing up at the light where the ceiling used to be. For a heartbeat, his eyes meet mine. I hear his voice reverberate in my mind.
Be seeing you, Holleran.
My eyes slide away from him. Charon’s still there—I feel him—but it’s like his business doesn’t concern me anymore, and he doesn’t want me staring. I look up into Heaven’s light and see Harry’s spirit. He smiles at me then looks at his wife and holds out his hand. Maeve’s eyes continue to dart, her hand not moving to meet her husband’s. And just like that, I understand.
Harry’s ascending, and Wheeler’s preventing Maeve from going with him.
I strain, fighting invisible restraints, but it’s no good, Wheeler’s holding me tight. My friends have waited for this moment for sixty years, and this dead asshole is denying them eternity together.
“No!”
Harry’s voice echoes as he drifts upwards towards God’s eternal embrace. He wants to stay if Maeve can’t follow, but he’s being forced upwards. It’s out of his hands.
Wheeler’s doing that too. People can reject ascension and stay if they want. But just like he’s keeping me and Maeve frozen to the spot, he’s pushing Harry through Heaven’s Gates.
All I can do is watch as he becomes one with the light, and then it vanishes. The gates close.
Wheeler disappears too. The study’s lights return, the fireplace flickering back to life. I fall forward onto my face. I beat my Ruger’s handle on the floor and scream my lungs dry.
He took my friend. My fucking friend. Worse, he split them up, and there’s no changing that.
“Nick…”
Maeve’s quiet whisper draws my attention. Her tears match mine, but she has a fortitude I can only wish for.
“I’m sorry,” I spit out, kneeling in front of her. “I shoulda… I coulda…”
“It’s not your fault,” she says, looking up at the ceiling as if she hopes her husband can convince Heaven to open up again. Her voice wavers, on the verge of breaking.
I should never have come here. Wheeler wanted me—I knew that—and I came to them for help knowing it put them in the crosshairs. No one’s safe around me until I deal with that bastard once and for all.
My eyes fall to a framed photo on the table. Climbing to my feet, I pick it up and stare at a black and white picture of Harry and Maeve when they were teenagers. Filled with love. Fucking hope for their future. It trembles in my grip.
I set it down, nod at Maeve without meeting her gaze, and head for the door.
“What will you do?” Maeve calls after me.
I turn.
“I’m gonna find Wheeler,” I say, stuffing the Expungers in my pockets, “and make that sonofabitch pay. For everything.”
REVENGE IS A DISH BEST SERVED…HOT
Haven feels deserted, like somehow the living, dead, and everything in between know to stay the fuck outta my way as I march towards Wheeler’s place. I know he wants me, but I don’t care why. I’ve got an Expunger with his fucking name on it.
The air has turned stagnant and the sticky heat becomes oppressive. My tie is loose and my collar button’s open. The heat of the Expungers against my thigh overrides all else. It’s like they’re eager for action.
I share the sentiment as I race towards my destination; I’m just as eager to end the sonofabitch. Thoughts I’ve tried to suppress since he unloaded three bullets in my chest swirl in my mind—rage, anticipation. And shame. That most of all. This man killed me like I meant nothing, like I was an afterthought.
Now, my anger threatens to burn all that away. I can’t shake the look in Harry’s bulging eyes as his skin peeled from his face, as Wheeler tore him apart, and the way he reached out for Maeve when he realized he was losing her forever. The broken slump in Maeve’s shoulders drives me on.
Revenge is a sin. It’s one I plan to dirty my soul with. Screw God, and fuck Hell too.
Vengeance is mine, says Nick Holleran.
The Wheeler estate sticks out like a gorilla in a monkey pen. Not for its size, though it is the kind of mansion the very worst asshole would own—three stories, a balcony on both sides, glass and white marble, and a swimmer’s pool.
Right now, it’s most noticeable feature is the swirling mass of green and purple cloud menacing the sky above. The dead must see if for miles around, and I wonder how the living don’t notice. Then I realize that, on some level, they do. It’s why they’ve emptied the streets.
There’s no sound and the silence is unbearable. No car horns, no tires dragging, no music, no voices or footsteps. The absence of it all itches inside my skull. I wanna scream out loud, just to add some noise to the night.
Just to prove I can, but I fear that big, ol’ swirling bruise might swallow any sound I make.
It’s there, hovering above me, as I climb over the Wheeler’s wall, staring down at me. Whatever’s going on in that house is bad Juju. Real bad Juju.
I hum a song as I walk the perimeter of the building, a little habit I’ve had since I was a kid that calms my nerves when they’re threatening to overwhelm, and I smile to myself when I realize the tune is Bullet With Butterfly Wings by The Smashing Pumpkins.
I tap the Expungers in my pocket. I’ve got a bullet for Wheeler.
With no signs of life, the mansion seems abandoned, but I know something inside is causing that fucked up sky. It’s the only explanation. I ascend the steps to the double doors and reach out for the handle. They’re not even locked. All too easy. Like I’m walking into a trap…
At least I know it’s a trap, right?
There’s one pressing matter left. I grab my smartphone and select Rosa’s profile. Her image beams back at me, that photo I took in better times. Ignoring the list of missed calls, I send her a text instead.
Rosa, I’m sorry about tonight. I know I’m always letting you down. I’m sick and tired of it too. There’s so much to explain. If you’ll let me, I’d like to. Face to face. Nick.
As soon as I press send, I realize how stupid I’ve been. I might not make it out alive, and here I am trying to get Rosa to see me. Never really been an optimist, but there you go. Guess I am.
Or maybe I just couldn’t spring the trap waiting for me without taking care of that unfinished business first. At least now she’ll know I wanted it to work.
The same pregnant hush fills the Wheeler mansion. From my scouting of the exterior, I didn’t see a single light in any of the rooms, not even the flicker of a candle, but something’s causing that maelstrom. So that leaves the basement.
It narrows my
search, at least. In my experience, houses this size take an age to investigate.
The clues are there, clear as day. Tendrils of green smoke, like the ones from Harry and Maeve’s study, swirl around my ankles as I stride through the entry hall—an ethereal breadcrumb trail showing me the way.
It’s too easy. My bones know it, but I don’t give a fuck. My blood pumps fire, and my anger demands satisfaction.
The smoke leads me to a door behind the stairs; green mist breathes from beneath. Glancing around, I almost shit myself as my eyeballs land on a larger-than-life portrait of none other than Dean Wheeler himself.
He’s staring back at me, a smug smile on that cruel, cold face.
“I’m coming for you,” I whisper, drinking in his features, the ones burned into my memory. “My face’ll be the last one you ever see in Hell.”
Pressing my ear to the door, I hear faint sobbing echoing from below. A woman. Michelle.
I’m done letting Dean fucking Wheeler hurt folk.
Well past done.
I go to draw my Ruger from its holster, then reconsider. It’ll be as useful as a vomit-flavored lollipop against a ghost, consecrated bullets or not. Instead, I ease the door open and creep down the dark stairs. The energy swirling here makes the hair on my arms stand on end, makes my teeth itch. I flick my tongue over them; tastes like static. The green light throbs powerful, vibrant, as I descend, and I bare my teeth in a savage grin at the scene before me.
Michelle Wheeler lies on the floor, cowering and weeping, at the far side of a room lit by a hundred candles flickering with green flame. Mist boils across the floor. Standing before her, his washed-out back to me, is Dean Wheeler. Anger battles with excitement; I want to help Michelle, but the fact Dean hasn’t seen me, doesn’t know I’ve got the drop on him, almost makes my head spin with vengeful giddiness.
He’s mine.
My attention’s fixed on him, and I have no interest in anything else. A filter of red hazes my vision as I stare at the scene, at Dean. The man who killed me. The piece of shit who tortured his wife, turned her into a living chew toy. The scumbag who hadn’t gotten hard enough dominating her in life, and needed to do it in death too. The sonofabitch who flayed Harry alive and made the love of his life watch, helpless. Who forced him to Heaven alone, and trapped her here, in Hell, forever.