Made to Suffer (Journeyman Book 3)

by Golden Czermak

  “Everything's going to be alright, gorgeous,” he whispered in his most endearing voice, warm breath passing pleasantly over her ears. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

  She looked at him, unblinking and about to say yes, but gave him enough of a reprieve to finally put his chest at ease.

  “On second thought, don't answer that,” he quipped, escorting Evans down below while Adrienne stepped up to the railing, taking in the still fresh morning air.

  As she gazed, the sound of machinery whirred subtly in the forecastle, signaling the arrival of the others. After one last inhale, she pushed off the railing and strode toward the front of the ship.

  “Gentlemen!” she said as the doors opened as wide as her eyes, “welcome aboard.”

  MARCUS AND JOEY had watched the Odyssey sail off for Texas before making their way to HQ. Quileth was waiting on them, but they opted to walk the distance instead of taking a taxi. The more time they could spend together the better, the extra hour and a half stroll working wonders for their relationship. Along the way, they stopped at one of the street vendors for a quick bite to eat, Joey hoping that it would settle his nerves.

  Sadly, the food didn’t and he still felt flustered. Growing used to traveling with the safety blanket of Gage and Adrienne around him, it was quite a jarring transition, but one he knew would come sooner or later. He just wished that it was later, opposed to having happened that very morning.

  They continued to walk, reaching 50th at last and the strangest thing happened when he looked over to his left. Those upsetting feelings he had carried the entire walk suddenly melted away, Marcus standing there beside him with the gentlest of smiles on his bushy cheeks.

  Speaking the password, the two entered the facility and the portal closed behind them.

  “Ah! There you are,” Quileth greeted, wearing an ornate set of gold and gray robes.

  “Have you been waiting long?” Marcus asked apologetically. “We decided to…”

  “Walk from Om’s place,” Quileth finished for him. “I know and understand completely, as I told you last night: this time together is most important.”

  Marcus beamed, as did Joey while he took in the entrance hall again. It looked so different without all the Assembly activities, stalls, and signs filling the space. Somehow it was much smaller and less grand.

  “Now that you two are here, though,” Quileth said, “I wanted to be sure to send you on your way to Ireland properly.” He reached into his cloak and produced two charms, attempting to give them to Marcus.

  He pointed over to Joey, indicating that he would take them and Quileth acquiesced, dropping the objects into Joey’s expectant hands.

  “Brandon will meet you around six o’clock tonight, local time,” Quileth informed them. “Which means you’ll have to depart by noon to get there in time.”

  “That gives us about an hour and a half,” Joey noted. “Where are we headed out from?”

  “High Island,” the Councilor replied. “A private piece of land about a forty-five-minute drive from here. You could probably cut it down to thirty if you use one of the Order cabbies.”

  “Well then, we best be on our way!” said Marcus, hugging the beast. “Goodbye for now, old friend.”

  Joey joined him this time, catching everyone off guard.

  “Oh my,” Quileth said with a laugh. “Always shall I be here. Safe journey, the both of you.” He bowed and walked away toward the elevators, pulling out the compass a short time later. He tapped on the glass while giving Marcus a quick nod.

  He smiled back, feeling good about the things to come, and the two Journeymen set off on their way.

  About an hour later, a yellow cab appeared out of thin air at the end of Terrace Street, Joey and Marcus stumbling out before the driver backed down the street, vanishing from sight.

  High Island loomed ahead of them, relatively barren with stunted shrubbery and rocky borders to the sea. Two towering broadcast antennas were in the middle of the land mass, reaching high into the cloudy sky.

  The way ahead was clear, the island currently uninhabited due to developments in broadcast technology that allowed for remote operations. The two of them made their way hastily to the eastern side of the island where they stood together on the gray rocks by the waves.

  “You ready, J?” asked Marcus warily.

  “Yessir!” Joey said back excitedly, tossing a charm into the sea right after. “Off we go!”

  Marcus noticed it was the transportation charm, it’s distinct pink etchings glittering in the light before splashing into the water.

  “Um, Joey…” Marcus began, but was silenced as the very ocean itself rose around them, climbing like two immense hands about to clasp shut. Prongs of white electricity leapt between the columns of water, racing off into the deep Atlantic. He looked around nervously. “I don't think it's supposed to be doing that. You sure you got this?”

  “Yes! No worries,” Joey replied with a smile. “I got this!”

  Despite Joey’s confidence, Marcus didn't like this at all, fidgeting with his ear bar. “You did remember SAFE right?”

  Joey’s reply did nothing to calm him down. “What's that?”

  Oh for the love of God!

  “Shielding. Activated. First. Every time,” he stressed.

  That's when it dawned on Joey: he hadn't done that. “Oh shit,” he said, producing the protection charm from his pocket.

  The waves were already crashing down, wrapping the two of them up into a sphere before tossing it like a skipping stone across the ocean. The duo twisted and turned inside the bubble, the ride gentle like one in a short circuiting tumble dryer.

  The sun wheeled overhead, disappearing beneath the horizon as six hours of daylight passed by in seconds.

  A few minutes later, at the base of a worn and narrow boat ramp in Kinsale, the River Bandon swelled into a churning sphere, two dark shapes inside the swirling liquid.

  A man of average height approached the anomaly, stepping out from the shadows of a nearby angling charter company. Wearing a white tee and denim vest, his hands remained buried in those skinny jean pockets as he strolled, unbothered by the strange sight ahead of him. Any ordinary person would likely be freaking out, or possibly running away, yet he just scratched at the back of his neck, stopping about ten feet away, and just waited.

  “That doesn’t look right at all,” he said with an Irish brogue, shifting his lip piercing briefly with his tongue. “Some plonker’s gone and activated their charms in the wrong order.”

  As if those were words of command, the sphere collapsed, sending water gushing everywhere. Joey and Marcus were left standing, cold and wet, having been submerged their entire trip over.

  “In a bit of bother, are we gentlemen?” the man joked, trying to lighten the mood. No laughs came. “Well then, you two ornery kelpies must be the American Journeymen I’ve been sent to meet. Am I right?”

  The two of them stared blankly at the slim man, his piercing blue eyes and inked arm highlighted by a nearby streetlamp that had just turned on. They said nothing to him, remaining motionless except for the copious amount of water pouring out of their drenched clothes.

  “Talkative lot you are. I guess those open gobs are a ‘yes’ then?” he asked, sputtering as he placed his hands on his hips. “Onto the intros then! The name’s Brandon Byrne, a Journeyman like yourselves.”

  Marcus bobbed his head at the mention. “M… Marcus Sh… Sheridan,” he said through chattering teeth, “and this is Joey Mo… Mosely.”

  Brandon ushered the duo along as they trudged up the slippery concrete, sloshing around with each waterlogged step. “It’s my pleasure, lads,” he said, taking note of their mounting shivers. “Though next time you may wanna activate your protection charm first, so you don’t end up wetter than a drunk man’s trousers. Now come on, let's get you to the B&B. Dax’ll be there with some dry clothes.”

  IT WAS A CLOUDLESS day in southern California, the sun shining down on a
large, white building in the heart of Orange County. The parking lot was full, unsuspecting people filing in and out of the medical center; some were there to work while others visited their ailing relatives and friends. Overall, it was a good day, the weather no less than perfect – except for an odd rumble of thunder that managed to break through the chorus of birdsong.

  Dajjal appeared just outside the main entrance. He was wearing another gray suit, minus the slash marks, along with a dark red shirt and tie. Nobody seemed to notice the sudden appearance of a bald man out of thin air, but the fleeting smell of rotten eggs was unavoidable.

  Yet, he had no need to worry; everyone around him had their faces buried in technology as they sat or walked, somehow managing to avoid crashing into each other in the process. They hadn't noticed him, or much else for that matter. This just helped fuel Dajjal’s negative views on humanity, unimpressed with them as a species. He couldn't help but compare them to ants, or better yet, roaches.

  That wasn't to say there weren't one or two notable meat bags on the planet – a renowned, tattooed pain-in-his-ass a prime example. Regardless, the majority of humans were selfish, inattentive, and weak.

  He pushed through the standard glass doors, too impatient to wait for the revolving one. Striding across the polished floor of the lobby, he watched the people as he marched along, seeing more of the same shit. He became more confident in his view that most, if not all, things were beneath his stature.

  Speaking of such, he had come to this place to pay someone a visit, someone vastly incompetent. After all, she did manage to get herself admitted to a human hospital, with two massive failures under her belt to cushion the stay in a hospital bed. Dajjal stewed over her inept leadership; it had given Gage Crosse not only the Ire, but the Shackles, and now the Demon’s Bane. Hell, the other three were likely being wrapped as gifts that very moment. For all this, he could never forget her stupidity, nor forgive it.

  Demon kind might have been set back, but that was okay. Dajjal was there now to make sure lost time was regained and new ground taken.

  Putting on a stylish pair of glasses with thick black frames, his eyes blazed red as he scanned the directory. An unseen force drew his attention to the fourth floor, specifically the burn ward, as a lingering hint of hellfire teased his senses.

  “Oh dear,” Dajjal whispered, followed by a laugh. “You actually let him use them against you?”

  Without another step, he appeared on Level Four just outside a pair of heavy wood doors. A sensor overhead picked up his presence and opened them, the sterile hallway beyond inviting him in for a stroll.

  As he walked down the corridor, the panels of lights above began to flicker, more and more the farther down he went. Passing the door to Room 409, they died, but he was able to catch the word ‘Hydrotherapy’ engraved on a small plaque before it grew dark.

  Dajjal waved a hand and the door to the room crept open. The lights inside were low, the humming of pumps and soft splashes of water greeting him as he stepped across the threshold.

  “I'm sorry, but who are you?” came a voice, shrill with irritation. It was a member of the burn staff and she had just begun a hydrotherapy treatment for one of their more critical patients. “Sir, did you hear me? There are no visitors allowed in here, so I'm going to have to ask you to…”

  “LEAVE,” Dajjal ordered, flicking his arm to the right. The woman's body flew through the air like a rag doll thrown by a child having a tantrum. She slammed against the wall with a crunch, some unseen part of her broken as she lay on the ground unconscious, maybe dead.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Dajjal chastised both the staff member and the patient as he approached a large stainless steel immersion tub. “Onoskelis, my dearest little girl. When I told you during our little chats that I was going to make you suffer, I didn’t think that you'd go ahead and do ninety percent of the work for me. Perhaps you aren't such a bad person after all, being so considerate.”

  Her eyes, crusty and charred, opened thinly. They were demonic in color yet faint, staring down her naked and burnt body as it hovered gracefully in the warm water. She watched as specks of skin and pus floated along the surface, Dajjal wandering into view at the foot of the tub.

  “You’re…here?” she croaked, dry voice sounding like it had passed through several layers of sandpaper and glass.

  “Indeed,” he responded, “in the proverbial flesh, as I promised.” He smiled and that large beard filled his face. “Wearing quite a great suit, if I do say so myself. One that I think will be kept more pristine, unlike the one you are wearing.”

  Coughing, a wad of dark gray spit came from Keli's mouth. She couldn’t disagree, finding herself in a state of depression far beyond any she had in the past. As enamored as she was by her human host’s appearance, seeing it in this irrecoverable condition, with the constant odor of her own burnt skin was mentally breaking. Thankfully, she couldn't feel any discomfort, her nerve endings having been seared to the fourth degree. Of course, the reality was she had no one else to blame for this but herself. It's that truth that stung the most.

  Dajjal dipped a couple fingers into the tub, swirling them around in a circle. “Quite cozy. So tell me, why haven't you ditched the host?” He looked to the woman on the floor, still motionless. “I mean, she would've made a good replacement, before I showed up.”

  Keli wished she knew. After clawing her way out of so many levels of Hell, she figured the ins and outs of possession were second nature, nothing more than the absolute basics. Apparently not, as there were exceptions to the rules, especially with the artifacts involved.

  “Can’t,” she replied right away. “I think I'm damaged. Not just the host, but me – the real me. I've tried to leave, tried to possess the one there on the ground, and each of the others since I've been brought to this damned place. I just can't.”

  The frustration in her voice was prominent and Dajjal furrowed his brow; this was something that actually concerned him.

  “Solomon,” he whispered snidely. “You and I are both the same, old man, meddling in the deep magic of the worlds.” He supposed that the trifecta of the Ire, Shackles, and Bane were somehow lethal to demons that were targeted by the bearer. Though he thought himself stronger than Keli could ever dream of, he would have to be cautious when he finally met up with Gage. “Well, shit,” he continued to Keli. “All of this is quite disappointing. I was really looking forward to kicking your ass to Heaven and back as a lesson in humility, but you've taken all my fun away.”

  Keli laughed at his expense, coughing up more phlegm. “I did it just for you, Dajjal.”

  He smirked, cutting straight to business now that no other festivities were planned. “You plan to die with all your secrets, don't you? Especially how you, of all creatures, beat me out of the fire…”

  She parted the remnants of her chapped lips, turning them into a flakey smile. “Yes, I do. So let’s not prolong this. Whatever you're planning to do, just do it now.”

  “Oh I will, but there are so many different notes to play,” Dajjal stated, walking away from the tub into the center of the room. He placed his hands in his pockets, walking in a circle. “Do I drown you? Boil you? Smite you? I don't think I can choose.”

  Keli watched as he stepped back a few paces, eyeing the door. “Just do it!” she cried out from her stainless steel coffin. “End my suffering. Please.”

  Please… that word echoed in Dajjal’s mind as something he never expected to hear from her. While it was a weak thing to do, he found himself respecting her for it.

  “Very well…” Dajjal said at last, making his way to the door. He snapped his fingers and there was a distant scream, cut short by another snap, then another, and another. He reached the door and pulled it open, popping his head innocently down the empty hall.

  Whistling once, he came back in, returning his attention to her as a few more screams filled the air, this time much closer than before. “This will be perfect! You, my dear, fulfill your desire fo
r death and I get my own fill of your suffering. Such symmetry. Oh! A bonus is that we also get to send a message to the Journeymen: demons are not to be fucked with.”

  As he finished, the door swung open and heavy footsteps indicated something big was entering the room. Low snarls confirmed it was nasty. Keli struggled to see, the growls becoming louder with each approaching step.

  Dajjal sighed. “Here we are then, at your end. I will always detest what you have done to us. Not only did you show a severe lack of respect for the position you were in, you forgot what it was to be a demon. Now look at you, on the brink of the abyss with no way out, never to return. I do pity you, Onoskelis, but will never forgive. Gage Crosse has half the treasures and is poised to get the fourth, all because of you.”

  She didn't respond, but there was a menacing bark that shattered the silence, letting her know exactly what had come. Dajjal was one cruel bastard and his pets were no different.

  “That's a good boy,” he said, kneeling to stroke the hellhound’s rough skin. It let out a soft groan as drool dripped from its mouth to the floor, a puddle already forming. “Are you hungry? Dinner is served.”

  A large smile appeared on his face as he rose, shutting the door as he exited to the sounds of crashing equipment and Keli's agonizing screams. Slowly, he walked out of the medical center, every step of the way watching the carnage of more hellhounds making themselves at home. They were such gluttonous beasts, resulting in such a glorious mess.

  To think, he hadn't been up top for very long, yet was already making great and deadly strides in correcting the wayward past. With the primary players in the old regime now swept away – Baal, Paimon, Astaroth, and Keli – it was time to focus on building this demonic empire the right way. Not for Lucifer, but for himself.

  WITH A LOUD CRACK, Gage appeared in a forest clearing on the outskirts of Pine Springs, wearing his favorite brown leather jacket over a Plain Jane wife-beater. The loose pine straw, stirred up by the transporter, fluttered down around his thick boots as he stepped across the Texas dirt into the sunlight.