Blood of Hope

by Wood, Rick

  Martin smiled, gushing slightly.

  “Thank you, Father Douglas. For everything.”

  “Don’t thank me. Just do your duty, and I will do mine.”

  “I will.”

  With a final smile, Martin walked to the stone spiral, staircase that led to his room.

  Douglas remained in the same position, watching the space from which Martin had departed, lingering in the same spot.

  An odd feeling of resolution overcame him. He could feel the end coming closer.

  It was nearly time.

  Soon, Martin would truly be alone.

  Douglas broke out of his vacant stare with a rapid shake of his head. With a knowing smile, he took a few small steps toward the altar, blessing the water; ensuring Martin had a weapon if he needed it.

  Douglas finally took his position in front of the cross, looking up at the representation of his faith that had always given him comfort.

  He empathised with what Martin had said. He had spent his whole life teaching God’s word. He had dedicated all his preaching to teaching the lessons of the Bible.

  But there was still so much he was yet to understand.

  There were so many dark parts of the Bible, so many words of hate and prejudice that people could use to justify awful actions. Throughout history, the Bible had given ammunition to people to torture and burn atheists. In the Crusades, they spitefully took on other religions in the name of Christianity.

  The Bible preached love, but it also preached lessons that had grown outdated.

  But he believed in his mission.

  His fate.

  After all, it was unmistakably his fate to be at this church, in time to meet Martin, to bestow the tools needed to access the part of Martin that the boy didn’t even know he had.

  Douglas knelt before the cross.

  Bowing his head, he kissed his hand, and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

  Whatever sceptical thoughts he had grown in his old age, he believed in heaven. The power of good. And, to him, this symbol he knelt before was the power of everything he preached, everything he did. It represented those life teachings he was given.

  “It’s ironic, really,” Douglas spoke doggedly, “that you choose to do this in a church. Your power has become such that not even the house of the Lord will repel you from carrying out the devil’s wishes.”

  A deep, sinister chuckle echoed lightly down the aisle of the cold, stone chairs. A human chuckle, coated in terror.

  Faint footsteps echoed closer.

  Douglas did not turn around.

  He knew what was coming.

  He had felt it.

  He had no choice.

  Once more, Douglas raised his head, gazing toward the tip of the cross, up to the heavens.

  I will be there soon.

  “Hello, Father Douglas,” spoke Edward King.

  22

  “Oh Douglas, you fat fool,” sang the sickening voice, a human sound mixed with tones of devastating malevolence. Its tone still retained the character of its owner, but its pitch had morphed into an unnatural boom. “Is it you?”

  Douglas bowed his head, taking to his knee, making a cross upon his body.

  In a sudden instant, his body was flung from the floor, soaring across the dusty air of the church. Within seconds he was hovering before his feared opponent, poised statically in the air, unable to shift a single muscle of his paralysed body.

  He stared into the eyes of the heir of hell.

  He recognised the face. It still had the features of the legendary exorcist. Eddie King, the man who removed Balam from a young girl. The man who banished Lamashtu from his body. The man who fought the devil in hell and escaped.

  But the face was not that of a man anymore. Its eyes had turned to a fully dilated red. The hair had grown to a thickened black, his teeth full of sharp spikes and fangs, his pale, faded skin scarred with the grey streaks caused when human skin morphs into that of a demon.

  His arms ended with thin wrists, protruding into vile paws feeding long, twisted claws sharp enough to slit a throat with a faint scrape. His body, covered with a sharp, black suit – for decoration only, Douglas was sure – had spouted muscles in places muscles had never been. Its feet protruded from his ankles with the sinister tap of hooves.

  Yes, it bore a resemblance to Edward King. But this thing was nothing of that person Douglas had thanked God for not so long ago.

  What struck Douglas with even more fright than the sickening appearance, was the mere feeling of being in the presence of this thing. It reeked of hatred, with powerful, malicious sin swelling from its pores.

  “But you are a good man…” Douglas pleaded, helplessly hovering, attempting to appeal to the human part that was no longer there.

  “A man?” the contorted face of Eddie replied. “Do not insult me. Man?”

  He shook his head with a venomous shake, exuding wrath with its disgust.

  “Man will be our slaves. What I am is so much more.”

  “The heir of hell? Is that what you’re calling yourself?”

  Eddie’s twisted paw rose and Douglas flew through the air, pounding against the metallic cross standing prominently against the chancel. His spine cracked, and he felt his legs fall loosely from his bones. He howled in pain, knowing it did nothing, then curtailed his voice.

  He must not let Martin know what was happening.

  Martin was the man the heir of hell was after.

  Douglas needed to do all he could to die quietly, fearing Martin might show himself at the sounds of distress.

  Eddie flew across the air with spiteful sophistication until he was only inches from the pained expression swept across Douglas’ visage.

  “Tell me who he is!” Eddie’s face demanded.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  Eddie’s hand clasped into his fist, prompting numerous cracks to reverberate from Douglas’ feeble body. Douglas could feel the various knuckles and toes of his body snap and shatter into pieces.

  He stifled his screams, bit his lip, grinded his teeth, did everything he could to stop the yelps escaping his quivering jaw.

  “We know heaven conceived another child. We know he is hidden.”

  “There is no child…”

  “Liar!” The scream came out in various screeched, deafening pitches, pounding against the walls of the church and resounding back against them again and again.

  The scream would have been heard for miles.

  Martin would have heard it.

  Please, just kill me before he gets here…

  Eddie flung his arms open wide and Douglas’ body responded with various stabbing pains shooting through his chest. Douglas knew something inside of him had exploded – something that would cause a slow, painful death.

  His face scrunched into excruciating pain.

  “Why are you trying not to make any sound?” Eddie mused. “What is it you are hiding?”

  Footsteps pounded against the stone steps from the nearby spiral staircase.

  Martin.

  All at once, various punches of agony fired around Douglas’ body. He lost the sight of his right eye, feeling a splattering of blood against his face, just as the bones in his arms shot into hundreds of pieces.

  He couldn’t take it anymore.

  His weak voice screamed out into his beloved church.

  “Go to hell!” Douglas bellowed.

  The last thing Douglas saw as death overcame him was Martin’s worried face appearing in the far doorway.

  “So that’s what you are hiding?”

  “Father Douglas!” cried out Martin.

  No. Martin, no!

  This was not what Douglas wanted.

  It was not Martin’s time.

  Now Martin would have to pit his inexperienced powers against the heir of hell.

  Now Douglas would have to die before he even saw Martin lose.

  Then, with one gigantic explosion of torture, his
nervous system shattered.

  He was to helplessly watch the final moments of his life fade away.

  23

  “Come on, come on, you son of a bitch!” Derek barked at the phone.

  He’d lost count of how many times he had punched the number in. He’d tried everywhere he could think of: the church’s reception, the personal landline to Douglas, the tour guide booking line.

  But at this late hour, it felt like a lost cause.

  Everything feels like a lost cause lately.

  He had to keep trying. It was all he could do.

  He had to do something.

  He couldn’t just sit back and leave Father Douglas to die.

  Nor could he leave Martin in danger.

  The last thing they wanted was for the heir to discover they had been training Martin, or discover who Martin was – or, even worse, discover what Martin may be able to do.

  Martin was the world’s last hope.

  He was the only hope.

  This couldn’t happen. They couldn’t lose him.

  They couldn’t reveal him, not until Martin was ready.

  The repetitive ring of the dial tone gave further indication that there was nothing Derek could do.

  Maybe it was too late.

  Maybe Douglas was already dead.

  He slammed the phone down and lifted it back up, pressing it against his ear and punching in the number once more.

  And he listened.

  Listened again to the infuriating dial tone.

  That sound was torture. A relentless reminder that there was no hope. Douglas and Martin were on the other side of the world, and Derek could do nothing about it.

  Jenny wearily approached the study. Derek looked to her with distant hope.

  “Any luck?” he weakly asked. He was tired, stressed, and fatigue was setting in.

  “I’ve booked us flights for the morning. We leave at nine fifteen, then we’ll get there four fifteen in the afternoon, their time.”

  “What’s the time difference?” Derek demanded, not meaning to come across as impatient as he sounded.

  “They are two hours ahead, so quarter past two our time.”

  Derek let out an enraged breath of frustration. He leant back, defeated, slamming the phone back down for what felt like the thousandth time.

  Israel was over twelve hours away. Anything that was going to happen was likely happening now.

  If it hadn’t happened already.

  It could well have been yesterday. Or the day before.

  For all they knew, Douglas and Martin’s dead bodies could be laying on top of each other unnoticed in the back room of the church.

  “Any luck on the phone?” Jenny asked, sitting in the vacant chair next to Derek, leaning toward him.

  “No.” Derek shook his head.

  “So what do we do?”

  Derek shrugged. “Pray, I guess.”

  He bowed his head, closing his eyes. Attempting to find some kind of positive comfort in this hellish situation.

  “Derek, I’ve never seen you like this,” Jenny admitted.

  “Yeah, well,” Derek snapped, “it’s not easy always knowing the answers. Sometimes you run out; but the questions just keep coming.”

  “You know you’ve done your best, right?” Jenny assured him. “With Eddie, with me, with this fight. You shouldn’t feel bad about anything; you’ve done what you can.”

  Derek forced a grateful smile but his eyes said otherwise.

  “It doesn’t change the truth that I’ve failed. The heir will find Douglas, and Martin with him, and will discover what he’s done and kill him.”

  “Maybe we should have a bit more faith in Martin,” Jenny suggested. “Maybe he’s made more progress than we know.”

  “Maybe,” Derek nodded.

  Maybe Martin had made great progress, and they were underestimating him. Maybe he was full of uncontestably commanding power. Maybe he was surging with the good he needed to defeat Eddie.

  Martin was, after all, a far more headstrong young man than he had ever been given credit for.

  And he had the sight in him.

  Just like Eddie had.

  Derek told himself that there was hope, that Martin could do it. Or, he could be sensible enough to not get involved, to not battle the heir, to not let his emotions get the better of him. He’d see Eddie fighting Douglas, and he would bury any loyalty he had toward his mentor away and remain uninvolved.

  The heir could have such a direct, tunnel vision of hate that it bypasses Martin and gets Douglas without any acknowledgement of Martin’s existence.

  It could all work out well.

  Douglas could even be saved.

  The heir could be wounded.

  Yeah, Derek thought. This could all be far better than I am imagining.

  Martin will win.

  There was only one thing plaguing his mind.

  His gut told him otherwise.

  24

  The repetitive sound of a distant phone ringing finally ceased.

  Martin focussed on everything else.

  On the sight, the sound, the smell, the feel.

  But all he could feel was terror.

  All he could smell was death.

  The distorted face of a man he had once met, the man who had vowed to save his mother from an inevitable death, gazed back at him with a vague satisfaction.

  Then that face was gone. Twisted into a spiral of dark, menacing shapes.

  With a cry of sheer pain, the body of Edward King contorted, twisted, shifted, morphed, and turned. The clothes were ripped and shredded as its body loomed larger. Once it was almost the size of the church, its features finally appeared. A claw at least three times the size of Martin, a hairy torso subtly alight with the small flames of hell, and hooves in the place of feet, mounting sharp instruments of death in the place of its toes.

  What had been the body of Edward King was no more. It was now a large, powerful, indistinguishable hell beast, set on destroying anything in its path.

  All Martin could hear breathing around the church were the croaked, sadistic growls of the heir of hell.

  All he could see was a demonic creature so large and consumed with hate that it could wipe out anyone in its path with a simple glance or swipe of the claw.

  But Martin had to avoid focussing on that.

  He had to, if he was to stand any chance of surviving.

  Father Douglas’ eyes turned to Martin, widening at the sight of his mentee standing stumped in the doorway.

  Douglas had not been afraid before. He had welcomed death like an old friend, happy to be on his way to heaven.

  But now he knew that, following his death, it would likely be Martin’s, too.

  Then all would be lost and his death would be in vain.

  “Run,” whispered Douglas.

  Martin squinted, unable to hear him.

  “Run!” Douglas shouted, his eyes full of desperate pleading.

  Martin shook his head.

  Martin no longer ran from his problems.

  Foolish boy.

  Does he not realise everything rests on him?

  The beast turned from Douglas, who remained stationary in front of the cross he had given his final prayers to. His body was paralysed, but his mind was moving a million miles an hour; darting through various frantic thoughts of what he could do to protect his apprentice.

  Martin couldn’t help but be intimidated. The beast was terrifying. Its carnivorous dominance was more than Martin could fully comprehend. Its strength was such that it knocked out the solid stone of the pillars of the church, just by the simple act of barging forward. Its eyes were deadly, its claws were sharp, and its teeth were curved into razors.

  It took a simple step forward for the beast to be towering over Martin.

  “Martin…” Douglas pleaded from behind the beast, in a whispered shout. “Do not reveal your powers! Do not let him know who you are!”

  Martin wasn’t sure
why Douglas was suggesting such a thing.

  As much as this power-demon made him shake, he would not stand down. Despite his quivering knees, his thrashing heart, and his pounding blood, this was what he had trained for.

  Finally, his life could mean something.

  He did not fear death.

  The creature boomed a deep, sickening laugh; the first thing it had done that had given it a remotely human quality.

  Martin put one foot forward and curled his arms in a circular motion.

  Conjuring fire would do the trick.

  Realising what Martin was preparing to do, Douglas willed himself to wave his arms in a hysterical indication to stop.

  The main advantage they had at the moment was that Martin was secret.

  Even if Martin survived this, if he revealed who he was…

  The demon had come there for Douglas.

  He needed to make sure that’s where it ended.

  He closed his eyes. Concentrated. Lifted a hand up.

  With a weak tense of his muscles, he managed it.

  He reached his hand in the altar and withdrew a fistful of holy water. He threw his arm feebly forward, spraying a line of liquid over a small patch of the beast’s feet.

  The beast roared, shooting around, focussing its attention on Douglas.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Douglas confirmed. “Look at me.”

  Its feet tinged with a slight hiss, a small puff of smoke rising from them, and the beast quickly withdrew its foot.

  Martin started marching forward, but Douglas flinched his hand, indicating for Martin to stay where he was.

  He could sense Martin’s hesitance. He could feel Martin’s wish to jump forward and protect Douglas, to ensure his mentor didn’t die.

  “Please, Martin, don’t,” he muttered, reaching out to Martin with his weakened stare. “Just let me lead him.”

  A large gloop of salvia dropped out the beast’s mouth and landed in a puddle before Douglas’ feet, encasing them in red.

  Douglas dragged his arms forward, pulling himself along the hard, stone surface toward the door, opening it, dragging himself into the yard.

  The creature merely walked into the wall, smashing it to a wreckage beside his feet. The solid structure that had remained so unbeatable for thousands of years, destroyed in a mere moment.