I gritted my teeth and let out a growl as the first scaly creature held up skin flaps as a second bug crawled into the wound. The girl beside me screamed no over and over as she experienced the same thing. She too attempted to rip her arms out of the vines that held her tight.
Master came behind her and stroked her long blonde hair as if to still her, then grabbed a shank of her hair and pulled her head back. He stared into her eyes and whispered, “Be good and be quiet, or I’ll pour another flask right in front of you.” Tears were streaming down her face. She bit down on her lip and closed her eyes just as tightly.
The bugs burrowed into our wounds. The pain was excruciating, but I dared not let any noise out. It dug its way up my arm under the skin. Just as I thought I might be able to bear the pain, the third and fourth bug followed, each of them tunneling their way up the underside of my flesh, creating a bulge under my skin. I threw my head against the back of the chair, trying desperately to maintain consciousness and composure.
There was so much pain, I couldn’t hold back. The growl became a roar as my primal nature took over, my body morphed into its demon form. My hands, still lashed to the tabletop, changed into their claws. The skin at the fingertips merged with the fingernails and hardened. The tips slowly turned black, like rot crawling up each finger, hardening the skin as it went. The black continued until it reached my forearms, the veins carried the black pitch upwards, creeping from the back of the talons and continuing to the shoulders.
The girl next to me screamed again. I couldn’t blame her. Even I couldn’t believe the amount of pain I was in. I could feel all four of the silver creatures in my arm, digging, moving. As the first one crested my shoulder, a bulge grew under my shirt, which inched forward as they continued their journey, over the shoulder and down the side of the ribcage.
Hemming lost control of his human form. His ears morphed into points and sprouted with fur, but a moment later, they were leathery flaps. His face became a snout, fangs protruded from his lower jaw, and then he was Hemming again.
Through the torture, Master spoke.
“You’ve all now been, for lack of a better term, infected.” Master let out a little hum of satisfaction. “My diminutive creations will reside in your bodies and survive off your blood until you find adequate hosts for each of them. By ingesting your blood and therefore incorporating your essence into their bodies, they become little transmitters of your unique physical traits and talents. Once you find a suitable host, my creatures will inject themselves into your subjects, passing along your genes and forcing the transformation of humans into various forms of Daimonion, but they’ll be far more demon than human. I have specific targets in mind, and some of you will be instructed whom to get close to. The minions will do the rest. You have three months to complete your task. If you fail to find suitable subjects in that time, my parasite helpers will destroy you and then return to me. I have no need for those who can’t perform.”
I would have been shocked at this revelation, of what the parasites had been created to do— the making of demons outside of Hell was impossible. Daimonion, the children I hunted, were turned to the dark side once my venom was injected into them, and some even exhibited psychic abilities after puberty. But this…this sounded like Master was creating something more than just Daimonion.
The pain of the monsters as they dug deeper into my chest cavity, burrowing under my ribs…it burned as they tunneled. The girl beside me had passed out. Hemming’s eyes had rolled back and foam formed at the corners of his mouth. His head bobbed—he too was losing consciousness.
“Don’t disappoint.” Master stood there for a moment, surveying the carnage. Blood splatter was everywhere. As he watched over us, a smile spread across his face, and the charming humanlike side beamed bright. Black smoke rose from his skin, tiny wisps at first, until there was so much you could barely see his chiseled facial features until a small hiss like steam could be heard, and then, he was gone. Evaporated.
The vines released our captured appendages. Creaking filled the room as the wood returned to its former solid state, a carved relief entwining the edge of a large table. The smooth tabletop was a mess of bloodstains.
I let my head rest on the edge of the table for a minute. The digging continued, and the little bastards moved around, jostling and jockeying for position. I let out a sob and then pounded my right fist on the wooden table several times in an attempt to release a large amount of anger, pain, and frustration. The wooden vines broke and splintered as I pounded, wood chips flying in all directions.
I was exhausted, bloody, and broken. Once again I felt used, worthless, and dirty. Master would make me brutalize more humans, creatures that I had grown to cherish and yet become jealous of. I had no desire to drag any of them through my darkness, or worse, help bring the underworld to the human realm.
I lifted my head, checking out the room. Perhaps I had passed out for a while—everyone was gone except for me and the unconscious girl.
A large incision and two loose skin flaps, bugs living in my gut, and a broken wing was my reward for showing up for the summons. That and instructions to ensure the safety of a very human-appearing girl. She wasn’t one of us, but I felt sorry for her, passed out on the table with blood smeared across her face and sprayed all over her clothes. I couldn’t leave her, and Master had made it clear she was mine to care for. She had fainted early and had not heard the last insidious speech from Master. She had no idea what was in her, or why it was there. She deserved, if nothing else, a fighting chance.
I shifted my wing, gritting my teeth as bolts of stabbing pain flared down my back until the wing was immobilized and draped across my shoulder. I grabbed the girl’s chair, pulled it out, and caught her as she fell forward. I slid my hand around her waist and picked her up, cradling her close to my chest.
It was going to be a long walk home.
Retreat
DATI
I walked through the grimy and shadow-filled alleys, carrying the blood-smeared rag doll girl. My wings were wrapped around me and the girl like a cloak, my shoulder braced my broken appendage. I needed to find my way back home, on foot and quickly, without being seen by any humans.
Every block was an obstacle course, and I was exhausted, dirty, and—judging from the girl’s complexion—I was running out of time. She had lost a lot of blood during the summoning, and Master had instructed me to look after her. If she died in my care, I would be next.
The sun peeked up from behind the cityscape, but home was just around the corner.
The elevator ride to the top floor was quick, and I lowered the girl down as gently as I could before my front door, my aching muscles complaining angrily at the exertion. But my body failed me and she crumpled to the floor. She didn’t so much as twitch. How was it possible that she could have been passed out for this long? My heart raced. Maybe she was already dead?
Bending down, I listened to her—no. Her breathing was shallow and short, but it was there.
After patting down my body for the familiar feel of keys, it dawned on me that I had leapt out the window. Seriously? Fuck. I was locked out.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. Master was right: such stupidity. There was only one way left for me to get in.
With a flash movement, I rushed the door with the shoulder that wasn’t trying to support a broken wing, aiming as close as I could to the inside of the doorframe, nearest to the hinges. I hit the door and the metal fittings groaned. The door bent under my weight, the hinge pins snapped as they gave way, and the door clattered to the ground.
I stood quietly for a second, making sure that I hadn’t disturbed anyone.
To my relief, the hallway remained quiet and empty. The last thing I needed was unwanted attention from a nosy neighbour. With care, I dragged the girl inside and quickly propped the door back in place. It would do for now, but I would need to have that repaired as soon as possible.
After a minute to catch my breath, I lugged
the girl onto my leather sofa. Her clothes were ripped and stained with gore and filth after the night’s events. What a completely bizarre outfit for a summons by Master. She appeared as if she was going to a sorority meeting, not a demon summoning.
The slash on her arm still seeped blood and needed to be bandaged. I was no Healer, but the least I could do was clean her up and prevent the wound from bleeding further. I left the sleek modern lines of the chrome-and-black leather living room and headed down the hallway towards my bedroom where supplies to bandage her arms would be in the master bath.
Two Shishi statues sat at the foot of the bed, one positioned at each of the front bedposts. The Shishi were good-sized marbled stone figures of Chinese palace dogs, but these were the demon version with pointed ears, slits for irises, and a maw full of razor-sharp teeth. The tails were long and barbed on the end, just like mine. Their flat pushed-in faces held many skin folds, which allowed them to trap scents, making them excellent trackers as well, but their main job was to guard temples and shrines. The Shishi only guarded places that housed great darkness.
I stopped momentarily and contemplated whether or not I should wake them, and came to the conclusion that it was better to be safe than sorry. I went to the Shishi statues and petted the head of each one.
“Wake up. I need you.”
The stone eyes blinked a couple of times, and their gazes focused on me, glaring menacingly. They always awakened like this, as if challenging me for disrupting their sleep.
Within moments, colour spread through their bodies like a rapidly growing fungus. The stone on their backs cracked and crumbled off, turning into dust as it fell to the floor. In its place stood short wiry fur, though it retained the same marbling that the stone had shown. The creatures were not pleasant to look at. Little bowed and misshapen legs held up stout bodies, and the barbed tails curled and bent forwards over their backends. As soon as the transformation was complete, they sniffed the air and stood at attention.
“Guard the front door. Nothing goes in or out except me, and no one else gets close to the girl,” I commanded. They trotted off down the hallway. Their movements were reminiscent of the stone that had cocooned them, so stiff and unemotional.
I continued on to the bathroom, gathered the gauze and tape I would need, and then walked back to the living room. The girl was still out. Good. Hopefully she would stay that way for a while.
I hastily washed her arm, clearing away the dirt from our journey home and the gooey blood that tried to coagulate to seal the gash. Once I had her somewhat clean, I wrapped the dressing over the jagged laceration made by the silvery minions and taped the whole mess up. It wasn’t a good fix, but hopefully it would stop the bleeding. I threw a blanket over her and took a deep breath.
There was only one person who could help me out of this mess with the pallid girl lying on my couch and also with my own gash and broken wing. And that one person was Marta, the Healer.
As I walked out of the apartment, grabbing a long black trench coat hung near the door, I made sure the Shishi were in place. They sat on either side of the door and had already formed back into stone.
THE SUN WAS well up into the daytime sky by the time I was on my way to Marta’s, wearing my coat to conceal the busted wing. Considering my disheveled appearance, with dirt and blood smears, I would be easily mistaken for someone who lived on the streets.
Perception and assumption ruled the human thought processes, and in their minds, they saw what made them comfortable. I was a homeless man and therefore ignorable. Before I could make eye contact with anyone in particular, either begging for spare change or creating a scene, everyone was just as happy to leave me alone.
I rounded a few corners, ending up on a slightly less-trafficked road.
Further down the street, I spied the bookstore I was after. It wasn’t just a regular store. It was a new-age neo-pagan shop that sold a little of everything for the “white” witches of suburbia and urban downtown high-rises. Little did the patrons know the owner was much more than just a shopkeeper. She was, in fact, one Hell of a Healer.
A bell tinkled as I walked inside, its tone soothing as if casting a blessing. It always sent shivers down my spine.
The air was heavy with the smells of dust and incense, and as if to validate the heavy scent in the air, incense burned on the cash counter. Plants crowded the lobby: an aloe; a spider plant that teemed with little clone babies swinging from the hanging pot like circling helicopters; and, of course, the compulsory pothos sat on the counter, climbing up the wall and along a string that had been pinned into the ceiling tiles.
Despite the bookshop’s welcoming appearance and scented greeting, there was no one behind the cash counter. Marta was always trying to aid some witch find the latest book to help her coven cast better circles, or invoke the spirit of… fill in the blank. I’d met only a handful of true witches in my time, and most were dark. The energy they could control was powerful, and power corrupts. Humans seemed to corrupt quickly and easily.
Witches were humans who could take pieces of life force and reshape that energy so that their will was done. That life force only comes from one place: their own soul. Every time a witch cast a spell, they lost a little more of themselves. Of course, they could always replenish that life force, but that meant taking it from someone else.
Most witches I’d known were broken creatures. Smart, quick, ill-tempered, and disjointed, and if you thought about it, that made sense. Piecing together a soul that came from various sources was bound to give you a fragmented outlook on life.
Those who figured out they could alter their own energies quickly learned the repercussions, and often choose never to cast unless absolutely necessary.
Healers were witches with a twist. Healers could bend and manipulate the life force of the participant and redirect it to speed up the healing process. It was rare talent with little to no consequences for the caster.
I stood on my tiptoes and glanced around the shop. I couldn’t see anyone, but I could hear breathing and smell an odour of musk mixed with cut apples.
I walked past the cash counter, which housed all sorts of crystals and tarot decks, and walked into the first aisle of books. The shelves were heavily stocked with tantalizing reads and tomes of all sorts and descriptions, aptly organized with placards indicating various topics. As I turned to go down the next row, I stopped dead in my tracks.
At the end was a human, his gentle breaths loud in my ear and the smell of cut apples strengthening with each step I took towards him. The aroma was enticing, somewhat sexual and it made me conscious of my appearance. I brushed the dust and dirt from my coat, as if that would do anything to alleviate my disheveled appearance.
The human male was young, maybe twenty, light brown hair with a little red to it, average height, in shape but not overly muscled, bearded, and deeply engrossed in some book. He knelt in the aisle, which pulled up his tight khakis, exposing colourful socks above his hiking boots. The sleeves were turned up on his red plaid shirt.
It was his aura that captured my attention. I don’t usually see auras, but when I do, it’s more than likely a warning. All around the boy was a swirling mist of phosphorescent violet with pink highlights, about the same colour I would expect to see from a darkening mark, a lavender Aurora Borealis wrapped around him like a cloak. The luminous radiation was so thick it almost appeared tangible, and its movement caressed his entire body. It kept me enthralled and hypnotized as thin ropes spiraled down his arm and then around each finger. Each spiral of light and colour sent a warm tingle through me, drawing me in, arousing and mesmerizing me.
I took a deep breath.
He must have heard me. He turned around, saw me, and smiled a warm and sensuous grin that had just a hint of mischievousness.
“Hi, sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with something?” The male stood up. He was just a little shorter than me and didn’t seem to notice my current condition, the stress lines on my fa
ce from the last twelve hours of Hell, and clearly hadn’t noticed the trench coat covering a broken leather wing.
“I…ah…well, I,” was all I could manage before three things happened almost instantaneously.
One, his swirling aura immediately disappeared, which left me with a clear view of his tantalizing good looks. He had the lightest green eyes I had ever seen. They were darkly outlined by a heavy band of black, and highlights of golden-yellow hidden in the light green. His beard was full and thick, his jawline strong and masculine, his voice was musical and made me feel light-headed. The auburn shadings in his hair and beard gave him a glow, as if embers burned within and he was perpetually warm.
Next, the silvery demons residing just underneath my ribcage twisted, sending a sharp, gutting pain across my ribs. Was this their way of informing me I’d found a suitable host? I placed a hand over the little bulge below my sternum, a sense of dread washing over me. It couldn’t be, not him, no way. I surmised right then how the minions would leave my body—they would rip themselves from where they lay.
The third thing was a hand on my arm, yanking me around to face a pudgy old woman.
“What are you doing here? In the middle of the day! Are you out of your mind?” she hissed at me through thickened words that implied her heritage. It was Marta. Where the Hell did she come from? She had a firm grasp on my arm and pulled me around the corner and down the aisle away from the most handsome creature I had ever seen, and that aura. I strained my neck back to have another glimpse. He looked at me with an amused grin. When our eyes met, he winked.
My heart fluttered. I returned the smile instantly, despite Marta tugging me away. Momentarily, I had forgotten about the searing burn of the broken bone or the sharp piercing of the silver spines in my gut. All I could think about was his face, until Marta had me in the lobby. She grabbed my face and made me look at her.
“I said, what are you doing here?”
I snapped out of it and stared at her wrinkled little face. “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. I tried to ground myself and focus on the task at hand, but his green eyes were still held fast in my mind. They were so beautiful.
Daimonion (The Apocalypse Book 1) Page 4