Devil's Hand

by M. E. Patterson

  “See, Trent Hawkins! Look at what you see!”

  As Trent felt the cold, brittle nails digging into his wrist, he saw Vladimir’s true countenance. He could see the glowing red eyes even brighter, and a distended, angular spine strained against the fabric of the old man’s clothing. Worst of all was the smell. He could taste the odor of fire and smoke and ash emanating from him. The new vision struck a chord of primal fear. Trent yelled and squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could muster. He wrested his hand from Vladimir’s grasp.

  When he opened his eyes again, all seemed normal. Vladimir looked human, though his eyes still bore the faint red tint.

  “I have given you a gift, Trent. Touch the flesh and you will know the truths behind the masks. So many things in this world are not as they seem. Today, you have seen a creature of shadow, a grigori, a handful of demons and a gibborim child, though I assure you there are plenty more of each. And there are other sides to this war, sides you have yet to meet. This is more than simply the grigori hunting their children. There are those who hunt us and there are those who will be hunting you as well.”

  He growled from deep within his vein-laced throat.

  “And they will have you, Mr. Hawkins. They will catch you and they will destroy you. And they will take her–” He pointed a finger at Celia. “–to places I would rather not discuss. Realms even such as we would dare not traverse. Do you understand?”

  Vladimir’s strike had drawn blood from Trent’s bottom lip. Trent used his right hand to wipe away a smear of blood. “Yeah,” he growled. “What do I do next?” His bravado fought against trembling fear, leaving Trent mostly paralyzed.

  The anger drained from Vladimir’s face and was replaced by a thin smile. “I have told you enough. The rest you must learn from Ramón. He has been waiting to talk with you for quite a long time.”

  Trent shook his head in frustration. “Alright, so where is this Ramón?” He realized then that Celia had made her way out of the corner and over to his side. Her head was down and her fists were clenched and shaking.

  Snake spoke up. “Let’s end the game. I’ll draw you a map before we leave.”

  Trent grumbled, righted his chair, and sat back down at the table. Celia came over to stand by his side, still trembling with fear and anger.

  Vladimir said quietly, “In a way, I feel pity for you both. This must be very hard to understand all at once. And I fear that Ramón will give you even more to consider.”

  Trent mumbled, “What is he gonna tell me that’ll trump all this?”

  “As I said before, sometimes you have to work with the hand you have been dealt. But this is a game to which you have yet to learn all the rules. Ramón will help you read your cards.”

  Trent went all-in, forcing everyone else to match him or fold out. They all stayed in. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised when he pulled that third six.

  “Yeah? Well I’ve been dealt a devil’s hand, so fuck you.”

  Vladimir looked up at Trent then, his eyes sagging in their sockets. He looked sad. “As you see, sometimes things are not as they seem. And sometimes they are.”

  There was grumbling all around as the demons stood up from the poker table and the dealer collected the cards.

  Trent turned to Jack and said, “Keep the money. Now I don’t owe you shit.”

  Jack broke into an evil grin and turned away in order to escort his companions to the back door.

  Snake lagged behind. He stared at Trent and Celia for a moment and then chuckled. “Knowledge is a real bitch.”

  Trent met Snake’s snaggletoothed grin, but said nothing.

  Snake shrugged. “Yeah, anyway, so here’s a map to Ramón’s place.” He pulled a neatly drawn map from his pocket and shoved it into Trent’s hand. He turned to leave and then paused, spun back around and tossed Celia an apple that had appeared in his hand.

  “Here. You might get hungry later.” He ran off, shouting, “Hey, wait up!”

  Trent and Celia stood amidst the ringing cacophony of the casino. She stared at the shiny red apple in her hand. As a test, Trent closed his eyes and tried to summon the fiery sensation he had felt previously. He opened his eyes again, reached out, and brushed a hand across Celia’s exposed neck. His heart sank. There had been no hallucinating. Celia’s form had taken on a new hue, her skin tinged blue-white. She stank of sea salt. Water. Always water.

  Trent knew that Vladimir had spoken truth, though cryptic and likely incomplete. And now, he had the ability to see the truth whenever and wherever he needed. He thought it the sort of enlightenment that only a fool might desire.

  He turned to Celia as the last of the players disappeared through the back door of the kitchen, leaving only Jack Mars standing there alone. Her face was streaked with red, but her expression had slowly changed from despair to resolution.

  “I don’t know what I’ve gotten you into, Celia,” he said quietly. “But I’m sorry.”

  Celia didn’t answer. She seemed to be struggling with her thoughts.

  Jack Mars wandered over and Trent noticed he was carrying the Desert Eagle. Jack approached and offered it. “Here,” he said. “You gave me the cash so I’ll let you keep your gun. Besides, sounds like you’re going to need it.”

  “This mean you’re lifting the death warrant on my head?”

  “Not necessarily.” Jack smiled. “Gotta keep it interesting, right?”

  “It’s not interesting enough already?”

  Jack chuckled and started to walk away. “Oh, hey,” he said, pausing mid-stride. “You should probably go see Ramón tonight. He’s been expecting you and he’s not the kind of guy to keep waiting.”

  “Yeah,” said Trent. He turned to Celia. “I don’t know how this is going to end, kiddo, but I say we go talk to this Ramón, see what he has to say. If he can tell us how to stop Salvatore, then maybe we can get you out of this mess.”

  Celia nodded. Her hand went instinctively to the Book in her jacket pocket.

  Trent saw the motion and felt pangs of worry. The way Celia had become attached to it scared him somehow, and the fact that he didn’t understand his own fears made him worry even more. “What is that book, Celia?”

  She looked up at him, fear in her eyes. She obviously didn’t want to say, but Trent needed to know.

  He pressed the issue again, more insistent this time.

  Finally, she lowered her gaze and answered. “Its name is Raziel. It’s trapped in The Book. It’s helping me understand the words in my head.” She held up her hand and ice began to form across the surface of her skin. It made a sharp crackling sound as it appeared. “I can hurt people.” She looked deep into Trent’s eyes. “I’m afraid, Trent. My parents are gone. I don’t have anything left but this–” She held up her icy hand. “I don’t have anything at all.”

  Trent thought for a long moment. “Let’s see what this guy Ramón has to say first. Things are bad, I know. Both of our lives are going to be real different from now on. But just hold on, okay?”

  She nodded. The ice faded back into her fingers and was gone.

  Trent grabbed her hand and took a step toward the casino’s back exit, but it exploded open, admitting the roaring sounds of a blizzard outside and two men in gray business suits, blond and strangely beautiful. Behind them, the two bouncers lay unconscious, or maybe dead.

  Celia shrieked and began moving backwards, away from the two men. Trent stood frozen for a moment, paralyzed by the unexpected entrance. And that’s when he noticed they both carried guns.

  On instinct, Trent raised the Desert Eagle from his waistband, aimed and fired at the nearest advancing suit. He squeezed the trigger and felt the massive gun unload, the recoil nearly throwing his arm out of its socket. The bullet missed. Trent was sure his aim had been good.

  Goddammit, where’s my luck now?

  He fired again, and then a third time. None of the bullets hit home and he took a step back, away from the still-advancing suits. People in the casino behind him ha
d begun screaming, panicking, fleeing to the front lobby and the exits.

  “Run!” he yelled to Celia and then turned to flee back into the casino proper. Celia, though, stood still, fixed in place with her eyes glued to the oncoming men. Trent skidded to a stop a few feet away and looked back. “Come on!” he screamed, but it was too late.

  One of the suits stepped right up to her and grabbed her around the waist. The other kept on toward Trent. Celia shrieked as the man picked her up and jammed her palm against his face. Steam rose from between her splayed fingers and the man gritted his teeth in pain, but didn’t falter. He turned and headed for the back exit.

  “No!” shouted Trent as he barreled back the way he had come, gun raised. He ran straight up to blond man and stuck the barrel of the gun in his chest and pulled the trigger, but the man was too quick.

  In an instant he had Trent’s wrist in a lock and yanked the arm upward, pointing the Desert Eagle at the ceiling. The bullet plowed into the overhead tiles, creating a shower of dust. He then put his other hand palm-first into Trent’s sternum and the blow sent him careening backwards through the air, doubled over with pain. Trent crashed through the glass doors that led into the casino proper and collided with a security guard that had just rounded the corner. They both tumbled to the floor in a heap of blood-spattered glass. The gun did a midair somersault and landed neatly in the blond’s outstretched hand. Trent, gasping for air, looked up just in time to see the other suit leave out the back exit with Celia struggling in his arms.

  “Things must be as ordained,” said the remaining suit in a calm, melodious voice as he moved toward Trent and the now-unconscious guard. “We want our Garden back.”

  Trent raised an arm weakly in a futile gesture of protest. The blond stopped, lowered the Desert Eagle and trained it on Trent’s panicked face. And fired.

  A wave of nausea washed over Trent then–a black, sickening miasma that poisoned his subconscious mind and made the air around him smell instantly like aged dust. He felt his heart skip a full beat, leaving behind a sinking feeling, a terrified pit. Blood sprayed onto his arm but he didn’t feel the bullet pierce his skin. He realized his eyes were closed and opened them.

  The bullet had buried itself in the neck of the unconscious–now dead–security guard beneath him. At near point blank, the blond suit had missed, had killed the wrong man. Trent watched a look of confusion spread across the blond’s beautiful face, a look that changed abruptly when another gun went off nearby.

  The blond turned to look at the source: Jack Mars, with two guards backing him up. Jack lowered his rifle and aimed the barrel at the man in the suit. “You’re not welcome here,” he growled. “I’ve already thrown you out once today. Get out, now!”

  The blond grinned and stuck Trent’s still-smoking gun in his waistband. “You wouldn’t,” he said. “There are rules.”

  “Yeah,” said Jack, with a grin, “but they would.” He made a head gesture and doors opened on either side of the blond. Men stood in the doors–two each–bearing rifles trained on the interloper. “Regular folk,” said Jack. “No rules for them. How fast can you move?”

  The blond scowled and looked back at Trent. He waved the Desert Eagle at him. “I’ll be keeping this,” he said with a wink. Then he left, head held high. As he stepped through the broken glass door, heading for the rear exit, he muttered, “I’m sure we’ll meet again, Mr. Hawkins.” He left the casino and closed the door behind him, muffling the sound of the blizzard outside.

  Trent grunted, gasped for breath, and finally pulled himself to a seated position. His mind was racing, trying to piece together what had just happened. Blonds. Guns. Celia gone. Celia!

  “Where’s Celia!?”

  Jack lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Trent. I couldn’t stop them.”

  “Why the fuck not? Who was that? Why couldn’t I shoot them? He took my goddamn gun!”

  “Angels. Cherubim. Pretty minor, but they move quick. There are still some left, working their own agendas.”

  “And you can’t shoot ‘em when they crash your place?”

  “Rules.”

  Trent sneered. “Fuck!” He struggled to his feet, brushing the glass off his jeans and torn dress shirt. “Where did they take her, Jack?”

  Jack shrugged.

  Trent walked over and grabbed Jack by the shirt lapels and shook him, hard. “Listen, you little shit. After the things I’ve seen today, I’m not the slightest bit scared of you anymore, so throw me a goddamn bone! If you don’t know where those angels took her, then tell me who does.”

  Jack pulled himself away from Trent’s grasp and brushed off his sport jacket. “We’ve already told you who has the answers.”

  “Ramón.”

  Trent took a deep breath, stared at the ceiling of the now-vacated casino, and then exhaled slowly as he watched the violent sprays of snow machine-gunning against the glass windows around the casino floor. He picked up his gray Stetson and brushed off shards of glass and then put it back on his head. Without another word, he walked out into the blizzard through the front doors of the Inferno, his snakeskin boots crunching on fallen plastic chips as the neon lights cast him in various shades.

  Trent stepped out the casino door and into a winter maelstrom. He gasped. The earlier snowfall had been startling, but the scene before him now was both breathtaking and horrific. The wind screamed violently down the street, picking up bursts of snowy drift from the thick blanket of white that had settled during the poker match. The icy spray battered the unlucky–or idiotic–few people that still lingered outside. Most had their hands up, blocking their faces as they trudged through the blasting snow.

  “Fuck,” Trent exclaimed, more sadness than anger in his voice. He wanted to laugh, or maybe cry, or something. His emotions felt jumbled. Everything had gone south. He felt lost and pressed his fingers to his temples to try to still his thoughts.

  He leaned up against a gaudy marble statue of a cartoonish devil and used it for cover from the snow gusts as he watched looters trudging through the snow across the street, carrying televisions out of the destroyed façade of an electronics rental shop. The whole situation was spiraling out of control. It felt like a metaphor for his life. Everything always spiraled down like this. The plane crash, the gambling career, his life with Susan. He punched his fist into the statue, bloodying his knuckles.

  He stared at the black Ducati, waiting quietly for him on the street, rocking gently with the buffeting gusts of ice-laden wind. A pair of looters wandered over and began to examine it. Trent eyed them warily.

  “Touch that,” he shouted, “and you’ll be picking your fingers out of your ass.”

  The two men looked up at him, fists raised, then met his gaze and backed down. Quietly, they slunk off into the howling gray to join their compatriots at the electronics store.

  He shook his head. Maybe he had been wrong to drag Celia around this city, this horrible shit-filled pit. Just like with Susan, he was all talk and no action. He could see the bad, the nightmares, in everything, but when was the last time he had stopped to do anything about it? Now he was standing in a freak blizzard in Las Vegas, blindly running from a shadow-monster and an old man with supernatural powers. A pair of angels had stolen the only thing he had left to protect. Forces were acting against him on every side and he was the only one not playing the game. He was just running scared. It wasn’t about to end as far as he could see; at least not on its own. He had to take the initiative, had to sit down at the table and push his money in and take his chances. But he needed to figure out the other players first.

  Poker’s not a luck game, he thought. Not by a long shot. And if this guy Ramón had some answers, maybe he can teach me how to play my hand.

  19

  SALVATORE LAY BROKEN IN A trash-filled alley, shielded from the falling snow and blasting cold wind by the old, torn-up awning over the back entrance to a now-closed strip club. His new domain was one of broken bottles, plastic wrap, and filled t
rashcans, rotted and stinking and buzzing with the few flies still struggling against the dropping temperatures. From the litter Salvatore had painfully arranged a crude nest, a bed of filth. With a child’s discarded, cigarette-burned blanket, he had attempted to tourniquet his leg. Oozing tendrils of ravaged, scorched flesh hung from the inexpert wrapping like half a gutted fish in butcher’s paper. He stared, unblinking, at the pulsing wound as it disgorged ever-greater quantities of blood into the bed of trash.

  His mind reeled with thoughts. It felt to Salvatore like a dark and horrible past that he had been running from had finally caught up to him. Things that had lay buried, deep in his mind, had come unburied. He thought about his lost wife and wondered if he had–

  No, he thought. Not possible. He shook his head and balled his fists and moaned like a wounded animal as another wave of pain traveled up his leg and settled dimly in his brain.

  An angel? A demon? Inside me? He could scarcely believe it, but then he knew it to be true. The recipe, the pasta sauce he’d be trying to replicate for years–whenever he had tried to access that place in his memories, he had felt a blockage, an obstacle, as though some great, dark thing had obscured that information. And so he had fought against it by working the recipe over and over, trying to pry out that last glittering gem. Much of his previous life had gone dark after the fire; the brilliance of the flames burning away what happiness he could remember of his wife and his daughter, Fiamma. The memory of that single recipe had gone too.

  Dwelling on those painful thoughts suddenly dislodged a forgotten bit–the smell of gasoline and match smoke, untethered to any visual or other remembrance, just the memory of the smell. Those men, he thought, with anger rising in his gut. Those foul, godless creatures with blond hair, talking voodoo and demons. They killed my wife! They burned my house and my life and my little girl!