Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen)

by Babbitt, Aaron

  “I knew that I couldn’t eliminate your influence,” the demon contended, becoming cold. “I knew that you would return eventually, and everything I worked for would have been a waste. We live in a different time now, don’t we? Metatron needs only to destroy you. Then, it will be only too simple to locate the remaining pillars of your religion and destroy them too. After that, every time an incarnation of the Buddha appears, Metatron himself could see to its demise.”

  “Try as he may,” the Lama replied, “no demon has ever been able to kill a Lama.”

  “With all due respect, Holiness, this is beyond your understanding and experience. Please, come with me.” He waved his hand to indicate the other monks. “I will find a place for everyone, and I can personally keep you safe.”

  “No,” the Dalai Lama retorted shortly, and he turned to leave.

  “No?! Just that simple?”

  “Correct,” the Dalai Lama agreed as he kept walking.

  “Then, send the Panchen Lama in your stead.”

  The Dalai Lama stopped and turned. Jeremiah had a feeling that he’d won a small victory. Ever since the last Panchen had died, the recent one had become like a son to the Dalai Lama. If there was any one person His Holiness cared so deeply about that he might fear for his safety, it was the Panchen Lama.

  He peered into the demon’s eyes for what seemed like a long time before replying, “I will consider it.” After that, he said nothing more as he walked back to his personal meditation room.

  Jeremiah left, not knowing whether or not to consider that encounter a success. Time will tell, he decided. As he walked back down the mountain pass to where his car was parked, Jeremiah pulled out a cigarette, lit it and fell into contemplation. It appeared that, no matter how hard he tried, he could not be as successful as Metatron was.

  As if to confirm the point, Jeremiah got a call from Marla, telling him that another prophet had been murdered. This one was in Orlando, and it seemed that he had been hanged.

  Like Judas, Jeremiah surmised. An ugly pattern was forming.

  Chapter 7

  The Bible tells us that humans were created in the image of God. Many people believe that this means that we look like Him, and I suppose, in a way, this could be true. It seems evident to me that God does not look like any of His creations; rather all of His creations reflect His purity. Everything in existence sprang from Him; there is simply nothing else from which He could take to create. In the beginning, there was only God. As such, He had to shape everything that followed from His own essence. This inseparably unites all things on Earth by a common strain. This strain is what makes us who we are. We can better understand the beauty of God by observing it in nature. We catch glimpses of His love through the love we get from others. Even the evil that festers in the hearts of men has an origin. People are quick to believe that nothing considered imperfect would reside in God. They cannot grasp that a war has existed since the beginning—if there truly ever was a beginning. Through our own internal struggles, we can begin to comprehend the conflict that God must see constantly. We certainly are images of Him. The reflections may be deluded, like looking at one’s image in a window. What we are left with may be as twisted as likenesses in fun house mirrors, but the similarities are undeniable.

  --Abigail Martin, Through the Eyes of a Martyr

  Alex’s two weeks were almost up. Every day, his mornings were taken up by learning basic combat maneuvers from Matt, blocks and strikes, guns, knives, and the like. Alex’s afternoons were dedicated to scholastic growth, despite assurances from Matt and Marla that Jeremiah could easily buy good scores to entrance exams if he had to. As much as he hated it, his evenings were spent pouring over the Bible to appease the demon’s request. And, almost every night, before his brain finally drifted into unconsciousness, he would spend an hour wondering what he could do to win Elizabeth’s heart.

  She’d made good on her word not to speak to him, going as far as to take other routes around the mansion, rather than pass him in the hallways. Often, Matt had all but begged Alex to join him and Elizabeth for some activity or another, and every time Alex declined. He didn’t feel right about imposing himself in something that Elizabeth did not want him to be a part. Alex was mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually exhausted, and he didn’t think he could handle much more of the mansion. He was actually looking forward to going away, even if it wasn’t very far.

  Furthermore, he hadn’t spoken to God in a while, and he believed that the silence was beginning to catch up to him. Alex had been having nightmares for the past four nights. He couldn’t remember any of them upon waking, but they’d been severe enough that he was starting to lose sleep, and he felt detached from his activities during the day.

  He wanted to cry out to God, but something deep within him blamed God for the monumental responsibilities that had been heaped upon his shoulders as well as the ever-growing distance between him and Elizabeth. He’d felt like she was so important to him, but he regretfully had to admit that the emotion was not, and probably would not be, reciprocated. It didn’t seem right that this situation could be set up so perfectly, yet there should be an insurmountable wall between him and what he desperately craved. He wanted God to change that. He wanted God to force Elizabeth to love him, but he knew that wasn’t fair. To some degree, he blamed God, but mostly he blamed himself.

  Tomorrow, he would go to the University of Las Vegas to start a new part of his life. He’d been told that he would stay in an apartment close by and that Matt would be posing as his roommate. Matt had a security detail assigned to Alex, but the martial arts master wanted to be in the immediate area, just in case he was needed. Alex chuckled when he heard about the arrangements; he thought Matt might have ulterior motives, but it didn’t matter. Alex didn’t particularly want to be alone on this venture. He was just starting to feel at home in Jeremiah’s mansion, and the last thing he wanted was to have to tackle something new by himself. He didn’t know why he had to go to school to get training from Abigail Martin, but Jeremiah had insisted that this was best, so no one argued.

  Everyone spoke of this woman almost reverently. She seemed to be someone of great power and intellect. In fact, the abilities that Jeremiah expected him to start manifesting were said to be like hers. He hoped that she could shed some light on what he was supposed to be doing, but he feared that meeting with her would only bring more questions. Indeed, to his dismay, part of him wondered if, even feared that, she would say he wasn’t this much-desired linchpin after all.

  Alex lay on his bed and attempted to sort through his thoughts, which were mostly a jumble of doubt and fear. Ironically, he was trying to motivate himself to go to the Bible to focus on something other than the mounting depression and anxiety. He’d made it pretty far, too, getting to chapter one of Acts last night. Once he’d crossed the threshold into the New Testament, he felt that his trek through the Good Book had become easier, but he hadn’t gotten to the end yet. Jeremiah had wanted him to finish it before tomorrow, though he wasn’t sure he could force himself to crack it tonight. Reflection on his lack of willpower only added to his already negative emotions. It didn’t make any sense, but right then, Alex turned his face to his pillow and started crying. Not finishing the Bible shouldn’t have evoked such an emotional response, but combined with all of the other let-downs, this had made it too much to bear. In his mind, he begged God for release.

  He saw himself in his father’s arms.

  “Trust, child,” James Tanner told him.

  “I can’t,” Alex sobbed. “It’s too hard.”

  His father put his hands on the sides of Alex’s head and stepped back to peer into his eyes. “Not for you. For some, maybe. You, though, have wells of strength you have yet to tap into.”

  “Why did you pick me? Isn’t there someone else who could do the job better?”

  “Shh...” his father comforted. “I told you: you picked me, and there’s no one I trust more than you. I know that yo
u feel alone in this, but you aren’t. You feel that I’ve kept from you the one thing you want, but that decision is not mine to make. Her will must be respected. You fear for your parents, but my angels watch over them. You fear that you won’t be able to finish this race, but my faith lies in you. Is that not comforting?”

  “Yes,” Alex had to admit. “But my faith isn’t that strong.”

  James Tanner considered this. “No, not yet. Faith is a growing process. I don’t expect you to do it all in a few weeks. I’m proud of you for how far you’ve come.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yes,” his father replied emphatically. “Your progress is quite amazing. Even my soul needs comforting every now and then. Trust me when I say that I’m edified by my children when they come to understand things the way I do. I’m happy when I see them grow, and you have made me very happy.”

  Though Alex was not in a physical world, he could feel his tears were drying up. He could feel the warmth of God’s love filling him. Things seemed so much clearer now, less urgent and overwhelming. He wondered why he hadn’t done this sooner. His dad was staring at him, and Alex could tell that God knew what he was thinking.

  “You’ve come a long way,” He said, “and you have a long way yet to go. I am never too far away. Go back now, and be assured that this will work out.”

  Alex’s eyes opened, and he could feel the moisture on his pillow. He went over to his beanbag chair and, renewed, took up the Bible once more.

  ***

  Abigail Martin sat at her desk in her new office. She was surfing through the school’s website to become more acquainted with what the university had to offer. The sun had set more than an hour ago, but her intrigue kept her awake.

  The University of Nevada apparently had quite an amazing Theater Department, and they would soon be showing A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Every time she saw that the play was being performed, she felt compelled to watch it. She could fairly clearly remember the first time she’d seen it. It was a comedy, but she couldn’t help but get teary-eyed from reminiscing about her childhood. She’d watched the play at Hampton Court on its first night, New Year’s Eve of 1604. It had been less than a year since her godmother had died, and James took the throne.

  She’d even spoken to Shakespeare about it afterward. Yes. She decided she’d see the interpretation of the UNLV theater department. Though she could quote the play line by line, and had had the honor and pleasure of performing the role of Titania at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in the late 1930s, she loved to see the young thespians enact it. They always had their own style and unique take on the characters.

  She chuckled softly as she recalled the look on Will’s face when she told him that the play seemed a little too childish. Even then, he was considered a master of performance, and a child was critiquing his play, telling him that it wasn’t mature enough. Now, she saw so many things in a different light. She could appreciate the qualities of the play that Shakespeare had not meant for her to understand as a child. She had even written many analyses of Shakespearean works, praising them as messages for all times. Though, on first meeting with him, she could only focus on the bright shade of red his face was becoming.

  Abigail stiffened as she felt a chill wash over her. She had known it would come. There was obviously a reason for the man at the airport, and now, she believed, she was going to find out what that was. She swiveled her chair slowly to meet her uninvited guest. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit, had short-cropped, dark, brown hair, and his shoulders were very broad. He pulled his glasses off and polished them with a handkerchief. His eyes bored into her soul, and the corners of his lips curled up.

  “Dr. Martin, I’ve heard so much about you. It’s a shame you wouldn’t join me as my guest.”

  She sighed. “Patheus.”

  “Very astute. I knew there was a reason Jeremiah relied upon you as much as he did.” He started to walk toward her.

  “No,” she commanded. “You’re fine where you are.”

  To Patheus’s chagrin, he obeyed. “Very powerful, too,” Patheus added, giving her a conciliatory smile. “I would expect no less from the chairwoman of the Elder Prophet Council.”

  “Greater is He who is in me...”

  Patheus snarled, “...Than he who is in the world. Very nice. Though a little trite, don’t you think? Really, Abbie. Quoting scripture to a demon? Doesn’t that seem unnecessary?”

  Abbie stood and brushed her clothes off in a seemingly unconcerned way. “Did you come here to kill me, Patheus?”

  “Yes,” he answered honestly.

  Abigail Martin had not sensed fear in a long time—at least, not like this. She feared for all sorts of things all the time in a very abstract way: the state of the world, the future of her prophets, that, one day, the Elder Prophet Council might have to make do without her, but she had not often feared for her life. This was not terror by any means, but she respected the force standing in front of her.

  “Arrogant of you,” she said, composing herself, “to come in here with the intent to kill an Elder Prophet. I understand, however, that you have been spending your time of late threatening and killing the defenseless. I suppose I should appreciate the opportunity I’ve been given.”

  “Yeah,” he replied, ignoring the jab. “You like that? The pattern, I mean.”

  “What?” she sneered. “You mean the symbolism? Sure, I caught it. And what were you going to do with me, Patheus? Were you going to skin me alive?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” the demon spat at her.

  She forced a laugh. “That seems a little presumptuous at this point, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re not that powerful, prophet. You should know better than to entice an angel’s wrath.”

  “Fallen angel,” she corrected

  Patheus roared laughter. “Oh, this will be enjoyable.”

  “You might reflect on your position a little more before counting this victory,” she contended as she strengthened her hold on the demon.

  Abbie turned around and opened a drawer in her desk. There lay a jagged dagger that looked like the one Matt Hartley bore. She picked it up and showed it to the demon. He arched an eyebrow, and suddenly he exerted his will against hers. She reeled from the force. She’d attempted mental combat with powerful demons on several occasions, and, on rare occasions, it almost cost her dearly. Patheus, she could sense, was stronger than most. He was filling her mind with feelings of woe and dread. Sorrow tore at her soul. She sought that safe spot, the bright light in her mind she had found as a child. It was there as always. It was warm.

  Patheus had already begun to move toward her again when she regained control. He dropped to his knees and howled.

  There was venom in her voice as she approached him with the knife. “You’ve never been to Hell, Patheus. Would you like a taste?”

  Patheus felt the tendrils of the Abyss pulling at the core of his being. This was the moment he had feared since the Fall. He could hear the voices of other demons, beckoning him to join them in their torment. He could almost see them in their primal forms, clawing at each other to get a little closer to him. They were wailing promises of grandeur and threats of everlasting suffering simultaneously. Though they were twisted and ugly, Patheus could recognize each and every one of them. And they were calling his name, not the name that he had become so accustomed to on Earth, but that which was designed to connect angels to each other. It was a feeling, a pulling of the soul. Through it all, he could hear her voice.

  “Soon, you will join them,” she said, devoid of emotion.

  He pulled himself away from the chorus of pain. He focused his mind for just an instant and disappeared. Abigail looked at where Patheus had been and shivered. She studied the knife in her hand.

  “Even if not tonight,” she told the once occupied spot on the floor.

  She put the knife back in the drawer and collapsed into her chair. She wasn’t sure if she could sleep after an ordeal like that
, but she would have to try. Tomorrow, she would be meeting the child Jeremiah thought to be the next Jesus. She had been reading over his file, and she hadn’t been overly impressed. Nevertheless, this mission would require everything she had to offer, and she’d just burned a great deal of energy.

  ***

  Jeremiah tossed down his cigarette and checked the magazine in his gun. Of course, it was fully loaded. It was always fully loaded. After millennia of being prepared, it had just become force of habit anymore to check those kinds of things. He knew that there would be two armed men standing guard at the door and probably no less than five others in the house. He screwed on a silencer and stowed the gun in a holster underneath his arm. He looked at his watch—five minutes until show time.

  He began his walk toward the house. As he predicted, two men in suits—one was the size of a linebacker with a shaved head, and the other was shorter than Jeremiah with greasy, black hair and a thin mustache—sat in chairs under an awning at the front entrance, playing cards. He approached, and their hands went inside their jackets and rested there.

  “May I help you?” the gorilla asked in Italian.

  “As a matter of fact,” Jeremiah responded in the same tongue, “you may.”

  The big man’s eyes narrowed, and the other was beginning to look fidgety.

  Jeremiah continued, “I’m here to speak with Don Gibaldi.”

  The spokesman eyed Jeremiah suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  “Just an old friend,” the demon answered, smiling innocently and showing his empty hands. “Let him know that I have a proposition for him.”

  The short one threw a card on the table and smiled triumphantly at his partner. “I think he’s sleeping right now. You’ll have to come back later.”

  This is taking too much time, Jeremiah thought. “Okay,” he said, “on second thought, why don’t you take me to see him.”

  The guards’ eyes rolled back in their heads. They stood up stunned, and then the larger mobster opened the door and motioned for Jeremiah to go through.