“How was your first day of school?”
“Fine,” he replied shortly.
“I doubt that,” she returned. “I would appreciate if you do not lie to me in the future, Alex, even if it seems inconsequential. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Alex was surprised. He was accustomed to always answering ‘fine’ when someone asked him how he was doing. “Sorry.”
Abbie laughed. “No, don’t be sorry. I’m not scolding you; I just want to make sure that you feel like you can come to me with your problems. If everything is always ‘fine,’ as I’m sure it isn’t, then I won’t feel like I have very much to do. Where’s Matt?”
“He got mad at me,” Alex replied sheepishly. “I don’t know where he went, but I think he needed time away from me.”
“Oh?” Abbie prompted. “What happened?”
Alex related the story to her. He felt bad after he had finished. It seemed like he had been really insensitive. But, as he explained to Abbie, it was completely unintentional. He hadn’t realized it until he was done, but telling that story really made him feel like he could open up to the Elder Prophet. She listened intently, nodding her head and making short comments at all of the appropriate places. And, when he was done, she smiled. It was a warm smile that made Alex feel like everything was going to be all right.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Abbie said, tapping his knee. Alex reminded himself that she was, in fact, a mind reader. “Even though we expect you to be a very exceptional leader, you can’t be all things to all people. Matt has to realize that he can’t have everything he wants. He also needs to remember that you are very young, and you are being brought into a situation for which you were not prepared. We can’t expect you to avoid eye contact with girls. And he can’t expect you to be something that you aren’t.
“But you should be patient with him,” Abbie continued after some thought. “He lives in a world that refuses to accept him—a world that, not very long ago, would have killed him for his sexual preference. He gets defensive from time to time, and his emotions get the better of him, as they tend to do with all of us. His pain has scarred him, and his past still haunts him. You’re not responsible for his pain, but you might be able to ease it a little. Just be his friend.”
“I want to.”
“I know you do,” Abbie verified. “And he knows that too. Don’t feel guilty that you can’t be what he wants because it isn’t what he needs. I’ll talk to him.”
“No,” Alex said. “Please don’t tell him what I told you.”
“No? You would rather handle this on your own?”
Alex nodded.
“Okay. Then, I think we’re done here.”
“You didn’t need to talk to me about anything else?” Alex asked.
“No. I think you are doing very well so far. Keep me informed as to any changes.”
Alex didn’t know what to say. “Sure,” was the only thing he could think of.
She winked at him. “Have a pleasant evening, Thomas, and I hope tomorrow is a little better.”
“Me, too,” he agreed as he walked to the door.
***
Eva was happy. She had already caused strife between the two prophets. It was her specialty. Her very presence could cause dissension between the best of friends. The way they started bickering immediately after she passed made her confident that she could make the best of this situation. Alex was already succumbing to her wiles, and Matt was getting jealous—as it should be.
She thought it was cute that the two of them had dyed their hair different colors and were going by false identities. She wondered if they would have still made all of those changes had they realized what little good it would do.
Tomorrow, she would be in one of Alex’s classes, and she would move in for the coup de grace. If he didn’t fall madly in love with her by the end of the day, then everyone had greatly overestimated the power she had. Not that, realistically, she thought Alex would be much of a challenge. He was weak, anyway. All he needed was an excuse. She had no qualms being that excuse. After all, it had been a very long time since she fell a prophet. Patheus and Metatron seemed to be having so much fun, it was only fair that she should have a little too.
***
Alex was still awake at midnight, when he heard the door unlock. He got up off the couch to see Matt walk, unsteadily, in the door.
“Are you okay?” Alex asked softly.
Matt looked at him, then at himself. “I think so.”
“Do you want me to get you something? Some food? Something to drink?”
“No.” Matt laughed. “I’ve been drinking all night, and I’m not really that hungry.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“I don’t think so.”
He walked into the living room and sat down in a chair. It was a big, comfortable chair, one that somebody could sink into and not get out unless he really wanted to. Alex just watched Matt, helplessly. Matt didn’t even seem to be paying any attention. He reached into his pockets and put some random items on the coffee table next to the chair: a handful of paper money, some change, a lighter and a pack of cigarettes, his cell phone, and two condoms. He looked like he was getting comfortable.
“I didn’t know you smoked,” Alex said.
“Only when I drink,” Matt replied.
“Were you going to sleep there?”
Matt looked at him, startled. “I was thinking about it.”
“Wouldn’t it be better in your bed?”
“Are you my mom?” Matt squinted at him, almost making Alex wonder if his question were serious.
“Fine,” Alex conceded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walked toward his bedroom.
“Wait,” Matt called after him. “Alex.”
Alex slowly turned around.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Alex replied, thinking back to his conversation with Abbie. “I just want you to feel that you can come to me with your problems.”
Matt stared at him. Tears were forming in his eyes. “Thanks.”
Chapter 11
Some people believe in the concept of a fair fight. In other words, the resources of one side should be equitable to the resources of the other side. This ensures that it is truly the ‘better man’ who wins the contest. Ludicrous. It is the responsibility of any contestant to find a way to make his or her side more powerful, thereby setting the competition at an extreme disadvantage. No one plays by the rules of a fair fight, and anyone who claims to is either ignorant or a liar. In our battle against the demons, it was our desire to win, not to maintain some kind of illusion of chivalry. Unfortunately, many prophets died because they did not understand the game—the demons had no intention of fighting fair. However, many demons were brought to a rude awakening when they realized that God does not fight fair, either.
--Abigail Martin, Through the Eyes of a Martyr
Jeremiah was researching legends in a public library, trying to ascertain where he might find his next form of support. Sometimes, very powerful demons or prophets influenced a society so much that they made it into myth. Oftentimes, the myths did not actually reflect the presence of such a being, only the remnants of one. But it didn’t hurt to examine all possibilities. This battle was going to require aid from even the most unlikely of sources.
“Hello, beast.” A gruff voice pulled Jeremiah out of his reverie.
Jeremiah spun and saw an older man of average height with a grizzled face, scraggly gray beard, and thinning white hair that fell to his shoulders. He was garbed in plain, if not ragged clothing. He may not have attracted any attention in this environment, except that he was holding a mace. Because he was, people had begun staring.
“What’s with the warning, Garrett?” Jeremiah asked as he backed away from the old man.
“Warning won’t do you any good anyway,” the man replied with a scowl. He didn’t move, but his gaze remained fixed on the
demon. “I’ve come to collect on your soul.”
Jeremiah pulled out his gun but kept it pointed toward the floor. “Haven’t you heard, Garrett? I’m a good guy, now.”
After the drawing of the gun, people were getting as far away from these two as they could. A man behind the information desk picked up a phone to call the police. Jeremiah thought about changing the man’s mind, but he remembered that he had more important things to worry about at that moment.
Garrett looked at the gun and, with a hint of a grin, grunted. He motioned to the gun with his mace. “What’s that for?”
Jeremiah looked down at his pistol and shrugged. “I don’t know. It might slow you down.”
Garrett seemed disbelieving. “You’re joking, right?”
“You’re a dying breed, Garrett. Strong and stubborn. I could use your help, and I think you could use mine.”
“Are you begging, beast?”
Jeremiah really wished he wasn’t in this situation. Generally speaking, he was not afraid of mortal, prophet, or demon. But this was something more than any of those. This was a demon hunter.
It was said that demon hunters drew their power from the evil that resided in the fallen. They could sense it and sap it. Demon hunters were nearly impervious to all forms of supernatural attack, but they actually thrived on attacks originating from the damned. In a very real way, a demon’s own strength was its downfall from a hunter. Only quick, calculated attacks had ever killed a demon hunter, and it took a lot of power to even pull that off.
There were only about twenty of them left across the world. Jeremiah had led battalions of demons and mortals for the purposes of killing one of them. It was literally like waging war against one person. Many times, it was the case that Jeremiah was the only one who would walk away. The only advantage he ever had was that they nearly always traveled alone, and Jeremiah could have help. This time, it was just the two of them. And, Garrett, Hunter General of the League of Hunters, was the eldest and strongest of them all.
Rumors claimed that the old hunter had battled Metatron once. The Voice of God would rarely speak of the event, but the stories claimed that he and Garrett fought for over ten hours. Only through sheer ingenuity had Metatron gotten away. The rumor was that it was that battle that taught the demon to move at the speed of thought. Had it not been for that, Metatron would not be an issue now.
Some have even stated that Garrett knows, for sure, of the fate of Lucifer because he was a major contributing factor to it.
“I’m not begging, Garrett,” Jeremiah explained quickly. “I’m making a proposition.”
“Not interested,” Garrett replied shortly. He walked casually toward Jeremiah.
Jeremiah thought quickly. He didn’t want to attack this hunter because the last thing he wanted to do was piss him off. Fleeing wouldn’t do much good because Garrett was every bit as fast as any demon. So he decided to stand his ground.
“If you kill me, you’ll let Metatron win.”
“I’ll get to that one eventually,” Garrett promised.
“But you can’t possibly beat him,” Jeremiah replied confidently.
Garrett chuckled. “I don’t know about that.”
Something occurred to Jeremiah. “What do you want?”
“I already told you. I want your soul.”
In a moment of clarity, Jeremiah realized why he wasn’t dead. “You can’t kill me, can you? If you could, you would have already.”
Garrett stopped.
“You stumbled upon me by accident, didn’t you?” Jeremiah questioned. “I know you weren’t sent because I work for the Father again.” Jeremiah smiled. “You’re confused.” Seizing the indecision, Jeremiah burst into flame. A booming voice came from the pillar of fire: “I am a servant of God. It is from He that I gather my strength. Attack me at your own peril.”
By this point, everyone had already fled the premises.
Apparently, Garrett took Jeremiah’s warning as an invitation. He swung his mace with lightning speed. Jeremiah only barely dodged the blow. A thick oak table was split in two. Jeremiah attempted to grab Garrett but failed. His opponent was far too quick. Jeremiah could feel the demon hunter trying to drain his strength. He pushed all he could into remaining in control and seeming intimidating. The fire must not die down.
“There is something strange about you,” Garrett noted. “But no matter. You are still evil, and I will still banish you, demon.”
Something about Garrett’s words seemed to hypnotize Jeremiah. He paused for a moment—a moment too long. Garrett’s mace connected with Jeremiah’s rib cage. The demon grunted as he was slammed into a bookshelf ten feet to his right. The shelf fell over, knocking shelf after shelf over behind it. Maybe, Jeremiah conceded, Garrett could kill him. This epiphany came to him as he was being hoisted up by his neck. The hunter had a stranglehold on him. Jeremiah poured what remaining strength he had into trying to fry his opponent, but the fire was not powerful enough. It did little more than singe the hunter.
“You are through corrupting this world, monster,” Garrett growled, ignoring the slight pain. Garrett lifted his mace; he intended to smash Jeremiah’s skull with it as one might hit a mole with a plastic mallet in an arcade.
Jeremiah was struggling against the assailant’s grasp, in vain, when something remarkable happened. The mace dropped out of Garrett’s hand, clanked to the floor, and the hunter roared in agony. Jeremiah looked over Garrett’s shoulder to see Dylan touching the old man on the neck. The Hunter General let go of Jeremiah and turned on Dylan. Dylan, his eyes widening in fear, backed away, dropping the bags he had in his hand.
Dylan had been buying clothes at a nearby department store, as he’d left almost everything he had at his abandoned apartment. When Jeremiah knew he was in trouble, he was afraid that the young prophet would return at a very inopportune moment. He was right.
Garrett, mad with rage, pursued slowly. He looked at Dylan with confusion. His battle had always been against demons; that is what had made him so powerful. His confusion gave way to resolve when he decided that, in order to kill this demon, he would have to at least incapacitate the prophet who protected it. He sprang forward and grabbed Dylan by the shirt with his left hand and brought his right back to strike the boy. He hoped he would not kill the small prophet. After all, he was accustomed to fighting demons who could take a beating. Regardless of the outcome, though, he needed to remove this prophet from the battle, or no good could be done. Instantly, he realized his mistake as a flaming hand caught his right hand. A sharp pain and the sound of snapping bones in his shoulder blade caused him to drop the boy, and he fell to his knees.
Dylan, stunned, saw Jeremiah wielding Garrett’s mace. Flame was running from Jeremiah onto the old man’s arm, trying to overtake the body.
“Make his blood flow like a river,” Jeremiah commanded.
Dylan concentrated on the man’s shoulder, where bones were protruding. He called forth the blood. It bubbled some, but the man was getting back up, and he had grasped Jeremiah by the arm. Dylan closed his eyes. He felt the warmth of Garrett’s blood; he fell into sync with it. The blood was concentrated with the hunter’s power, and it fought him. It didn’t want to obey Dylan and leave Garrett’s body. Dylan’s command, however, was stronger. The young prophet put all of the energy he could muster into this attempt. He felt a warm liquid trickling down his face. Was he crying?
There was a thud. Dylan opened his eyes. His vision was red. He wiped his eyes, and he could see Garrett lying on the ground, and Jeremiah, no longer enflamed, was standing over him. Dylan looked at his hand and saw blood. He knew it was his own and not Garrett’s.
“Stop the flow,” Jeremiah panted.
Dylan stared at the demon incredulously. Jeremiah nodded to him insistently, motioning with his hands for Dylan to hurry. The prophet looked down and saw a large puddle of blood. It was still issuing out of the wound in Garrett’s shoulder. Dylan couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like h
alf the man’s blood was on the ground, surrounding his unconscious body. No matter how strong the hunter was, he would die very soon if something did not get done immediately. As it was, this man could die from the current loss of blood.
“I...don’t think I can.” Dylan was also gasping for air. “That one...took all I had.”
“Try,” the demon ordered.
Dylan fell to his knees next to the fallen hunter and pulled out a pocket knife. He looked up to Jeremiah for a moment, then slashed the palm of his left hand. It stung, but he’d felt worse. He placed his hand on the prophet’s wound and began a process Abbie had warned him he should only perform in the direst of circumstances.
“I can...command my own blood...easier,” he informed Jeremiah as he felt his blood pour from his open wound into Garrett’s.
“Is that safe?”
“No.... But if you want him to live...” Dylan felt himself getting lightheaded.
“His body won’t reject your blood?”
“My blood...uni...versal...donor...,” Dylan explained. His eyes were getting heavy; his breathing was slowing.
“That’s enough,” Jeremiah said.
“Little...more,” Dylan replied. He was focusing all of his strength to keep his hand on Garrett’s shoulder. That little bit required both arms and all of his concentration.
“No,” Jeremiah ordered. He grabbed the prophet around the waist and carried Dylan, nearly unconscious, out of the library. “Let’s not forget he tried to kill us.”
Dylan was able to walk with some assistance out to the car. Jeremiah opened the passenger’s side door and put the prophet in the seat.
“Are you going to be all right?” Jeremiah asked.
“Yeah,” Dylan verified, as he looked into the review mirror. “But we should be going.”
Jeremiah looked behind him and saw the flashing lights of the police headed in his direction. “Right,” the demon agreed.
Demonic Designs (To Absolve the Fallen) Page 28