by Tim Marquitz
My first stop was the fridge. I pulled it open and snatched a cold beer. I twisted off the top and took a deep swig as I went into the living room, moaning in satisfaction at the first swallow. I’d needed a drink.
“Rough day?”
I shrieked like a little girl when I heard the willowy soft voice, but if anyone asks, I’ll lie about it. I fumbled my beer and it fell to the floor, splashing out onto the carpet like a foamy volcano. I ignored it as it Page 44
certainly wasn’t the first to end up there, and looked to see who’d spoken. Rachelle Knight sat on the couch.
“Jesus, woman! You can call, you know? What’s the point of having telepaths if you’re gonna pop in uninvited?”
“I wanted to speak to you in person,” she replied. After a moment’s hesitation, her wide hazel eyes appraising me, she commented, “You look horrible.”
“Thanks. You too.” That wasn’t actually true. She looked pretty good even though I prefer women with a little more meat on their bones, not to mention a few decades younger. Though not my usual type, Rachelle carried all the grace of a super-model minus the revealing clothes, much to my regret. With no visible flesh of any perverse value to focus on, I dropped into my old recliner and stared at the spreading puddle on my carpet. This day just kept getting worse. Spilled beer and zero cleavage. Was there no mercy? As always, Rachelle seemed a bit lost, vapid. I used to believe it was a side effect of her connection to the supernatural world. Recently, however, I’d come to believe she’d just been a little too experimental back in the sixties. I could picture her at Woodstock, flowers painted on her face, offering the goods up to Jimi Hendrix, looking for an experience.
I stopped my thought process there. There were just some things that didn’t need to be imagined. I was treading dangerously close.
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After a minute of awkward silence and her glancing about the room as I wandered about inside my head, she got down to business. “As you know, Abraham sent me to check the gates.” She laid out a small map of the city on the coffee table. I waited a few seconds after her voice trailed off, but it didn’t seem like she intended to continue. “And?”
Her eyes focused. “The gates themselves are stable. I sense no abnormal fluctuation in them. It would appear nothing of any significance has passed between the dimensions recently.” She tugged at the ends of her black hair for a bit before starting again, her other hand tapping at the map. “However, I have located three points off the grid where I believe the dimensional wall has been breached. I feel as though some great psychic trauma has been inflicted in these places, but I cannot be certain as to what caused it.”
Rachelle’s face was lined with doubt, the creases deep.
“Why not?” I’d never seen her look so uncertain.
“Something interferes with my senses. I feel it pushing back against me, distorting my perception like nothing ever has before. One moment I can feel the Demonarch’s presence seeping through, the next there’s nothing; a void. This is not natural.” She looked at the ceiling, her hand held up drawing invisible symbols in the air. “Though I cannot determine what lurks behind these abnormalities, I can be certain of one thing. There is much power to be found there; Page 46
a dark, malign power.”
I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Great.”
She pointed again to the map, her finger lingering at each location in turn. “The occurrences happened in that order, each two days apart. The last occurred sometime today.”
“So you’re thinking they’re connected and might happen again?”
Rachelle nodded as she rose to leave. I stood as well. She gestured to the table. “Seek out these breaches and find out what’s behind them. I’ve informed Katon, so expect his assistance as soon as he is able.” She turned away from me.
She waved her hand and I felt a sudden rush of magical energy coalesce inside the room. I took a step back as a tear began to open in the dimensional wall. Bright colors flooded out of the crack as it widened. Sparks of energy fluttered along the seams until the hole was large enough to accommodate Rachelle. I could see one of the DRAC offices through the shimmering veil of the tear.
“Be careful,” she told me as she stepped into the portal. Once through, it closed as quickly as it had opened. A breath later, it was as if she’d never been there.
I rubbed my eyes to clear the spots that had sprung up from witnessing the dimensions merging. Once I could see clearly again, I looked to the map. Page 47
I growled when I realized where the markers were. Not surprisingly, all three locations were deep inside Old Town. If something bad was gonna happen, you could pretty much guarantee Old Town was where it’d go down.
Distraction over, I felt my injuries crying out for attention. I pulled my bloody and torn sweat jacket off with a grunt and dropped it on the floor beside the now empty beer bottle. My shirt followed. I examined my arm and hand, both cuts deep and festering. An unhealthy blackness bubbled in the wounds like heated tar. I went to the bathroom and looked at my back in the mirror. The cut, while long, wasn’t very deep. I sighed, grateful for small favors.
I hated magically-forged weapons.
It’s bad enough my ex-wife sent a bunch of goons after me, but to arm them with the tools to allow them to actually kill me, was going too far. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to hunt her down and wring her gorgeous succubus neck. I promised myself though, if I managed to avert Armageddon before it got too far along, I’d make the time.
Pushing away my petty, but oh so satisfying thoughts of revenge, I went to the bedroom. I walked to the back corner of the room and moved my nightstand to the side. Lifting the carpet below it, I rolled it back to reveal the tiled under-floor. I tapped on the corner of one of the innocuous tiles and it popped up, then I set Page 48
it to the side. From the hole beneath it, I plucked out a small, felt Crown Royal bag. With my prize in hand, I went to the bed and sat down.
From the bag, I pulled out a handful of small, glass vials rubber-banded together. I slipped one loose and set the rest gently on the bed. I shook the tube and watched as the reddish-black liquid roiled inside, moving about within the vial like a lava lamp. Once it settled, I popped the rubber stopper off and took a sip. In an instant, I felt a surge of energy as the blood—Lucifer’s blood—ran down my throat. I replaced the rubber stopper as quickly as I could, my hands twitching like an epileptic’s all the while. I set the vial down just as the shakes started to wrack my body. A moment later, it felt like my skin was on fire. Sharp, tingling spurs of agony danced across my body as the blood took hold. And as fast as they started, the pain and shakes ended. A warm tickle replaced the rest, its fingers fluttering soothingly over my flesh. Goose pimples broke out everywhere as the warmth settled into my crotch. I shuddered as I felt myself harden against my will. A moment later, the feeling drifted off into a vague numbness. I drew in a deep breath and let it out in a loud sigh of relief.I looked to my arm and watched as the wound churned, a healthy redness creeping in to evict the black. In the span of minutes, the sickly darkness had been cleansed away and the cut began to pull itself closed. I examined my palm Page 49
and the same process had nearly finished there, only a pulsating red line remained. I stretched, testing my back, the shallower wound already healed. A moment later, the other two were closed as well, leaving behind no trace of injury. The pain passed as well. I gave silent thanks to my uncle, wherever he was. The blood had been a gift from Lucifer given to me long ago when the roles of demons and angels had been more clearly defined.
“All things in their place,” he would say. I longed for those days. Life had been so much easier when I knew who my enemies were. These days it was everyone for themselves. Trust was a commodity traded on the open market, to be bought and sold on a whim. Ambition had become the new religion whose dogma had no place for compassion or mercy. No wonder God and Satan left.
My mood soured by the day’s events, I
decided work was the best distraction. I bundled up my uncle’s gift, leaving the partially used vial out, and returned the rest to their hiding place. They had more uses than just healing and it was comforting to have one close at hand. I never knew what kind of trouble might pop up, so it was best to be prepared for anything. I took a quick shower to wash away the blood and dressed for action. Black pants, black T-shirt, black boots. Beneath the shirt I wore a thin, small-ringed mail shirt, which a LARP (Live Action Role Playing) Page 50
pal of mine weaved together. While far from the best protection in the modern age of guns, it would help ease my mind should I run into any more of my ex’s cronies. Clothed, I checked to ensure my spare .45’s were loaded, then slipped them into a double holster shoulder rig. I buckled an ammo belt on and covered it all up with a black jacket. I looked in the mirror and grinned, ready to rock. I threw the horns up and stuck my tongue out, head-banging.
Unable to think of an excuse to stay home any longer, I headed out. Since I couldn’t tear open a dimensional portal, which would transport me in a blink of an eye like certain other people, I took the car. Blasting Cradle of Filth’s, Godspeed on the Devil’s Thunder, I rode out.
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On the Trail
Just as the sun started to set, I pulled up outside the second location, a rundown warehouse deep in the south end of Old Town. The first, an abandoned strip mall, turned up nothing. It was obvious someone had been there recently, but the area had been swept clean. Too clean. I couldn’t find a dust bunny if I farted in a corner.
Giving in once more to paranoia, spoiled bitch that she is, I parked the car a block over. I walked the long way around the block just to be sure. Back at the warehouse, I examined the chain link fence surrounding the property. Like most everything else in Old Town, there was nothing secure about the place. The fence had several sections where the links had been cut and peeled back, leaving room to slip through without much effort. I took that as an invite. I went through the fence and glanced around the empty yard, looking to see if I could pick out any kind of security system that might have noticed my entry. Satisfied there wasn’t any, I made my way toward the warehouse. I opened up my senses and reached out, sending invisible tendrils in search of the supernatural. Like all demons and devils, I have the Page 52
innate ability to sense the psychic footprint left by a supernatural being’s use of power. Because magic is not of the natural world and must be drawn from the caster’s realm of influence, most often through the Demonarch, its use bruises the dimensional walls that separate the planes of existence. The more power drawn through the wall, the greater the damage left by its passage.
From the feel of it, this place had taken a serious beating.
I reined in my senses, pulled one of my guns free of its holster, and crept toward the warehouse. As I got closer, I noticed the big rolling door at the docks stood open. I pressed myself against the wall and worked my way toward the ramp, listening. Unable to hear anything that might indicate someone was inside, I ducked low and moved up the ramp as quietly as I could.
Though the sky darkened at my back, there was still sufficient light for me to see inside. Row upon row of empty metal shelves ran from floor to ceiling, their wares long gone. Past them, I could make out a small office. Still not hearing anything but the hurried rush of my nervous breath, I went inside. I walked along the line of closest shelves, making my way toward the office. I glanced all around, but nothing moved in the dusky gloom. Just like the first location, it was obvious someone of power had been here too, and not long ago. Page 53
Despite the mish-mash of graffiti—gang tags, Iron Maiden song lyrics, and an almost literate homage to my uncle—I saw none of the usual trappings that came along with an abandoned warehouse. No trash lying about; no empty quart bottles, used condoms, or discarded food wrappers. Nothing to show any of the usual vacated-warehouse residents had been here in years, despite the tags claiming it as so-and-so’s turf and the complete lack of dust.
I closed in on the office situated in a clearing in the forest of shelves. Shards of shattered glass littered the floor, standing out bright in the dim light. I could feel the magical footprint lurking about the office without even trying. Something big happened here, just like Rachelle said. Hoping to figure out what, I pressed myself against the cubicle wall and peeked inside. While barren of furniture, the 10’x10’ space was far from empty. A large star surrounded by a circle was painted in black on the floor. Scattered about inside the circle were a handful of half-melted candles. Large burn marks scorched the cement floor at four points of the pentagram. Unable to get a clear view, I went inside to have a closer look.
As I entered the office, I caught the subtle, tangy scent of burnt flesh. While it smelled enticing, like driving by a barbecue joint, it wasn’t a good sign. I tightened my grip on my pistol and walked along the outside edge of the pentagram. At each of the scorch Page 54
marks, there were small traces of what appeared to be melted candle wax. I knew better. This was the flesh I smelled.
My nervousness building, I kept looking to see what else I could find. In one of the corners were piled two sets of steel manacles. I picked a set up and examined them. On the cuffs, as well as spiraling down the length of chain, were etched silver, magical restraining symbols. I whistled. Runes like these were only used to bind the most powerful of supernatural beings. It took an impressive amount of magical energy to forge cuffs like these and even more so to ensure they worked on a reasonably powerful being. Whoever used them was the John Holmes of magic. They were packin’. That they left them behind was even more an indication of power. You just don’t throw away things like these.
While hesitant to take them with me, worried their owner might change his mind and come looking, magical restraints like these were hard to come by. Besides, I’d be lying if I said an image of a naked Scarlett, chained to the wall of my bedroom with these babies didn’t spring to mind. The stir in my pants made my choice that much easier. What can I say? I’m a dog. Woof.
As hard as it was, pun intended, I got back to business. I picked up the second pair and slung them over my shoulder. With nothing more to examine Page 55
inside, I left the office. Outside, I glanced around the rest of warehouse, but couldn’t see anything else that might be related to the breach. Believing I’d seen everything I was going to, I started for the exit. I didn’t get very far.
Just as I reached the end of the clearing, I heard voices coming from the docks. I clutched tight to the manacles to keep them quiet, and ducked around the back of the office. From there, I ran toward the shelves at the back of the warehouse, hoping the office walls would block my retreat. I got lucky. Sort of. I made it to the shelves, but without any merchandise, there was little to hide behind. I crept back into the shadows and dropped to the floor. Prone, I listened as the voices came closer. A moment later, the speakers popped into view.
Through the open front door, two men strolled into the warehouse. I didn’t recognize them. The taller of the two was dressed casually in loose-fitting jeans and a dark flannel shirt, a light jacket overtop. He was wiry thin except at his torso where he was abnormally thicker. He must have been wearing a vest.
The second, who couldn’t have been any larger than five-six, was dressed a little more professionally. He wore a pair of black slacks and a white buttondown shirt. He, too, wore a light jacket over his stocky frame. He probably had Kevlar underneath too, but it Page 56
was hard to tell. Both were clean-shaven with shortcropped, military-style haircuts. Both were armed. While I couldn’t see their guns, I could tell by the way they walked they were carrying. There’s a certain swagger men affect when they’ve got the reassurance of a firearm and the will to put it to use. These guys had it in spades.
I held my breath as they walked toward the office and looked about, scanning the gloom. After a minute or so, the short one called to someone still outside where I couldn’t see.
/> Seconds later, an older man entered the warehouse, his cowboy boots clicking as he walked. He had long, wild gray hair with a matching beard, which rested heavily on his chest. I couldn’t help but picture Santa Claus. I caught myself looking for reindeer. He wore a loose-fitting earth-tone shirt and blue jeans that did little to hide his bulk. At about six feet, he easily weighed two hundred eighty pounds, but it was clear by how he moved it wasn’t fat lurking beneath his country couture. He had that big, bad biker look to him. The kind of guy you just don’t want to fuck with. And there I was.
He walked casually up to the other two, his narrow eyes taking in the scene. He started to say something, then went silent. His eyes widened. Right then, I felt the almost imperceptible tingle of a magical scan.
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He knew I was there.
Without hesitation, he pointed me out, shouting to his goons to get me. I felt so unloved. It took them but an instant to orient on me, each fanning out with his gun drawn.
Since there was no point waiting to get shot, I popped up, letting the manacles drop to the floor as I drew my own guns. I didn’t wait for a clear shot, I simply started blasting. Stuck in the back end of a warehouse with no cover, I wanted them on the defensive. It worked. The little guy ducked behind the office without firing a shot. The wiry one snapped off a couple quickies as he scrambled to find shelter in the darkening warehouse. He wasn’t even close to hitting me.