The Holy Dark

by Kyoko M

  I raked the loose curls away from my face, giving her a considerate look. “Are you sure you wanna stick with me, Myra? I’m alarmingly proficient at getting people I care about hurt.”

  She paused. “Well then, it’s a good thing I don’t give two shits about you.”

  I chuckled, though it came out more like a reedy cough. She nodded towards my room. “Go get your stuff, stupid. We leave in fifteen.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Shut up. I’m making you buy me a beer for getting me into this mess.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MICHAEL

  By all accounts, the woman sitting in front of me was beautiful. Her skin was smooth and perfectly tanned. She’d gotten her jet-black hair chopped to just below her chin. It flared around her head when she moved, drawing attention like a moth to a flame. Her eyes were almond-shaped and her lashes were long. She wore a jean jacket over her black tank top and loose-fitting khakis. Platform heels adorned her slender feet. Every inch of her radiated sexuality and grace.

  Too bad she was a demon.

  Her brown eyes squinted through the dark as I walked towards her. She sat handcuffed to a metal chair that had been bolted to the floor. Normally, that wouldn’t keep a demon contained in the least. The holy symbols engraved in the metal did just that. They hadn’t been easy to obtain, but they were worth every penny.

  The basement was dimly lit, dank, and surrounded by concrete walls. An old wooden table sat a couple of feet away from her with all my tools, all clean and glinting from the overhead lamp. Forceps, tweezers, bone saws, barb wire, tourniquets, and a vast array of knives. I’d calculated my entrance down to the letter. About two hours in the room alone in complete silence with nothing save the tools would serve my purpose just fine.

  When I stepped into the light, she immediately perked up. Her eyes raked over all six feet of me, from my black Timberland boots all the way up to my dark brown hair and green eyes. “Ah. Michael. How long’s it been? Three centuries?”

  I didn’t answer. She smirked. “Nah, about four and a half. You look good. I like the longer hair. Not too sure about the stubble, though.”

  Again, I just stood there with my hands in my pockets, observing her as she continued.

  “So this is how you get your kicks now, huh, Mikey? Strapping demons to chairs and doing unspeakable things to them? Gotta say, I kind of like the new you. But I’m sure you already knew that. If you let me out of here, I could stoop to make it worth your while. Word gets around. I hear you know how to entertain a gal. So much so that most of us can’t believe your wife left you. Then again, she left you for Belial, who I hear is absolutely dynamite in the sack.”

  Olivia tilted her head to the side, shifting her short hair against one cheek. “What do you think he’s doing to your wife right now? Does he have her tied up in the basement like a little sex slave? It’s pretty hilarious when you think about it. The Commander of Heaven’s Army picked the only woman in centuries who could fall for a demon. I bet she loves it. I bet she’s with him right now, screaming his name. Jordan Amador, the archdemon’s new whorebiscuit.”

  I put my hands behind my back, wrists crossed, at attention like a good soldier. “Are you done?”

  She chuckled. “Why? Is it getting to you? Are you gonna cry, Mikey?”

  “Here’s how this is going to work,” I said in my most patient voice. “I’m going to ask you a simple question. I’m going to ask you who is calling the shots with the Judas coins scheme. Each time you don’t tell me the truth, I am going to remove a part of your body that sticks out from your torso. So if you tell me the first time, you’ll get out of this mess just as you are. If you don’t, then this room is going to get messy very quickly.”

  “Torture?” she snorted. “You’re threatening someone born in the fires of Hell with torture?”

  I shook my head. “You’re not listening.”

  “I’ve heard it all before, trust me. Might as well get chopping because I’m not telling you shit, archangel.”

  “That’s exactly what he said.”

  Curiosity finally lit up her eyes. “Who?”

  “Jasper. Fourth infantry. Soldier number 245647. Those exact words, actually. It was interesting. He lasted longer than I predicted. I was down to his nose when he finally broke. Good thing, too. It’s hard to hear someone pronounce consonant sounds without nostrils.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “That’s exactly what she said.”

  “She who?”

  “Rebecca. Nineteenth infantry. Soldier number 876549. She caved faster than I predicted. It was her legs that did her in. She masqueraded as a dancer when she wasn’t working for your boss. Didn’t like the idea of becoming a double amputee.”

  Olivia shook her head. “You’re just talking out your ass. I know Rebecca. You didn’t get her to talk.”

  I walked over to her. Her muscles strained against the chair. It was hard to tell if she was trying to shrink away or launch herself at me. Fight or flight, just like most demons in sticky situations.

  I leaned down until our faces were inches apart. “Who do you think gave you up?”

  “Liar.”

  “You should know better. Angels don’t lie.”

  She kept shaking her head. “No. She didn’t give me up. You’re lying. You’re lying, archangel.”

  “You have a cup of Colombian supremo coffee from Innkeepers’ Fresh Roasted Coffee every Monday morning at six thirty am. All I had to do was wait for you. Her instructions were very specific.”

  “Fuck you!” she shouted, her breath ragged. “When I get out of here, I am going to rip your wings off and sodomize you with them, you putrescent slimeball.”

  “Typical emotional response for a demon,” I said. “First, you taunt. Then, you deny the facts. Then, you threaten. Do you know what comes after that?”

  She glared at me. I continued. “Silence. You automatically revert back to your military training. ‘Do not give the enemy anything.’ That’s what your master instructed each of you when you were born in Hell. That’s fine. I’m patient.”

  I could see it now. A fresh blossom of fear bloomed behind her eyes. She was starting to realize the truth. I reached into my rear jean pocket.

  “What’s behind your back?”

  I held up the item in my hand. “A syringe.”

  She eyed the clear liquid inside it. “What? You think sodium pentothal will get me to talk? Fat chance.”

  “It’s not sodium pentothal,” I replied, pushing her head aside for access to her neck.

  “It’s holy water.”

  I jabbed the needle in and pushed down on the plunger. The second the liquid disappeared inside her, Olivia screamed. She thrashed back and forth, shaking the chair. Every breath was another agonized shriek that echoed around me like a macabre symphony.

  “It’s going to take a while for your body to expel the holy water,” I said over her anguished cries. “You have until then to consider my question.”

  I turned and walked out, locking the door behind me. The screams stopped. The soundproofing had been a good idea. Kept things quiet around these parts.

  My cell phone made a chirping noise when I reached the top of the stairwell. No signal in the basement. I had a voicemail. Then I noticed the time and cursed under my breath, dialing the number.

  “Hey. It’s me.”

  A tiny, shaky female voice answered. “W-Where were you? You didn’t p-pick up.”

  “It’s okay, I’m here now. What’s wrong?”

  “It’s happening again. I-I tried doing what you told me, but it didn’t work.”

  I shut my eyes. Damn it. “Where are you?”

  “The, um, the bathroom.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Y-Yeah. I locked the door.”

  “Can you remember what caused it?”

  “N-No, I was just in class and the teacher called on me.”

  “What s
ubject?”

  “Math.”

  “Didn’t you get a D on your last test?”

  “Um, yeah, I t-think so.”

  “That’s probably the trigger. I need you to slow your breathing.”

  “I c-can’t!”

  “Yes, you can. Breathe slowly with me. Listen to my voice. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.”

  I heard a rushing sound in the earpiece. She was following instructions, for once. I repeated the process until I could hear her slowing down. I checked my watch. About four minutes. We were getting a little better.

  “Okay, now tell me the names of all of Santa’s reindeer.”

  “W-What?”

  “Just do it. Go on.”

  “Um, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, and Rudolph.”

  “Perfect. What’s the name of your favorite superhero?”

  “The Question.”

  “What’s the name of his secret identity?”

  “Vic Sage.”

  “Good girl. How do you feel now?”

  She hesitated, sounding surprised when she replied. “I…think I’m okay. Someone’s knocking on the bathroom door, though.”

  I almost smiled. “I bet they are. Did you run out of the room again?”

  “…maybe. Are you mad?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Now get off the phone or they’re gonna take it from you.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Michael.”

  “You’re welcome.” She hung up. I stuck the phone back in my pocket and walked into the kitchen to fix lunch. Protein shake, chocolate flavored. Fruit salad. Grilled portabella mushrooms. A side of asparagus, raw.

  I checked the time. Maybe another hour and a half. Good. I could sneak in a quick workout.

  I went through my normal regimen in the attic gym for exactly an hour and a half before heading downstairs for a hot shower. I redressed in boots, black cargo pants, and a black t-shirt, and then threw some coveralls over the ensemble. Too hot for these clothes if I were going outside, but I wasn’t. I returned to the basement.

  As soon as I opened the door, Olivia’s ragged gasps met my ears. The air stank of sweat and urine. Her body had finally expelled the holy water any way it could. Her skin was mottled red all over with internal burn marks and her face was streaked with mascara. She looked like a rabid raccoon.

  “You son of a bitch,” she rasped when she saw me. “You piece of shit! Angels are supposed to be merciful. Righteous. How do you justify what you just did to your Father?”

  I offered her my most perfunctory smile. “You’re a demon, Olivia. I can do anything I want to you and it wouldn’t be considered a sin. How many people have you killed in your lifetime? How many souls have you sent to Hell? I couldn’t count them all if I tried.”

  I walked over, gripping her chin in my hand and forcing her to meet my unflinching gaze. “But look at it this way: now you have a chance to make up for it. You can purify your soul right here, right now. Tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go. It’s as simple as that.”

  She stared at me, took a deep breath, and then spat in my face. I let go of her chin and wiped it off. I then stood to my full height.

  “Alright. But just remember that I gave you a choice.”

  Three hours later, I stood in the master bathroom washing blood off my hands. I couldn’t wear gloves in interrogation. Couldn’t find the type with a good grip. My palms and wrists weren’t really the issue. Blood stuck in clumps under the fingernails and beneath my wedding band. It usually took a good, thorough shower to get it all out. Unfortunately, my shower was currently occupied with the parts of Olivia that the pigs couldn’t digest.

  Once my hands were clean, I put on rubber gloves and filled a trash bag with the unmentionables in my shower and then headed to the compost heap. I buried it deep and refilled the dirt, patting it flat and dry. By the time I finished and checked the pigpen, the demon was no more. One down, thousands to go. But at least I had a location.

  I returned to the house and checked the next outgoing flight to Manhattan on my laptop. One day to get there from Kewanee, Illinois. Not much of a trip. I could take my time and get the house cleaned before I left.

  For the rest of the day, I did just that. Took care of the pigs, cleaned their pens, and mopped the basement floor until it was as clean as it could get. I was house-sitting for an old acquaintance, one who wasn’t in-the-know, so to speak, so it was important that everything was back the way it was before he returned.

  Dinner was steamed cabbage, roasted green peppers, and spinach salad. No further calls, which meant she’d gotten through the rest of her day without any more panic attacks. Good.

  I headed to bed around ten o’clock, letting the sound of Fun.’s “All Alone” on my iHome lull me to sleep.

  The Dream was always the same.

  I stood in darkness—the kind of darkness that was thick like fog, almost stifling, yet impossible to touch. I felt moisture around my midsection and looked down, expecting to see water, but instead, I found my waist surrounded by thick grey clouds. They spanned for miles, some thin and wispy, others thick and cumulous. I brushed my hand across one of them and through the clouds I spotted stars twinkling beneath my feet. I was standing on the sky.

  I lifted my head, trying to rectify this concept in my mind, only to find myself staring up at my reflection. At first, I thought it was a mirror, but when I reached up to touch it, my fingers came away wet. I knew that smell. Salt. Shellfish. Seaweed. Ocean water.

  I lowered my gaze, searching for the reason I was seeing such an extraordinary place. I spotted someone standing several feet away with their back to me. It was still too dark to tell who it was. I walked forward, my silver wings scattering the clouds behind me and sending ripples through the bizarre landscape. The clouds broke and the moon shone its pale rays upward, illuminating a woman.

  Bare brown shoulders and midnight black hair greeted my eyes. I traced the shape of her hips, her spine, analyzing her height. My breath caught as I recognized the network of scars along the small of her back. Some were twisted, crooked, and thick like worms, while others were as thin as string. No two were alike, but all of them carried painful memories of neglect and abuse.

  I swallowed, stopping less than a foot away. My mouth was drier than sand. I couldn’t speak properly. I could only croak out her name.

  “Jordan.”

  Her shoulders tensed. I remembered how her skin felt under my fingertips—soft, smooth, and yet rough in the places where her flesh had been torn once upon a time—and regret weighed heavy in my chest. She wrapped her arms around her slender waist, refusing to look at me. Shame burned through my gut. I felt desperate to see her face, like I had forgotten the curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose, the shape of her lips.

  “Jordan,” I whispered again, reaching for her. At last, she started to turn towards me, her voice carrying over the sound of the waves crashing above our heads.

  “Amor.”

  I woke up. The dream skittered away from my consciousness, sinking back into the deepest recesses of my mind. I ran both hands through my hair, dragged them down the perpetual five o’clock shadow on my chin. I wanted to pretend like the music was what always gave me that same damn dream—Frank Sinatra’s version of “What Now My Love” played sometime during the night—but I knew better.

  A sliver of silver light leaked in from the window, bouncing off the rings on my left hand as if mocking me. I lifted my arm, staring at them—one on my ring finger, my wife’s on my pinky finger. Tonight would be the night I took them off. I swore it.

  As soon as I touched the polished silver, something inside my gut twisted violently. I felt sick, like starving and dying of thirst at the same time. It wasn’t indigestion. It was the other half of my soul fighting to regain control. I had learned to keep him quiet ever since I left Albany, but this was his price. He wouldn’t let me take thes
e accursed bits of jewelry off no matter what I did. He was so weak for that woman. I hated him sometimes.

  My arms fell back on the bedspread. Fine. I’d give him another night. One day, he would understand why I—we—left her. It was better for the both of us.

  I closed my eyes and permitted the thought to send me back to sleep.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JORDAN

  Chattanooga had been a nice place to live for the past ten months, a fact proven by my utter disapproval of the hotel we checked in the following night we left. The safe house was in Montpelier, Vermont and by car it was an eighteen-hour drive. However, the two of us were exhausted from the recent fights we’d had and needed some sleep so we stopped in Newburgh, Connecticut. We’d camp out here for the night and then leave first thing in the morning.

  Myra worked at an office supplies store back in Tennessee, which paid alright, but neither of us were exactly swimming in cash. The hotel we chose was not of the highest caliber. The only benefits it boasted were cable television and air conditioning. I missed my thin pillows and slightly lumpy mattress back home.

  We were behind schedule, but only slightly. Myra went to buy some dinner while I opted for a long, hot shower. It wasn’t a nice place to stay, but it had one admittedly awesome amenity—a handheld sprayer with plenty of settings. I stayed in until my fingertips were pruny, mulling over recent events and hoping that a clear solution would arise. No such luck. We were still on defense. I didn’t like it, not one bit. The weight hanging off my soul was starting to make my knees buckle. I had to fix this. I had to save the angels. I owed them. They had shed blood for me more than once. I wasn’t going to disappoint them, not again. Never again.

  I finished rinsing out my hair and groped for the towel with my eyes closed to avoid getting any residual shampoo in them. Weirdly, my fingers hit nothing but the moist air near the rack. Frowning, I reached out farther. It wasn’t there. Had it fallen onto the floor?

  “Lose something?”

  I froze. A deep, mocking, dry-as-sandpaper voice. No. Please, God, let it just be my imagination.