The Holy Dark

by Kyoko M

  “Yeah, ‘cept there’s somebody in this one,” he said, cocking an eyebrow upward. “Violating a grave ain’t exactly something to put you in a party mood, babe.”

  “Well, everyone’s got a hobby.”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, swigging his drink. His brown eyes roved over me, and then Michael, who wore a neutral expression as he surveyed the stranger.

  “Not too sure about your costumes either. I mean, I can peg Sam Winchester over there, but not you. Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Not sure yet,” I said, and it was an honest answer. “Working on it.”

  The stranger laughed. “Right. Real philosophical. You’re definitely not with this crowd.”

  “Speaking of which,” Michael said, and I caught a bit of venom in his tone. “Why aren’t you out there with your friends?”

  The Fonz shrugged. “Needed a break. Lively crowd, but they kind of wear on you. So what d’you say? Mind if I join you?”

  “Yes,” Michael said frankly, and I glared at him. Sure, the guy was pushy and suspicious, but there was no need to exacerbate the situation.

  Fonz raised his hands in supplication. “My bad. Didn’t know you two were an item, Sammy.”

  Michael made a noise. “I’m not a Winchester. Now do you mind?”

  “Alright, alright. I get it. Enjoy your night, folks.”

  He turned, starting back towards the clearing. I eased my hand away from my Glock underneath my duster.

  Just then, I heard a small click. Confused, I glanced over my shoulder. Too late, I realized it had been a lighter.

  The Fonz kicked my left ankle out from under me. I fell to my knees, reaching for the gun, but then I realized what the Jack Daniels bottle was for. A white cloth hung from the mouth of the bottle, lit aflame and spilling orange light through the darkness. He stood over me, one hand clutching my shoulder so I couldn’t move, the other holding the Molotov cocktail aloft.

  “Hold it right there, archangel.”

  I didn’t move a muscle. He was too damn close. If I even twitched, he would light me on fire. I smelled the alcohol from the wick and the pungent odor of gasoline. He’d been faking it when he took a sip, trying to lure us into a false sense of security.

  Michael glared at my attacker, his voice achingly low. “I can drop you before that bottle leaves your hand, boy.”

  The Fonz snorted. “You’re good, Commander, but you ain’t that good. Unless you wanna turn wifey here into roasted dark meat, dig up that grave and give me the coin.”

  “Maybe you don’t listen so good,” Michael growled. “I said I will drop you where you stand. Take your hand off of her or I’ll kill you.”

  Fonz paused. “Nah. I think I’m good. Do what I tell you to do or she dies. Five seconds to choose, archangel.”

  “Michael,” I said, my voice full of warning. “Don’t you dare be a gentleman.”

  “Two seconds.”

  Michael’s eyes went from the cocktail to my assailant to me. I could almost see him working things out in his head. He didn’t have a gun. Didn’t like them. Only used them when he had no other options. This guy was only human, not a demon. I figured they hired him because we couldn’t tell a plain old hitman from a normal person. Still, his hand on my shoulder meant I couldn’t break free to shoot him and Michael couldn’t disarm him because he was too close.

  “One second,” the Fonz said.

  Michael gritted his teeth, lowered the shovel, and began to dig. I closed my eyes for a second.

  “Stubborn jackass,” I whispered.

  “Shrieking harpy,” Michael shot back, tossing clumps of dirt aside.

  “Wow,” Fonzie said. “You’re being held hostage and you’re still arguing. I bet your sex life is pretty spectacular.”

  “I plead the fifth,” I said. “So what’s your exit strategy, genius? You might get the coin, but there’s no way either one of us is going to let you walk out of here with all your limbs intact.”

  “Let me worry about that, chickie. By the time your hubby here is done digging it up, he’ll be too drained to stop me. And as fine as you are—”

  He trailed his cold fingertips up one side of my neck. “—I doubt you’ll put up much of a fight.”

  I glanced at Michael and did my very best Bugs Bunny impression. “He don’t know me vewy well, do he?”

  Michael snorted. “You watch too much TV, Jordan.”

  “No such thing.”

  The lighthearted dialogue was really just to throw off the Fonz. Michael’s shoulders held a fine tremble in them as he continued digging. He was over halfway done—around four feet into the grave—and his energy was slipping. The last encounter with a coin left him weakened and this would only make things worse. We were in serious trouble. Fonz would be better off killing him than me. I was just a lowly human. Michael’s murder would earn the creep bragging rights for life.

  However, there was one thing the hired hitman didn’t seem to account for. The cocktail would eventually get too hot for him to continue holding, even with that motorcycle glove on his right hand. He’d either have to drop it or switch to a backup weapon. That would be my opportunity to turn the tables on him. Still, my timing had to be perfect.

  Michael pitched to the side, one hand propping himself up against the edge of the grave. I tensed, but the Fonz dug his fingers in harder, keeping me still.

  “Cool it, babe. He’s tougher than he looks. Finish up, Commander.”

  The archangel’s chest heaved, his shoulders shaking. “Can’t. Too close.”

  He pitched forward to his knees, just barely catching himself on his arms, hands flat on the dirt-encrusted lid of the coffin. Fear shot through my veins. I had to make a move.

  Fonz cursed under his breath. “Have to do everything myself, don’t I?”

  He reached around my front and unstrapped my gun, pressing the barrel against my neck. He set the Molotov down on the tombstone next to him and then motioned forward. “Take over for him.”

  I stood up and faced him, balling my hands into fists. “Why? So you can shoot me when I’m done? No thanks.”

  “Or I can shoot you both right now and dig it up myself.”

  I smiled. “But you won’t, because the co-eds will call the cops. They’re drunk, but they’re not that drunk. They know what a gunshot sounds like. And the police department isn’t far from here.”

  He gritted his teeth, clicking the hammer back on the Glock. “I can risk it. Now dig or I’ll put a bullet through your husband’s forehead.”

  I raised both hands in surrender. “Fine.”

  Then I kicked the Molotov off the headstone onto his feet. He managed to jump out of the way, but the bottle burst all over his nifty boots. He kicked the shoes off and raised the gun back up towards me. I hadn’t needed the cocktail to kill him—merely to distract him.

  I smiled as his finger inched across the trigger of my gun.

  “You want the coin so bad…”

  I sidestepped just as Michael picked up the coffin. “…you got it.”

  Fonz’s jaw dropped as my husband hefted the coffin over his head and threw it straight at my attacker. The coffin flattened him with an enormous, almost cartoonish thud. I rushed over and stomped on his wrist, pinning his arm so he couldn’t get off a shot with the gun. I didn’t need to, though. Based on the way his legs were twitching, he was either dead, dying, or in serious amounts of pain.

  “Nice shot,” I said after retrieving my gun and walking towards the grave.

  “Thanks,” Michael said, still winded, sweaty, and dirty. I offered him my hand and he took it, hauling his huge frame out of the hole. I steadied him with my hands on his shoulders, frowning as I felt him shaking under my fingers.

  “I’ve got this,” I said. “Head back to the car. Won’t be long before someone notices what we did to the Fonz.”

  He shook his head. “Make sure it’s in there first.”

  “I did mention the whole stubborn thing, didn’t I?”r />
  He pointed at me. “Pot.”

  He then pointed at himself. “Kettle.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Your funeral.”

  Naturally, throwing the coffin hadn’t been good for it. The plain pine box had splintered and cracked at all the seams, exposing part of the corpse inside. I knelt and shoved the broken lid aside, breathing through my mouth as the stench hit me. The man’s decayed hands were folded over his stomach, and between them I found the Judas coin. I immediately shoved it in my pocket, which would provide at least a little shielding for Michael, and nodded to him as I stood.

  “Let’s go.”

  Just then, my phone rang. I answered it as we hustled away from the gravesite.

  “Yeah?”

  “We have a problem,” Avriel said, his voice strained.

  “What now?”

  “There is a pack of hellhounds heading your way.”

  I froze. “How many?”

  “…a lot.”

  “What direction are they coming from?”

  “The woods. You have less than five minutes before they’ll be upon you.”

  I addressed Michael. “Hellhounds. What should we do?”

  “We have to get these people out of here. After they’re clear, I’ll take care of the hounds.”

  I glared at him. “How? You’re barely standing. What, do you have some Milk Bones in your pocket?”

  He glared right back. “Give me the damn Glock, woman.”

  I slapped the gun in his hand and angled the phone towards my mouth again. “Keep the engine running. We’ll be coming in fast. Be careful.”

  “Of course. You as well.”

  I hung up in time to see Michael trudge into the thick of the tents, his tall form easy to see even in the dark. He held up his hand and shot the Glock into the air once. Most people watch too many movies and so they think a gunshot is just a loud pop. It isn’t. And a .9mm is a pretty decent-sized gun.

  The sound ripped through the entire graveyard, loud enough that the DJ’s hand slipped on the keyboard, cutting off Bette Midler’s version of “I Put a Spell on You” mid-verse. All of the costumed people froze, staring at him. Even drunk and high, I could tell they knew it wasn’t a fake.

  “Hi there,” Michael said, his voice unnervingly calm. “I have a gun. You have exactly thirty seconds to get out of here before I start my target practice.”

  Silence. Then, they scattered. I had to throw myself against the nearest tree to avoid getting run over as they fled, skirts and coattails flying in their wake. Thankfully, none of them ran for the woods, instead scurrying towards their cars parked on the hill at the west side of the cemetery.

  A long, hair-raising howl cut through the night. My heart practically bounced off my ribcage, it was beating so hard. Living with a hellhound for almost a year didn’t mean I was any less afraid of them. They were close now, enough that I could hear the faint crunch of dead leaves under their paws. I peered into the tree line in front of me as dark shapes began to emerge. The blood rushed out of my face. Avriel was right. There were a lot of them.

  “Can we run for it?” I asked Michael.

  He shook his head. “They’re too fast on foot. We wouldn’t make the gate.”

  “Can you fly?”

  “Too drained.”

  “Then what’s the plan?”

  Michael checked the magazine of the gun. “I’ll lead them towards the Virgin Mary statue. You’ll have maybe three or four minutes to make a blood circle. That’ll trap them inside. Afterwards, we can exorcise them.”

  “Y’know, if we don’t die and all.”

  He gave a curt nod. “Get ready, Amador.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  He marched towards the trees, his steps sure, solid, and rhythmic, almost as if he was in a band. The legion of hounds stepped outside of the forest—seventeen of them, all huge and snarling with hunger. All with those scorching red eyes fixed on my husband. Time to get to work.

  Michael stood his ground, sizing them all up, and then lifted my gun. The second he opened fire, I threw myself into motion. I rushed over to the food tent, tossing aside napkins and paper plates, searching for a knife. I had my pistol as backup, but no knife. Myra still had my gear with her.

  I finally found a serrated knife sticking out of the leftovers of some French bread and then sprinted towards the angel statue in the middle of the quarry. Shots echoed behind me, punctuated by roars from injured hounds. Scrabbling sounds of claws on the ground reached my ears. Some of them had spotted me.

  I pulled up my sleeve and sliced into my forearm, spilling blood. I cupped one hand and caught as much as I could, ignoring the pain. It splashed hot and thick over my palm, painting it dark red, and I concentrated on summoning up as much energy as I could. I dragged my wet fingers across the circle of headstones surrounding the statue, murmuring the Latin incantation to start the blood spell.

  I was halfway done when the first hellhound caught up, throwing itself at me. I withdrew my pistol and shot it twice—once in the head, once in the chest. It crashed to the ground with a snarl, writhing. Another beast bit the hem of my duster, dragging me backwards, trying to throw me to the ground.

  “Shit!” I yelled out of pure frustration, snatching my arms of out the sleeves. The duster fell on top of the hound’s head, blinding it. I drop-kicked the spot where it head should have been. The blow landed between its ears, stunning it. I shot it in the midsection, careful not to hit the coat, and then checked the area for more. None yet. I scooped up my duster and kept moving.

  Michael stood at the bottom of the hill, leading the remaining creatures towards me and firing shots with deadly accuracy. There was still another dozen creeping after him, their white fangs gleaming in the moonlight.

  I finished making the circle of blood on the headstones and then climbed onto the statue. I pressed a bloody fingertip to her forehead and made a cross. Done.

  “Move it or lose it, pretty boy!” I shouted.

  Michael ran up the hill at breakneck speed, his own duster flying behind him like a cloak. The hounds pursued, snapping at his heels, closing in from all angles. He emptied the gun into the thick of them, grabbing me around the waist and dragging me out of the circle just as they crossed it. He threw me to the ground, curling his body around mine for protection as they launched themselves at us.

  I held out my hand and shouted, “Accendo!”

  Bright crimson light shot upward in a circle. The hounds smashed against an invisible shield, falling into a disgruntled, injured doggy pile. It worked. Thank God.

  I let my head drop back down on the damp grass, sighing in relief. “I don’t get paid enough for this shit.”

  Michael held himself over me on his palms, chuckling. “Me neither.”

  He stood and offered me his hand without hesitation. I knew he saw the blood on both of mine and yet there he was, unfazed by it. I shook the thought away and accepted his help. He didn’t let go right away, rubbing his thumb along the back of my hand.

  “Thanks.”

  “Back atcha,” I whispered, forcing myself to let go.

  The hounds paced back and forth along the line my blood had made, but they couldn’t reach us. I stretched forth my hand and closed my eyes, extending the energy inside me until it connected with the power in the circle.

  “In nominee Dei, quae ego praecipio vobis dimittere malum a vinculis animalibus.”

  The beasts froze in place and shuddered. Oily black smoke issued from their thick pelts, billowing upward into the sky. Their fur thinned and changed back to their original colors—brown, white, grey, golden—until we were left with a pack of normal, confused dogs. Some of them immediately scampered off into the night while others glanced at each other curiously.

  A golden retriever wagged his tail and walked over to me, sniffing my bloodstained sneakers. I resisted the urge to pet him, smiling at the small marvel. I couldn’t save them all, but it was nice to know I’d spared a few innocent pets.r />
  Sirens whined in the distance, breaking me out of my thoughts. “Great. The po-po. Can’t wait to see this story on the front page. ‘Gun-Toting Cosplayers Murder the Fonz in Local Cemetery.’”

  Michael snorted as we jogged towards the front gate. “I’d pay to see that.”

  “You are a sick man, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “Ayyy.”

  We high-tailed it out of Brooklyn before the cops showed up and drove to meet Myra so we could head to the location of the next coin. I tried not to think about the fact that my blood would be all over the crime scene if the Fonz was actually dead. The FBI already had a bone to pick with me after the business with Avriel last year. With this on my record, I was sure to go down if they ever got a hold of me. Maybe moving to a non-extradition country wasn’t such a bad idea.

  Avriel drove while Michael and I huddled in the back of the car, trying to staunch the wound on the inside of my arm. Faust was in the front seat with a book, casting a worried glance over at us.

  “Are you going to be alright?”

  I waved the comment aside. “Tis but a scratch.”

  Michael rolled his eyes as he wrapped gauze around my arm. “If she’s quoting Monty Python, she’s fine.”

  “Ah. Well, I might have a bit of good news. I’ve been poring over some of the textbooks I had left at Madison’s place before everything began, and I found something discussing the holy properties of sackcloth. In the olden days, sackcloth and ashes were the ultimate signs of sorrow and shame. In fact, some of the old Seers used sackcloth in order to help mask their energy signatures from demons.”

  “Yeah, Andrew mentioned something like that before in his journal,” I said. “What are you thinking?”

  “If the cloth can shield holy energy, why couldn’t it shield impure energy? Do you have any with you?”

  I nodded to Michael. “Check the side pocket of my backpack.”

  He pulled it out from underneath the seat and unzipped the bag, taking out an old rolled up cloth no larger than a small grocery bag. He handed it to me and I scooted towards the other side of the car to give a bit of space between him and the coin. I pulled it out of my pocket and dropped it inside the cloth, wrapping it into a ball. All at once, the energy that had been slowly draining Michael’s powers stopped.