by Erik Lynd
"Not yet it ain't. Take it easy on the liquor."
"Okay dad," Christopher said and instantly wished he hadn't.
"Listen Chris..." Hamlin started.
"I got to piss," Christopher said and stepped away from the table. He was a little unsteady as he made his way through the tables to the side of the restaurant where the bathroom hallway was. Next to him large floor to ceiling windows displayed the city lit up at night. It was a beautiful view.
Christopher turned away from the window and was about to enter the hallway leading to the bathroom when he saw a man staring at him from near the kitchen door. It was the maître d'. He held a cell phone to his ear and his eyes did not leave Christopher. He couldn't make out what the maître d' was saying, but from the look on his face it couldn't be good. Did he miss a dress code? He knew he should have brought a jacket.
Then he smelled it, the stench of evil rolled over him and he could see the man's soul. There was a gray cloud around him, like the average person. But this one had a black core that shot tendrils of darkness throughout the cloud like a spider web. It reminded him a little of what he saw when he had looked at Eris' aura, but this was different. Whatever darkness was inside of this man had complete control over him. He was possessed, and Christopher could see the possessor only cared about one thing. Killing.
The maître d’, still staring at him, put his phone in his pocket and started running straight at him. Not like a casual jogger: no, this was more like sprinter. He was instantly running at full speed. Whether it was the alcohol or just the sight of a waiter suddenly running at him, he was caught off guard and his reaction was slow. Like a linebacker with a clear shot at the quarterback, the man charged at him. Before Christopher's brain could figure out a response, the man was on him.
He slammed into Christopher. The impact was powerful and he staggered back. Even in his slightly inebriated state, no mortal man would have been able to send him flying back so easily. Christopher needed no other confirmation that this was no mortal man.
Up close it was obvious. His human features were twisting, shaping themselves into some hideous parody of a human face. The man's eyes were bloodshot and laced with black lines, his jaw was a great square thing, lined with also square, but no doubt sharp, teeth. Drool, yellow like milky puss, dribbled up through his bared teeth. But most of this was lost on Christopher as the glass exploded outward behind him and he sailed out into the night air with the maître d’ attached.
He acted on his new instincts, reaching out to the shadows nearby. He pulled the darkness close as he fell, forming his hooded jacket in shifting shades of gray and black.
The demon clawed at him, nails digging gashes into his chest as it tried to hold on to his shadow clothes and the natural shirt underneath it. Its oversized square jaw opened to bite his face off. Christopher brought up his hands in time, grasping the thing's throat and pushing back its snapping jaw. Its teeth came together with a loud crack, like the world’s largest bear trap just closed an inch from his nose.
The building was tall, but they were falling fast. He couldn't take his eyes off the demon to see how close they were to the street below. Blindly he stretched his power out. Shadow billowed around him and power crackled through it. Dark tendrils shot out from the shadow, trying to find a building edge to hold on to. He had been practicing with this recently discovered ability and was able to move quickly through cities using the power of Hell inside him to almost fly between buildings.
But he was not actually able to fly, the ground was only a small miscalculation away, and he had never used the power when drunk. The shadow tendrils grasped at the building, but his inebriated state seemed to reflect in his control of this power. At last it grasped briefly and their fall was slowed. Another tendril of shadow billowed out and tried to find purchase on the building. They were jerked to the side as it attached to a building. He was off from the alcohol and his attention was focused on keeping those large teeth from biting off his face, but for a moment he thought it had worked, their fall would be stopped.
Then he slammed into metal and glass as he collapsed into the roof of a car. It felt as if his back was breaking. His head bounced off the crushed roof, sending the world spinning. For a moment he thought he had shattered every bone in his body. All he could pay attention to was the pain and the lack of air in his lungs. He had lost contact with the demon, but luckily it seemed it had also been thrown clear.
It could be on him any second. That thought helped him focus. He tried to sit up, but couldn't, and for one horrible moment he was worried he had broken his back and he was now paralyzed. Then he moved and gasped. Air flooded back into his chest, causing a whole new burst of pain. Movement was coming back slowly, too slowly. Every moment he couldn't move left him defenseless against that thing. After a few more seconds he tried to sit up again.
There were gasps around him. He was surrounded by onlookers, cell phones out, staring at him with various looks of shock, terror, and excitement on their faces.
"Are you him?" cried a small voice close enough to Christopher to hear over the chaotic noise of the crowd. "The one that saved New York from the monster? I've seen you on YouTube. You are him, aren't you?"
It was a kid, maybe twelve years old. He was a brave one. The adults stood away from him, close enough for cameras, but far enough to run if they needed. He breathed a sigh of relief that his shadow uniform still covered him in coat and hood. His identity was still safe.
"Are you going to kill him?" the boy asked and looked at the ground behind Christopher. The demon-possessed body of the matre d’ was slowly getting to his feet.
"Yes," he said. Then turned back to the kid. "Run boy. Run as fast as you can."
The kid must have heard something in his voice, because his face turned a pale white as it drained of blood. Then he ran, faster than Christopher had ever seen a kid run. The boy disappeared into the crowd.
He crawled off the car; he hoped it was a dignified crawl. The demon was on his feet and growing steadier by the second. Christopher stood, for a moment using the car as a brace. But already the pain was fading. It wasn't his fast healing, although that had kicked in. No, it was the seed of Hell flaring up inside, burning out every thought but violence. What little inebriation left in him was burned away too.
And with the seed of hate came the dreaded desire to take souls, to feed on them. He could smell the corruption around him intermingling with the more balanced souls. His hand subconsciously grasped the Weapon disguised as a Swiss Army knife in his pocket. It practically jumped into his hand, and the pang of soul hunger that stirred inside of him reminded him how long it had been since he had harvested.
The Weapon transformed as he pulled it out, morphing in his hands to become a sword. Power radiated from him and his weapon, sending pulses of vibrations through the street. Bands of power arched from him, and scarred the ground where they hit.
The Weapon ached to dig into the crowd, anything with a taint on its soul would do. The Weapon only saw darkness or purity, not shades of gray. The power had him in its grip and he knew not to try and fight it, instead he let it flow through him. He did not try to suppress it as he had in the past, he channeled it.
The strongest smell of corruption came from the man the demon had possessed. He looked at the man's aura and took a strong whiff even as the demon smiled at him, preparing to strike. He could see the sins of the mortal whose shell the demon inhabited. He could see and smell the theft and petty crime, but more importantly he could taste the murder, the lack of remorse. And this is what damned him.
The demon hesitated as though assessing his own health. Despite the energy and power radiating off of him, Christopher held himself up with the broken car, he was still so weak. He sunk down a little as though the simple act of holding the blade was dragging him down. That was all the sign the demon needed. It took the bait. It charged at him: its fingers lengthened into claws, its large jaw distended and glistening with drool.
Just as he was within arm’s reach of those claws, Christopher swept the Weapon up, cleaving though the human shell that housed the demon. The blade cut cleanly, leaving two halves neatly separated. The human soul clung to the sword as it was ripped from the quickly dying body. It pulled away like stringy goo, clinging futilely to the skin husk, then snapped away as the last glimmer left the man's eyes.
The Weapon slurped it up like a favorite meal, but it had been a while since the Weapon and the Hell power inside of him had been fed, so it did little but whet the appetite.
There was some hesitant clapping from the crowd, but also some retching. Most stood in silence, their looks telling him they weren't sure if he was the hero or villain. The authorities would be here soon. Probably not good to stand around. He was about to look for a quick exit that didn't involve him running through the crowd—he was afraid in his weakened state he might not be able to control his unnatural hunger—when he noticed something interesting about the body.
He bent down and, using the edge of the sword, he sliced through the maître d’ uniform and exposing the body's neck and torso. The man was covered with tattoos. They looked gang related, though he was no expert.
"Prison tattoos," someone said from the crowd. When Christopher stood and looked at the man who spoke, the man took a step back.
"How do you know?" Christopher asked. He was speaking in Spanish again, but also subconsciously altering his voice, filling it with power and darkness.
The man lifted his shirt. Across his chest were similar markings, but not nearly so many. The dead man was covered almost completely with them. Except for his head and hands.
"And from the looks of them he was one bad motherfucker, or a sick one anyway. You don't earn some of those for little stuff. I know; I regret mine."
Christopher looked at his soul and sniffed the air. The man's aura had its fair share of dark blemishes, some not just little things. The hunger rose up in him so suddenly it took him by surprise, and he found himself striding toward the man, Weapon flaring to life, power billowing around him.
The man gasped at the look in Christopher's face. He stepped back, grabbing a young boy whom Christopher hadn't seen, and shoved the kid behind him, pushing him away.
"Run Miguel, run quick and tell your momma I love you both. Now run."
The simple act of redemption, small in the grand scheme of things, was all it took to make Christopher hesitate. And that bought him the time he needed to refocus the need, the blood lust that overwhelmed him.
Then he saw the brightly glowing bubble.
It slipped out of the exposed chest of the dead man; it floated aimlessly at first as though caught on a gentle breeze. Then, discovering its target, it drifted quickly toward the opposite side of the crowd. A man waited there, hand outstretched, a smile on his face. He wore the clothes of a priest and a wide brimmed hat, glasses perched on his nose. Deep-set eyes gave his face a skull like appearance.
The glowing bubble landed on the man's palm, sunk quickly into his skin, and the man sighed. The power flared and Christopher looked at the man's aura. It was pitch black and instantly he could smell the horrible scent of corruption. This man was a dark soul.
Hunger washed over Christopher. The Weapon surged with power, and a fresh burst of energy ran through it. It needed to feed. Knowing he could not stop it, Christopher focused his hunger and rage. He would harvest this man’s soul.
The smiling man stepped back into the crowd. He was short, and as the crowd closed around him, he disappeared. But Christopher could still smell the taint of his soul. With a roar he raised the Weapon, preparing to spring into the crowd after him. Behind him there were gasps and screams. Christopher ignored them; the mortals were not his concern. But the crowd did not part in front of him. Power raged around him; they should have been running in fear.
And they would have, if they had been mortal. The people that had surrounded the retreating man started to shift and change. Claws replaced fingers; large, grinning jaws lined with sharp teeth replaced mouths. Their bodies shifted and twisted in ways no human could; they grew more vile and disgusting every moment. The dark soul had brought an army of demons with him.
"Well fuck me," Christopher said.
13
With a collection of snarls, roars, screeches and high-pitched squeals, the horde of demons surged toward him. And here stood Christopher, Lord of Damnation, with two whole days of official training. There was no way he could take them all on. Besides, he didn't know if all the human souls trapped in those bodies deserved to spend eternity in Hell. They may not all be murderers like the first one.
The Weapon shifted in his hand and then he was carrying a huge scythe. Once again, the Weapon had no compunction against killing, guilty or innocent.
Behind him bystanders were scattering. Screams of fear and confusion were almost as loud as the bellowing horde. It was chaos all around him. He had no choice. He let the hatred and violence roll over him from the seed of Hell inside.
He swung the scythe as the first row of demon soldiers reached him. It sliced into the group, cutting through muscle and bone. Each time it cut, it snagged a soul and slurped it up like an oyster. Bodies, sliced in half, or spilling out their intestines from huge gashes across their torso, fell to the ground as the blade of the Weapon cut through, ripping out the mortal soul and sending it to Hell.
The first two rows of demons fell to the scythe before the rest paused. They were vicious, but not stupid creatures. They spread out, trying to surround him. There was more room now that the humans had fled, but he was sure there were plenty of people in the buildings around him with their phones, recording everything.
As soon as he was surrounded they charged in. He spun in a circle, the scythe gleefully tearing souls from the bodies. They pulled back, but they had the numbers. They would coordinate eventually, and he would be overwhelmed.
He saw the glowing balls floating up from the fallen demons, all drifting quickly on the breeze in one direction. Christopher was sure it was back to the skull-faced man. He was their master.
They came again and this time they were fast. He managed to kill many with the scythe, but then they were inside the radius of the blade. The Weapon shifted again, back into a long sword.
He brought it up, plunging it into a demon, then ripped it out only to swing at another. A claw clamped down on his shoulder. Something heavy landed on his back. He threw his shoulders back, tossing the piggy-backing demon from him, but it was just replaced with another.
A demon latched onto his arm. He yelled in pain and surprise, then pulled it close and struck with the Weapon, severing its head from its body. The pommel of the blade had become a small spike, Christopher used it to drive into a demon skull. There were so many, each time he struck one or two more took its place.
Teeth sank into his shoulder almost causing him to drop the Weapon. He thought maybe he could jump, spring away and regroup. But there were so many massed around him, holding him, weighing him down. He had little choice. Soon they would pull him down to his knees and he would bleed to death. He gathered his power for one big push.
Then he heard a screech that cut through the noise of the demons around him. Even the demons paused, startled. From above, a great winged beast was swooping toward them.
Despite the pain Christopher smiled. Long, emaciated skeleton body, oversized head with bony skin pulled too tight across it, black leathery wings. It was his girl, Dark Eris, in her demonic form. Much more bad ass than these minor demons, he thought.
She landed with a thud, her talons clicking on the asphalt. She was tall in her demon avatar, ten feet at least, her torso thick and bony, like her skin had become her exoskeleton. Her arms and legs were thin things, compared to the rest of her body, but he knew from experience they were powerful despite not seeming to have any muscle. Her sunken eyes glowed with a deep fire, and a long slimy tongue dangled from her gaping mouth.
The demons watched her
warily for a moment, as if unsure what to do. Christopher had the feeling that she somehow outranked them in the hierarchy of Hell. He was being swarmed by low-level demons and she was a boss demon.
A group broke away from the pack attacking him and charged at Dark Eris, although they seemed a little unsure of themselves. But Christopher had little time to watch, the remaining demons swarmed over him again.
He swung the Weapon; it would alternated between a longer blade when he was making sweeping cuts and a short blade for stabbing. He caught one by the neck and tossed it to the back of the pack. He would have sliced it, but his blade was already hilt-deep in another. He constantly spun, relying on his Hell-fueled speed and power rather than any real skill, striking and dodging, waving the blade in an attempt to keep them from completely burying him.
He couldn't see how Dark Eris was faring, though he could hear the screams of pain and a large number of glowing balls of power were drifting up from her kill zone. The occasional demon was tossed way up in the air only to come crashing down on its brethren.
Although there were two of them now, it was not great odds against this many opponents. Despite his lack of training, he could have taken on any one of these demons mono y mono, but the sheer number was too much. Already he was slowing, the pain from a hundred different bites and claw wounds draining his energy. His healing couldn't keep up.
He was thinking that maybe he could work his way over to Dark Eris so they could make a last stand together, when darkness shot out of the shadows at the base of the hotel.
The large bolt of blackness plunged directly into the group of demons surrounding him. With a roar that shattered windows, Hellcat ripped through the demons like they were cat treats. Biting and throwing back the horde, she made her way to Christopher. If he hadn't been desperately trying to stay alive under the mass of demons, he would have cheered. He still didn't know if they would survive, but their odds just got better.