Servanah’s Apartment

They had to get off the road. The car was a wreck and it would draw unwanted attention. The windshield was gone. The headlights were shattered and the hood was indented. The interior fared no better. There was blood and gore all over the back seats, on the ceiling, and all over Serf. He’d tried wiping as much off as he could, but when he looked at his reflection in the rearview, he felt he’d done a derisory job.

They were almost there, halfway across the bridge and passing its summit, descending into the city. And Cityside never looked so good to Serf. He stared at the metropolis through the naked window. Drizzle flicked his face. He blinked rapidly and batted away the rain from his eyes. Above, black storm clouds soared past and congregated over Woodside. Ahead, the once shrouded sun beamed its remaining illumination upon the city’s steel, pallid spires.

During the trip back, Serf had spent more time thinking than worrying. He had to get a new vehicle. He had to get to a phone. For that, they’d have to get to Servanah’s apartment. He had to reach his men, have them locate the priest, and pick up the car he’d leave behind.

He made the turn off the bridge and entered Cityside, already looking for a car. Several blocks later, he thought he saw a suitable replacement and pulled up alongside it. “Wait here. We’re changing cars.”

Serf got out.

Seconds after breaking in, he got it to start. He left it running while he went back to the ruined car parked alongside it. He opened the rear door and did the same to its replacement. Lucien scampered into the new vehicle’s back seat and promptly stained the upholstery with bloody paw prints.

Before Serf closed both sets of doors, he caught a glimpse of the mangled carcass, and the sight aroused him. Froze him in place. Then he remembered where he was and how exposed they were. He headed back to the driver’s seat. They peeled away from the curb.

They drove down a destitute strip where dilapidated structures hung like hauntings leaning into the traffic. Arches of corroded stone and blackened brick. Neither empty nor abandoned were these edifices. The region was home to many a fallen, both mortal and demonic.

Serf knew where he was going. And knowing where you were going helped. Few street names depended from the darkened lampposts.

“Lucien,” Serf said, when they reached Servanah’s building. “We’re here.” He drove around to the back of the building.

“We must hurry,” Lucien said, looking past Serf and out the window, at the sky. “Sundown is near. I’ll not have Astor hinder my hunt.”

Serf got out and opened the back seat. “Stay close.”

Together, with Lucien by his side, transformed into a wolf, they entered via the rear entrance.

They took the stairs six flights up and made it to her apartment without incident. Now that Serf was back at Servanah’s, buried thoughts rose from their graves: the guilt he felt for submitting, the pleasure he took from it, the need of it. He missed Servanah so much. He felt himself rise below. But Lucien’s bark killed desire.

“Contain your lust. You ripen the air with it. Come! The way is clear!”

Sunlight streamed through the skylight and spotlighted the wooden spikes still staked to the wall.

As Serf entered, Lucien shoved him aside and scampered past. Serf grabbed the doorframe and avoided the spill.

“Contact your men now!” Lucien roared. He’d picked up Servanah’s scent. He saw it too, diminishing, fading red wisps floating before him. Looked more orange and pink than red. He followed the thickest of the thin, the strongest of the streams to the living room.

Serf rubbed his shoulder wound as he stepped inside. He’d thought it was worse than it actually was. He felt the skin knitting beneath his fingertips as his body sewed the wound shut. He’d never healed this fast and was grateful for Bailien’s blood.

Scent wise, there wasn’t much left. Visually, there wasn’t much left either. Lucien sniffed the air anyway. The fur quivered along his muzzle. Then, his fur bristled. He’d caught a coruscating scent, then a flash of Servanah’s grimacing face. Lucien froze. Allowed the faint scent to engulf him and submitted to the vision.

Underneath the skylight, Serf sat on the bed, phone in hand. On the second ring, Larson picked up.

“Where are you? Been trying to reach you all day,” Larson said.

“I’ve had a busy one.” Serf mentally smirked at the understatement. “I need you and Sands to handle some things.”

“No problem. But I’ve got some news you might want to hear.”

“What is it?”

“We’re outside the City Morgue. The place is wrecked. Looked like something flew right through the building. God only knows what the interior looks like. Happened sometime before sunup. Might be your guy.”

Serf couldn’t believe his luck. His time serving as a chaperone might be over. “The morgue? That’s Sloth’s domain.”

“Yeah,” Larson said. “Their men have the place locked down. Detective Boris Loffkar’s in charge here. Works for Laszlo. Of course, he won’t let us in.”

Serf knew who Boris was. He was enthralled to Laszlo, Sloth’s coven leader within District one. “Don’t worry about getting in. Boris will let us in once we get there. Hunting a Recreant takes precedence over everything else.”

“I told him that, but he didn’t want to hear it. Says he’s not budging until he hears from Laszlo. What do you want us to do?”

“I’m at Servanah’s. I need you to handle some things for me. Got a vehicle I need off the road, and a person located. Name’s Purgeon, Father Randolph Purgeon.”

“A priest? What do you want us to do once we find him?”

“Don’t know yet. Keep him in place for now.”

Lucien was lost in the vision, frozen in place, as stiff as rigor mortis. His claws grasped the ground. The fur along the entire length of his frame bristled. His jaw was clenched, lips pulled back, eye sealed shut; drool descended in streams and fell from between his fangs. A low growl made his throat undulate.

As suddenly as it had started, the vision ended. He’d seen everything, beginning with Raguel descending from the skylight, to when he’d killed Servanah and left with the mortal in his arms. They’d been speaking in the vision. But Lucien hadn’t heard what they’d said. That power was reserved for the Winged-Ones. Lucien’s envy merged with his wrath. He missed his rank. Missed his wings. Unjustly taken. An undeserved penance.

The Recreant had fed off two vampires. One more before addiction.

He looked to the window. The sun was falling. There wasn’t much time. He didn’t understand why Raguel was hunting the dead. Nor did he care. Retribution was his only concern.

“Serf!” he roared. “Come here!”

Slower than Lucien would’ve liked, Serf entered the room.

“Have you called your men? The Recreant’s fed twice.”

Serf knew what that meant. “I’ve called my people. They’ll have the priest in no time. And if the kid’s with him, we’ll have her too. But I’ve got better news than that.”


 

Flight through the Woods

Howls brayed around them as they raced back through the trail Lucien had made earlier on his way in. Now it was Serf’s turn to feel every bump on the road. He was holding on tight, sprawled across Lucien’s back, his legs wrapped around Lucien’s torso, his heels digging into his flanks. He was grasping Lucien’s neck bind with one hand and gripping the gun with the other. Serf found this intimacy horrifying.

Suddenly, all was now silent save for the sounds of Lucien trampling through the forest and their heavy breathing. This concerned Serf. Silence augured attack. His eyes darted about as he tried to spot the Neuri’s auras instead of trying to spot the Neuri themselves. Remembering how well their fur camouflaged them and shuddered.

Dark clouds soared overhead and extinguished what faint sunlight remained. Lightening exploded. At its tail came the downpour.

Lucien’s wet fur bristled, needled Serf’s skin. He tightened his grip on gun and shackle.

“Seven strong,” Lucien said, picking up their scent, then picking up his speed. “Hang on.”

Though he didn’t want to look back-he had his fill of werewolves for a lifetime-Serf turned and did just that. The woods were a flurry of activity. The undergrowth heaved. Shapes sifted through the foliage flanking them. Though he couldn’t make them out, he saw their green auras gleam.

“They’re behind us. About fifty feet.”

“Yes,” Lucien growled. “We cannot outrun them.”

“We could try.” Serf dug his heels into Lucien’s sides, harder now, as if spurring a stead onward.

“We will have to make a stand.”

Ahead, Serf saw the log he’d tossed into the bushes earlier. “We’re almost there! We can make it without a fight. The Neuri won’t go past the freeway.”

“They want their king’s corpse back. They will follow.”

The decision was made for them, as two Neuri came charging in from the dense foliage flanking them. Their coats swirled and shifted with all the colors of the forest. One attacked from the right. The other from the left. Serf braced for impact and clenched the gun. One leapt low and took Lucien’s legs out from under him. The other came high and knocked Serf from his lupine perch.

Lucien crashed into a tree and toppled it with his massive head. He bounced to his hind legs as the tree fell behind him. His attacker charged. Lucien stood his ground, cocked back his arm just as the Neuri leapt and swung. His fist punched through the Neuri’s chest as fangs sank onto, then into his shoulder. Both howled. Smoke poured over Lucien’s embedded arm. The silver shackle was now inside the Neuri, searing him from within. The Neuri’s jaws went slack before the former demon lord pulled out his hand. A human body fell to the earth.

Meanwhile, Serf was dealing with a werewolf of his own. They tumbled into the underbrush. The detective’s only thought was to hold onto the gun. He sprang to his feet, slipped on mud and felt his ankle twist. He buckled and dropped to his right knee. An unplanned move, but an effective one nonetheless. Fur and fangs now claimed the space where his head had been. The Neuri soared over him, exposing its underbelly. The detective fell on his back and fired. A human body landed a few feet from his face. Glory was short-lived. Another Neuri was charging toward him.

Lucien lifted a large rock and threw it at the Neuri that was about to pounce on Serf. It connected with its head. There was a bone cracking sound. Then the Neuri fell backwards. Serf fired, put a bullet in its chest. It crashed into the underbrush. A human hand protruding from the shrubbery confirmed the kill.

Lucien roared, “Go Serf! Back on the trail!”

Wincing, Serf got up on wobbly legs, swayed for a moment, then gritted his teeth and hobbled back on the trail. Lucien lifted the tree he’d uprooted earlier and turned to face the wolves.

They came charging through the underbrush, four of them. Lucien hurled the tree. Three of the Neuri couldn’t avoid it. The fourth leapt over it and tore after the fleeing detective.

Serf ran as best he could on his twisted ankle, sweating profusely, feeling fatigue set in. Ahead, he could see the freeway’s blacktop. So close yet so far. He ignored his ankle’s screaming protests and raced toward the oasis, wiping the rain falling into his eyes, and trying not to slip on mud. Then he heard something crashing through the woods behind him. He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t resist glancing over his shoulder. The Neuri bearing down on him bore no silver shackles upon its appendages. Knowing he wouldn’t make it to the freeway, Serf stopped and took aim. He never got the shot off.

He felt the Neuri’s weight as it hit his chest. He smelled the wild musky scent pouring off its damp fur. The gun flew from his hand. He knew he was about to die when he felt fangs sink into his shoulder and shatter his clavicle.

The Neuri opened its maws and released. Hot drool dripped onto Serf’s face. Serf thought that his entire head could actually fit into the beast’s great mouth and closed his eyes. When he heard the sounds of more padding feet, he squeezed his lids shut tighter. Then he felt the weight on him increase, and heard a scream. He dared a peek, and was shocked to find a werewolf’s fist protruding from where the Neuri’s forehead should’ve been. A silver manacle adorned the jutting hand, still clenched in a tight fist. Fur and flesh melted away from the head, and before Lucien extracted his hand, the head he pulled it from was human.

Lucien shoved the body aside, grasped Serf’s shirt about the chest, and flung him onto his back. “Three more remain,” he said, as he was about to charge back onto the trail and head for the freeway.

“Wait,” Serf croaked, his shoulder blazing, feeling like an infection was soaring through it. He was pointing at the ground, about ten feet away. “The gun.”

Quickly, Lucien reached for it, and handed it to Serf. Serf couldn’t hold on to both Lucien’s shackle and the gun. Not with his left arm dangling uselessly at his side. Serf shoved it into his waistband and Lucien tore back into the woods via the trail.

They heard the wolves behind them, roaring, braying, charging, but neither the former demon lord nor the detective looked back. The freeway beckoned. They could see it. Only a copse of bushes separated them from it. Lucien hurled over it, felt his feet touch the blacktop, heard his claws click on it, then saw a flash of metal just before the car hit him.

Again, Serf flew from his wolf mount, rolled along the ground tumbling end over end, his shoulder blaring with pain. Wearily, he rose. He saw the front end of the vehicle crumpled inward. He saw Lucien rising to his feet, then saw two Neuri dive onto the freeway. Lucien was already charging toward them.

Serf headed for the car. He hobbled to the driver’s side door and flung it open. The man inside was unconscious. His brow wound bleeding over the wheel. He was about to pull the body out, thought better of it, and shoved it into the backseat instead. No use wasting a good meal. Lucien would have quite an appetite once they escaped. If they escaped.

As Lucien and the two Neuri circled each other, the combatants looking for an opening, Serf saw a third one leap onto the road. Serf shot through the front window as he plastered his foot to the pedal. The bullet found its mark, as did the car. Serf plowed over the Neuri he’d just shot.

He hit the brakes.

The two remaining Neuri hesitated. They’d lost eight of their kin and seemed disinclined to press, crouching low to the ground, backs arched.

Lucien raced to the car, reverted to his wolf form as he went, and crashed through the back window. Serf punched the pedal just as Lucien landed in the back seat.

Serf looked into the rearview. They were still on the road, staring after the car. As long as they weren’t in pursuit, Serf couldn’t care less.

“Call your men,” Lucien said from the back seat. “Tell them to locate a Father Randolph Purgeon.”

“So you found something,” Serf said, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone. His hand came out of his pocket clutching a smashed phone. “We’re going to have to call my guys from Servanah’s.”

But Lucien didn’t answer; he’d already begun eating the car’s former owner.

Serf drove to the soothing sounds of Lucien eating. A small part of him wondered why he’d ever found it disquieting.


 

Spiritual Assistance

Avalyn and Father Purgeon sat at the desk. The priest was still soaking in what she’d told him earlier. The cigarette buds in the ashtray had piled up. He lit another and looked over at Sarah, asleep on the couch. She looked peaceful. About as peaceful as a corpse, Father Purgeon thought. But her chest rose and fell evenly, dispelling his dark comparison.

He wondered why she’d reminded him of a cadaver. It took him a moment, but he finally figured it out. There was a stillness about her that seemed so natural that it was unnatural. Neither smile nor frown played with her lips. No eye-dance beneath drawn lids. No twitching of limbs, hands folded in front of her, legs straight out, relaxed though, not tense. There was no change in the cadence of her breathing, equal amount of intake and equal amount of exhalation.

Avalyn absently ran her fingertips over the spines of the books piled on the desk, most of them pertaining to the same topic, angelic lore.

Father Purgeon was still marveling over her appearance. She looked as fresh as a daisy, radiant and unmarred, making him think of a newborn baby’s skin, that pristine purity.

“Interested in angels?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I study them. It’s a hobby. Been fascinated with them since I was a kid, about your age.”

“They do exist you know,” Avalyn said. “The Shadowy Man, he’s an angel. My guardian angel, you can say. He’s been watching over me my whole life. But there’s only so much he can do because of where he is.”

“And where is that?”

“In the Deadtime. He uses the doorways there to reach me. He hides from the others there, uses the doors to escape when they come near.”

“The Deadtime? The others? ” Father Purgeon’s last question filled him with familiar dread. He recalled Roman warning him of others, ‘Others that may come for her if for no other reason than to get to me’, he remembered him saying when he’d dropped Avalyn off at the rectory.

“The Deadtime is where each and every all exists, through its infinite doorways,” Avalyn said. “The others are angels, like him. He’s hiding from the Hunters, keeping them away from me. They want me dead. To them I’m a mistake, something that wasn’t intended.”

“Why are they hunting him? Why do they want you dead?”

“Because he did something he wasn’t supposed to do.”

“And what was that?” Father Purgeon pressed.

“He sent me here. Before they made me forget where I came from. Like they do to every soul before they’re born.”

This was getting much bigger than the priest could’ve possibly imagined. Yet, he was more fascinated than frightened, as he’d been last night when Roman had shown him what he was, for no matter how powerful faith flowed through him, confirmation of an existence beyond mortal life was in some way a vindication for all he believed and held dear. On the other hand, he was terrified at what he’d find out because he might not like the way things actually were beyond the corporeal realm. The priest hadn’t noticed that he’d been holding his breath. He relaxed and released it.

“I could try to explain it, Father, but words can’t, not exactly. I showed Sarah. I made her remember. I made her see what everybody knows before they are born and after they die. If people knew what Sarah knows now, then life wouldn’t be much of a test. Their choices would be different. It’s sorta like cheating.”

“Then why did you do it to Sarah, whatever it is that you did? Why won’t you do it to me? I’d like to know what happens after death. I’d like to know where we came from.”

“Because you don’t need it. Your faith is your truth. And like Roman said, ‘It is all you will ever need’. Not everybody’s as strong as you, Father. The Shadowy Man knew this. It’s why he sent me. One of the reasons, at least. Sarah didn’t need to hold on to her suffering anymore. Her pain was only getting in her way. There are so many souls like hers.” Avalyn’s face filled with sorrow. Then her eyes hardened. “The other side’s not playing fair, Father. They’re cheating, any chance they get. Lots of good souls aren’t getting to Heaven, aren’t going home, and I think I know why, thanks to what the Shadowy Man showed me. It’s why I’m here. To make sure that certain souls get to Heaven, and to stop whatever’s preventing them from getting there. You’re here to help me, Father. You and Roman.”

Avalyn wasn’t sure if what she’d done was wise, telling Father Purgeon everything she had, but she felt that she’d had to give him something.

Avalyn unnerved Father Purgeon. She looked like a normal twelve year old. But she didn’t sound like one or act like one. This wouldn’t be the last time he’d feel this way about her. He wanted to ask about Roman. How he’d come to rescue her. What exactly was his involvement in all of this? What was his purpose? He was about to voice these questions when Avalyn said, “How long have you known Roman, Father?”

“Not too long. About a year.”

She nodded and continued looking through the stack of books. “He sought you out. Didn’t he? Why?”

“Spiritual assistance,” he said. “Guidance.”

She looked intently at him. Father Purgeon could tell that she wanted to hear more. And he obliged.

The windshield wipers sound loud in the car, louder than the drizzle pattering the glass between swipes and the swooshing sound of tires treading through water. Father Purgeon has left Cityside and crossed the bridge into Woodside.

After parking, he walks down the street, enjoying the rain sprinkling his hair, and dappling his blazer. He even enjoys the sound his steps make splashing. Though he’s a bit uneasy about meeting Roman, he understands its important approaching the distressed with a clear mind, with no judgments or expectations, and, most importantly, with a good energy.

He can’t explain why Roman had made him feel so uneasy, a week ago, underneath that tree, while he was having his undercover smoke. It wasn’t anything he’d said or done, but there was this air of warbling anxiety radiating from him, something that was beyond grief or distress.

He knows where he’s going. He’s been through Woodside before. Quite a few times in fact, to get away from the city, from its claustrophobic feel, from its smog laced air.

Ahead, the two-lane road disappears into the wilderness. Civilization along this side of the bridge is relegated to these few blocks of concrete, where there are bars, lounges, grocery stores, restaurants, and a pharmacy. The bar he seeks is at the end of the street.

The two-story establishment is made of great oak logs. Burned into the wood above the door is the word Sanctuary. Carved into the second floor’s face is an oval window. Rain streaks the glass. A figure paces behind the watery curtain.

Father Purgeon opens the door and enters. He swipes his feet on the matt beyond the threshold. The place is semi-crowded and dimly lit. Some patrons drink by the bar, beer sloshing in their glasses. Most sit within booths carved from black wood, in front of tree trunks for tables, the candles on them muted by walls of wax ascending past the flames. Cast iron chandeliers and whirling, wooden fans hang along the ceiling.

Since he doesn’t see Roman among the customers, the priest heads for the stairs. He passes the bar; a plethora of bottled alcoholic beverages blocks most of the mirror there. Above the bar, there’s a clock on the wall. Father Purgeon checks the time. He’s fifteen minutes early.

He walks up the stairs, appreciating the feel of birch-wood handrails, and the stone inlays set on each step.

Upstairs, twenty feet away from the stairs, two booths flank the oval window. Three customers engaged in conversation occupy one of the booths, voices raucous and exuberant, the tabletop candle there illuminating their shared joviality. The other booth’s candle is unlit. Shadows enshroud it. The moonlight coming through the frosted glass seems to avoid it. Several tree trunk tables lay between the stairs and the booths, all of them empty. A barmaid stations the bar along the wall.

“Father.” The priest recognizes the voice and tries to track it, but he can’t hear anything over the din the three in the other booth are making.

“Thank you for coming, Father. It is most appreciated.”

He thinks it came from the booth enshrouded in darkness, but he can’t be sure. The shadows shift within the murky booth. “Over here, Father,” Roman says, lowering the cowl covering his head. “I enjoy my privacy, and was not positive if you would make it.” His voice is as flat is it was the night they’d met. But something else bothers the priest. Roman’s voice sounded so clear, almost as if he were standing right next to him, almost as if that voice came from inside his head.

Father Purgeon’s still standing by the stairs, hesitant to take another step. He has the feeling that once he does, there’s no turning back. Silly. But that’s not it. He’s staring at the pale pate that seems to be floating in place, its pallor amplified by black hair, black clothes, and by the room’s darkness. He can clearly see the color of Roman’s eyes, even twenty feet away. Cobalt blue.

Father Purgeon steps across the threshold and heads toward the booth.

“Thank you for joining me,” Roman says, rising, extending a hand. The movement startles the priest. So fast. A blur. Father Purgeon shakes the offered hand. It feels cool and smooth.

They take their seats. Father Purgeon notices that Roman seats himself as far back into the booth’s crook as he possibly can.

“How can I help you, Roman?”

“During this last week, eagerly anticipating our meeting, I have been trying to encapsulate all my thoughts, all my feelings, into something cohesive and understandable. Trying to control the chaos of my emotions, fashion them into something succinct and lucid.” Abruptly, Roman stops. “My apologies, Father. I have not offered you a beverage. What would you like?”

The mundane question startles the priest, so enraptured was he in Roman’s words. It’s not just what he’s saying, or how well he communicates; it’s the sound of his voice. It’s not until Roman speaks again when Father Purgeon nails it.

“Father? What would you like to drink?”

It’s like hearing a voice without air behind it. As if Roman used a means besides phonation to vibrate his vocal cords to produce words.

“Just water.”

Roman nods, then continues, in that same airless voice. “I am at war with everything without and within. I cannot accept the actions of others, yet I do not condone my own. I hold myself accountable for my actions. Yet, I cannot stop self righteousness from rearing its head, justifying my actions, guiding my wrath.”

He’ll let Roman talk in generalities, because the details aren’t important, not to Father Purgeon anyway. What’s important is helping this man deal with what is the same thing everybody on the planet has to deal with: themselves.

“You’re judging everything around you. You’re judging yourself. What gives you that right?”

Roman leans forward and Father Purgeon swears that his eyes darken. He hopes he’s kept his tone even, not as harsh sounding as his words may have been.

“We are all accountable for our deeds, Father. We all have choices to make. Though I regret these decisions afterward, this realization does not sway nor steer me from repeating the same offenses.”

Roman settles back into the booth. Before the priest responds, the sound of approaching footsteps stays his tongue. He turns. The barmaid is coming their way with a tray balanced on her palm. On it, his glass of water. He doesn’t remember her taking his order. Doesn’t even remember her ever coming over. He feels Roman’s eyes on him, expecting a response.

“You must want to stop whatever it is you’re doing. Because you feel guilt, you must feel that whatever it is you are doing is wrong, to yourself, or to others,” Father Purgeon says.

The barmaid places the glass on the table, turns and leaves.

“I do not want this guilt, Father. I do not want this regret. Why do I feel guilt? Why do I feel pain?”

Father Purgeon pauses before he responds, not because he doesn’t know how to, but because it’s the first time he’s noticed that no matter how loud the three patrons in the adjacent booth become, he can hear Roman’s voice quite clearly through their clamor. He can also hear his own voice as well.

“You’re in pain because you believe you are the things you do. You are not the things you do. If you truly want to stop the pain, use the guilt if you have to. Remember that pain, feel it, whenever you’re doing whatever it is you want to stop.”

Roman’s face grows solemn, then gradually becomes a mask of rage, slowly smoldering over. His next words are spoken softly, but are weighed with bitterness. He spits them out, not disgusted with them, but horrified by their truth. “You do not understand. I cannot stop. My survival depends on it.”

 

Father Purgeon might have been a little confused then, but he understood everything now. No wonder Roman had felt that way. With no other beings like Roman to compare him to, the priest didn’t really know what normal was in the vampire world. Yet, intuitively, he felt that Roman was unique, that there weren’t too many other vampires, or whatever he was, who felt like or acted as he did.

Avalyn’s eyes had a faraway look, that dreamy contemplation that comes over somebody when their mind is elsewhere, even though she’d been paying attention the whole time. After all, it had been the priest’s story that had forced her mind trip.

“I’ve been reading your books,” Avalyn said. “You’ll need to remember everything that you’ve learned, Father. Not only for your sake, but for Roman’s sake as well. There are things that you have to teach him.”

Before the priest could question her, Avalyn went on. “Enochian. Is that the language of angels?”

“Some people believe that it was a constructed language, something made up by a group of people, instead of one evolving naturally as every known language to man has. Others believe that it’s nothing more than a poor imitation of an ancient language, whose grammar was derived from English.”

“What do you believe, Father? Is the language something made up or is it really what the angels speak?”

Father Purgeon leaned back in his chair and thought about the question. He was also thinking about the questioner. She probably knew more about it than he did. She just wanted to know how he felt about it more than glean any knowledge from his answer.

“I think there’s some truth to it. Like all myths, like all legends, every fantastical idea is based in truth.”

Avalyn said nothing, but she was smiling, and this time that smile reached her eyes.


 

Ambush

The forest flanking the road whipped by as they sped to Servanah’s apartment. Beads of sweat glistened on Serf’s brow despite the wind blasting through the windows. With every rattle and thump, he looked in the rearview mirror. He imagined Lucien breaking free from the trunk, pictured him racing along the roof of the car, toward him. His hand went to his weapon. Its grip comforted. Slightly.

Inside the trunk, Lucien felt every bump on the road. His head repeatedly hit the roof. The body beneath him began to stink and stiffen. Lucien didn’t care. Thinking about Raguel replaced hunger. Betrayer and Recreant, one in the same? The Gatemaster? Here? Purely coincidental? Lucien didn’t think so. No demon had ever avoided Hell. An impossibility. Apparently not. Unless he was aided. But why? The Neutrals wouldn’t dare. Unless they were bade to. Was Raguel some celestial pawn? Was someone using him? If so, who and why? This realization disturbed Lucien, for only the adversaries commanded such influence, but it wasn’t enough to steer him away from wrath, from retribution. He didn’t care if any of these questions were answered. Raguel had betrayed Lucien and his legion, deceived them, made them think they could take Heaven, before the Gatemaster Fell himself. And for that, Lucien would kill him. He didn’t care how he’d avoided Hell. Didn’t care if the Neutrals had helped him. Didn’t care if God himself had helped him. All he cared about was slaking his vengeance. Besides, those answers weren’t dependent upon Raguel’s continued existence. He’d resolve those riddles after Raguel’s death.

A familiar scent drifted in through the holes and broke through these distressing thoughts. Lucien’s eyes widened. His body went rigid and a howl tore from his throat.

Hearing the howl, Serf pulled his gun free, turned in his seat and leveled it at the rear window, positive that his nightmare was about to come true. Half of it did. The trunk’s lid blew from its hinges and out leapt Lucien, muscles and bones contorting, elongating, shifting. The cadaver tumbled out. Serf never saw the lid land, but he saw Lucien, now in full transformation, land past the roadside and gallop into the woods.

Serf slammed on the brakes, backed up until he reached the body, and got out. He flung the remains back inside the trunk, jumped back into the driver’s seat, and hit the gas before he’d even closed the door. He couldn’t lose Lucien. He veered into the woods and followed Lucien via the trail the werewolf had made, strewn with torn branches and uprooted foliage.

He had to hurry; Lucien already had a good lead.

Ahead, a log crossed the path, too big to drive over or go around. He stopped the car and got out. Effortlessly, he picked up the log and tossed it into the bushes.

As Serf jogged back to the car, he sensed something. Motion to his right. He froze, peered into the bushes, and caught the glint of an aura, as green as the shrubbery and imbued with a shimmering light as pristine as sunlight reflected off a lake. It was an animal’s aura. A large animal’s aura. Motion again; this time off to his left. He whipped his head there and saw another emerald flash. Then he heard rustling behind him. There was movement all around him now. He pulled out his gun, turned around and ran back to the car.

As he slammed the door shut and holstered his weapon, something hit the rear bumper and jolted the car. Serf punched the gas. The car went nowhere. He felt the car buckle like a bronco tethered to a post. He kept his foot on the pedal and mentally urged the car forward, afraid to look in the rear view mirror. Then he heard a tearing metallic ripping sound followed by a screeching pop just before the car pulled free. Only then did he check the mirror.

He remembered what his master had called them, Neuri, but to Serf they were just werewolves. There were two of them, same size, same claws, same fangs as Lucien’s, standing on hind legs, muscles bunched, rippling and bulging, tails swishing behind them.

One of them dropped to all fours and tore after the car. The other brandished the bumper above its head and flung it. The bumper sliced through the air and shattered the rear window, pierced the shotgun seat and impaled it to the glove compartment.

Serf veered left and nearly missed a tree that seemed to have grown directly in his path. Bark grazed against metal and scraped off layers of paint along with the right side mirror. Past the obstacle and back on track, he glanced in the rearview. Their speed shocked him. They were gaining, roaring as they ran, ears plastered to heads, jaws parted revealing rows of overcrowded fangs. Killing perfections.

Serf’s foot never left the pedal.

Brambles and branches snapped; their serrated ends slashed fur. Lucien ignored the pain and charged through the woods. As he approached a clearing, the scent grew stronger. It led him past a pebbled lakeside boarded by trees and thickets.

He froze. He was close. The dead scent was ubiquitous. He lifted his muzzle, tested the air and tasted it, separated the living scents from the lifeless one. He locked in on the dead scent and growled. Then made a mad dash up a steep incline. At its summit he stopped.

The house was two stories, enshrouded with flora and vines, windows and front door barely visible. What was visible was the Winged-One’s scent, branching off in two different directions, one trail leading up to the second story window, the other peeling around the house. He chose the latter.

He saw the aroma’s black bands congregating around a closed, slanted cellar door abutting the structure. He didn’t bother opening it. He simply crashed through it.

Though he saw the black strips swirling in the air, he could tell that Raguel hadn’t been here for two nights. The visual trail was thicker at Drake’s, more solid. Here, they were already beginning to fade away, dissolving to particles, looking like ashes drifting in the air. But the sulfur scent was still strong. That would linger for quite some time.

He ran over to the loose planks on the ground, sniffed around them, then shed them aside with a single swipe from his claws and breathed in the scent. This was where Raguel slept during the day.

He went back outside, mounted the façade and scaled it, making his way to the open window. The fur along his back bristled, porcupined stiff, warning him that danger was near. He sniffed the air without stopping. Neuri. He growled. He’d not let them hinder his hunt. Let them come. If they dared.

He pushed aside the drapes and stared into the room. Evaporating black bands wisped around an oak desk situated in the room’s center, with matching chair pushed in, a ceiling fan above it.

As he leapt into the room, he caught another scent, a living scent. He ignored the Recreant’s and traced this new one to the desk, to its only draw. He opened it with a claw and found himself staring at a black bible.

With his claw, he peeled back the cover and read the inscription within.

 

To Roman,

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Your Friend,

Father Randolph Purgeon

 

Roman. Was that the name Raguel was going by now? Demon and priest friends! He breathed in the priest’s scent and stored it. He now had three scents to hunt.

Serf’s eyes ping ponged from rearview mirror to road. Behind him, the Neuri were in full gallop, slashing at the car with their claws, racking and tearing into the metal. He imagined what those claws could do to flesh, specifically his own. He thought about shooting at them, but they were too fast, too agile, ducking and weaving behind the car, constantly crisscrossing. No way he’d hit them; he’d only waste precious ammo.

He came upon a clearing, went past a lake, and zoomed up a steep slope. If he could have gone any faster, he would have. He was about to steer right when he realized that what he at first thought was part of the forest was actually a house.

One Neuri slammed into the car, driver side, forced Serf away from the house and back towards the woods. Then the other joined, lowered its shoulder, and pummeled the car along as well.

Serf tried side swiping them, but they dodged the blow and darted into the underbrush, only to surge back, drop their heads, and smash back into the car. One head hit the rear. The other punched in the driver’s door, imploded it, shoving Serf against the bumper impaling the passenger seat. Sharp pain stabbed into his thigh and blunt pain bludgeoned his shoulder. He dove back for the wheel, winced and sucked in his breath. He’d felt his shoulder pop and knew it was dislocated. Felt the warm stream running down his leg and knew it had been pierced. He looked down. He hated being right. The blow had crushed the door inward and parts of it were now married to his leg and imbedded in his flesh.

They rocked the car toward the woods, tag-teamed attacks. One would strike and retreat, then the other would rush in, and unlike a boxer’s one two combo, both blows were hard, with no leading jab, just knockout punches.

Instead of bracing or veering away from the next bash, he turned into it. Perfectly timed.

Crunching metal. A grunting bray.

Serf checked the mirror. Both Neuri were gone. He didn’t want to press his luck. He swerved toward the house. He might have a chance if he could just reach Lucien.

Hope died forty yards away from the house. He caught movement from the corner of his right eye. Four, not two Neuri, slammed into the car.

Serf thought he was flying instead of driving, and in truth, he was, for five eternal seconds. The blow had lifted the car off the grass. Serf saw the world in front of him drop, skew as the car tumbled in the air. It landed on its side, teetered there for a moment, and then fell on its roof, Serf’s forehead slamming into it.

He saw the house, past the bumper, through the passenger side window, past all the blood pouring in his eyes. What a tease, seeing salvation so near. Earth pressed against his face. He’d have to make it past the bumper and through the window; the wrecked door looked like crumpled paper.

He heard them howling. Heard their padded feet. Though cramped, he managed withdrawing his thigh from the metal puncturing it and freed himself from the driver side door. Thankfully, none of the metal had punctured his arteries. He thought of trying to bash aside the bumper, but decided to go for his gun first; he hoped it was still sitting within its sheath under his left arm, but when he tried reaching for it, he hissed, forgetting that his right shoulder was dislocated.

He grasped the ball of his shoulder with his left hand, gritted his teeth, and pushed. He felt it shift, felt bone grate on bone. It popped. He screamed as it settled back in place, he thanked Bailien’s blood for giving him the strength to relocate his shoulder. He reached for the gun again. Just as his fingers touched the handle, a howl, too close for comfort, nearly ruptured his eardrums.

A wolf’s head filled the entire opening where a window used to be. Its muzzle was within the car, fangs flashed and snapped, saliva dripped and pooled onto the seat. But it could go no further. Two things impeded progress. The bumper was one of them. The other was simply the size of its head. The window frame was too narrow for such a massive crown.

The Neuri alleviated this situation promptly by removing its snout from the window, grasping the door, and ripping it free, before flinging it over its shoulder. Now the only thing between it and its meal was the bumper. As claws met rubber, Serf’s hand found steel. As the Neuri tore the bumper free, Serf unsheathed the gun. And as the werewolf shoved its snout back inside, Serf pulled the trigger.

Its entire head came apart and splattered Serf. The detective grinned past the gore.

He saw the fur turn to skin. Saw the fangs turn to teeth. Crawling towards the window, he pushed away a section of its snout as it transformed into a human nostril. When he reached the opening, he pushed aside the human body spewing gouts of blood from its headless neck, and got out.

Smoke streamed from the ruined vehicle. Serf jumped to his feet, trained the weapon before him, swiveled it in every direction, ready to pull the trigger at the first thing that moved. The three remaining Neuri, just sitting there, on their haunches and staring at him with yellow, swirling feral eyes, somehow scared him more than a full blown attack.

They stared at the gun. Serf sensed their collective fear. The middlemost one opened its jaws, growled low, and sniffed the air. “Silver bullets,” he said. “You’ve killed our brother.” The alpha’s voice crashed over fangs that seemed to shred the words leaving his mouth.

Serf said nothing, training the gun on the speaker.

“Let us retrieve the body of our king, Lycaon, and we’ll let you live.”

“I can’t do that.” Serf backed away, limping as he did, favoring his right foot as he eased around the car. He’d never outrun them. Still, he’d take down as many of them as he could before they killed him. “I’m more afraid of my master than I am of you. You can be killed.” He shook the gun for emphasis. “He can’t.”

The lead Neuri sniffed the air again. “You’re enslaved by the blood.” Serf heard the disgust in its voice. “This is your last chance, thrall.”

He was almost around the front end of the car, his limp less pronounced. He thought of checking his brow wound, but decided against it, reluctant to have only one hand on the weapon. Besides, his head felt better anyway.

“Back up!” Serf aimed the gun on the speaker. “Or Alpha here gets it.” The other two looked to their leader. Only when he began backing away did they comply.

Serf was no longer limping. He gauged the distance between them. About fifteen feet. Maybe as much as twenty. It was now or never. He gave them his back and bolted for the house, beating down the primal fear that argued against this possibly mortally fatal decision, for to flee from a wolf is to acknowledge that you are prey.

He didn’t hear them giving chase. He didn’t hear that dreadful gallop or the braying primordial screams of the hunt. But what he did hear was the alpha’s loud howl. The other two Neuri loaned their voices to his. Serf knew those howls would soon be answered.

Ten yards from the house, Serf fell to his knees. He looked over his shoulder. The werewolves were crawling over the car, bearing fangs, wary of the gun but still coming. Serf bounced to his feet, far quicker than he’d thought possible. Fear had its uses. Serf practically flew the rest of the way, his legs pumping beneath him, faster than a mortal’s ever could.

Now he heard them give chase. Now he heard that dreadful gallop. This time, he didn’t look back.

Several feet before the door, he dove, went through it, ripped it from its hinges. He didn’t have enough time to turn, aim, and fire. Thankfully, he didn’t have to do anything at all. Lucien saw to that.

“It is me you want!” Lucien dropped from the window and landed on all fours, chest out, rippling like a volcanic eruption. His howl blasted forth. The charging Neuri skidded to a stop and plowed up earth and grass. They fanned out, eyes locked on Lucien, on the stolen body of their dead king, circling him, ears erect, fur bristling, lips curled up, snarling and displaying ivory incisors, lashing and snapping.

“Give us back the body of our king!” the alpha said. He stood, his scouting party followed suit. He’d made sure Lucien was between him and the house, where the thrall with a gun full of silver bullets was.

Inside the house, Serf went for the window with legs that felt encased in concrete, weighted down by fear and dread. He clasped the gun in both hands, reassured by its weight, especially its ammo.

“Which coven will pay? Whose House?”

Lucien was glad that his thick coarse fur covered Asmodeus’s seal. “I know not,” he lied. The sun glinted off his black onyx orbs and gave them a red tint. “This vessel now belongs to me!”

“You don’t want a war! Give the body back, demon.” The alpha smelled the repugnant stench wafting from his dead king’s reanimated body. This was an abomination. The possessed vessel reeked, loaned weight to the insult. Made a mockery of something as sacred as his former sire’s body. This atrocity had to end and the violators had to be punished.

“You know I helped create this world,” Lucien said

“You’ve helped destroy it! Like all your kind!” The alpha retorted.

“If you want the vessel, come for it!”

The alpha remained standing on his hind legs, while the other two crouched, dropping to all fours, ready to spring. The entire forest was silent, as if holding its collective breath, an expectant witness waiting for the battle to unfold. The silence wouldn’t last. The alpha growled low, a deep bass-like sound. His flankers answered back.

They charged. The flanking Neuri on the left bolted by and made for the house. The other charged onward with its leader.

Serf shattered the window with his gun. He knew he had to make the shot count. He knew that he only had one chance to stop the charging beast. But he couldn’t get a bead on him. He took the shot anyway. And missed.

Serf turned, gun raised, as the Neuri ran through the doorway. The doorframe came with him, as did the wall it was attached to. The werewolf skittered through splintered wood, banked right, and leapt. Serf pulled the trigger as the Neuri landed on him.

Had he hit it? He thought he did. It wasn’t moving. He tried squeezing his way out, but couldn’t budge the ten-foot wolf. Then he felt the body shift and twitch, felt the load lighten, saw limbs shrinking, then flesh sucking in fur.

Outside, the alpha soared for Lucien’s neck, but the former demon lord caught the spearing muzzle before it reached its mark, and dug his claws into the back of the alpha’s head. His silver manacles pressed against his enemy’s ears, searing away fur.

The alpha’s jaws snapped, inches from Lucien’s neck. Fangs pulled back fur instead of flesh. He dug his fore claws into Lucien’s sides, pushed past pelt and into skin, their tips scraping the ribcage. Lucien roared just as the other Neuri had decided to pounce. Its jaws missed Lucien’s torso, but bit into his rump.

Lucien lost his balance and all three werewolves tumbled in a tangle of fur, flashing fangs, claws, and blood.

The alpha beneath him shifted. By the time Lucien noticed what was happening, the alpha had transformed into a grey wolf, whose head was much smaller than it had been in its battle form. Slipping free from the demon lord’s grasp, he darted away, then circled back, charging towards him, transforming as he came.

Lucien threw himself sideways, backhanded the Neuri now clinging to his loin across the right side of its muzzle. He followed the blow by pouncing on the Neuri’s chest, then swiping at its face, both arms blurring, claws scooping up clunks of blood-matted fur and wads of flesh.

Back at the window, Serf leveled the gun and aimed it at the alpha, now in mid leap, jaws parted, soaring straight for Lucien’s back. He emptied the magazine into the alpha. Not one shot missed. A human body landed on Lucien, which he barely noticed.

Blood pumped from the Neuri’s torn neck. His shattered lower jaw hung, skewing to the right side of his face. One eye blinked rapidly, while pink pulp and bloody fur buried the other. His ears were dangling flaps; milk-white cartilage protruded from the tips.

“Serf!” Lucien roared as he stood.

“I’m here,” Serf said, emerging from the house with his gun still clasped in his hand.

“This one still lives! Finish him!”

“My pleasure.” Serf made his way over, pulled out a fresh clip from his jacket, and reloaded. He put a bullet in what was left of the Neuri’s head. As he sheathed his weapon, a series of howls erupted from the forest.

Will be returning to prior schedule of a chapter a week tomorrow. 

More Questions than Answers

The assault rifle is still warm in Randolph’s hands, like the pistol holstered at his hip, and the shrapnel embedded within his rent-riddled fatigues. Smoke still smolders from the torn fabric. His hair is matted by blood and sweat. Both liquids run down his face and sting his eyes. Most of the blood isn’t his own. He doesn’t remember when or where he lost his helmet, and he’s surprised when he hears his dog tags clinking together against his chest, reminding him that they’re still there.

He squints past the blood and sweat as he tries penetrating the smoke filled landscape. Randolph hears more than he sees and the sounds only make things worse. Mangled moans, shrieking screams, mumbling and gibbering, the inane sounds of the fallen and fading. He smells more than he sees as well: the copper-scent of blood, the ripe stench of feces, vomit, and urine. The fumes of the dead and dying mingling with the acrid smell of gun smoke and bomb blasts.

The haze is so thick that he can’t tell if it’s day or night. As if answering his question, a strong gust of wind clears away some of the shrouding murk, and reveals the horror that he’s only smelled and heard.

Hundreds of bodies litter a field once boasting foliage. Now the dead and dying outnumber the shrubbery. They plague the landscape as far as the eye can see. A cornucopia of corpses. He’d thought he’d been trudging through thick mud, but now knows that he’s been stepping on body parts and waste.

Something grasps Randolph’s leg. He looks down. There’s a soldier lying on his back, eyes wide, entrails spilling out from his belly, one hand trying to hold his guts in, the other clenching Randolph’s ankle.

“Help me,” the soldier pleads.

Randolph knows he’s already dead. He’s just lingering on to life. Randolph slings the rifle over his back, kneels down, and without saying a word, swipes the man’s eyes close with one hand as he draws his pistol with the other. He places the muzzle to the soldier’s temple and pulls the trigger. It doesn’t surprise him that he feels nothing.

As Randolph rises, he sees a flash of black and white, among all the greens, reds, and browns. He makes his way over. As he gets closer, he notices that it’s a person kneeling over an injured soldier, dressing his wounds. The black and white flash that caught his attention are the garments of a nun.

When he reaches her, she looks up, and Randolph’s breathe catches in his chest. The face that stares back at him is a familiar one, though one the soldier he is now will not meet until well after the war.

“Nancy! What are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” Sister Nancy Harden says. “Where were you?”

Randolph doesn’t know how to answer the question. He’s staring at her face, her russet eyes, the strands of matching hair peeking past her wimple. He feels the pang of loss, remorse and regret, feelings the soldier that he is will not feel for years to come.

“I’ve been here,” he finally manages. “I’ve been here.”

She nods, as if his answer makes perfect sense, a thin smile crinkling her cheeks. “Not for long I hope. This isn’t a good place, Randolph.  Not a good place at all.”

 

The alarm shrilled. Day glared through the curtain’s useless barrier and found Father Purgeon’s face. Without so much as a peek from his sleep-encrusted eyes, he reached for the clock on the nightstand, felt for the off switch and depressed it.

With the alarm silenced, he heard the coffee machine’s percolations coming from the kitchen. He gave into the sights and sounds of the morning and shed the sheets from his body. His mind did the same with the dream, though the feelings of remorse and regret lingered. His feet touched the cold wooden floor. Toes wiggled searching for slippers. Frustrated at his feet’s failed attempts, he swiped the sandman’s residue from gummed eyes, spotted the footwear, and slipped them on.

Then it all came back: Roman, Sarah, Avalyn. Panic seized him. Where was Roman? He was supposed to have been back by now. Had something happened to him? Father Purgeon got up and walked to the window. A clear morning. It should’ve brightened his mood some. It didn’t.

Roman had had his chance. He glanced out the window, eyes dilating with the morning’s glare. He decided that he was going to do what he should’ve done in the first place. Report it to the authorities and take Avalyn to the hospital.

He stepped out of his bedroom, made his way down the hall, and entered the living room that also served as his study. He’d just sat down on the couch bookended by his library when he heard the sound of footsteps. He turned. Sarah and Avalyn stood at the top of the stairs.

“Good Morning, Father,” Avalyn said, walking towards him.

He stared at her feet. It was all he could do. Shock disallowed anything else.

“I’m feeling much better,” Avalyn said when she reached him. He was still staring at her legs. He looked up now. In her hands was a bundle of clothes. “May I wash up and put these on?”

“We found them downstairs. With the clothes for donation. We didn’t think you’d mind,” Sarah chimed in.

“Of course not, the bathroom is to your left.” the priest said pointing her down the corridor.

Avalyn walked off toward the bathroom.

After the bathroom door closed, Father Purgeon turned to Sarah. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked, as if this type of thing happened every day, as if children miraculously healed all the time.

“What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?” Father Purgeon asked, hissing so that he wouldn’t shout. “How is she walking? What’s going on?”

Sarah smiled. “She’s such a strong young girl, isn’t she? She recovers quickly. Her fever broke right after you left. She’s fine now.”

Was this some kind of joke? He had seen it himself. He knew her leg had been badly broken. He could almost feel his sanity slowly slipping away.

And what was with Sarah? There was something different about her, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. Nothing obvious. Something subtle. Just beneath the surface. Gone was the worry she’d shown just a few hours ago. Gone was the tension that had creased her brow.

Suddenly Father Purgeon felt like the only sane person he knew, and even that was questionable. He had accepted a lot in the last twelve hours. If he could accept Roman, he should be able to accept this. Could he?

“So what you’re saying is that she healed herself. Did I get that right?”

“Yes,” Sarah said, smiling serenely at Father Purgeon.

“I’m going to have a cup of coffee. I’d like you to go help Avalyn.” Though he phrased it as a request Sarah sensed that he wasn’t asking. Without waiting for her compliance, and thankfully, without having to see that inappropriately serene look on her face again, Father Purgeon got up and made his way to the kitchen. He needed a moment and he meant to have it.

He heard the bathroom door open. He heard running water. Then heard the door shut.

He grabbed a mug on the counter and poured himself some coffee. He was surprised that his hands weren’t shaking. Then he reached into the cabinet above the coffee machine, rummaged past canned goods, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He drew one from the box, placed it in his mouth, and then tossed the rest back in the cabinet. He turned on the stove, lowered his face to the flames, lit the cigarette, and took a deep drag.

With mug in hand, and cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he made his way back to the desk and sat down. He smelled the nicotine in the cigarette’s vapors and tasted it on his tongue. Felt the furry feel of the slippers on his feet and the morning’s breath against the back of his head. After another deep inhale, he opened the top draw, groped inside for a second or two before pulling out an ashtray. He placed it on the desk and rested the cigarette in one of its notches.

He brought the coffee mug to his lips. Sipped its warmth and felt its comfort. When the coffee hit the back of his throat, he allowed himself to think. He exhaled what he felt he’d been holding in since Roman showed up at the rectory with the child in his arms and, what he felt now, after seeing Avalyn’s mended leg. Had she healed herself as Sarah had said? And if so, what did that mean? Was Avalyn even human? He couldn’t understand Sarah’s non-reaction, her amicable acceptance. Too many questions. Too many shocks in so little time. He thought of Avalyn’s missing savior. She and Roman were two peas in a pod. Two question marks without answers. He controlled his frustration, barley.

Before he knew it, the bathroom door opened, and out came the ladies. They made their way down the hall. Blue jeans and a wool, black sweater replaced Avalyn’s tattered garments. Now washed, her damp, auburn hair looked bathed in bronze, framed a pink-pale face scrubbed clean.

“Your leg. This has happened before?”

“Always,” she said.

“Does the severity of the injury matter?”

“No.”

“Are you human?” Father Purgeon had to ask in light of recent events.

“Yes.”

“Are we still waiting for Roman?” Sarah asked, taking a seat on the couch.

The question startled Father Purgeon. Avalyn had to have filled her in. He was grateful that he didn’t have to, yet he wondered how much Avalyn had told her. He’d never mentioned Roman to Sarah. Their meetings were confidential, not because Roman asked them to be, but because Father Purgeon had felt they had to be. He didn’t quite understand his reasons then, but when unsure, he tended to go with his guts.

“I haven’t heard from Roman. He should’ve been here by now.” Father Purgeon pulled on his cigarette. “We don’t even know if he’s alive.”

“He’s not dead,” Avalyn said, joining Sarah on the couch.

“You know this?” Father Purgeon asked, though it was more of a statement than a question.

She nodded.

“How?” he asked as calmly as he could, not quite liking the way Sarah placidly just sat there, taking all this too easily, as if every negative emotion had been lobotomized from her brain.

Calm came over Avalyn’s face.

She dropped her head and stared at the floor, squeezed her hands into small fists. She looked like she was preparing herself with a difficult task, preparing to share some pain she had locked away. Or maybe, it was something she’d come to terms with and was unwilling to dig up again, because in doing so, the priest thought, she might realize that the pain was still there.

“Do you know what it’s like knowing when everybody is going to die? Knowing how and when? And that there’s nothing that you can do about it, even if you wanted to? Like my mother. All my life, I knew when she was going to die.”

Though he wanted to ask her about a million questions, Father Purgeon felt that he’d learn more by keeping his mouth shut.

“I know that Roman is alive because the Shadowy Man would have told me if he was dead,” Avalyn said.

“Who?”

“The Shadowy Man. He’s always been with me. Watching over me. Warning me. Like a guardian. But he only comes with the night.”

“Was that who you were talking to last night?”

“Yes.”

“While you were sleeping?”

“I wasn’t sleeping. My body was resting, but I was in the In-Between place. The Deadtime. There are many doors there. He takes me through them. Shows me things.

“I knew that man was coming for me. Drake, the man who kidnapped me. The Shadowy Man came to me that night as he always did; a shadow that blocked out the brightness behind him. I’ve never seen his face. Though I’ve always known it. He took me to where he always takes me. Where the blackness is perfect, yet holds all light. To the great Nothing where everything exists. Where there are endless doorways, leading to each and every all. The Deadtime.”

 

“We do not have much time,” Avalyn hears The Shadowy Man say. “Someone is coming for you. You have to be strong.”

“Who’s coming?” she asks. He doesn’t answer.

She hears the click of a lock whose echoes are eternal. Sees a door whose frame is light. And feels a cool breeze on her cheek when it opens.

As always, she sees the other doors, glimpses their eternal numbers, lining the timeless space above, below, and beyond. She looks down as she always does, feeling the vertigo, finding it exhilarating and horrifying at the same time, and peers between her feet, where there’s no ground. As far as she can see, doors stream into infinity, curve labyrinthine through corridors of night. The DeadTime.

Beyond the doorway in front of her, she sees a room, dimly lit by moonlight. Even in this sparse illumination, she recognizes it. She begins to step through the doorway. The Shadowy Man’s arms wrap around her and pull her back. “You must remain here with me for now.”

“Why are we in my room? Why am I watching myself sleep?”

The door to her bedroom opens. The Shadowy Man’s arms tighten. In the entry, silhouetted by the hallway nightlight, a thin stretched form of a man. Moonlight bounces off the blade in his hand. She hears the knife slither across fabric as he slides it into his back pocket, but not before she sees blood drops dribble from it.

“Who’s blood is that?” she screams, even though she knows.

“You must remain here. He must take you. Help will be waiting.”

“What happened to my mom?”

“You know. You knew this day would come. I am sorry, Avalyn. Things are now set in motion. This is the beginning.”

“I woke up in the trunk of a car.” Avalyn could see more questions in Father Purgeon’s eyes, but she felt she’d told him too much already. She raised her head and cleared her throat. “I wish she didn’t have to die.”

He watched her eyes fill with sorrow, but no tears. It seemed she’d done all of her crying. She clasped her hands on her lap, the color all but drained from the knuckles. He reached out for those tightly entwined fingers, loosened them gently, and held one of her hands as he pondered the tale she had told. She’d known her mother was going to die. She’d known someone would be there to rescue her from Drake, apparently, because the entity she referred to as the Shadowy Man had told her. Who was the Shadowy Man? Some sort of supernatural guardian? Could he be trusted? Should he be trusted? And what had he meant when he’d said ‘Things are now set in motion. This is the beginning.’ The beginning of what?

Things were indeed set in motion and Avalyn knew that she couldn’t stop these events. Roman couldn’t either. Nor could Father Purgeon. She wished she could give him more, but there was too much at stake. Besides, the Shadowy Man had bid her not to. Later, she wouldn’t have a choice. Later, none of them would.

Wolf and Thrall

Lucien galloped through the tunnel. His claws scraped past moss and scratched steel. He smelled and tasted the wild in the distance. An ambrosial aroma compared to the metallic tang of the tunnel’s innards.

Ahead, he saw the guarding House sigil, pulsing scarlet. Its glare shown faintly in the sunlight and looked more pink than red so diluted by the day. He slowed down just before reaching the edge of the tunnel, was careful not to pass it. That would be unfortunate. The singed wolf fur and dried blood he saw melded to the tunnel’s metal mouth were a testament to its power.

Though wolves frequented the area, those of natural stock wouldn’t come so close; instinct wouldn’t allow it. Lucien knew this but was unconcerned; he welcomed the threat. The body was now his and he wouldn’t give it up. Recovering it would come at a heavy cost. The Neuri would do well to remember this. If not, he’d remind them.

Still, he’d trade in this body for his former frame. He’d do it without a second thought. But he hadn’t been given a choice. Until Hell deemed that both he and Bailien had paid the penance for their erstwhile disgrace, this bondage would continue.

Now within the sigil’s radius, the sigil beneath the fur on his left arm awakened, looking like a forest fire blazing across black woods. The one on the tunnel wall ceased pulsing and blazed bright before it went out, as did the sigil on his arm.

As he emerged from the tunnel, day glinted his good eye to a slit, the lidless one to tears. It had been a long time since he’d ventured out into the world. Six years since the last hunt. His eyes would adjust; they always did, on these rare occasions Astor allowed amnesty.

His limbs beat with the pulse of his racing heart and his tongue lolled from his mouth. Hot breath visibly puffed past fangs. His great paws dug past winter-hardened earth and kicked up shovels of it. Though the sun had risen, it gave far less heat than it had centuries ago. It was enough to melt the light sheen of frost that swathed the forest’s foliage. Flora peeked past rime; stalactites broke free from branches. Underbrush shed their glacial crowns. Lakes and ponds thawed.

Yet, the wolf in him sensed that the landscape was dying despite these renegade growths, these pockets of life. He heard nature’s whispers pleading the mammal to listen. This kinship hindered thought. The duality sickened him. One of many reasons he hated his current predicament.

His nostrils flared wide. A familiar scent. Lucien stopped and sniffed. Human, with laced blood. A blood slave. Bailien’s thrall. He dropped to his haunches and waited.

Detective Daniel Serf strode toward the crouching creature. Even though Bailien had forewarned him, Serf was unprepared for what he saw. Sitting, Lucien was over six feet. Lucien spread his snout and Serf became captivated with the ivory fangs glistening with saliva. He smelled the stench of decayed and rotting flesh. Serf’s heart hammered his chest. He covered his fear as best as he could and swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t stammer when he spoke. “I’m Serf. I’m gonna take you the rest of the way. My car’s parked nearby.”

“I need to feed soon. Are you going to take care of this?” The sound of Lucien’s voice was deep yet piercing, like a blunt weapon that stabbed as well as bludgeoned. Serf was glad that he’d already taken care of Lucien’s nutritional needs.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Lucien said. “Take me to Drake’s.”

“Better if you stayed here while I got the car.” Without waiting for a reply, Serf retreated.

Moments later, Serf pulled up. He popped the trunk from the driver’s seat. The enticing scent of fear wafted out from the trunk. Lucien’s stomach rumbled. He sprang from his haunches and lopped to the car. As he did, his bones shifted, limbs contracted, and his muzzle shortened. His entire body scaled itself down. The manacles shrunk with the transformation. By the time he reached the trunk, he physiologically resembled a grey wolf, with a timber wolf’s black pelage.

He dove inside. A gagged, hogtied man stared up at him. The fit was tight, but Lucien didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be snug for long. Serf got out and shut the trunk.

The cramped space within the trunk had become roomier with Lucien’s consumption. He was now working on the breastbone. He shattered the heart’s shield, pushed his jaw through, stabbed his tongue inside, and brought back teasing chunks of the organ.

The car stopped. He heard the driver’s side door open then shut. The trunk popped.

“Sorry to disturb your . . . meal. We’re here,” Serf said, stepping away from the opening.

Lucien hopped from the trunk. Serf suppressed the urge to vomit when he saw what was left of the body. Then he saw Lucien. Moist and congealing blood matted his fur. Strips of flesh hung from his muzzle. As Serf followed the trek of a depending shred of meat clinging to a crimson tainted canine, Lucien’s snout stretched and his head elongated. Bones crackled and muscles convulsed, making popping sounds as they grew. Seconds later, the transformation was complete. Lucien was once more twelve feet long and approximately four hundred pounds. A Neuri’s true form. A Neuri’s battle form.

“Wait in the car. You’ll spoil the scents,” Lucien said, as articulately as one could with a mouth full of fangs and mashed meat.

Serf didn’t need to be told twice. It took every ounce of his will not to race back towards the car. To walk instead and hide his fear.

Lucien sniffed the ground. Drawn to the iron gates where the dead scent was thick. It was one night old. The scent was visible to the werewolf.

Shock widened Lucien’s eyes along with his nostrils. Bailien was right. He smelled sulfur. Only a Winged-One’s scent smelled like sulfur! Only a Winged-One’s scent-trail looked like this! Swirling ribbons of swelling, black, cancerous waves, like a shadow’s penumbra. They were coiling around the gate.

He whined deep in his throat and ran his wet snout up and down the iron, leaving a slick sheen of mucus on the metal. Images exploded in his head.

Alighting on the gate, clawed feet grasp the iron. Moments later, he shoots from the gate and soars to the top floor’s balcony. A thin smile cracks his face.

Lucien’s eyes shot open, the whine now turning into a low growl, then a howl. He knew that face very well. It was the face of his betrayer. The Gatekeeper, Raguel! The Recreant and his betrayer were one in the same. He knew whom he hunted. He knew he’d not deliver him to Astor. Nor to Hell. Astor and Hell could wait. Lucien’s vengeance couldn’t.

He leapt over the gates and charged to the house. Ignoring the front door and without breaking stride, he jumped onto the balcony, a two-story leap. Lucien ducked low as he entered, nostrils flaring, black eyes glinting as he crossed the threshold. His vision doubled as the sulfur scent ran up his nostrils. He saw the room as it was now. He saw the room as it was then.

He saw the Winged-One, Raguel, wrench open the French doors. He saw him head downstairs. Lucien followed him down to the room with the dead children. He saw Drake drag in the child. He saw Raguel knock Drake out with a blow to the head then kick him down the stairs.

He opened his eyes. Where had he been all this time? How had he avoided Hell?

Lucien followed the sulfur scent downstairs, stopped before the basement door, hooked its handle with a claw and flung it open. Entering, he breathed in the basement, dropping to all fours, snout planted to the ground. He circled the casket, whirled around it, kicked up dust clouds, each revolution faster than the last. The dirt stuck to his blood matted fur like beach sand on a wet body.

Again, his vision doubled.

He saw Raguel take Drake’s life. He saw him take Drake’s unlife the next night. Saw him leave with the child.

Why risk addiction? Was it already too late? Lucien thought of the girl. Why take her? Where did he bring her? Though he didn’t know it, he was plagued by as many enigmas as his adversary was. What he did know was that along with The Winged-One’s scent, he also had the girl’s. If he couldn’t find one, he’d find the other.