by Ryland Thorn
It should have been enough. The tar man had barely a moment to react. He should have been able to do no more than look up with an expression of shock on his face before both of Jack’s knives carved into his chest.
But the tar man is nimble. And Jack’s attack is not unexpected.
The tar man does look up, but his expression is a long way from shock. He is grinning, his white teeth seeming to glow in the darkness of the tar on his face. As Jack launches, the tar man kicks the floor a little harder than he has done before. Instead of balancing on the chair’s back legs for a moment, he passes beyond that point of balance and falls backward.
It is a cunning move. Jack cannot halt his momentum. He is flying through the air like a comic book hero with his trenchcoat acting like a cape. But his target is no longer there. As Jack passes through the air where the tar man had been, the tar man kicks up with his feet and connects solidly with Jack’s midriff.
Jack lets out an explosion of breath. The tar man’s kick propels him further than he intended to go. He sails through the air in an uncontrolled way and experiences a moment of horror as he understands what the tar man has done. Then he crashes head first into the spawn-covered wall.
Madame Brigette says nothing, but she gives him a look filled with accusations and disappointment.
The smell of sulfur and rot is overwhelming. Jack would be humiliated if he were in any less danger. But already, the blanket of demon spawn he has landed against is starting to bend and twist as it shifts to mire him in its loathsome substance. It is sticky and clinging, and it burns Jack’s face and hands where it is touching his skin.
The tar man is laughing as if he has witnessed the world’s greatest joke.
Jack grits his teeth against the pain and twists with all his strength, letting out a guttural roar as he does.
It is nearly enough. Jack manages to wrench himself partly away from the wall, but he has no leverage that is clear of the demon spawn. One arm is free, as is his torso, but his legs are still stuck. He is effectively sitting on the floor with his back glued to the wall. Nevertheless, he is somewhat buoyed by his success. He is still holding onto his knives, and should be able to work his way out of the mess.
Except that the tar man is now standing, looming over him. Grinning down at him with an expression of pure malice.
“Good to see you again,” he says, his voice just as oily and wet as usual. “I was starting to get bored.” At the same time, the tar man kicks out with his boot, catching Jack a terrific blow on the side of his head.
It is like being punched in the face with a brick. Jack’s head bounces back to the spawn-wall and he shuts his eyes against the sudden pain. But he doesn’t keep them shut for long. His anger won’t let him, and nor will his sense of self-preservation.
“It isn’t so good to see you!” Jack manages to snarl in return.
It is a weak response, and the tar man knows it. His laughter continues, but this time it is not just the ominous laughter that has become the tar man’s signature. This time, the tar man’s laughter carries the weight of both triumph and scorn.
Jack struggles against the spawn wall. One of his hands is caught fast. He can already feel the burn of the spawn sucking at his strength there. But the other is still free, and he is still gripping his knife. He holds it out in front of him as if it will do him some good.
The tar man’s grin has turned into a malignant sneer. Out of pure spite, he lashes out again, but this time he aims for Jack’s free hand. Such is his speed that he catches Jack on the wrist. But it isn’t so much of a kick as a push. With an expression of glee twisting his face, the tar man shoves Jack’s arm back into the writhing black mass of spawn on the wall.
Jack struggles with all of his strength, but it isn’t enough. The tar man keeps Jack’s arm pressed against the wall for long enough that the congealed mess can grip him firmly. Only then does he back away with a self-satisfied smirk.
“I am disappointed,” he says, his repugnant voice dripping with rancor. “I thought you would be more of a challenge. I thought, given that you have defeated my spawn twice already, that this would be more difficult. It’s almost dissatisfying, in a way.” The tar man barks a laugh. “I guess your girlfriend had more of a part to play than I supposed. Where is she, by the way? I thought you two came as a set.”
Jack is beaten as he has seldom been beaten before. There is little that he can do to save himself or Madame Brigette, who is staring down from her prison on the ceiling. Throughout the brief fight, she has been silent. Perhaps she had hoped for Jack to prevail. If so, then that hope has faded. There is nothing but agony and despair in her eyes.
But perhaps he can do something for Lennox.
“She is gone,” Jack says. “She had a hair appointment that she didn’t want to miss.” Jack puts as much sarcasm and venom into his words as he can. He doesn’t expect the tar man to believe him. He just wants to make the tar man’s life as difficult as he can.
The tar man just laughs at Jack’s efforts. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but it is my understanding that it is her fine Ducati that you two have been riding. If she is gone, then how did you get here?” The tar man shakes his head. He is full of mirth. He is in total control. “No, I think she is still around. Maybe waiting for me somewhere outside.”
Jack can feel the slithery, agonizing touch of the demon spawn on his hands and leg where he had cut the trouser leg earlier. He uses the pain to spur his hatred to new levels, and makes no effort at all to hide that hatred from the tar man. Such is the intensity of his glare that it is surprising that the tar man’s flesh doesn’t start to boil.
“Why don’t you go outside and find out?” Jack grates, even though that is not what he wants. His only aim is to unsettle the man.
But even in that, he is failing.
“Oh, I fully intend to,” the tar man says, his voice full of threats. “But first, you might remember the last time we met. You seemed to enjoy smashing me against the pavement outside of the restaurant. I thought I might return the favor.”
With that, the tar man steps up close to Jack and lashes out with his hands, knees, and everything he can think of.
There is little that Jack can do to protect himself. He tries to turn to avoid the worst of the beating, but he is stuck fast in the spawn wall. He is less mobile than a punching bag. The best he can do is gird himself against the tar man’s boots and knees and fists and accept the battering.
The tar man hits hard and often, and laughs like a malignant clown as he does. It is like being beaten with an iron pipe. Jack takes blows to his face and torso, and there is nothing he can do about it. He tries to hold onto his rage and hate, tries to use that to shield himself from the worst of it, but the tar man batters his way through even that.
Toward the end, Jack feels nothing but hurt. His ears are ringing and he feels as if he is bruised all over. His eyes are swelling shut and he feels dizzy.
He is barely holding on to consciousness when the tar man finally stops and steps back.
But even then, the tar man isn’t done. He is puffing and panting from the effort he’s expended in bashing Jack so hard and often, but he is still wearing his grin. He is heading out of the emporium and pauses at the door, which has swung partly closed.
“I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did,” the tar man sneers. “I’m going to look for your girlfriend now, and I leave it up to your imagination what I will do to her when I find her.” He pauses for a moment to let the menace and horror of his words sink in. Then he continues. “In the meantime, I am sure you are aware of what happens when my demon spawn encounter fire. By the time this is done, all of New Sanctum will be buried under their weight.”
The tar man turns and picks up one of the candle stands. This one has three medium-sized candles at the top, all of which are lit. He holds the candles against the curtains next to the windows beside the door until they catch fire. Then he casually tosses the candle stand aside. Then, laughi
ng more loudly than ever, he swings the door wide and steps out into the night.
Chapter Eighteen: Wrenching and Pain
Everything hurts. Jack’s focus fades in and out. He can see the flames take hold of the curtains, but it has little meaning. He can hear Madame Brigette saying something to him, but her words are muddy and unclear. Or perhaps it’s the ringing in Jack’s ears stifling her words. He can feel the insidious, burning creep of the demon spawn touching his skin, but even this is not enough to get his attention.
All Jack knows is that he is battered and bruised, and his brain feels like mush. His body is crying out for rest, for a chance to recover. The beating that the tar man gave him has left him dazed and confused. He just wants to let go, to fade into the comfort of oblivion.
But as the edges of his world start to darken, he senses something that makes him feel nauseous. Somewhere nearby, someone is using a language normally reserved for the tongues of demons. Even though Jack can’t hear the words spoken, their effect is unmistakable.
They make his stomach turn so that he wants to vomit.
“Lex,” he mutters, although he is still so far gone that he is surprised to hear the word.
Then he feels a shift in the air, as if a shock wave is passing through both him and Madame Brigette’s store. Instinctively, he knows what it is, and this knowledge brings him back to himself with a start.
“Lex!” he shouts. She is using her magic. Likely, she has used the same spell that proved so effective against the Hell-beast and the wight earlier in the day. He hopes it will prove as effective against the tar man, but fears that it won’t. The tar man has shown himself to be both nimble and durable beyond expectations.
Jack fears that Lex will be outmatched, overwhelmed.
He looks about and is almost surprised to find his situation unchanged. The demon spawn has him affixed to the wall. He can feel tendrils of it wrapping around his arms and legs. It is agonizing, but a long way from fatal. Like with Madame Brigette, it seems that it is the demon spawn’s purpose is to keep him alive rather than drain his vitality immediately.
Why or how that has come to be, Jack doesn’t know, nor does he have time to question it. He thinks it most likely that the tar man simply wants to prolong his suffering.
The fire has consumed most of the curtains and is starting to lick at the walls and ceiling. It is filling the room with smoke that is dense and black enough that Madame Brigette is starting to cough. But she has realized that Jack is more able to focus than he had been before. She is glaring at him as she coughs, and her expression is a mixture of suppressed pain and anger.
“If this is your idea of a rescue, I’ll tell you truly, it ain’t going so well.” Madame Brigette speaks with a slight Caribbean accent that is obvious despite the pain in her voice. Her tone is acerbic, and she sounds as if she is on the verge of a scream. “Now, are you just gonna sit there and wait for this black muck to kill us, or are you gonna do something about it?”
Jack is battered and bruised beyond measure. The demon spawn is slowly absorbing what remains of his strength. But he is more durable than most and his bones are unbroken. He knows that Lennox is outside, alone with the tar man, and that it is his fault.
This, combined with Madame Brigette’s words, is motivation enough.
Jack doesn’t waste his breath on a response. Instead, he grits his teeth, lets his anger and hate start to flow, and with an animalistic snarl, wrenches his body against the demon spawn gluing him to the wall.
Again and again, he tests his strength against the demon spawn’s grip. And while it isn’t exactly holding him the way he might be held if he were sealed in lead, the demon spawn is up to the task. It gives and flexes with every effort Jack makes, but it doesn’t break. Jack is as mired as he would be in a vat of molasses.
If he could gain some leverage, perhaps he could wrench himself free. But the demon spawn is holding every part of him to the wall. It is gripping his skin like an oversized slug and will not let him go.
Jack gives voice to his frustration as an inarticulate growl that is almost a shout. Madame Brigette starts to cough and whimper in pain, and Jack can see that the flames are coming closer. If he doesn’t escape, if he doesn’t prevent the flames from reaching the demon spawn, he does not know how much damage it could do.
Another man may have given into despair. It seems hopeless. Despite his durability and strength, Jack cannot escape. Not this way. But Jack is not the type to give up. He is fighting not just for himself, but also for Madame Brigette. And for Lennox, who even now must be battling the tar man. Jack can feel the impact of her spells even though he is not with her. He can taste them, and that taste is bitter.
Jack snarls again. He is enraged at what the tar man has done, enraged that he has again brought his demon spawn into the world. Most of all, Jack is enraged at himself, for letting the tar man defeat him so easily, and for failing to protect Lennox.
He breathes in deeply. The air is starting to become thick with smoke, and he wills himself not to cough. Jack’s strength by itself is not sufficient for him to break free. But he still has his knives. The demon spawn is keeping away from them and the power that is contained within the runic etchings on the blades.
The demon spawn is also gripping Jack’s forearms and the backs of his hands. It is keeping him locked in place.
But it is not doing so with the strength of iron or stone. It is doing so with the strength of flesh, and that has enough give for Jack to feel optimistic.
Jack is battered and sore and burned by the demon spawn, and drained of his strength. But he has wells of hate and anger that have never been tapped, and his need to protect others is like granite. He clears his mind of the smoke, of Madame Brigette dangling from the ceiling, of everything. He even stops thinking of Lennox outside with the tar man.
The only thing he allows himself to think of as what he must do.
He focuses on just his right arm. He dares not try to shift his knife in his grip for fear that he will lose it completely. Instead, he uses every last ounce of leverage and strength that he has to twist his arm so that the flat of his blade touches the demon spawn.
Immediately, the demon spawn gives off the same high-pitched squeal as the others had done. It begins to smoke around the edge of the blade, and Jack senses its grip start to weaken.
With an expression of determination and rage contorting his face, Jack keeps his arm twisted for as long as he can. Then, with a single, convulsive lurch, he wrenches his arm away from the wall with all of his strength.
It works. His right arm is free. The part of the demon spawn where he had pressed his knife is a bubbling ruin. Tendrils of black goo reach out for his arm, but Jack has the leverage he needs. He reaches over his head and lays his blade flat on the demon spawn there, then wrenches his neck and shoulders away from the wall.
From there, it is easier. Jack manages to liberate himself from the demon spawn in less than a minute.
But his trials are far from over.
Chapter Nineteen: Salts
Jack feels as weak as a day-old kitten. He has to crawl out of the demon spawn mass on his hands and knees, searing the loathsome black goop with his blades as he goes. Only his determination and will keep him from collapsing as soon as reaches bare floorboards.
That, and the sure knowledge that he has more to do.
Refusing to accept the limitations of his body, he grits his teeth and hauls himself upright. His greatest desire is to head outside and help Lennox in whatever way he can. But he has two problems to deal with before he can even think of doing that.
He has to free Madame Brigette from her inky prison. She is an innocent in this conflict, but she is also the key to learning if the tar man had anything to do with Samuel’s death and the theft of the Daemonicon. In the underground world of the occult within New Sanctum, there is little that Madame Brigette doesn’t know.
He also has to deal with the fire. If he does not, then thei
r problems will be compounded.
If he still had a vial of holy water, he would use it against the demon spawn. But he has used the last of those already, and for this, his knives are no good. With regret, he puts them away.
Nor does he have anything with which to put out the fire, which is growing swiftly throughout Madame Brigette’s store. The outside of the building is made of stone, but the inside is wood. The fire is starting to roar, and the whole front wall is engulfed.
It is rare for Jack to hesitate. Usually, he has no problems in seeing the course of action he needs to follow. When he does, he acts without fear. He had done so when facing the Hell-beast earlier in the day, and he would do so again now. Except that he can see no easy solution to either of his problems. He can see little hope of success in solving either of them.
In desperation, he yells out to Madame Brigette. “Do you have any holy water in this place? Anything that I can use against the demon spawn?”
Madame Brigette is coughing and wheezing in her demon spawn prison. Her torment is clear. She has endured the touch of the spawn around her wrists for far longer than Jack had done, and she is starting to shake in reaction to its burning and draining effect.
Yet despite her agony, she is able to look at Jack. She seems frightened, and perhaps disoriented as well. But she understands his question.
She shakes her head. “No holy water,” she says, her words filled with despair. She turns back away.
It is not the answer that Jack wants to hear. “Do you have anything else?” he demands. He cannot believe that in a store such as hers, there would be nothing he can use against the demon spawn.
For the longest time, Madame Brigette says nothing. Then, as Jack is starting to lose hope, she mutters something.
“Garlic salts,” she says.
Jack’s heart skips a beat. Garlic salts would do the job. Any salts would. “Where?” he demands.
