Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay

by Benjamin LaMore

  “You can’t prove that. Even if you could, it’s not up to either one of us to decide arbitrarily if someone lives or dies.”

  “I have to get her back, Ian. I’ve been planning this for years. Do you know how many souls there are out there in the afterworld? I’ve spent all this time learning the rites, how to find a single, specific soul so I don’t bring back the wrong one. Finding enough totems and fetishes to draw the power I need from. Decades of work, Ian. Decades. I’m not about to let you and your ridiculous sense of morality to keep her away from me.”

  “Would she really want this? She dedicated her life to protecting people. So did you. Hell, so did I. She wouldn’t want to sacrifice anyone for herself.”

  “Yes, Ian. She would. She does. That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to understand all this time.”

  I’m about to muster a tired retort when his words hit me. Word, to be specific. “Wait a minute. Did you say does?”

  Claire lays a pacifying hand on Danaher’s shoulder. “He can’t see her.”

  I look back and forth between them. “What are you saying?”

  “She’s right here, Ian. I found her, pulled her soul back to our plane. She wants to come back. I know because she told me so.”

  All along I’ve been going on the assumption that Remy’s demented vision had been the product of his own fanatic obsession. Knowing that he had actually been a co-conspirator put the events of the last day in a whole new light. It also added a bit of clarity that I’d been missing.

  “It was her,” I say. “She took possession of Madeline’s courier, made him bring the Cleave here.”

  “You can’t keep secrets from the dead forever,” Danaher lectures. “Once we learned of the Cleave’s existence it was only a matter of tracking it down. It took longer for her to learn how to possess someone, especially someone as protected as one of Linear’s couriers, but don’t forget how powerful she was in life. You don’t lose all that power once you die. We didn’t expect Azrael, though. He hadn’t been heard from for centuries.”

  “Because of the veiling properties of the Cleave’s case. Without his sword, he went to ground.”

  “He can have it back,” Danaher says. “Or one of those other creatures can claim it. I don’t care what happens when we’re through with it.” He pulls a box from a nearby shelf, the long one I’d seen in his office. Opening it, he reaches inside and pulls out the demon’s claw.

  It’s a horrible thing, nauseating to see, looking like leather that had been cured in blood and left to dry in Hell’s sun. The claw end has five fingers. I wonder if he’d bargained extra to find one that would fit his hand digit for digit. The other end is rough and jagged, as if it’d been torn off its owner instead of cut free. He slides his hand inside it, his arm disappearing up to the biceps in the evil relic. He flexes the claws, saying, “We’re ready. She’s ready. All the preparations are done. All it’ll take now is one cut.”

  He snaps the Cleave open, the blade needing no magic to glow in the soft light, and grasps it in his demon hand. The wheelchair activates, gliding soundlessly towards Susan’s body.

  “Remy, don’t!” I raise the gun, drawing aim on his chest, but Claire steps in between us, chest expanding as she drew a full breath. Remy’s human hand grabs her arm with a shout.

  “No!” he commands. “No magical energy can be used in here. Everything is balanced. I can’t risk throwing anything off.”

  She nods, letting her breath quietly seep out through clenched teeth. She rolls her arms, loosening her shoulders. Crap. I don’t want to fight her. I remember the strength in her long, lean body. As weakened as I am, she could probably take me. I also don’t have the time to fight a losing battle. Instead, I raise the .460 and point it between her breasts.

  “I have two rounds left,” I say, my voice tired and cold. “I only need one for him.”

  That gives her pause. She’s in no rush to die, and believes in her heart that I would pull the trigger in cold blood, but at the same time she doesn’t want to leave her deal with Remy unfulfilled. She looks questioningly back at Danaher, who nods.

  “Our bargain is concluded. You can go.”

  I give her a wide berth as she walks past in case she gets it in her head to try and earn some extra credit. She tries to hold her head high, but I can see the great weight of the decisions she’s made that night beginning to sink in.

  “Claire,” I say as she gets in the lift.

  “What?”

  “Does your Rule of Three cover betrayal, too?”

  She opens her mouth to speak, to rebut or defend, but I can almost see the words get caught in her throat. She shuts the gate of the lift and moments later she’s gone. Danaher and I are alone.

  “You know the Aegis will track you down if you go through with this. This ritual is going to kill someone. Killing a human with magic is an automatic death sentence. You know that.”

  “I remember the rules, Ian. Don’t forget, we worked for them a lot longer than you did. We know how to disappear.” The chair wheels to a stop next to the table, near Susan’s left shoulder. I pull back the hammer of the .460 until it clicks loudly.

  “Remy, please don’t.”

  He looks at me with a sadness that mirrors my own. “Ian, someday I hope you find a woman you care about as much as I care about Susan. When that day comes, you’ll understand.”

  I chuckle. “Don’t hold your breath. I’m good with monsters. With women, well, I’m always in over my head.”

  He chuckles back, a little sadly. “In that case, you know what to do.”

  He lifts the claw, the gleaming blade, and when he begins the short, cutting motion towards her bare skin I shoot him.

  The blast is deafening, the polished stone reflecting the detonation over and over inside the empty room until it feels like being inside a sonic boom. The shot catches Remy in the forearm, the demon skin as thick as Kevlar stopping the bullet from penetrating but the impact sending the Cleave spinning into a corner. He cries out in pain and shock and lunges out of the chair, which is angled badly and facing the wrong direction. I’m already running around the table from the opposite side, crossing the table in a flying leap.

  We reach the blade at the same time. He closes the demon claw around it but I jump on the arm, pinning it to the stone floor. He swings his left elbow up and back, catching me in my stomach, then we’re rolling together across the floor. His legs are nothing but weight, but his upper body is as hard as oak and ferociously strong. His forehead crashes against mine once, twice, and my grip is broken. With a shout he lunges at the table like a fencer, the razor extended in the claw, but I grab him by the belt just before it makes contact with her skin and drag him back to me. He slashes the blade at my face, forcing me to reel away from him. As he’s about to lunge again I pounce on him, scrambling for control. I climb his back and wrap my right arm around his throat, clasping my hands together and squeezing with my hands, my biceps, with every muscle I can bring to bear. He fights back but the choke is deep, his struggles becoming slower and less powerful.

  “It’s just one life,” he gasps.

  “No, Remy, it’s not,” I say.

  Abruptly, too abruptly, his struggles cease, his body suddenly becoming relaxed.

  “Ian,” he sputters, but the voice isn’t his. It’s a voice I haven’t heard in years, since a cold, dark night on a desolate mountainside.

  “Susan?”

  “Ian. Please. Let me come back.”

  For the smallest second I waver. Susan had been a good woman, strong inside, and she used that strength to help a lot of people. She could do so again, if I only let go of Remy’s arm for a mere second. That has to count for something. Besides, Remy had made a solid point. There are a lot of evil people in this world. I’ve dealt with them a lot since that night that Becky was killed. It could easily be one of them who takes Susan’s place in the afterlife.

  But it could just as easily be an innocent, and that’s a price
I’m not ready to pay.

  “Please, Ian. I don’t want to be dead anymore.”

  “I’m sorry, Susan,” I say as I squeeze ever tighter.

  In their last moments before going unconscious they switch the Cleave into their left hand, their human hand, free of the corrupt influence of the demon claw, and bring the blade some say was forged by God up where we could all see it, then before I can stop them they bring the razor to my forearm. I try to hold them back, but the angle is all wrong and I have no leverage. I can’t stop them as they inexorably force the gleaming steel towards my naked flesh. With wide eyes I watch the blade bears down. With a final surge the polished steel moves the final inch until the razor edge nicks my flesh.

  I wait, holding my breath, but when the only result of the cut is my blood beginning to flow I redouble my efforts and squeeze the choke even tighter. Seconds later it’s over, and the body they share sags in true unconsciousness.

  I release the choke and slide away from him, sitting up and looking at the wound on my forearm. Tallied against the rest of my injuries I’ve taken that night it’s less than nothing, but what had been the Danaher’s intention? Were they trying to cut me enough to make me abandon the choke? Or were they trying to use it the way Azrael had intended, to cut my soul free from my body? Surely, they knew that it wouldn’t work on me.

  Surely they knew.

  Groaning, I lean down and pick up the razor. Then I find my gun and limp over to the lift. It feels like a long, long way off.

  Twenty-Five

  As I’d suspected, the lift won’t work for me. I can’t even see a button to summon it. Fortunately, it had returned to the basement after Claire had left. Maybe it’s charmed to settle on whatever floor its master is on. I drag Remy’s wheel chair over to the lift and use it to climb back through the hatch. It isn’t fun hauling myself back to the ground floor, but then not much about this night has been fun. Once I heave myself out of the elevator shaft I roll onto my back and lay there, staring at the ceiling.

  The battle outside had raged on while I’d been in the house. Without the wards protecting it the house has begun to take damage. Several of the front windows have been shattered, and debris litters the floor. One empty window frame is scorched and smoking, and I can hear through the openings the sounds of carnage. I’d have expected the fighting to have begun to wane, but then again I’ve only been downstairs for a few minutes. A war like this one could rage for the better part of a day.

  I know all the things I have to do. I have to get the Cleave out of the house. I have to get back through the woods to where I left my car and find a way to secure it until I could turn it over to Madeline, then hold down the town until the hostile tourists have left. But for the moment all I can do is lay there and breathe. I don’t have the strength to do anything else.

  I can afford a few seconds, though. Way before I’m ready I begin the process of standing up. I succeed, though far slower than I’d have liked. I hold the Cleave tightly in my left hand and draw the .460 in my right. I only have one round left, but its threat might be enough to bluff my way through if I’m spotted. I walk around the elevator shaft, heading for the back of the house.

  Behind me I hear the sudden crash of heavy lumber being overwhelmed as the front door explodes inwards a shower of thick splinters filling the room.

  I spin, bringing the .460 up, as Azrael lumbers into the room. It has earned its way through the battle. One arm is scorched clean of fur, and blood of many hues drenches the entire left side of its body. Bits of flesh dangle from its jagged fangs. In one monstrous claw it clenches the sword like iron rod of one of Danaher’s stone samurai.

  “I knew it was you,” it growls. “I felt the Cleave disappear and knew you had it.”

  “I do,” I say. “And I’m bringing it back to its owner, as I swore to do.”

  “I am its owner. It was made for me.”

  “You can take that up with her. I’m sure it’ll be a great conversation. But right now I have to do what I promised.”

  It growls and comes at me in a fury, covering half the distance to the elevator in a single stride. I hold the Cleave up in front of me and place the muzzle of my gun against it. Azrael freezes.

  “In my hand it’s just metal,” I say. “I’ll destroy it forever if you don’t leave right now.”

  It stares at me, drool flowing over its lower fangs, but though its feet shuffle in place with barely restrained rage it doesn’t take another step. “I’ll kill you,” it fumes.

  “Yeah,” I say, and I can hear the fatigued acceptance in my voice. “And if you don’t, then something else will. But your sword will still be gone.”

  It snarls, massive chest heaving, then it throws its head back and roars in frustration and rage. Its eyes find me again and bore into me, memorizing me, its stare making promises of bad things to come. With a guttural huff it turns and stomps for the door. Only then do I exhale.

  The instant my breath leaves me Azrael whirls, slinging the iron bar as easily as a pool cue. It slashes through the room, spinning as fast as a boomerang, smashing into the concrete framework of the elevator shaft and showering me with ragged shards of masonry. Reflexively I duck away from the spray, covering my eyes, and in that moment the monster charges.

  I squeeze the trigger of the .460 by reflex, before I have a chance to aim properly. I don’t have the grip strength left to hold it properly and the gigantic recoil bucks the gun out of my hand and off into space but the round catches it somewhere near a shoulder, throwing off its momentum, and I’m able to throw myself desperately to the side and avoid the mad rush. Unable to check its rush it crashes heavily into the back wall, then rights itself and turns back to me.

  I look down at the spent gun, now doing nothing more than weighing down my arm. With a sigh I let it fall to the floor. I have nothing left. No weapons. No strength. No plan. Too much damage, too much pain; it’s a struggle just to stay on my feet.

  As Azrael takes a lumbering step towards me I tuck the Cleave into my waistband at the small of my back with my good hand and face the immense beast that is coming irresistibly closer. Golden blood runs down its thickly muscled arms, dripping off its talons onto the debris cluttered floor. With each step it seems to grow, filling my vision with its horrible bulk. It drools, jaws working, as it comes at me with murder in its eyes and hunger in its heart. I have no chance against it. A family of Kodiak bears would have no chance.

  There is no way out. I meet its soulless eyes and take a deep, steadying breath.

  I clench my fists. Raise them.

  The monster pauses, then nods at my pathetic display of defiance.

  “I am proud to be the one who kills a human,” it growls, “This I have never felt before.”

  “Fuck off,” I spit. If I had more energy I might have been able to come up with better last words.

  In a heartbeat Azrael lunges and clamps its massive claws around my torso, squeezing mercilessly. It feels like a Mack truck is parking on my chest, and ribs crack instantly. Its claws sink into my body and I taste blood in my mouth. I feel the Cleave slide down my leg and clatter to the floor, and hope rises that it will drop me in favor of its prize.

  Instead its horrific mouth turns up in a nightmare smile. Then the mouth grows, opening like a snake’s, impossibly wide, and I feel myself being lifted head first into that disgusting maw. Barely conscious, utterly powerless, I see the crusted yellow fangs of the bottom jaw pass by my eyes as my head enters the mouth.

  Next thing I know I’m flying. No, not flying. Falling. I hit the ground at Azrael’s feet. It staggers away from me and I can see its eyes are wide with disbelief. It has one paw clasped to its side, and when it moves it away I can see the tiniest speck of golden blood trickling through its fur. It staggers to the side, crashing against the elevator shaft, and when it does I can see Claire standing behind it. She’s holding the Cleave in her right hand, and its gleaming blade is marred by the small streak of gold.

&nb
sp; Azrael roars again, but this time it’s a sound of pain, disbelief, shock. The deep scream throbs, pummeling the very air around us. The house itself shakes as if in the grip of an earthquake, the windows shattering in their frames. Claire drops the Cleave with a cry and covers her ears, sinking to her knees under the irresistible sound. Outside I can see man and monster alike recoiling and falling prostrate as the world itself trembles at the unique wail of a dying angel.

  But to me, it’s just noise.

  After it passes and the beast is lying dead on the floor the world around me seems to grow quiet. It takes a long time, but eventually I struggle to my feet and stumble over to the hole where the front door had been, passing the spot where Claire is still kneeling, shaking and crying violently. I groan like an old man when I lean down and pick up the Cleave, then go to the front of the house and look out.

  The yard is still mostly full, but the battle seems to be over. Bodies litter the lawn, and a few stone statues as well, and even as I watch what combatants still live are slipping away into the darkness of the trees, or the road, or the sky. I don’t know if they’ve had the will to fight sapped by Azrael’s death-cry, or if they can tell that the Cleave has been claimed, or if they’re just tired. I don’t really care.

  I step out onto the ruin of the front porch, almost falling on the shattered remains of the stone samurai. My Jeep is a pulverized ruin of twisted metal. I walk over to it, looking it over with a sad eye. I’d expected as much, but it still hurt. I’d liked that Jeep. I’m about to turn away when the Jeep radio comes to a static-masked, crushed-speaker, one-tenth volume life. The song is all but unintelligible, but I can make out the refrain. We Are the Champions by Queen.

  I hope Adam’s Interceptor fared better.

  Numbness is creeping into my body, and I shuffle off the porch like a zombie. Before I could go farther, though, Remy Danaher’s voice calls out, stopping me.

  “Ian,” he yells. I look back into the house. He’s back in his chair, but the debris on the floor makes it impossible for his wheelchair to go very far. Claire is already gone.