Stolen Souls
Page 8
“On the viewing menu tonight, we have a comedy. ‘Three middle–aged men decide to re–live their college glory days by enrolling in the local university. Mayhem ensues when they try to turn their geeky fraternity cool and hip.’ What do you think? Thumbs up? Thumbs down?”
Nyalla looked at the cover featuring paunchy balding men, holding cans of beer and standing next to attractive young women. “Oh, they accompany their daughters to college. That looks like it would be a nice family show.”
Eric flipped the box around to look at the front cover and grimaced. “Uh, well, no. I think it’s lots of beer bongs, projectile vomiting, and topless women. In fact, this woman on the front appears to be a blow–up doll. Probably not the best choice.”
He tossed the case on top of his duffle bag and picked another one up off the table. “For our second selection, we have an action adventure. ‘An elite Special Forces squad is ambushed on a mission to take out a terrorist training camp. One man escapes, but he can’t leave his team behind. Can he rescue them in time and find out who is the traitor among them?’ That sounds good.”
Nyalla grinned. “Oh it is! I saw it last week. His best friend, Martin, dies in the end, and the traitor turns out to be their handler, Jade. It was a total shocker — kept me guessing right up until the end.”
Eric let out an exasperated sigh and looked toward the ceiling. “Well, no sense in watching it now that I know the ending. And the third is a horror, which probably isn’t a great idea either given the recent happenings around here. ‘A fire at an insane asylum results in psychic energy that opens a gateway to hell. Demons are coming through the portal and spreading death in their wake. Can Justin send them back to hell and close the portal, and will his possessed girlfriend survive even if he succeeds?’ I don’t think… .”
“I want that one! I want that one!” Nyalla bounced from her seat and snatched the DVD from Eric, twirling around with it in her hands. “I can totally see this happening. I wonder if I’ll recognize any of the demons? Will Justin be using a sorcerer’s net or a banishing spell? I hope he’s got a pig handy for the one that’s taken over his girlfriend.”
Eric stared at her, bemused. “Okay. Gates to Hell it is. I only hope it doesn’t give you nightmares.”
Nothing could be worse than the nightmares she’d had the first nineteen years of her life. No movie from Hollywood could ever fully replicate how terrifying life in Hel could be for someone so powerless. She shouldn’t want to see this, shouldn’t want anything that reminded her of her past, but she couldn’t just throw away almost twenty years of her life. It was part of who she was.
“Gates to Hell first, then we can watch the one with the blow–up doll.”
Eric’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hairline. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” She took his hand and led him to the couch. “Nudity, alcohol, and blow–up dolls sound like a fun follow–up to demonic possession.”
The couch squawked as Eric collapsed onto it. “Nyalla, you are full of surprises.”
She hid a smile, turning to put the DVD into the player. More surprises than he knew. More than he would ever know.
11
The night was alive with sounds, the moon a waning oval of pale gold rising above the tree line. Boomer had dangled the car keys in front of the girl all evening, but she’d refused to go out with him tonight. He’d left her curled up on the couch, her head on the man’s shoulder as he stroked her hair. He needed her but was reluctant to insist, especially with her happy and smiling instead of tense and scared. This man was good for her — he gave her confidence in her ability to take her place in the world. So he’d put the keys back in the kitchen and snuck out once he was sure she wouldn’t miss him.
What he wouldn’t give to have stayed and cuddled up with the two of them like a big pile of puppies. The girl never kicked him off the couch, always had a welcoming smile and a ready hand to scratch his ears, but there were souls in danger, and the hound couldn’t afford to take a night off. He was out there. Boomer felt the evil from across the miles, rising from the ground like a foul vapor. Each night that passed, the monster would grow more powerful. Boomer couldn’t kill him on his own, but he could try to limit his power. He could protect those that were vulnerable.
Reaching the edge of the pasture, Boomer slipped into a shadow and transformed. The plott hound disappeared, and in his place stood a monstrous canine, three feet at the shoulder with two massive heads. Drool glistened from fangs, and he pawed the ground, tearing chunks of sod as he stretched his paws. With a leap, he vaulted the fence and streaked along the countryside, a shadowy blur of speed in the darkness.
The hound stretched out his senses and scanned his territory. The stench was all around him, but as he reached the far western portion of his territory, he felt it grow strong. A thick odor of sulfur hit his nose, and he veered left, heading toward the abandoned farmhouse and the charred shell of a barn that had stood weathering the test of time for nearly twenty years. Five people had died in that blaze two decades ago — three adults working to save livestock, a fireman, and a child that had been attempting to rescue a beloved cat. The six–year–old boy had died with the tabby in his arms, and his ghost still carried it with him, caressing it lovingly as it purred. None were ready to leave their mortal lives completely behind.
Neither were two others attached to the old farmhouse. An old man who had stubbornly clung to this world for the last century, insisting that the Union Army was trying to take his farm. The other was a woman mourning her lost child as she sat by the site of an old well in never–ending sorrow. Each night he checked to see if they were ready to move on. If the evil reached them, they’d have no choice. He’d take them against their will, using the life–force remaining in their souls to fuel his increasing need for power.
He felt the ghosts’ agitation and circled the barn and the farmhouse, encompassing the old well with the wailing woman. Try as he might, he could not get them to group closer together. He’d not be able to protect them all, as spread out as they were. Casting about, the hound found an area equidistant to each ghost and hoped that his supernatural speed could deflect any threat in time.
He edged closer. The air grew thick, and Boomer felt the dampness swirl around his legs, like a slimy hand. Yellow lights flickered in the distance, first to the north, then over to the east. Were they fireflies in the late July night, or him?
The hellhound strained his ears to catch the rattle of breath, the footsteps against grass, but he could hear nothing with the din of cicadas all around. The ghosts stopped their pacing and looked about in anxiety. Even the crying woman halted, rising to her feet by the well. There was too much noise, too much distraction. It frustrated Boomer that he could not tell from which direction the threat would come. This was his territory. It was his duty to protect these souls. The hackles on his neck rose, and lifting both heads to the sky, the hellhound howled.
It was a sound to silence all others. In two–part harmony, his cry rolled out of his throat and rose, a challenge in the air. The ghosts turned to face him, even more alarmed as they realized the seriousness of the threat against them. As the howl tapered off into the night, an eerie silence fell. The insects remained silent; the ghosts stood as if frozen — the world held on edge, waiting to see what would follow the baying of a half–demon hound.
There was a soft whisper of grass to the south, a blink of yellow in the darkness. Boomer bared his teeth, but held silent, watching the shadows for movement.
You cannot keep me from that which I desire, little pup.
The voice skimming on the breeze was amused. Boomer was young for a hellhound, but he’d learned a lot at the hands of the various demons who’d owned him. And youth didn’t relieve him of the responsibility he had towards these ghosts. He’d not allow these souls to be taken. The hound held his ground.
You know you’re no match for me. Better go home and protect your human. She’ll be next.
The yellow eyes blinked out into nothing, and a damp fog rolled in from the four quarters. Visibility dropped to zero, and Boomer shifted from eyesight to his demon and canine senses. Everything held still, expectant. Then seven ghostly screams rent the air.
Boomer launched into action, circling the ghosts, and snapping futilely at a foe that always remained just out of reach. He heard a laugh, felt a cold hand across his back and whirled, catching the edge of a pant leg in his teeth. With a twist of his head, the cheap fabric tore, leaving Boomer once again to chase a being that seemed to move with the speed of sound.
The ghosts panicked, finally doing what he’d begged them to do earlier and huddle together. Boomer tightened his circle, racing around in an effort to keep them safe. Yellow eyes flashed, first on one side, then on the other. The ghosts screamed in agony as hands plucked at them, tearing and stealing bits of their energy. He was too fast, too strong. Awareness of the futility of his actions crashed into Boomer and once again he howled, frustration and sorrow in every note. He could fight all night, and he’d lose. Those he protected would be torn apart, bit by bit, right before his eyes.
And then suddenly he was gone. The mist rolled away, and thin moonlight touched the deep shadows of the night. The yellow lights in the air now belonged to the fireflies. The stench of sulfur vanished, and the sharp tang of alfalfa took its place. The ghosts sobbed, not recognizing each other’s existence, but all of them feeling the shared nightmare of the evening. They were hurt, torn and disturbed, but none of them heeded the hellhound’s entreaties to move on to their afterlife. He’d been able to protect them this time, but eventually they’d be taken. His foe was too fast, too strong, and his territory was too large to protect them all.
Boomer sat with the ghosts, casting his awareness over the miles to sense any return of danger. The rest of the night was peaceful, and the hellhound wondered about the ghosts’ lucky escape this evening. He hadn’t been strong enough. They should have all been taken. The predator had left voluntarily. He’d been toying with the hellhound, testing Boomer’s skills and abilities. And the hound was positive that the next time, there would be no reprieve.
12
I really appreciate this, Eric.”
The woman before Nyalla smile wanly as she gestured them into her home. It was a tiny pre–fab box of a house clustered in a cul–de–sac with five other homes, just on the edge of town. Toys and blankets cluttered the inside. Decorative items sat high off the ground on shelves in spite of the fact that the baby squirming on a bright–blue mat couldn’t even manage to roll over yet.
“This is Nina Lewis. Nyalla, this is Shelly Mayfield.”
Eric had clearly told the woman Nyalla would be coming with him, because the girl found herself embraced in a quick hug. Shelly’s eyes warmed as they looked at her before they slid back into an expression of numb grief. Nyalla didn’t have to use her gift. This woman’s pain was written all over her face.
With a flurry of instruction, Shelly headed out, leaving Nyalla and Eric staring down at a tiny sleeping form.
“That is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” Nyalla whispered. “I think I want one.”
“What are the chances he’ll sleep until she gets back?” Eric’s voice was also hushed.
Baby Jack’s little face scrunched up, and they both held their breath, only to sigh in relief as he let out a tiny mewl and continued sleeping.
“Probably not good.” Nyalla winced. “I’m just hoping he doesn’t poop.”
They tiptoed over to the sofa and gingerly sat down. On the coffee table were two boxes of tissues, a photo album, and a framed wedding picture. Nyalla picked it up, recognizing the dark–haired beauty looking adoringly at her groom as Shelly. John grinned boyishly at the camera, his arm around her waist. He was good–looking with a shaggy mop of light–brown hair and vivid blue eyes. It was the smile that transformed him from attractive to devastating. Nyalla felt a pang of sympathy, of pity for the woman.
“How awful for her.”
Eric looked over her shoulder at the picture. “Awful as it is for her to lose her husband, it’s the difficult road ahead for her that really upsets me. John was only twenty three with no life insurance. They’re upside down on their mortgage. Shelly quit her job when they got engaged, wanting to be a homemaker and full–time mother to all the children they planned to have. There’s a charity drive to try to bring in donations, but she’s probably going to lose everything.”
Nyalla caught her breath. “But didn’t another person cause the accident? Isn’t there some kind of insurance money she’ll get? I see advertisements from lawyers all the time on TV about this sort of thing.”
“Oh sure, but it will take years. They’ll drag it out as long as they can. Shelly will have to get a lawyer to pressure them, and by the time they settle, the lawyers will get most of it. And it will be too late for her to save the house or anything else.”
Too bad Sam wasn’t here. That demon loved any excuse to employ strong–arm tactics. Nyalla was certain she’d convince the insurance company to hurry things along. And if Sam couldn’t do it, she’d only need to ask the angel that was wound tightly around the demon’s little finger.
“What happened, exactly? The papers were vague, and there wasn’t much follow–up reporting done.”
“It was just an accident early in the morning. John was headed to work, and a dump truck heading south on 75 lost control. With the embankments on either side, there was nowhere for him to go. John’s car was crushed under the truck. They flew him to shock trauma in Baltimore, but his head injury was too much. He should have died that night, but his mother refused to let him be taken off life support. She kept thinking a miracle would happen.”
Nyalla thought of the angel who’d given her the gift. He’d been terrifying in presence, powerful beyond anything she’d ever seen. Surely a miracle like that would have been within his abilities. Where were the angels when these kinds of things happened? How could they let a terrible accident destroy so many lives when they had the capability to make things right? How could they just sit back and do nothing?
“It took Shelly a while to overrule John’s mother’s wishes. It was terrible — a time when she needed family most, and John’s own mother was calling her a murderer and a whore, accusing her of wanting to move on to someone else.”
“Was she?” Nyalla looked at the woman in the picture, so obviously in love with her husband. Things may have changed after the wedding, but she doubted it. Shelly’s grief was very real.
“No! Shelly adored John. She needed closure. He was gone; she needed to grieve and couldn’t do that with him on a respirator. And honestly, there was no way she could afford to pay for life support. He was gone and would have probably died in a month or so, even with the life support, but that would have racked up huge debt for Shelly at a time when she was already facing bankruptcy.”
An odd idea struck Nyalla. Maybe this wasn’t a Palero trying to gain power after all. Maybe the person raising a zombie wasn’t looking for cheap compliant labor, but was someone desperate to have their husband, or son, back among the living. Someone who would think a zombie John was better than no John at all. Although, if that were the case, it seemed unlikely to be his wife. Nyalla wasn’t ruling out Shelly, but given the woman’s actions concerning the life support, she was putting her money on John’s mother.
“What about his brother?” That was another avenue worthy of exploration if she was going to go down this path.
“I don’t really know him. Shelly and I were neighbors growing up. We were the same age, and pretty much in the same classes up through high school. John and his brother went to North Carroll. I only knew John through Shelly, and then when they moved here after getting married. Ben is five years older than us and lives up in Westminster. They seemed to have a good relationship, but when John was in the hospital, he just sto
pped visiting. I can’t really blame him. Everything going on between his mother and Shelly, plus John’s condition — it had to have been horrible for a brother to go through. He didn’t come to the funeral either, which was really sad. Shelly could have used someone, but maybe he didn’t want to seem on either side of the family feud.”
So the brother might also be a possibility for a sympathetic zombie raising. Although it seemed unlikely that someone so adverse to conflict and death would want to bring John back as a zombie.
At that time, all conversation halted as Jack woke and immediately demanded attention. The next hour was an exhausting flurry of activity — feeding, burping, cleaning both spit–up and the dreaded poopy diaper. It had Nyalla re–thinking her original yearning to have one of her own. These little ones were a lot of work. How could the elves, who seemed to have so little patience, devote such attention and affection to a helpless and demanding baby? It was a mystery.
An hour later, Nyalla stood over the crib, looking down at the dozing baby. When they were asleep, they were just precious. Good thing they seemed to sleep a lot, otherwise it would take an army to care for them. Careful not to wake the infant, she reached down a tentative finger and touched his skin. So soft.
“Eric would make a great father, you know. Just saying.” Nyalla jumped guiltily and turned to see Shelly. The woman’s tired face turned serene as she looked down at Jack. “Eric likes you, and it’s not just because you’re this exotic blond from Finland. He’s a good guy. I’ve known him my whole life. He’s the kind of guy that’s always there when you need him. Not smothering, just always there. You couldn’t do better, in my opinion.”
Nyalla couldn’t help a smile. “You sound like one of the car salesmen on TV.”
“Ehh. You get married, and suddenly you want all your friends to pair off too.” A shadow crossed the woman’s face. “And now I’m single again. I thought I’d grow old with John, bounce grandkids on our knees, share our strained prunes with each other. Strange how in one split second, your entire life changes.”