by Ryan Hill
“You can help out any time you like!” I said.
Hands glowing, Sam let go of the building. She ran around to the side, flanking Mr. Dreads. It was nice to see her get in the scrum, but my knee disappearing into the black hole ruined my enjoyment.
The sucking tugged at my pants, and by extension my undercarriage, pulling it ever closer to the void. The pants tore. I couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or not. Considering body parts would soon follow, I went with not a good thing.
I unbuttoned the pants. The extra space allowed the monster to suck them down my legs. I struggled to unzip them, giving me a little wiggle room. There was barely time to relax before the pants disappeared into his head.
Finally, Sam slapped Mr. Dreads in the temples with the Hand of God, knocking him out. The Vortex of Suckage stopped, my leg still halfway in his head. I feared I’d lost that part of my body, so I left it in there, working up the courage to peek at the damage.
“You stuck?” Sam asked.
“Give me a second.” I imagined the damage done to my leg. It didn’t hurt, but that didn’t mean anything. I could’ve been in shock. That would’ve masked my pain. Didn’t matter, I still needed to know how things looked down there. Closing my eyes, I took a breath, then pulled the leg out.
“Weird.”
“What?” Sam knelt next to me. “Were you expecting your leg not to be there?”
“Sort of. I don’t know. You get your leg stuck in someone’s head and see how you feel.”
Sam stared my crotch, laughing. “Nice undies.”
“They’re boxers, okay? Not boxer briefs, and definitely not undies.” I wore a pair of white boxers with blue anchors patterned on them; all of which was currently in plain view for everyone to feast their eyes upon. “Get it straight. And quit trying to sneak a peek.”
“Oh, please.” She stood up and took me by the hand, helping me to my feet. “There’s nothing down there worth gawking at.”
I mock gasped. “Blasphemer.”
We propped Mr. Dreads’ unconscious body against the side of a building and I put the wig back on his head. Sam lit up her palm, holding it over his forehead. The monster awoke and tried to stand, but I took him by the shoulder and shoved him back down. Sam stood back, keeping her hands at a slight glow in case he tried anything.
“See that?” I nodded toward her hands. “That’s what knocked you out. It also destroyed one of your friends.”
“I know what you two did,” Mr. Dreads said. “We all do. The Caelo in Terra see everything. And we never forget.”
Caelo in Terra? A group calling themselves Heaven on Earth in Latin was a new one to me.
“Nice to be remembered,” I said. “Now. My friend here is going to give you a small dose of the light coming from her hands. Not enough to hurt you, just enough to make you play nice.”
Mr. Dreads spit on Sam’s shoes. “I don’t play nice.”
“To be honest, I prefer that.”
I extended my claws, wiggling them in front of the monster’s face. I wanted these Caelo in Terra assholes to know all about them. To make sure, I sank the claws deep into Mr. Dreads’ shoulders. As I wormed my fingers inside his flesh, he grunted and held his breath, trying to act like it didn’t hurt.
“I know how much this hurts,” I said. “You can’t play it off, you amateur.”
If this guy only knew that my cumulative expertise on pain and torture easily exceeded one thousand years.
“That’s enough,” Sam said.
I pulled the claws, covered in blood and flesh, out of the monster’s shoulders. I flicked the mess in his face. He flinched, trying to keep it out of his eyes.
Sam laid a hand on Mr. Dreads’ chest. “By the power of God, I order you to faithfully and truthfully answer all of our questions.”
A blank, placid look fell over his eyes. “Okay.”
I envied that Sam had the Hand of God power. Not the You-Know-Who part of it, but the ability to blow stuff up, hypnotize people, even heat up a frozen pizza. I missed having that power. All Hell could equip us with were retractable claws.
“Who are the Caelo in Terra?” I asked. “And don’t say a rejected appetizer at a Greek restaurant.”
“Why are you even after souls?” Sam asked. “They’re of no use to anyone, except Heaven and Hell.”
Indeed. Once a soul was processed and damned, any demon that played a part received a commission. It was usually the soul’s lost innocence, which gave a demon a high stronger than heroin. The best part was if a demon damned enough souls, it became more powerful.
Mr. Dreads smiled. “Not anymore.”
Sam’s mouth contorted. She wasn’t expecting that answer. Neither was I.
“What do you want with them?” she asked.
“Some people give their souls to your God,” Mr. Dreads said. “Others to the devil. We don’t let them make the choice. All will be converted.”
Interesting philosophy. I wished Hell operated like that. Instead, we demons were forced to follow the “rules” of free will. Demons could lay down the path for a soul’s destruction, but it still had to choose to sin. With free will out of the equation, I’d have asked the Caelo in Terra if they were hiring, provided it didn’t involve making my head a black hole. My hair was much too pretty to lose.
“But why?” Sam asked. “There’s nothing you can do with a soul.”
“The Magister Caelo collects them,” Mr. Dreads said.
“Who is that?” I asked. “And why is a smart guy like you taking orders from them?”
Mr. Dreads laughed and looked away, ignoring my questions. I heard a low rumbling sound in his stomach. The wig on his head shook, then disappeared into the Vortex of Suckage. The forehead fell into the void, bit by bit.
I yanked Sam’s hand away from Mr. Dreads’ chest, then pulled the almost-angel to the opposite side of the alley.
“Is he self-destructing?” Sam asked.
“Looks like it.”
A loud whooshing sound came from the black hole. The rest of the monster’s forehead rolled into the black abyss. The sight was oddly fascinating. His body disappeared piece by piece into the Vortex, yet no drops of blood were spilt. I’d never seen anything like it.
Then his head sank into the abyss and the sucking force increased in power. If Sam and I weren’t careful, we’d also get sucked in that black hole. Sam shot beams of light from her hands to keep us in place, but they too disappeared into the Vortex. Our only option was to get as far away as possible and hope that worked.
“Keep blasting!” I helped Sam move away from Mr. Dreads, but the Vortex of Suckage didn’t care about what Sam and I wanted. Its force wrapped around our bodies, eager to send us into the dark. The almost-angel and I wrapped our arms around a small handrail.
The screws connecting the rail to its building twisted and turned. I jammed my claws into the ground for support with one hand, then wrapped the other around Sam, who clung to me like fly paper. The pulling got stronger. The concrete cracked and loosened around my claws. Mr. Dreads’ torso disappeared into the Vortex. Hopefully, Sam and I only needed to hang on a little longer. After that, we were free and clear.
The concrete broke off around my hand. I lost balance, falling toward Mr. Dreads. I forgot to let go of Sam, forcing her to tumble with me.
Mr. Dreads was down to nothing now, except the lower half of his legs. The Vortex of Suckage slowly moved down his body, the black hole taking the monster inch by inch. If the process didn’t stop once the legs disappeared, Sam and I were taking a magic carpet ride into the Vortex.
We were two feet away from him now, and only his ankles and feet remained. My shoe slid against the concrete with a screech as I tried to gain a foothold. The Vortex ripped off the shoe and sock, leaving me barefoot.
With inches to spare, the final bits of Mr. Dreads disappeared, along with the Vortex of Suckage. Sam and I relaxed, staring at each other in equal measures of relief and horror. I felt around my
mid-section. At least my boxers survived.
Random women, probably full of alcohol, greeted me with catcalls as I walked with Sam back to her SUV. I’d have given each of them a little model walk and sashay, but all my strength had gone toward keeping us out of the black hole. That wasn’t to say I didn’t enjoy the catcalling, because I did. A lot.
“Take it easier on him next time,” said a woman wearing a red shirt a size too small.
“Shake it, baby,” another woman said, shaking her own overweight body.
“If you think this is good, you should see me when it’s anchors away,” I said.
“How do you even have the strength to be obnoxious?” Sam asked.
“Couldn’t tell you. I guess I’m just that good.”
Sam sighed a little longer than usual. The strain and frustration in her voice was similar to King John’s when he’d been forced to sign the Magna Carta.
“So, I think it’s safe to say there are more of those Mop Tops out there,” she said.
“What fun,” I said. “No wonder so many people are dying. That thing almost got us.”
“I can’t let more people die.”
“I do wish you could. That thing sucked. Literally.”
We walked up the ramp to the parking deck and Sam stopped, leaning against a concrete pillar.
“Will you help me?” she asked.
There it was again. That tugging sensation in my chest. The urge to do good. Although helping Sam meant wrecking these Caelo bastards’ day, and in that regard, I was doing evil.
“What else have I got to do?”
“Thank you.” She forced a thin a smile. She was too weak to do much else. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I already know you’re in love with me.”
She snorted and I ignored the jab at my ego.
“We know these things can implode,” I said. My phone rang, but I waited until my thought was finished to answer. “So, it’s next to impossible to get one of them to stick around long enough to tell us anything of use.”
“What do we do?” Sam asked.
“Hope we can catch one off guard and subdue it.” I answered the phone. “And in the meantime, see if any of the usual suspects have heard of this Magister Caelo scallywag.”
CHAPTER SIX
Play Us a Song, Piano Man
Sam and I decided to contact our sources separately, considering mine had resided in Hell at some point or another, and were predisposed to hating agents of Heaven with a passion that would make a monk break an oath of silence taken thirty years ago. Not that Sam couldn’t handle herself. That girl had gone toe to toe with Lucifer’s son, Arthur, more than once, and each time stood her ground. My concern was that my old comrades wouldn’t volunteer any information if Sam tagged along, for fear that I was working for “the good guys.” Conversely, if I went with her, chances were good that I’d mouth off to all the old angels I knew, which would only anger Sam. Not that her being mad at me was a big deal. I just didn’t want to deal with it.
“I’ll start at the House of the Rising Sun,” I said. “Have fun with your contacts.”
“Say hello for me,” Sam said.
“I’ll do that.”
Right.
The House of the Rising Sun was a sort of one-stop shop for all things mystical, occult, or just plain whacko. Two steps inside and the smell of what seemed like boiling, rotted meat tainted my lungs. I tried to waft the smell away, but it stuck to me like jungle humidity.
“Remy?” I called out. “What in the Sixth Circle of Hell are you making?”
Remy Broussard walked through the beaded curtain into the main area of the store. His wavy black hair was pulled back in a mini-pony tail, and his thick, dark beard looked like a mask, concealing his true identity. I found it kind of fitting, since he looked like he was in his mid-twenties, but was in actuality almost one hundred.
“Grammy Broussard’s special hangover cure,” he said.
“Smells more like Grammy Broussard’s dirty undies.”
“Yeah.” Remy laughed. “Had one heck of a bender last night. Come on back.” He waved past the curtains. “My medicine’s almost done.”
My superior olfactory skills already detected a mixture of cow pasture, roach-infested stairwell left over from the nineteenth century, and … honey? Yes. Honey. Somehow, the sweetness only made the foul stench worse.
I sucked in my lips and moved through the rows of beads. As I edged closer to the “medicine,” the smell hit me like someone dropping a bowling ball on my chest. I coughed, worried that this odorous torture would melt my innards.
Remy shoved a mask in my hands. “Don’t be such a baby.”
I wrapped it around my face, enjoying the barrier between that horrific stench and my poor, sweet sense of smell, and watched Remy stir the concoction. Even with the mask on, that stuff still found a way into my nostrils.
Remy didn’t look up from his stirring. “Surprised to see you here without Sam. How is she, by the way? Haven’t heard from her in a few days.”
I felt a tad defensive. Territorial. Like an angry pit bull, but without the snarling and drooling. To be honest, I was surprised Remy was surprised. I’d assumed my constant gagging when he and Sam were together around me would’ve made things obvious enough.
“She’s fine,” I said. “Off doing her own thing.”
“You should bring her along next time,” Remy said.
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that.” Not.
“Please do.” Remy stopped stirring, focusing his attention on me. “I’m guessing you didn’t come to pay up on the favor you owe me?”
Remy had helped Sam and I out on that silly quest of ours to find the final piece of Gabriel’s mystical mirror, but that had happened months ago. Regardless, every week I’d get a call or text from Remy asking when Sam and I were going to repay our debt. I’d hoped he would let it go after the first couple of months, but the Creole refused to face the reality that I’d never settle my tab.
“Sam and I are going to pay up. One day. Just … not today.”
“That day’s coming sooner rather than later,” he said. “I don’t like having unpaid debts.”
I ignored the veiled threat, opting for progress over snark. “I get it, but right now I need to tell you about what happened the other night.”
Remy ran a finger through his beard as I went over the encounter Sam and I had with the Caelo in Terra lackey. He nodded every few seconds to indicate that I hadn’t bored him too much.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about this Caelo in Terra mess,” I said. “But what I’m most curious about is that this guy mentioned serving someone, or something, known only as the Magister Caelo.”
“That interests you more than what they want to do with the souls?”
“I’m not a demon anymore, so I don’t have much use for them.” I decided to grease the gears and lay it on a little thick for the Creole. “I would, however, like to help Sam stop them.”
Remy took a deep breath of the medicine, soaking in the steam, then sipped from the stone bowl. I cringed and gagged.
“How can you drink that stuff? Is your self-esteem that low?”
“This stuff is good for you,” he said. “Helps open up the lungs, gets the blood flowing. Wakes you up faster than anything on the regular or black market. You should try it.”
“Pass.”
“You sure?” Remy asked. “It’ll clean out whatever toxins are in your body.”
“Then I’ll keep my toxins, thank you very much.” Smoking was good for demons, or ex-demons in my case, so the toxins were more like antioxidants to me.
Remy sighed. “Have it your way.”
“Fine, I’ll huff your stupid medicine.” I took off the mask, leaned closer to the stench, and closed my eyes. If this crap destroyed my lungs, at least I’d still have my vision. I inhaled. The smell made me gag. My lungs felt like someone had set off a tear gas canister in them.
“All-day demonic raves and orgies, that is good.”
“Teach you to judge a book by its cover.” Remy smiled, the creases around his mouth revealing him to be much older than he first appeared. “It’s even more potent if you drink it.”
“Pass.” No way would that stuff go near my delicate insides. “Do you sell it? If humans survived the initial onslaught, you’d make a fortune.”
“They can’t,” Remy said. “But I could work you up a batch if you want. The stuff does go bad pretty quick after you make it, though, so don’t let it marinate for too long.”
“Good to know.” The concoction had also kicked my brain into overdrive, and reminded me why I’d come to see Remy in the first place. “So, this Magister Caelo. Have you heard any of your customers mention him, or the Caelo in Terra?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Remy said. “What are they?”
I shook my head. “Don’t entirely know myself, beyond what I told you.”
“Sorry.” Remy took the cauldron of Grammy Broussard’s voodoo juice and poured it into a row of small jars.
I leaned in close to get another whiff for the road. That stuff hit the spot.
Suddenly Remy snapped his fingers. “You should talk to Jurgen. He might know something.”
I raised my eyebrows. “That maestro is in town?”
Jurgen wasn’t familiar with Raleigh—I didn’t think—but he’d been around the block for a few hundred years. Remy hadn’t lived anywhere close to that, so I figured him more of a longshot to know anything about the Magister Caelo.
“He’s here on tour.” Remy set the empty cauldron down in the sink.
“I don’t think I’ve seen Jurgen since the Titanic sank.” I rubbed my chin. The stubble felt like it hadn’t been shaved in six hours. Unacceptable by my standards. “He was part of the band. He kept playing until his violin went underwater.”
