Blood for the Dancer

by Dallas Mullican

  “Right, history lesson over. Shit bores me to tears. Surprised I knew so much. Never thought I was listening when an old one started blabbering on about it. Wait til you meet Geras, ol’ bastard’ll talk your ears off.” Shax chuckled as he stood. “So, the real lesson for today. Follow me, lad.”

  Dustan leaned down to tie his boots. When he looked up, the policeman stood before him. Dustan shuddered. “Wish you would let me know before you do that.”

  “Sorry. Too many know my first form, as we call it. Disguise is a necessity.”

  He followed Shax along the street to the market. Vendors shouted as shoppers waded through the throng from one stall or store to the next. Aromas of fresh fish, salted lard, and spices wafted through the air. Farther up, a shop that built carriages generated sounds of thumping hammers and the screech of saw blades.

  Shax halted in front of McClintock Accoutrements and leaned against the wall, one foot braced behind him. Men in grubby jackets and torn trousers nodded their heads or averted their eyes as they passed, all hoping to avoid the burly cop’s attention. Little did they know Shax had no interest in them, nor the authority to do anything about it if he did.

  “See the woman there?” Shax pointed down the street. “The one in the blue dress, white bonnet.”

  Dustan searched the crowd in the direction Shax indicated. After a moment, he spotted the woman examining fruit and appearing displeased with the farmer’s produce.

  “I see her.”

  “Notice anything out of the ordinary about her?”

  Dustan squinted, focusing on the woman’s dress, stance, and mannerisms. “No, seems normal enough to me.”

  “Look again. This time try to touch her with your vision. As if your sight could march right across the lane, reach out, and tap her on the shoulder.”

  Perplexed, Dustan stared up at Shax as if he sprouted a second head. The demon only smiled and nodded toward the woman. Dustan shrugged and turned his attention back to the lady in blue. He watched her movements, her frantic gestures, the drop and rise of her jaw as she barked at the vendor, but saw nothing unusual.

  “Concentrate. Decrease the distance in your mind, send out an imaginary hand and lightly touch her.” Shax kept his voice low and calm.

  Sweat beaded on Dustan’s forehead. The stab of a headache nudged at his temples from the strain. Nothing. Nothing…

  “I see it.” He almost leapt into Shax’s arms.

  “Easy, lad.” Shax patted him on the back. “What is it you see?”

  “A glow, like someone painted her around the edges.”

  “Good. What color is the glow?”

  “Red,” said Dustan, thrusting his shoulders back, a pleased smile on his face.

  “Well done. The darker the glow, the more powerful the spirit.” Shax dropped his leg and took a step off the landing, headed toward the street.

  “What about the other one?” asked Dustan.

  Shax’s head shot around. “What other one?”

  “The man…there.” Dustan pointed toward a man some distance down the road. He wore a dingy brown suit with scuffed loafers. “But his glow is white. More silver, really.”

  A low growl issued from Shax’s throat. “Angel.”

  “You don’t see him?”

  Shax shook his head in disgust. “We can’t see each other in the human realm. It’d be like someone you barely know wearing a clever disguise. We’re blind to spectral auras here. The reason we need you.”

  “Like the hounds the coppers use. Need me to sniff them out for you?”

  Shax chuckled in spite of his anger. “Something similar, I suppose, and much more besides. For now, though, practice spotting the auras. Hone the skill, you’ll be needing it soon enough.”

  3

  A Lie Better Believed

  Dustan spent his days wandering the streets of The Mint and the surrounding parishes. He had spotted two angels and a demon this week. The thrill of seeing what no one else could see consumed him. He bumped into an angel, right into her, shoulder to arm, and she only brushed him away with an irritated glare. He crossed paths with Shax from time to time. Dustan knew him now by his aura. Each aura contained unique qualities, perhaps a subtle shade difference, or a spike of energy at a certain interval. He needed to observe the same spirit for some time to recognize them, so it did not prove as useful in practice as in theory. Still, whenever he spied Shax in a new disguise, moseyed up, and tapped him on the shoulder, the expression on the demon’s face always made Dustan giggle.

  Today he followed a rather intriguing angel down King’s Street. A man, average height and weight, who appeared muscular beneath a cheap dark suit, sauntered along as if he owned the world. His confidence unnerved Dustan for some reason he could not explain. The angel paused here and there to share a word with one person or another, a pleasant smile always on his face.

  Dustan shadowed him for three days, tracking his movements. Not a terribly interesting fellow, he had yet to do anything of note, simply visited the slums, the makeshift hospitals, and the churches. He watched long enough to suspect the angel’s present appearance was his first form. Whenever Dustan happened upon him, it took only a moment of concentration for Dustan to detect the telltale signs unique to this angel. The angel seemed to disregard the chance a demon might notice him in the city, or more likely, pinpoint his reentry into the spirit realm.

  On Sunday, Dustan accompanied his mother to their small church near Blackfriars Bridge. Five pews lined each side of the tiny venue. Stained glass windows, a large cross with Christ nailed to its wood, and an antiquated organ supplied the requisite ambiance. They took their seats and sang hymns to open the service. Father Samuel, an ancient shriveled man, lurched to the podium.

  “Good morning. May our risen Savior bless you.” The greeting seemed to take all his effort, thin lips fluttering as if forcing out the sound. Barely able to lift his head and train his eyes toward the meager crowd, he skimmed the assembly from beneath bushy gray brows. “As most of you may be aware, I am getting on in years.” Apparently, he hadn’t meant it as a joke and shot a reproachful glare at the snickers emanating from the pews. “Today it is my honor to introduce your new priest, Father Marcus.”

  Father Samuel waved a hand toward someone seated in the front row. Dustan’s breath caught when he gained a full view of the man stepping forward―the same angel he’d tailed through the streets.

  “It is my pleasure to serve as the shepherd of this flock. I anticipate getting to know each of you very well.” Father Marcus gazed across the congregation with a beaming smile. When the priest’s stare paused on him, Dustan inhaled sharply and he went stark still. For an instant, he believed the Father winked at him.

  “Bollocks. The cheeky bastard,” said Shax. “Zaphkiel, High Commander of the Host. Doesn’t even bother to don a disguise, knows he’s too strong for most of us. Goes both ways though, Aamon makes his little sojourns to the human realm on occasion. If those two ever meet up, hide your head.”

  “How are they different from any other spirits?” Dustan fumbled with his tie. It had been his father’s, and Mum insisted he wear it to church. The thing felt like a noose around his neck.

  “Age and experience have their perks. Beyond that, Zaphkiel has a mind for a fight rivaling Michael himself. He’s been ruling the Host longer than I’ve been alive. Demon pups tell stories about him to scare each other shitless. Don’t go messing with him, boy. You ain’t ready for a fresh weaned angel, much less their boss.” Shax kicked the heel of one boot against the other, dust puffing into the air. “As for Aamon, about the same, slick as a river eel and a whirlwind with a blade. He sees strategies and tactics in such fine detail gives me a headache listening to him. Point me in a direction and say get ’em, don’t bore me with all the prattle. If Zaph has a weakness, he’s tied to tradition. Tradition’s worked pretty well for him, mind you. Even so, Aamon’s willing to switch it up and try new things. Things the ol’ timers frown on. Not exactly chiva
lrous, if you catch my meaning.”

  Dustan thought a moment, rubbing his chin. “How did Zaphkiel know me?”

  “Doubt he did. Most like, he picked up on your interest in him. Fucker’s powerful and smart, dangerous combination.” Shax tipped his hat to a group of women passing by. “Stay away from him. He floats in from time to time, but won’t dally long. Got a war to fight after all.”

  “Why does he come here at all?” Dustan found the angel as fascinating as terrifying.

  “He’s good with glamors. Tricks more than anything, but a useful tool in the right hands. His natural charisma, the power and authority he exudes, opens up folks to his pitch. More or less, he sets them up and his minions rake in the pledges. That whole church, and every spot he’s visited, will be aligned with the Host in no time.”

  “They said he was to be the new priest.”

  “Not a chance. He’ll stick around long enough to sow the field, so to speak. I’m sure he’ll plant some story to explain why he disappeared and didn’t show anymore.”

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” Dustan hated the idea of this angel casting a glamor on his mother. He did not want her involved. She would make a poor warrior, and her pledge would only see her suffer before meeting Oblivion. Better she went straight to the Void with her human death.

  “Try to put it out of your mind. Like I said, Zaph will be gone before long. Keep spotting the angels here and about. You have a good idea where they’ll pop up now.” Shax patted Dustan on the shoulder. “Don’t fret so much, lad.”

  “You haven’t killed any of the angels I’ve found.” Dustan glowered, feeling helpless.

  “How do you know?” said Shax with a smile. “See boy, here’s how it works. Spirits can only stay in this realm for a time. I told you before, wearing anything other than our first form taxes us, takes the wind out of the sails. Well, the first form does too, but less so. We need to return to the spirit world and gain our strength back. You spot the angels, so we know about where they’ll exit this realm. We get a hint from the other side too, like a whisper you don’t know right where it came from. Anyway, a few Slayers waiting send the bloody bastards straight into the Void more times than not.

  “Do the angels have someone like me?”

  “A hound?” Shax huffed. “Not likely. You’re special lad, it’s why Aamon was so keen on finding you.”

  Dustan puffed out his chest. “Special? How?”

  “Don’t go getting cocky on me. You’re bad enough as it is. I don’t know the particulars, but Aamon’s bit there…” Shax tapped Dustan’s chest. “Lets you see spirits, auras, in this realm. Rare thing, probably unique—our secret weapon. We want it to stay that way, so keep your head down.”

  Dustan left Shax in the square and headed home. It didn’t make much sense to him. So he could see auras and spot spirits in the human realm, and maybe it helped the demons ambush a few angels here and there, but Dustan did not want to watch from the sidelines. A hatred for the Host gouged deep into his belly. He could not put his finger on why, aside from unanswered prayers when he needed them, but he found their methods repugnant. At least the demons were upfront with what they wanted, for the most part. The Host propagated an elaborate lie—God and an eternity in paradise. They made suffering and servitude seem laudable goals and allowed their pledges to grovel through lifetimes of sickness and unhappiness in hopes of a blessed afterlife never to come.

  Dustan entered his home in a sour mood. His mother sat in a rocker by the window, reading her Bible. “Oh Dustan, I’m glad you’re home. Did you enjoy the service today? I think Father Marcus is simply wonderful. So eloquent. And those kind eyes. I think he is exactly what we need.”

  Their flat consisted of one room with curtains partitioning off two smaller areas to serve as bedrooms. A basin and woodstove sat to one side, a table and two shaky chairs on the other. Dustan scoffed and plopped down on his cot in one corner of the home.

  “Next Sunday, after the sermon, I believe I’ll request he join us for dinner.” His mother’s voiced carried through the thin, cotton wall of his bedroom.

  Dustan’s head shot up, his eyes narrowed. “I won’t be going next week, and I won’t be home for dinner. I got things to do.” He laid back and stared at the crusty ceiling beams.

  “You most certainly will. I have been lenient with you, letting you to run with those little hoodlum friends, staying out all hours. You are still a child. My child. You’ll do as I say.”

  “I’m done with church. You can’t make me go.” He flipped onto his side, putting his back to her.

  “How dare you. You come out here this instant.” The sound of her voice spun in his direction as her broom clacked to the floor. “God has blessed us and preserved us all these years. You kneel and beg forgiveness for saying such things.”

  “I will not. How has he blessed us, Mum? Father is dead, you work yourself near to death, and we live in filth here in the slums. Barely eat most days. Tell me, what has God done for us?” Dustan, livid, bounded off the cot and stormed into the open room.

  “He spared you. He sent His angels to bring you back to me from the very edge. You don’t recall how bad it was, how sick you were. I feared it certain you would soon pass. God heard my prayers, and for that alone, He deserves our worship and praise. I know times are hard, but we manage don’t we? How difficult would our lives be without His angels watching over us?”

  Dustan’s voice fell to a low growl. “Angels? It wasn’t angels, Mum. Demons saved me. There is no God. You believe a lie. You wallow at the feet of those who care nothing for you. I hate your angels, and I hate your God.”

  His mother darted forward and hit him across the cheek. His eyes went wide with surprise and he retreated a step, willowing under her angry glare.

  “I’ll not have your blasphemy in my home. How dare you.” She clenched her fists, shaking head to toe.

  Dustan, tears encasing his eyes, shuffled backwards. The heat of a nasty welt rose on his face. At the shock and hurt in his eyes, regret washed over his mother as she realized what she had done.

  “I’m…I’m sorry. I should not have struck you.”

  He flung open the door and ran as fast as his legs would carry him, his mother’s voice pleading from behind. “Dustan, I’m sorry. Please come back…”

  Dustan collapsed onto the tree stump in the grove behind St. George’s Church. Once he managed to get his coughing under control, he hung his head and sulked. He felt bad about angering his mother, but she did not know the things he knew, and would not believe him if he told her. In over his head, in every respect. What was he doing? He did not understand much more than she did. Yanked into a war between spirits, a demon’s finger embedded in his heart, maybe the fever and illness had left him insane.

  “What’s got you in the doldrums, lad? Thought I told you not to fret so much.” Shax ambled into the grove in his dwarf form, hunched down, and eased onto his backside in the yellowed grass.

  “My mum,” said Dustan, downcast. “She believes all the stuff about God and angels. Wants to make me believe it, but I can’t, not now. She lives a lie, thinking stuff that ain’t real.”

  “Hmm.” Shax ran his fingers through thick locks and nudged a stick with his foot. “Maybe you’re looking at it sideways. Nothing wrong with religion, in and of itself. What folks do with it’s the trouble. Wars, genocide…” He grunted. “But look who’s talking. Seems what we’re doing, don’t it? We got our own kind of religion. Angels, demons, we all think winning the war’s going to usher in some kind of paradise. There’s as many theories about what’ll happen once it’s done as there are spirits fighting it. Got to believe in something I suppose.”

  “Even if you know it’s a lie?” Dustan peered at the dwarf, doubt in his eyes.

  “There’s the rub. Most don’t know a lie from the truth or vice versa. And most times, don’t matter. Whatever gets you through, lends a little sense to what you’re doing. If believing in God helps your
mum slog through another day of backbreaking labor and deal with her mess of a life, who’s to say that’s a bad thing? Especially if she don’t know no better?”

  Dustan considered this a moment. “The angels have never helped her any. She reads her Bible every day and prays all the time.”

  “You’re mixing up angels with God and the Bible. Like I told you before, angels use religion, but man created it. With a little help, mind you. They ain’t always the same. Probably not too often, actually.”

  “But demons helped me. Why won’t angels answer my mum’s prayers?” Confusion and unspoken need laced Dustan’s every word.

  “Don’t go giving us too much credit. Both sides are recruiting soldiers, nothing more. We needed you—or what you’d be able to do once Aamon’s token was in you—so we snatched you back from the brink. Sorry if that dampens your feelings about being special. You are, special I mean, but only because you’re a valuable weapon. Don’t mean we don’t care about you. Think of it like this. Man owns a shop. He hires a lad because the lad’s good at building whatever this place makes. Don’t mean he don’t value the lad, maybe even becomes fond of him, but still, it’s the boy’s talent makes him useful.”

  Dustan gave a reluctant nod. “I think I understand.”

  “Angels and demons tell folks whatever they think will convince them to make the pledge. Nothing personal, got to replenish the ranks, you know? Gods are a whole other matter. Spirits have our war to give us purpose. Every creature, high and low, needs purpose or else why bother. Plus, they all want something powerful to solve the problems they can’t. Don’t matter. Most times those problems fix themselves, or don’t get fixed at all. Folks ignore what don’t mesh with their notions.”