Blood for the Dancer

by Dallas Mullican

  As Dustan cleared the peak of the hill, his father remained some way ahead. He stood at the mouth of a cave, its entrance shaped in the likeness of a gigantic animal skull, a bear perhaps, and motioned to Dustan with the stump of his arm before disappearing into the maw. Dustan trudged through ankle-deep snow, a bitter frost kissing his cheeks. A precipice, two steps wide and overlooking a dizzying drop, snaked along beneath a rock shelf fanged with arm-length icicles. He crept across, trying not to look down. Dustan stepped into the cave sometime after his father, his diminutive form waiting in the distance.

  The interior of the cavern stretched onward through a tunnel of ice worn smooth, as if some monstrous serpent had slithered through. Dustan emerged from the cave and spotted his father on the other side of a glacial valley, standing before a shimmery wall of bluish-white light. It seemed to require years to traverse the open expanse. Frigid gale winds whipped into his face; he braced, cautious with each treacherous step. After an age slogging across the gorge, he arrived at his father’s side.

  “Da.” Tears streamed and froze on his cheeks in silver trails. He extended his arms to embrace his father, but he recoiled and shook his head. “Why? What’s wrong, Da?”

  Dustan’s father reached out and let his palm hover inches from Dustan’s chest. Such emotion in his eyes—sorrow, regret? Impossible to read with his face so obscured. He turned and waved a hand to the glowing wall where a door-sized portal opened and led into darkness.

  “What’s through there?” asked Dustan.

  His father gestured with greater urgency, wagging his hand frantically. Only a dream Dustan reminded himself. However, after all his experiences, he harbored doubts as to whether dream and reality were separate environments. His father bowed his head toward the gateway.

  “Okay, I’m going.” He moved to the opening, halted, and turned. “Da. I miss you.”

  His father dropped his gaze to the ground, but not before shame leaped out at Dustan.

  On the other side of the portal, Dustan gasped. He recognized this place, the same nightmare world from his sickness as a child. The leviathan’s ribcage enveloped him, spanning toward the horizon. He traveled past the cocooned shapes, none writhing this time, under the great blood-red eye still weeping its filth. At the chasm ledge, he paused. Memories of the clawed phantoms assaulted his mind as foreboding froze his progress.

  The same blue illumination coloring the glimmering wall outside shone across the stone bridge from the far end, only brighter. A figure stood silhouetted against the ethereal glow, a ghostly image beckoning him onward. Dustan tiptoed onto the slab and crept toward the light. He heard anguished wails swirl below, but the apparitions retreated from the penetrating light, leaving him unmolested.

  “Welcome, Dustan.”

  The spirit took the form of a fifty-year-old man, light-brown hair hanging to his shoulders, dark-green eyes glinting with his smile. Tall and muscular, he wore a flowing azure robe. His aura shone cobalt and outlined his body. He gestured and turned, allowing Dustan to behold this new realm. Dustan’s hands rose involuntarily to his mouth, his eyes wide with awe. Such beauty, like nothing he ever imagined.

  A broad stone pathway, sectioned in rectangles and carved with elegant symbols, led to a courtyard that hovered over a sea of swirling emerald light. The plaza square extended into smaller identical landings on all four points. A circular emblem adorned the platform, similar to a triskelion’s long helix arms.

  A massive edifice rose in front of him. High on its face towered a series of pinnacles arranged in a ring like a jeweled crown. Above the point of each floated a colossal flame, casting jade illumination in a wide arc. Winding staircases, too numerous to count, spiraled up and down the structure, seemingly unsupported, leading to grandiose mansions and elegant smaller buildings. The realm contained recognizable shapes and substances, but the detail and color stretched beyond Dustan’s earthly senses. It was more vivid and alive than the human realm, and his head swam with the delicious sensory barrage.

  “Beautiful, is it not?” said the man.

  Struck dumb, Dustan offered a feeble nod. “Where…where are we?”

  “The In Between.”

  Dustan’s head shot around, his mouth agape. “But…I don’t understand.”

  “Walk with me. I’ll explain.” The man took the stairs on a heady ascent. “My name is Hadraniel.”

  They climbed the steps high above the plaza to a terrace overlooking a wondrous garden filled with vibrant flowers and majestic fountains.

  “The place you remember from childhood, the nightmare world you experienced, was not the In Between as you were told. That place, known as the Moat, encircles this realm. The horrible creatures and obstacles there devour all attempting to enter the In Between who do not belong. That is…the aligned.”

  “I’m confused. Aamon said…” Dustan tried to hold on to the belief this place resided only in his dream. A world longed for in his troubled mind—a mind seeking peace as he slept.

  “Aamon, like all the aligned, are liars. Not evil or good, but they act as most creatures do, for their own benefit, for the good of their race and their cause.”

  “If Aamon had not rescued me I would have gone to the Void.” A defensive reflex sprang in Dustan.

  He did not care for this stranger defaming Aamon’s honor. The Demon Lord risked his own existence to save Dustan. Demon warriors died in the effort. Aamon, Geras, Valefar, Saerna, and Shax—his family—they loved him. They would not lie about something so vital.

  “No, you would have come here.” Hadraniel waved a hand in a wide sweep. “Your soul lingered between human life and death. Had you recovered, your spirit would have returned to your physical body. On the other hand, if you had died, your spirit would have voyaged beyond the Moat and found your way to this realm.”

  Dustan gazed out at the garden and the brilliant distant lights. “This is not the spirit realm?”

  “In a way. When the spirits split off into factions—angels and demons—many did not align with one or the other. They wished only for a peaceful resolution. As the hostilities increased, it became obvious no one would be allowed to remain neutral. Many of the unaligned fled the spirit realm. We discovered the portals before even Michael and escaped here. This dimension became our home. It is now part of a triumvirate—the spirit realm, human realm, and the In Between exist in a symbiotic union with the human realm, feeding into the other two.”

  “So humans who do not pledge to the angels or demons come here?” Dustan struggled to wrap his mind around concepts that flew in the face of all he knew.

  “Correct. Those who refuse the promises of Heaven and the lure of Hell, but remain true to their own purpose and reason, find a place here. The angels and demons have worked tirelessly for ages to convince humans only two paths exist. The angels honed a story of great reward for suffering and servitude. The demons encourage a will to power and domination. Each plays on the lack of purpose humans feel, their belief they are alone in the cosmos except for those two warring armies.” Hadraniel placed his hand on Dustan’s shoulder. “A need for certainty is the bane of reason.”

  “Why haven’t the unaligned recruited? Why not go to the humans and let them know the truth?”

  Frustration twisted in his gut. The dream robbed him of his ability to stand firm, his beliefs shifting like sand beneath his feet. What Hadraniel told him pushed lifelong concepts aside with a brush stroke and painted a new reality. Dustan found himself yearning to do something about it, to tip the balance in favor of the unaligned. But what could he do? This realm was forever lost to him. His spirit belonged to the demons.

  “For one, we lack the numbers. Also, venturing from our realm would mean our deaths, since we have not honed warrior skills. When tracked down by the aligned, we would stand no chance in combat. There is another reason, however. If we influence humans, are we not the same as the angels and the demons? By subverting their individual struggle for truth and leading them with
a bullring, we become that which we hate. We would work for a different solution.”

  Dustan glanced over at Hadraniel. “What’s that?”

  “Sever all influence.”

  “Not possible. Either the demons or angels win the war and dominate the realms, or things will continue ad infinitum.”

  Unaligned wandered through the garden below. They moved with a relaxation Dustan envied. Smiles and laughter filled the lawn where they sat on marble benches dangling feet into cool pools beneath regal statues. They appeared untouched by the worries of the realms.

  Hadraniel turned and proceeded higher above the city. “There may be another way…if you are willing.”

  Dustan’s ears perked, his eyes locked on Hadraniel.

  “A time will come when you must decide what you want to be—what you want the human realm to be.”

  “What do you mean?” After a long moment, Dustan accepted he would receive no answer to his question.

  All his demon family taught him now fought with Hadraniel’s elucidations. Vexation surged into clenched fists. “It doesn’t matter. Everyone ends up in the Void eventually anyway. A spirit once suggested a year or a hundred paled when compared to ten thousand. Ten thousand is just a longer period before the same ending.”

  Hadraniel lightly touched his arm and nodded toward the distance. “Perhaps not.”

  Dustan stepped back as though physically shoved, his eyes wide with astonishment. Far in the distance, something rose into the sky. Massive, the size of a small planet and set on the horizon, a translucent bubble encased what looked vaguely similar to a tree. A vast tower composed of smooth gleaming stone, intricate symbols tattooed the structure from base to peak. Incandescent limbs fanned out and disappeared into space. Tracers ignited on the branches, detached, and raced in a myriad of directions. Tears flowed from his eyes. The beauty of the tree made this realm seem ugly and decayed in comparison.

  “What is it?” Dustan whispered with wonder.

  “That, my friend, is the hope of us all.”

  Dustan emerged from a deep sleep like breaking the surface of white-topped rapids. He gulped the air, eyes darting around seeking the familiar. Disorientation receded and carried the dream with it. Chaotic images zipped through his mind—a severed finger, a hovering angel, a great bleeding eye, and a celestial tree with branches spanning the realms. His stomach churned, confusion muddling his thoughts.

  He rubbed brittle specks from the corners of his eyes and sat up in the bed. Shax rocked back and forth, headphones over his ears, dodging hordes of zombies. He tossed the PS4 controller into the air as a particularly gruesome member of the risen dead chomped down on his character’s neck.

  “Dammit. Bloody bastards.”

  Dustan chuckled and shook his head. The demon had certainly taking a liking to most things human.

  Shax turned his head at the sound. “Heh, sorry, lad. Fucking maggot bags get me at that spot every time.” He paused the game and rotated to face Dustan. “How you feeling?”

  “Some better. I had the strangest dream. Can’t remember much of it, but it seemed so real.”

  “Never will understand you humans. Can’t remember it, but seemed real. What does that even mean?” Shax smirked, opened a bag of chips, and turned up his Red Bull.

  “True, sounds odd.” Dustan watched beads of condensation trickle down the glass on the nightstand. The ice had melted hours ago. He picked it up and sipped the lukewarm liquid, pursed his lips and grimaced at the taste. “I was in the In Between again. I recall that much.”

  “Place is going to haunt you for a long spell, ain’t it?”

  “I guess. Haven’t dreamed about it in years. Maybe the encounter with Ariel dug it up. You know, going back to the spirit realm again.”

  Shax popped a handful of chips into his mouth. “Might of done.” His cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. “Bound to mess with your noggin.” He crunched away, crumbs tumbling onto his shirt as he spoke. “Don’t think so much, can’t be good for you.”

  “Felt important. Dammit, wish I could remember.” Dustan pawed at his arm before falling back onto the mattress, thoroughly distraught.

  “Lighten up, lad. Just a dream, no biggie. You’ll forget all about it in an hour. Get some Cheerios in you, maybe one of those McGriddles. Those are tasty.” Shax licked his lips.

  Dustan scoffed and playfully kicked the dwarf in the back. “The image sticking in my mind is this huge tree-looking thing.”

  Shax choked on his chips, bits spraying across the floor. He guzzled down the remained of his beverage and cleared his throat. “Sounds like a bad acid trip. See any talking marshmallows in dreamland?”

  Dustan puzzled over the demon’s reaction for a moment, shook his head, and laughed. “No, no I didn’t. Guess the trauma of using so much power and landing in the spirit realm messed with me more than I thought.”

  “There ya go.” He detected relief in Shax’s tone. Only natural: the dwarf watched over him like a mother hen.

  Dustan scooted in beside Shax and snatched the controller. “Let me show you how this is done.”

  17

  Home Sweet Home

  “Got a present for ya.” Shax materialized appearing rather pleased with himself.

  “A puppy?” Dustan did not look up from his book.

  “No, smartass.” The demon smacked him on the head with a folded paper. “Bought you a house. Well, a cabin.” He unwrinkled the deed and displayed it proudly.

  “You did what?” Dustan glanced at the dwarf, assuming some prank.

  “Yeah, I wanted to buy the old plantation, but they restored it and made it in to some sort of museum. Found one of those log cabins not far away though, right on the river. Thought getting back to the old haunts might cheer you up, help you rest.”

  Dustan leapt from the chair and hugged him. “Exactly what I need. Thanks.”

  Shax pushed him away. “Hey, you’ll muss my hair.” He raked stubby fingers through his thick black mop. “Here’s a map and the key. You’ll have to drive down. I got business on the other side. Cute little demon lass needs a shot of this energy.” He cupped his crotch and thrust it forward. Dustan snorted and shook his head.

  After Shax hopped a portal to his rendezvous, Dustan packed a tote bag and left the house they had rented in Alpharetta. He drove west on I-20, found Liquid Metal on Sirius Radio, and set the cruise control at 80 mph.

  Black Sabbath, Dio era. Sweet.

  He tipped his head back onto the headrest and enjoyed the doomy music as it poured over the soothing vibration of the road. An Alabama speed trap would suck and ruin his mood, but fortunately, he sailed right through the state with no trouble. In Mississippi, he took the exit and wound along scenic backroads lined by a red-violet sea of blossoms. Once he crossed over the river, the air smelled like home.

  The trip flew by in less than five hours. He needed to stop twice to ask for directions—so far out in the boonies, his GPS had trouble pinpointing the location. Nestled deep in the forest, the house hid among tall pines and oaks. Summersweet shrubs grew up around the walls with ivy climbing the thick logs and onto the roof. The scent of wild honeysuckle and blackberries filled his nostrils.

  Greeted by a musty scent and a haze of dust, Dustan dropped his bag on the floor and surveyed the home. Not the mansion, but a charming one-level with two bedrooms, an open den, and small kitchen. The furnishings and décor suggested the cabin had served primarily as a fishing getaway. He would need to do something about that if he spent much time here—the bass and deer head mounted on the wall gave him the creeps, and the country style gave him a headache.

  That night, he slept like the dead. The cricket chirps, the owl hoots, the breeze tickling the leaves sang a sweet song. He dreamed of his demon family, and the time they had spent together on the banks of the Mississippi—simpler days, when the future lay ahead as a grand adventure. Since then, doubts had crept in. He gave no voice to his concerns; the others would not understand. His
hatred for angel-kind had not diminished, but for every one slayed, the Host fielded more. Would it ever end?

  Fragments of his last dream stalked the edge of remembrance. Something there tugged at him, distracted him. He wished he could remember. Shax assured him it was nothing, but he felt certain something significant lay hidden in the recesses of his consciousness. The foggy images hinted at ominous omens, pricking at his spine with a dread chill. He found himself thinking of his father more and more. A look in his eyes he never showed in life kept skulking into Dustan’s mind, inexplicable and unbidden.

  The next morning, with the sun bright and warm, his concerns faded. He pulled on a lightweight sweatshirt, matching pants, and tennis shoes. With Blood Dancer in its sheath, he slung the sword over his shoulder, just in case. A jog along the river would feel pleasant in the morning breeze. He stepped out the door and inhaled the clean crisp air. Rippling water, birds singing, and rustling leaves brought a smile to his face. A deer, perhaps a distant relative of his old friend, darted up the slope. Dustan sprinted to a trail that ran parallel with the river and slowed to a comfortable pace. Woodland animals observed him passing with little more than sideways glances. The canopy overhead flickered as the sun peeked through the thick cover of leafy limbs.

  He picked up speed and dashed over fallen logs and moss-covered boulders. A covey of quail shot up from the brush. Dustan slowed, the hair standing erect on his arms and at the base of his neck. When he noticed the distinct shimmer ahead, his hand went to Blood Dancer, and he halted stone still. Seconds later, a man stepped from the tree line. Average height and weight, he wore loose jeans and a hooded long-sleeved t-shirt, and moved with an intimidating ease. His steel-gray eyes shone predator-like from beneath light brown hair that touched his shoulders.

  “Is it Father Marcus, or should I call you Zaphkiel?” Dustan drew the sword and brought it roaring to life.