Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1)

by Ash Krafton

  No, this was different. He had just pulled off something massive. And, now, in the aftermath, he was fading.

  She had to get to him.

  Only one option. And it wasn't the easy way.

  "Mack." She called out, her voice pitching higher with desperation. He had to hear her. "I need you."

  The angel appeared, wearing a frown. At first she worried he would delay her with a lecture against summoning him.

  Instead, he spoke first and she knew the frown wasn't for her. "There is an unprecedented level of Hell-born interference. I cannot find Simon."

  "I can," she said. "Use me and take us to him."

  Without hesitation, he stepped up against her and wrapped his arms around her. In the arms of an angel. Nothing here to write sentimental songs about. This was like an iron coffin—

  Then he opened his portal and her cynical thoughts whooshed right out of her mind as he yanked her through time and space. A purely angelic portal. Part of her resonated with it, hummed like struck silver, ringing with light and a wholesome chime.

  Part of her rebelled, a hot fury that rebelled against the Light. It clawed at her insides, ripping her up. Anaphylaxis.

  Her mortal body despaired, torn between the polarities of Light and Dark.

  They landed, solid ground suddenly beneath her. She dropped to her knees, her stomach lurching upward into her throat with a nauseous surge. Swallowing a mouthful of salty saliva, she willed herself to keep composure. She would not give an angel the satisfaction of seeing her vomit. Sometimes, her mortal trappings were more bane than boon.

  Wearily, she scanned the smoking ruins of what might have been a parking lot. Now, chunks of torn-up asphalt littered the clearing, the scents of brimstone and destruction hanging thickly in the air.

  A hell gate had been opened here.

  But a mortal had closed it.

  Only a split second later, she spotted them.

  Simon lay sprawled, eyes closed. He looked as if a bomb had gone off in his pocket.

  Broken. Smoke-stained and tattered. Disturbingly still.

  Mack knelt by his side, speaking in low mournful tones. "You let your anger take over, Simon. God could not help you because you turned your back on him when you gave in to anger."

  Chiara hurried to them, kneeling down. The angel's eyes were bright with tears when he looked up at her. It touched her deeply, to see his concern.

  "Why, Simon?" Mack stroked Simon's cheek and leaned to kiss his sooty forehead. "You literally handed yourself over to the dark and, in the dark, Balazog wins. Every time."

  "Wait." Chiara's blood ran cold, an unfamiliar chill spilling down between her shoulders. "Bal did this?"

  Mack looked up at her with sorrowful eyes. "I cannot help him here. Neither can you. But you can help him. Take him to your home. Do what you must. Please. Don't let him die."

  Chiara nodded and she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. "Take us as far as you can."

  She slid her arm under Simon's limp neck and shielded him. Mack spread his arms, the ghost of his wings unfurling. Surrounded them both with his embrace, he opened the portal again.

  She knew he did his best to be gentle. She was grateful, at least, for that.

  Mack got them as far as her front door. Whether he used her as a guide again or had simply already known the location of her lair didn't make a difference now. All that mattered was Simon.

  She carried him inside, past the couch he scorned, up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom he favored. She washed his wounds, binding them in strips of a torn sheet. No first aid supplies were to be found in this house. Never had been, never would.

  When she'd done all for him that she could, she waited. She curled into a ball in an armchair at his bedside.

  The sun rose and fell before he stirred. Little more than an eye blink in her long lifespan, yet it felt like the cruelest of eternities.

  "Hey." His voice was quiet, and ragged, but steady. "Fancy meeting you here."

  "Simon." She was at his side in an instant, gingerly sitting on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. "Are you in pain?"

  "Not the kind you can fix, sweetheart."

  "You underestimate me." She brushed her fingertips over his hands, avoiding his raw knuckles. Scrapes and bruises everywhere, a thousand tiny hurts to add to the great, serious injuries.

  "No. I don't." He leaked out a breath between pursed lips, his complexion pallid beneath his dark brows, black hair plastered to his forehead. "That's the problem, you see. I'm what you'd call beyond help."

  "No." She put steel into her tone so that he'd believe her, even if she doubted herself. "You've come back this far. We'll get you the rest of the way here. Your supply trunk, the one in the van. Tell me how to retrieve it. You can…charm your way back."

  "I think my luck has finally run out, kid." He sighed and looked at her, eyes unusually bright. "I finally crossed the line."

  "You've crossed plenty of lines and yet—"

  "This was a new one." His voice shrank, tiny and vulnerable. "I saw it."

  Something in his voice made her sit up, wary. This wasn't like him. This sounded suspiciously like—

  Like fear.

  She reached for his hand. A brush against his wrist betrayed him if his voice hadn't already. His pulse, thread but quick, like a rabbit. Fear.

  "Hell isn't a lake of fire." He squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to unsee something. "It's a state of complete awareness, and perfect moral clarity, and an absolute absence of mercy. You know everything you ever did, and every person you hurt, and every mistake you made, and you get all that regret and sorrow all at once, and there is never release from it. The pain, the suffering, the desperation—that's you, for eternity. That's what Hell is. It's all yours."

  He looked up at her, his eyes sunken, dull. Lifeless. Hopeless. "And I saw mine. I saw what's waiting for me."

  It tore at her heart to see him so…broken. "You are not meant for Hell, Simon."

  "I'm not going to Heaven, Chiara. My credit rating sucks." He stared at the ceiling, his expression slack, very much like a man in front of the gallows, waiting to be led up the stairs. "It takes a lot to get 'summoning demons to take revenge on high school bully' off a guy's rap sheet, not to mention what happened to Sarah."

  "Simon…"

  "Hey, kid. Cheer up. I promise I won't take you down with me. Now, I hate to be rude, but… I'm having trouble focusing on your face. I'm just gonna close my eyes for a while."

  "Okay. But just a nap. Then you'd better wake up."

  He closed his eyes, lashes dark against his wan cheeks. "Trust me. I'm too scared to die."

  His breathing rose and fell in shallow but quiet puffs. If it had been her, she'd be healed already. She would have visited the pool and she'd be whole and on her feet and back to work.

  Not Simon. He had two broken ribs and a bruised lung that would most likely keep him from smoking for a week or two, at least. The blood that had collected in the corners of his mouth made her suspect it had originally been collapsed. Perhaps the trip through the portal cauterized it.

  He was lucky to be alive.

  When they'd found him, he was sprawled within a circle of scorched earth that was littered with dead insects and more than one fallen bird. That hell gate should have killed him. Balazog almost did.

  She closed the door, pausing outside to listen for a sign that the stubborn fool wasn't merely pretending to sleep, that he'd ignore her orders to stay in bed.

  But there was silence. Simon must truly be exhausted if he didn't defy her just a little bit. She chewed her lip, knowing there was no more she could do except wait and watch over him.

  For a brief moment she envied the mortals. At least they had someone to whom they could pray.

  All she could do was hope. It was a different thing altogether.

  She went downstairs and curled herself into a corner of her couch, tucking her blanket in around her feet. The fire blaze
d from the fireplace, as it always did. Its warmth failed to reach her.

  He deserved better. He took beatings on a weekly basis in the name of the Light. He was their best hope to quell the rising dark. Anyone else would have considered it working toward redemption, or investing in a healthy plenary indulgence.

  Instead, he'd resigned himself to all the slings and arrows the world and the divinities could throw at him, as if all of it were punishments he justly deserved.

  What he deserved was to be sheltered, to be thanked. Instead he lay battered and broken and blaming himself for a hell gate he didn't open, a hell gate he never believed could possibly exist. He blamed himself for not being able to handle it better.

  He'd saved Baltimore. He'd done what no other mortal had even attempted, let alone succeeded doing. He'd shut a portal that had been gated by the Corinthian himself. And all Simon was doing at the moment was taking his lashes.

  Chiara stared at the fire, wanting nothing more than a nice little talk with her father. She wanted to rage against the Light for not making it clear to Simon just how valuable he was.

  And part of her felt more than a trill of concern because upstairs lay a man who had more power than any mortal had ever shown before. Men did not manipulate gates. Period.

  Simon had a power that no man should have. He truly was dangerous. Did he even know?

  A sound outside in the hallway drew her attention. Something was outside her apartment. She slid off the couch, using her senses to scan the rest of the building. Nothing. No animal, no mortal. She knitted her brows and concentrated. No demons, either. After a hesitation, she pulled open the door to her apartment and peered out.

  Mack stood in the far corner of the landing, his face lit in eerie lights from the hallway below.

  She heaved a sigh and leaned against the doorway. "Trying to scare me?"

  "Simply watching. It is what I do."

  "You could do it without the suspicious noises."

  "I did not know how to obtain your notice. Is he…?"

  "He's sleeping." She crossed her arms. "But he needs more than sleep."

  "A doctor."

  "He needs peace, Malachi."

  Mack bowed his head, recognizing his proper name.

  She'd gleaned it when he took them through the portal. Poor spirits. Angels truly were subjects of the lowest form. Empty vessels, waiting for direction from someone else's Will.

  "I see his unrest," he said. "I feel it trembling off him in waves. It is a terrible feeling, as great as any suffering I'd ever witnessed. But I cannot ease it. It is all connected. His weakness and his strength. And we need his strength."

  "But—can you take the edge off it, just a little? Surely you can spare him some comfort without altering his fighting edge."

  "No. I cannot."

  "You mean, you will not." Her voice trembled, anger simmering. She was coming to a boil inside. She clenched her fists without thinking. "Selfish Light. Never worried about the mortals. You only drive them to satisfy the desire of the divine."

  "You should not speak of things you don't understand."

  "Oh, I do understand. I know what it's like to lose a parent and I know that it's a pain I could have lived without."

  "He must leave the past behind him."

  "Oh, have some compassion. You probably never stopped to think about what he must be feeling. What baggage he's carrying. He just lost his mother!"

  "No." Mack looked at her oddly, a tilt of his head. "I do not think so."

  "You don't think what?"

  "He did not recently bear the loss of his mother."

  "He wouldn't lie—"

  "She has passed over. But her soul ascended nearly three years ago."

  "But— Simon had said the authorities wanted him to tend to her estate. But if she died three years ago… Then why are the police searching for him?"

  "He needs to answer that. I am neither a keeper nor a dispenser of his secrets." He stepped backwards into the fog that gathered behind him. "I am only here to watch."

  She went back upstairs to check on Simon. When she opened the door, she was assaulted by a cloud of pungent smoke and the sight of Simon sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his jeans.

  Her jaw dropped open. "What on earth are you doing?"

  He stood to pull up his pants, a sharp intake of breath as he fastened them. "Not taking it lying down. Somewhere a hell gate is going to open again and I've got to be there to stop it."

  "In your condition? An hour ago you were barely breathing."

  "As you can see, I'm feeling much better." He turned with a flourish of outspread hands. "Thanks to a little help from an Inuit shaman, who taught me to never leave home without an emergency kit. I just needed a little aroma therapy."

  He crumpled a little, hugging his rib and coughing softly, looking like a good cough would really hurt. He waved at the layer of heavy smoke that still hung in the room. "Open a window and it'll clear right out."

  "You're not better. Get back in bed."

  "I'd be better if I can have a dip in your ugly little pool. That stuff made you whole after you nearly bled out." He gingerly rubbed his ribs. "I just need a teaspoonful of it to finish things off."

  "It's not kind of pool."

  "Fine. I'll swim, then. I just don't like going under. Water in the ears—bleargh."

  "No, Simon." She shook her head with two tight jerks. "It's not a healing pool. It's…"

  "It's…?" He prompted her with a roll of his hand.

  Defeated, she sighed. "It's a portal. To my father."

  "Finally!" He clapped his hands together, looking both furious and delighted. "A truth I can use. Maybe it's time I met your father so I can ask him about that hell gate I had to shut down."

  She planted her hands on her hips, wanting to throttle him now that he was well-past the danger of dying. "Such self-preservation. You don't really care if you get yourself killed. What are you thinking, Simon?"

  He just smiled, hard and dangerous. But his eyes held the truth. Pain. Self-loathing. He'd never run out of ways to punish himself because he'd never run out of reasons why he deserved it.

  "You want to go? Fine." She grabbed his hand and got nose to nose and narrowed her eyes. "We're going."

  He jerked his head away, suspicion in every line of his face. "Going where?"

  "To Boston." Without releasing his hand, she strode from the room, pulling him behind. He was dead weight. Such a stubborn person.

  Well, so was she. She leaned into the dragging, giving it a divine nudge. That made him move.

  "No, no, no, no." He dragged his feet. "Thousand times, no."

  Truly? She cast an impatient glare at him. He talked so big. Little big man thought he'd march up to her father, did he? Demand answers? Wave his fistful of charms at him? Oh, he was just a colossus of courage, wasn't he?

  Until she mentioned Boston. Then the façade shattered. One thought of facing his past and he wanted to hide under the bed.

  No. Not this time.

  "Yes, we are." It took very little effort to pull him along behind her. He was in no shape to put up much of a struggle.

  Panic made the edges of his voice brittle. "You have no idea what happened there."

  Down the steps, out the door. Out of the street, she released her hold on him, knowing the three flights of stair would have robbed him of any desire to flee. She stepped to the curb and stood on her toes, scanning the traffic. "I know enough. You are stumbling in the dark, Simon. You're trying to forget who you were. You haven't forgotten her."

  "Going to Boston with you isn't going to make me remember who I am. It'll just remind them. I don't want them to remember me."

  She waved toward an oncoming taxi.

  "Too late for that, I'm afraid." A cab slowed and she pulled open the door. "That hell gate was proof they haven't forgotten you."

  On the flight, Simon drummed his fingers, grimacing at the scowls from the passenger beside him. Thirty thousand feet
between him and the ground made him nothing but nervous. And what kind of magic kept these buses in the air? Nothing but bad juju.

  At least they offered anesthesia. Several empty bottles stood on his tray table already, and the flight attendant was only halfway up the aisle. Ah, well. He'd catch her on the return trip.

  Now, if there was only a way to charm her into letting him sneak a cig in the john...He sighed. Fricken underwear bombers. Had to ruin things for everyone.

  Chiara patted his hand. "We'll be there in just a little bit."

  He banged his head back against the head rest. "This is a nightmare."

  "You worry too much."

  "I don't worry enough, apparently. I'm charging headfirst into an ambush with a girl who wears a huge target."

  "Shh. You're so pessimistic. Better watch yourself. They'll try to use your shadows next."

  "Let them." He gripped his armrest so fiercely his fingertips paled. "I'll be ready."

  "No, you won't."

  "Why are we doing this? For that matter, what exactly are we doing?"

  She reached over and squeezed his hand, entwining their fingers. "You're a good man, Simon. And you're a good mage, dabbler or not. But your shadows make it too hard for you to see where you are going. When we get to Boston, we are going to banish that shadow, once and for all."

  He closed his eyes. The way she made it sound, he just had a raging case of VD that could be cleared up with a course of penicillin. "It's not as simple as you make it sound."

  "It never is. That's why you have to tell me about her. I need to know everything. You need to tell me."

  Simon raised his hand that she held, their fingers still clasped. "Can't you just look in and see it? It would be easier than saying it."

  "I did see what happened. But I need to hear your heart's side of the story."

  Her eyes, so big and dark and forgiving. Would his secrets be safe with her? They'd never been safe with anyone. Not even the men he'd called master.

  But she was more than they had been. She was more than a magician or a shaman or a priest. She was a special breed, a blend of impossible divinity. Breathing alchemy. The embodiment of everything that captured his imagination. The men he'd called masters would crouch at her feet and beg for enlightenment, for protection, for a brief glimpse of possibility.