by Alan Baxter
Isiah leaned slightly nearer to him, penetrating the small man with his onyx eyes.
‘He’s at home. His apartment. At home. I’m sure....at home.’ He was telling the truth. Isiah picked up an image of Samuel, finishing a beer, stubbing out a cigarette, ‘See ya later, Ralphy, I’m heading home.’ Good. Now I know what he looks like.
‘Address?’
A minute later and he was walking back down the stairs to the street.
He felt the fight coming as soon as he turned past the end of the alley after the pool hall. A big shift in Realms, rolling mental shockwave, smell like cordite and a coppery taste, as different worlds briefly merged. He saw the haze of RealmShift in the street ahead. He’s trying to expose me, get me in a fight out in the open.
There were muffled popping noises as, one after another, they began to appear. Too stupid to know that they were supposed to make a public fight Isiah knew that they would chase him down. He turned back into the alley, running at supernatural speed. Skidding to a halt, he spun around in time to intercept the first of them as it leapt, a flying mass of teeth and claws.
Isiah twisted, pistoning out a powerful punch. There was a satisfying crunch of bones as it tumbled away and hit the ground with a wet thud. He gathered in a rush of energy, compressed it, and leaned forward in a stance to brace himself. He put both hands out in front and let it fly, full into the faces of the next wave of shrieking, slavering abominations. There were dozens of them. A bright fan of raw energy, blue, crackling, pulsed from Isiah’s hands. There was a hissing and wailing, a smell of burning, then the rest were on him.
He fell over backwards under the weight of the stinking, slimy horrors, biting, clawing. Hot stinging slashes sprang up on his hands and face. Now he was really angry. With a yell from his repentant soul he tore them to pieces with his hands and his mind, throwing them left and right, ripping them limb from limb. Grabbing them from the air as they leapt, slamming them into the ground. Wave after wave he repelled, desperately keeping his ground. Then it was over. He rose to his knees, panting for breath, gingerly feeling the depth of the gashes in his face, hands, arms. His jeans and jacket were soaked, reeking of the detritus of the alley and the demons fetid slime.
He drew in a deep breath, pictured the flesh of his face and hands in his mind, began reknitting the skin, speeding up the cellular activity. The cuts and gashes slowly filled in, the burning pain subsiding.
A sound caught his attention, to the right. He spun around, energy crackling around his outstretched hand, ready for another attack.
‘Ss’okay mishturr. I’m leavin’ okay?’
Wino. Eyes wide in terror, a half empty bottle hanging loosely, forgotten, in one hand. The wino hurried off down the alley, back bowed, staggering slightly from left to right, and turned into the street. Isiah stared after him for a second, then turned his face up to the leaden sky, rain pattering his eyelids, cheeks, lips. Cool and soothing. He raised his hands up to either side, letting the rain wash the slime and ichor away. His breathing settled. Thunder pealed overhead, a deep throated, rumbling growl.
He had had enough of this, these shuriken were getting more offensive. He sat back on his heels, closed his eyes. He slowly let his spirit slip free from his body, flew the astral sky swiftly to the address he had been given. He located the building, looked around. There was a small alley. No one would notice him appear there, under the fire escape steps. He retracted his spirit back to his body like it was on elastic, opened his eyes. No one else had appeared, the wino was still gone. He closed his eyes again and began to travel.
Picturing the fire escape in his mind, he let his entire body lose cohesion, molecules separating, becoming one with all matter, merging space. The familiar, slightly nauseating feeling washed over him as he stretched, opened. Then a sensation free blackness, no temperature, no sound. Not a lack of sound, like a silent, empty room, but no sound. It didn’t exist, in between. Neither did light. Molecular absence. Just thought, pure consciousness, unfettered. Briefly he was in two places at once, then only one again. Light rushed through his mind, molecular collisions permeated his entire being. Then a heavy, tense feeling as his body reformed. He opened his eyes, looked at the fire escape overhead, the road out front. No one around. Good.
He hurried around to the front door of the apartment block and went inside. He climbed the stairs at a faster than human pace, not bothering to wait for the elevator. As he rounded the landing to the fifteenth floor, Samuel’s floor, he felt divinity in the air. He walked slowly up to Samuel’s front door and it swung slowly open.
There was a mixed rush of sensations from the single-room apartment beyond. There was the stench, both nasally and psychically, of death. The walls and floor were red with blood, the light in the room a pinkish shade from a blood spattered bare lightbulb. Bon Scott screamed from the speakers of a mini stack system. Apparently he was on the highway to hell.
The counterpoint to the death and carnage was the serenity permeating the air. Holy energy coming from the figure crouched on the floor in the middle of the room, bending over a blood soaked corpse. The crouching figure was large, muscular, wearing only loose fitting, white linen pants and buttonless shirt. Long blond hair tumbled over his shoulders and back. Large wings shimmered over him, only really visible if you didn’t look directly at him, like pale stars in a night sky.
‘Hello, Isiah. Shut the door would you.’ His voice was smooth and velvety, calming to the soul.
‘Gabriel. Must be important for him to send you down.’ Isiah walked up beside the blond one and crouched down. With a mental flick he pressed the stop button on the CD player, sudden silence.
Gabriel looked up, slightly sheepish. ‘I quite like that band.’
Isiah raised an eyebrow. ‘Want it back on?’
Gabriel shook his head, looking back at the corpse. Isiah watched him, pained at the sadness in his face. After a moment he turned his attention to the mess on the floor. It was the body of a young woman, mid-twenties at most. She was naked, laid out on the floor with her legs apart and her arms out to her sides. The was a gaping cavity in her chest, ragged. Her heart was gone. Through the blood covering her, Isiah could see other wounds, cuts and bruises. Her face was frozen in pain and fury.
No matter how used he got to killing and death, it was always the young women, killed by violence, that tore his heart the most. Staring at her broken, violated form images of Megan rose in his mind. The only person he had ever allowed himself to love, so many centuries ago. His beautiful Megan and her violent death, the trigger of his supernatural existence.
Looking into this corpse’s staring eyes Isiah said, ‘You know her?’
Gabriel nodded, not looking up. ‘She was a good one, we needed her. Too late this time. So unpredictable sometimes, these humans.’ He caught Isiah’s eye. ‘It was your boy.’ Statement, not accusation.
‘I’ve had a bit of trouble catching up with him. He seems to be a pace or two ahead of me at the moment.’ Gabriel nodded again. ‘What are you going to do about this one?’ Isiah asked.
‘Like I said, it’s too late. I’ll have to get on to someone else. She had work to do for us, but there’s time to find another.’ Gabriel sighed. ‘We fight in Heaven, Isiah, you know that, but humans seem capable of such a remarkable degree of brutality.’ His eyes were sad. ‘Get this one will you? Make him do what’s needed, then finish him forever.’
Isiah smiled. ‘That’s the easy part. Your fallen brother wants him so badly he’s making my life hell, if you’ll pardon the pun. Samuel’s managed to avoid him. That’s what this is.’ Gabriel raised a questioning eyebrow. Isiah pointed to the ragged chest wound. ‘The missing heart. Samuel’s using ancient magic, blood rituals, to avoid Satan. He ‘sold his soul’ in classic tradition, now thinks he can dodge the deal and get away with it. Trouble is, it seems he can.’
Gabriel looked back at the young woman’s body. With a gentle gesture of his hand her face relaxed, eyes closing. Her cou
ntenance settled into something close to serenity. Looking up again, ‘Why’d he make the deal in the first place?’
Isiah made a wry face. ‘That’s where it gets complicated. Samuel thinks it would be just grand to be immortal; he’s been devoting his entire life to its pursuit.’
‘Right,’ Gabriel said with a little laugh. ‘What a fool.’
Isiah nodded, smiling. ‘Maybe if he had any idea he might find a more fulfilling pursuit. Anyway, he makes a deal with Satan – “Show me the secret of immortality and you can have my soul.” He thinks Satan won’t spot the flaw. How can the Devil ever get his soul if he’s immortal and will never die?’
Gabriel was gently shaking his head, his eyes lowered. ‘Why do so many think they can outsmart my dark brother?’
Isiah shrugged, took a deep breath. ‘So your dark brother then tells Samuel that there is an ancient Mayan crystal skull in South America that will impart immortality to him, go get it. Satan’s just playing with him of course, cat batting a mouse, but our unpredictable mortal throws a spanner in the works. He decides to use some twisted voodoo divination technique to see if Old Nick’s lying to him or not, starts mixing up his deities. Typically trusting. The divination reveals Death waiting in South America, Samuel thinks it’s his death and panics.’
Gabriel raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘Not his death?’
‘No, that’s the rub,’ said Isiah, smiling with one side of his mouth. ‘The death he saw is one that’s really important to us. Not his death at all. That’s the irony. He’s the one that has to do the killing.’
Gabriel nodded, beginning to see the point. ‘So now Samuel the Satanist has panicked and gone into hiding, which means he won’t be going to South America, which means he won’t end up killing the one out there, right? Upsetting your precious Balance?’
‘Exactly. But the real screw is that old Sam’s done a great job of dodging Satan, he’s really pulled it off using this old blood magic. So now Satan’s really pissed and wants to consume him instantly.’ Isiah shook his head, heaved a sigh. ‘Told you it was complicated.’
Gabriel nodded, lips pursed in thought. ‘It always is. So you have to find Samuel before Satan does and get him to South America to kill this one, before my brother catches up to you both?’
‘That’s right. And there we come full circle; he’s one pace ahead it seems.’ He nodded toward the blood soaked corpse.
Gabriel thought for a while, gently stroking the bloodstained cheek of the dead young woman. Eventually he asked, ‘Why has this one in South America got to die?’
Isiah shook his head slightly. ‘I’m not exactly sure yet, you know how vague the Balance can be with me sometimes. The future existence of quite a powerful spirit depends on it. If Samuel doesn’t kill this South American arsehole then the arsehole will end up killing a woman from the United States. It’s her we’re really protecting.’
The angel nodded. ‘It’d be interesting to know what spirit it is. And how this woman can prevent all its faithful from losing faith.’
‘I guess I’ll get privy to that in the end. Somehow she does something that keeps people believing in the spirit. If we don’t get this right in South America, another one bites the dust; a little less balance in world.’
‘Can’t you cut out the middle man?’ asked Gabriel, standing up. ‘You know, get whoever this woman believes in to put in a little “divine intervention”?’
Isiah shook his head. ‘It’s never that easy, man. The woman doesn’t believe in anything at all, neither does the South American guy. Pure atheists, the pair of them. No way to get to them through deities. That’s why Samuel’s so important, but it’s all gone pear shaped.’ Isiah’s eyes narrowed and a slight smile appeared at the corners of his mouth. ‘Don’t fancy finding this South American guy for me do you? Bright lights, bit of a burning bush?’
Gabriel smiled, but it held little humour. ‘You know I can’t. They have to believe first. I don’t exist for him, whoever he is.’
Isiah stood up, gripped Gabriel’s shoulder. ‘I know, I know. Guess I’ll have to carry on hunting for Samuel the Fool.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘I got my own religion to preserve. You know, God’s work.’ Isiah grinned. The angel paused, thoughtful, then looked at Isiah, his face troubled. ‘Where do they go when they die, Isiah?’
Isiah cocked his head to one side. ‘Who?’
‘People like your American woman. People who don’t believe in anything.’
‘I really don’t know, Gabriel. I can go anywhere that anyone believes exists, but if someone doesn’t believe in anything....maybe they don’t go anywhere; just cease to be.’
Gabriel frowned, a heart wrenching sight on such a beautiful face. ‘Doesn’t bear thinking about. Cover your eyes.’
Isiah put up his hands, turned his back. ‘See you later, Gabriel.’
‘Yeah. Good luck.’ There was a flash of light, pure white and so bright that Isiah could see the bones of his hands for an instant, then darkness. The aura of death swamped Isiah’s senses again as the serenity drained from the room, pale pink light slowly resolving everything back into focus.
Isiah rubbed his eyes gently, looked around. Where are you Samuel?
As he sifted through items on an old, scratched wooden desk, his mind wandered, back through time faded centuries. He remembered what Gabriel had said, ‘So unpredictable sometimes, these humans.’ He had been one once, an unpredictable human. That’s what got him into this position. So very long ago, a lost Englishman, wandering the Highlands of Scotland. He had not had any belief either. And his lack of belief had set him on a path of immortal, unbelievable destiny. But he knew that didn’t happen to everyone. He wondered how much his rage back then had had to do with it. All so long ago, yet still painful. His beautiful Megan, his love. Then the violence and the rage.
Something on the desk caught his eye, broke his reverie. It was a dagger of some kind, bone handle, three sided blade. For stabbing rather than slicing. There was a small carving of a snake’s head on the pommel, the whole thing about ten inches long. It was relatively clean, but he could sense the history of it, brutal, murderous. He closed his eyes and let his mind gently merge into the dagger, his consciousness slipping between the molecules, mentally tasting the energy preserved in the weapon, its history. After barely a second he let go with both mind and hand, eyes snapping open, the dagger dropping to the carpet with a heavy thud. He stared vehemently at the dagger as it lay on the carpet, his eyes cold. There was so much death ingrained into it, so much pain and suffering. It was an old weapon, possibly older than Isiah himself, and had been repeatedly used to murder. Ritual sacrifice.
He picked it up from the carpet and laid it back on the desk. Now he had merged with it once he could feel its evil, rising from it like a bad smell. It was not the weapon used in the killing here in the apartment, but it still imparted one small clue; Samuel had left a very valuable and powerful tool behind. That either meant he was in a terrible hurry or not thinking clearly. Or both. Isiah drew raw energy into his hand and released it at the dagger. The energy crackled in between the particles of the evil weapon and split it into infinity, sending every molecule back into the ether from whence it had come so long ago, vaporising the vile thing completely.
He stood back from the desk, looking around himself, Must be some clue, somewhere. Then he saw it. There was a small red light blinking gently on an answering machine, an electronic heart, rhythmically beating. The machine was splattered with slowly congealing blood, half obscuring the light. He crouched by the small table with the telephone and answering machine, a small pad and pen and a resin cast of a naked woman doing impossible things with a ram. The young woman’s blood coating the figurine made it even more obscene. Isiah frowned at the sight of it. A small gesture and it went the way of the ancient dagger. He pressed the Play button then wiped his finger on a dry patch of carpet at his feet.
A mechanical whirr, tape rewinding, a beep, then, ‘Samuel, it
’s Dave.’ Half whispering, Hollywood conspiracy voice, the sound slightly obscured by blood in the speaker. ‘Shit, I hope you haven’t left yet. Errm...’ Pause, beep, click.
Isiah’s frown deepened, not much help there. Just as he was rising to his feet, another beep. He dropped back onto his heels. ‘Samuel, Dave again.’ Less of the conspiratorial whisper, more desperate now. Isiah had to smile, Sam and Dave, Soul Man. ‘Listen, you might have already left but you might not, just out. Milk maybe. Fuck it, I dunno. Anyway, this is important. That bloke came around to my shop again and he was pissed, man. I mean, like furious, dude. He started yelling and shouting, and throwin’ stuff about. “Where is he, where is he,” he kept yelling. He smashed my life-size Alice Cooper, man! Fuck, Samuel, that was unique, a fucking one-off, you know?’ Isiah grinned, There’s the clue. Dave took a deep breath, then, ‘Man, you gotta sort this out, alright. Get ‘round here!’ The phone went down with a bang. Beep, click. The tape stopped, rewound.
Outside it was still raining as hard as ever. There was a telephone booth on the path right outside the apartment block door. Isiah stopped for a moment, looking at it thoughtfully. After a second he picked up the receiver and dialled the police. When the dispatcher answered in her practiced, mechanical way Isiah gave the address of Samuel’s apartment and told her to send someone there, a girl had been murdered. He heard the dispatcher asking for his name as he hung up. He turned and started to walk toward the nearest record store he could think of.
2
Isiah pushed open the door of Black Heart Records & CDs and stepped inside to the sound of powerful guitars and pounding drums. He had to smile. Outside it was all concrete, neon, glass, but in here you could forgive a person for thinking they had just stepped into Count Dracula’s private study. Everything was painted black except for a huge goat’s head on white on the ceiling. Black lace decorated the ends of the numerous shelves of records, CDs, tapes, videos, DVDs. A large rack of T-shirts dominated the end wall, prints of demons, war, murder. Above the T-shirt rack two huge broadswords were crossed on the wall, a horned skull hanging from the centre of the cross. Hundreds of posters, each encased in black edged plastic, stuck out from the wall like a dark fan.
