The Infernal Heart

by R. L. King

  “Dr. Stone! Look out!”

  Grace wasn’t praying anymore. She’d turned toward him, and suddenly her eyes got wide. She brought her crucifix up. “Get out, demons!” she screamed. “In the name of Our Lord Jesus, begone!”

  She didn’t slow them for long—only a second or two—but it gave Stone enough time to spin around just before the two charging creatures slammed into him again, taking him down. He fell back, momentarily stunned, his shield dropping as both of them came down on top of him, all flailing arms and wide-open mouths.

  One of them slashed his arm with a knife. The sudden pain jerked him back to awareness. He didn’t have much time—already they were pounding him with their fists, scrambling for more of the knives scattered across the floor. If they took him out, Grace and Father Reed and the old man wouldn’t have a chance.

  Damn it, he was not going to end up skinned and dismembered on the floor of some tiny house that smelled like piss! With a roar, he summoned deep reserves of energy, making sharp gestures with both hands. “Enough!”

  All around him, the scattered knives rose from the floor and flung themselves in a hail of pointed projectiles at the two creatures. Wherever they hit, they sliced through, propelled by the force of Stone’s rage-fueled telekinetic spell.

  For a few seconds, the room looked like a strangely bloodless slaughterhouse as limbs separated from bodies and spun off to become dust before they landed. The creatures’ weird keening shrieks were cut short as the rest of their bodies, unable to maintain the magic that held them together, collapsed into more dust that pattered down onto Stone like rain.

  For a moment, there was no sound in the room except the labored breathing of all four of its remaining occupants. Stone slumped back to the floor for a few seconds, but then staggered up as he scanned the area for more threats.

  “Are—they gone?” Grace asked, voice shaking. She still clutched her crucifix in front of her.

  He nodded, panting. “I think so.”

  “What…what did you do?” She was looking at him with wide, frightened eyes.

  He didn’t miss that she was now holding the shaking crucifix firmly between herself and him. “Check the Father. And call 911.” He picked up the lamp and righted it on the nightstand, and pointed at the old-fashioned phone that hadn’t been knocked off.

  She remained in the same position, staring at him in fear, for several seconds before finally lowering the crucifix and hurrying over to Father Reed. “Can you help me with him?”

  Stone came over and examined the scene. Beneath the bleeding priest, the old man still stared up with rheumy, terror-filled eyes. “Are you all right?” Stone asked.

  “He doesn’t speak English,” Grace said. She touched the old man’s shoulder and said something in Spanish.

  “Sí,” he said, his creaky voice shaking worse than Grace’s. Dead pale, he clutched at her arm with a skeletal hand.

  Stone pondered. The bed was only a single, and with all the knives and broken glass on the floor, it wouldn’t be safe to lay the old man down there. “Just a minute,” he said.

  “Your arm’s bleeding,” Grace said, pointing.

  And so it was. Blood ran down from the slash in his upper right arm, and now that the fight was over, he was starting to notice the pain. “Make the call. Don’t say anything about me, though. After that, see what you can find in the bathroom. And see if you can find another blanket or something.”

  Grace made a quick call; as Stone had asked, she said nothing about his presence. “It’ll take a while for them to show up out here,” she said, a little bitterly. Then she hurried out.

  While she was gone, Stone went to the broken window and then to the door, putting up quick and rudimentary wards over each. His head still throbbed from the psychic feedback, but it couldn’t be helped—he had to do something to protect the room. As weak as the wards were they wouldn’t stop anything, not for more than a second or two, but at least they’d give warning if more creatures tried to get in.

  Grace came back in carrying some folded washcloths and an old bedspread. “Not much here,” she said. “Let me look at that arm.”

  “Help me with this first. We need to hurry. And check the Father.” He folded the bedspread in half and laid it on the floor alongside the bed, then snatched the spare pillow and put it down. “We need to get him down here. Can you grab his legs?”

  Grace nodded and took one of Father Reed’s ankles in each hand.

  Stone grasped the priest’s shoulders and lifted him up. The man wasn’t a lightweight, but between adrenaline and a surreptitious bit of magic, they soon had Reed lying on his stomach on the floor next to the bed. He moaned weakly but didn’t regain consciousness, though he did maintain his death grip on his crucifix. Beneath his shredded black shirt, his back was a network of bloody red slashes, as if someone had flogged him.

  Grace pulled the covers back up over Mr. Juarez. “Now what?”

  Stone stood heavily, using the edge of the bed to help him up. “Now,” he said, “I need to get out of here. I don’t want to be seen here when the authorities arrive.”

  She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to explain what I was doing here,” he said. “Can you look after the Father until they arrive?”

  “What if more of those things come?” She glanced nervously toward the open window, obviously thinking about how vulnerable they’d be if that happened.

  “They won’t,” he said, hoping he was right. “I’ll be watching, in any case. I’m not going far—I’ll take you home after they leave. I just don’t want to be seen here. Is that all right, Ms. Ruiz? Can you do that?”

  She looked uncertain, but finally nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I can do that.” She pressed one of the washcloths to Stone’s bleeding arm. “You need to take care of that, though.”

  “I will, don’t you worry.”

  “Okay. I—” She closed her eyes briefly and then fixed him with a stare. “What…did you do?” she whispered.

  Damn. He was hoping she’d be shocked enough by events that she wouldn’t think to ask him that until after he’d gotten out of there. “It’s not the time for that, Ms. Ruiz.” He patted her shoulder with his good hand. Already he could hear the far-off sound of approaching sirens. “Best if you tell them it was a home invasion when they ask what happened.”

  “Yeah..” She nodded slowly. “Yeah. No way they’ll believe the truth.”

  “Right, then. You have my mobile number?”

  Again, she nodded. If she’d looked shell-shocked earlier this evening, now she looked like she was barely holding it together.

  But still, he saw a core of strength within her. Her aura, with all its red-flecked disturbance, was still strong and steady. She’d be all right. “I’ll see you in a bit. Call me when they’re gone.” Before she could answer, he hurried out through the living room and left the house, pressing the washcloth against his arm.

  By the time Stone got into the BMW, drove it a block down the street, and put a disregarding spell over it, his whole body was shaking. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his right arm spiked pain every time he moved it.

  Leaning back in his seat, he closed his eyes for a moment, gathered his strength, and used the last of the reserve energy from his ring to weave a healing spell. He was glad he’d been practicing them, trying to use some of the techniques he’d discussed with Verity—the ones Edna Soren had been teaching her. He still wasn’t very good at it, but the wound was a simple one.

  In less than five minutes he slumped in his seat, more exhausted than before, but satisfied: the bloody slash was now nothing more than an angry red scar that would fade over the next few days. He stared down at the blood-soaked washcloth, uncomfortably reminded of the disgusting thing the old woman had thrown at him during Archie’s illusionary Magical Mystery Tour.
r />   Down at Mr. Juarez’s house, the street was ablaze with flashing lights from an ambulance and two police cars, all of which had roared up to the scene, sirens wailing, as Stone completed his spell. He watched them get out and hurry into the house, and settled back into his seat. This was going to take a while.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The ambulance attendants left first, fairly quickly, rolling out gurneys containing Father Reed and Mr. Juarez and heading off into the night, lights still flashing. The police took longer—it was more than an hour before they got back into their cruisers and rolled off. By that time, a small crowd had gathered outside the front of the house. Grace came out soon after the police left. Stone watched her tensely, but she chatted with a couple of the onlookers, two middle-aged men, for a moment, and they hurried away as she went back inside the house. A few minutes later they returned, one of them carrying a large sheet of plywood, and disappeared around the side of the house in the direction of the back bedroom.

  Stone’s phone buzzed. “Yes?”

  Grace’s voice sounded a little stronger now. “Are you still there? We’re…about done here.”

  “Just up the street, on the other side. Are you all right, Ms. Ruiz?”

  “I…don’t know yet,” she said bleakly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  A few seconds later she emerged from the house, had a brief conversation with the few people remaining in the crowd, and then hurried in his direction. As she got close, he dropped the disregarding spell. She half-sat, half-fell into the passenger seat with a loud expulsion of breath.

  “How did it go?” he asked as he drove off.

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I told the cops there was a home invasion, but I’m not sure they believed me. They wanted to know how a girl, an unconscious priest, and a sick old man managed to drive them off. And they couldn’t make sense of the piles of dust on the floor.”

  Stone grimaced—those were good points. “How are the Father and Mr. Juarez?”

  “I prayed over them while the ambulance men looked after them. Father Reed didn’t wake up—I don’t think he’ll remember anything about you being there.”

  “What about Mr. Juarez?” The old man was the weak link in his whole chain of lies—if he was coherent enough to describe what he’d seen, things could get uncomfortable for Stone in a hurry.

  “I’m worried about him. He was in pretty bad shape even before all this happened. I hope they can help him.” She twisted in her seat, glancing at him, and her eyes widened. “Your arm—how did you—?” Her tone hardened. “Dr. Stone, I think we need to talk.”

  “I think you’re right,” he said without taking his eyes off the road. “But not tonight. I’m tired, you’ve been through a lot, and I think it might be best if we put this behind us until tomorrow, don’t you? Where do you live, so I can take you home?”

  She hesitated.

  He glanced at her. “What?” And then it dawned on him. “You don’t want to tell me where you live.”

  “I—” She sighed.

  “You’re afraid of me.” He couldn’t blame her, after what had happened tonight—what she’d seen him do, not to mention the fact that the creatures that had attacked them were obviously connected to him. If she’d never met him, none of these terrifying events would have happened. That was potent stuff for anybody, let alone a mundane with no magical experience.

  “No, I—” She shifted uncomfortably. “Okay. Maybe I am afraid of you a little bit. I know God is watching out for me, but He also expects people to have common sense.”

  “Look,” he said. “I promise you—I’ll explain it all tomorrow. I can’t say I’m no threat to you, because at this point, indirectly at least, I am. I won’t lie to you: getting involved with me is what’s brought all this unpleasantness on. I’m sure of it. But at this point, you are involved, and you’re much safer if I can protect you.”

  “I don’t need you to protect me, Dr. Stone. God protects His children.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Perhaps I’m meant to be your helicopter, then.”

  “What?” She tilted her head, her eyes glittering in the darkness.

  “You haven’t heard the old joke about the man stranded on his roof in a flood?”

  Grace was silent for a moment, and then chuckled. “I guess that’s a good point…” She let out another loud sigh. “Okay. I’ll tell you where I live. And if you wouldn’t mind staying with me while I check on my grandmother, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course.” He hadn’t brought it up because he didn’t want to worry her further, but he was also concerned about Grace’s grandmother. While they were off battling the constructs at Mr. Juarez’s house, Archie could easily have sent another one to attack the old lady. He wondered if he could put up a ward around their place without Grace catching on to what he was doing.

  She gave him the address, and a few minutes later they pulled up in front of a small, three-story apartment building that looked like a more rundown version of the one Dennis Avila had occupied. Other, similar buildings made up most of the rest of the street, except for a small strip mall with a liquor store, a taqueria, and several other closed or vacant shops. Stone found a parking space a block away and placed his disregarding spell while Grace was getting out.

  “I don’t think Abuelita will approve of me showing up with a strange man, so be ready,” she said as they trudged up the stairs, stepping around old toys and a man huddled under a blanket on the second-floor landing.

  “I am fairly strange,” he conceded, trying to lighten the mood. “But I think that’s the least of our concerns right now.” He’d checked the place out with magical sight before they’d approached, and once again nothing appeared out of the ordinary—but he hadn’t seen anything from the street at Mr. Juarez’s place, either.

  They reached the apartment, halfway down the row on the second floor. A pair of tattooed teenage boys in plaid shirts and do-rags muttered something at Stone as he and Grace passed, but didn’t try to stop them.

  “Don’t mind them,” Grace said when she caught Stone glancing at them. “They won’t mess with me. They’re afraid of Abuelita.” She pulled her key out of her bag and opened the door.

  Inside, a soft light was on in the small living room, illuminating an old couch, a floral-print recliner similar to the one Stone had become intimately acquainted with at Mr. Juarez’s, and an ancient television set playing what looked like a soap opera in Spanish. Nearly every horizontal surface was covered with knick-knacks, most of them religious in origin.

  “Abuelita?” Grace called. “¿Estás aquí?” To Stone, she said, “It’s too early for her to be in bed yet. She’s a night owl.”

  For a moment there was no reply, and then a plump, gray-haired woman in a housedress came out of the kitchen carrying a steaming mug. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Grace, and then got wide when she spotted Stone behind her. She immediately launched into a flurry of Spanish, punctuated by several emphatic finger stabs in his direction.

  Grace held her hands up. “No, Abuelita. No.” And then she too switched to Spanish.

  Stone, who’d never learned the language, was left to try interpreting their intentions by watching their increasingly animated gestures at each other. Magical sight revealed distress in Grace’s grandmother’s pale-orange aura, but nothing consistent with a major fright or threat. Clearly, however, he wasn’t making a good impression.

  Eventually the argument seemed to wind down. Grace’s grandmother hustled back out into the kitchen, holding up an admonitory finger before she disappeared.

  “What was all that about?” Stone asked.

  “I told you—she doesn’t approve of me associating with strange men,” she said.

  “I got that part. Am I being evicted?”

  She shook her head, smiling ruefully. “No, you’re here now, so that makes you
a guest. She’s gone to get you a cup of tea. I’ll probably get an earful after you leave, though.”

  “Did you ask her if anything odd happened tonight?”

  “She said no. I had to be careful since I didn’t want to scare her, but she said she’s been watching her shows all night. She’s angry that I’m home so late.”

  “Aren’t you a bit past curfew age?” Stone glanced around the room again. He’d never seen so many doilies, angel figurines, and crucifixes in one place before.

  She chuckled. “Obviously you don’t have much experience with religious Latino families.”

  “You worked that out, then, did you?”

  Grace’s grandmother returned carrying two more steaming mugs. Stone noticed they were both fancier than the one she was drinking from; despite his status as a “strange man” and her disapproval of his presence, as a guest he obviously rated the good china. She offered him the cup as she gave him the once-over with narrowed eyes.

  “Gracias,” he said with a little bow. That was about the extent of his Spanish.

  She nodded grudgingly and plopped herself down in her flowered recliner, her gaze never leaving the two of them.

  Stone took a sip from the mug. It was strong tea, flavorful and sweet. “Well,” he said, “it looks like your grandmother is fine. That’s a relief.”

  Grace nodded, concentrating on her own tea. She didn’t look at him.

  Stone recognized the look: it was the expression of someone finally allowing herself to let her guard down after experiencing a significant shock. She’d been holding it together long enough to make sure her grandmother hadn’t been another casualty, but now that it seemed everything was fine, her resolve was crumbling. “Ms. Ruiz? Are you all right?”

  “I will be,” she whispered. Her voice and her hands shook.

  Stone started to move toward her, but Abuelita’s sharp glare stopped him. He dropped his volume, turning a little away from the old woman in case she could somehow read lips. “We probably shouldn’t talk about this now. Could I meet you somewhere tomorrow?”