by R. L. King
After a moment, Stone hurried to catch up with him. It felt odd, trying to move fast when all his limbs seemed too long, too thin, and too gangly. Judging by what he could see without a mirror, he guessed the body he occupied was his own at about age fourteen, shortly before he’d begun his apprenticeship with William Desmond. He hadn’t quite reached his full height by that point, and was smack in the middle of his adolescent-scarecrow period before he’d filled out in his late teens. “Where are we going?” he asked again. “Where’s Archie?”
“He’s at the school,” the kid said without slowing down or looking back. “Thought you’d figured that out already. C’mon, man—you’ll need to be quicker than that if you’re gonna take him.”
Of course. The answer slipped into place easily—the reason why his subconscious mind had imposed this particular reality over the demonic landscape. He’d chosen to call his foe “Archie” because he reminded him of a kid he’d gone to school with—a boy two years ahead of him, who was known equally for his bullying ways and his smarmy ingratiation with the staff and older students. Wealthy and well connected, Archie (the student, not the demon) and his little gang of hangers-on had gotten away with far more than they should have been able to. Stone hadn’t had many run-ins with him since he’d never exuded the “victim” vibe that seemed to draw him like a shark to chum, but everybody in the school knew about him.
When he got close to the top of the rise, the demon kid stopped. “Listen,” he said. “This is gonna be tricky, so you need to do what I say. If we screw this up, it’s not just your ass in the sling. Remember, he ain’t too fond of me either.”
“Why will it be tricky? Does he know we’re coming?”
“I don’t think so. If he did, he’d be sending his guys after us already. But if we’re gonna get close enough to him to get a shot, we’ll have to play it cool. Remember, you blend in. So do I. Use that. Don’t tip your hand too soon. Just play along and you’ll know when to hit. Okay?”
“As long as you play straight with me,” Stone said. So far, the demon showed no signs that the binding had slipped; he felt the periodic faint tug that indicated it was testing its boundaries, but that was normal and expected. “How long is this going to take?”
“Not long. Shh. We’re getting close now. Just follow along and don’t say much.”
Stone didn’t move. “Before we go—is there anything else you can tell me, or offer me, to help? Remember, you want him dead too, so it’s in your best interests to help me succeed.” Plus you can’t lie to me as long as you’re bound.
The demon shifted from foot to foot. “Not much to tell. Archie’s tough, not gonna lie. And he’s not gonna be alone. I hope you’re as tough as you think you are, or we’re gonna have problems.” He looked as if he were about to say more, but was trying to fight against it.
“Come on,” Stone said. “Out with it.”
“Yeah.” The demon sighed, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out a short-bladed sword that was nonetheless far too long to have fit where he’d taken it from. “Use this. It was forged here, which means it’ll hurt him more. The stuff from wherever you come from—I dunno. It might work, it might not.”
Stone took the sword. It was badly balance and weighed more than he expected, but the hilt pulsed in his hand. “You weren’t going to say anything about that, then, were you?”
The demon shrugged. “You didn’t ask before.” He glanced nervously ahead. “Come on. The longer we screw around, the more chance somebody’s gonna notice us.”
As they topped the rise and approached the school, a wave of eerie nostalgia washed over Stone. The buildings spread out over the small valley below, surrounded by more of the weird, twisted trees, looked very much like Barrow, the boarding school he’d attended for several years before his unauthorized experiments with magic had gotten him expelled (for conducting so-called “Satanic rituals” in forbidden areas) and brought him to William Desmond’s attention.
On the surface, it looked every bit as idyllic as the landscape: brick buildings, neat pathways meandering through tree-lined, parklike grounds, well-kept athletic fields on the outskirts. But when Stone looked closer, he could see the weak spots in the reality-filtering illusions: places where the bricks were missing or discolored; more twisted, blighted trees; small figures running headlong across the campus pursued by gangs of larger ones. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have grown darker since they’d started walking.
“Nice place,” the demon boy remarked. “So you went to school there, huh?”
“Sort of,” Stone said. “Where’s Archie?”
“Keep your pants on. And try not to talk to anybody.”
The road ended in a tall stone wall with a spiked wrought-iron gate. Rust clung to the gate; one side hung open, broken on its hinges. The other had something roundish and rotted impaled on one of its spikes. On the wall next to the gate, a pitted, corroded metal plaque hung. It had text on it, but it was in the demonic sigils and Stone couldn’t read it. He paused a moment to check the binding, but nothing had changed.
Inside the gate, the weed-choked road stretched off toward the buildings. Stone noted that everything here seemed closer together than it had at the actual school, which had spread out over several acres. Off in the distance he heard yells, a scream that was abruptly cut off, and what sounded like a muffled gunshot. Careful, he told himself. He couldn’t afford to draw too many parallels between this place and his real school. Everything here was potentially dangerous, and forgetting it for even a second could be disastrous.
By now it was fully dark. The only illumination came from intermittently placed decorative light-poles along the pathways and the cold glow from some of the windows. Stone picked out dormitories, classroom buildings, the central dining hall, the auditorium, and what looked like faculty residences; the shadowy forms of more buildings rose up in the distance, but he couldn’t make them out.
A cry rang out, and a second later a small form darted out from behind one of the nearby buildings and dashed toward them. “Help me!” he called, skidding to a stop in front of them and glancing frantically back over his shoulder. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten, wearing the same uniform as Stone and his demon escort wore. His eyes were wild with terror. “Please!”
A couple seconds later two other boys, much larger and heavier, burst from the same place where the boy had come. Both of them were grinning. “Ya can’t run forever!” one of them yelled. “We’re gonna catch you!”
“Please!” the boy begged. He grabbed Stone’s arm, scrambling around to hide behind him. “They’re gonna kill me if they catch me!”
Stone focused on the oncoming bullies and raised his hand, almost unconsciously.
The demon grabbed his arm and wrenched it down hard. “What are you doing?” he demanded. “You want to give yourself away already? Come on. Let’s get out of here before they come after us.”
The younger boy, as if sensing that the two strangers wouldn’t be any help, took off, back the way Stone and the demon had just come from.
The bullies pelted by, one of them smacking the demon boy hard in the head as he went past. “Good call, wankers!” the other one called. “Maybe we won’t come after your asses later.”
They swept on by and disappeared into the darkness after the running kid. The demon boy rounded on Stone. “What were you gonna do—help him? How pathetic is that?”
“I don’t like bullies,” Stone said, glaring right back.
“It doesn’t matter what you like. Don’t you get it? Everybody’s a bully here. That kid probably pulls the legs off mice when he’s alone in his room. Everybody picks on anything smaller than them. You’re in Hell, remember?”
“This isn’t Hell,” Stone said with contempt. “There is no Hell. This is just some wretched plane full of sadistic little sods.”
“Is there a
difference?” the demon asked, shrugging. “Either way, there ain’t room for heroes here. You’re just gonna get us both killed, or worse. Now come on. I know where he’ll be. Unless you’re changin’ your mind.”
“I’m not changing my mind.” He started off after the demon again, trying to ignore the occasional rotting body or multi-legged thing slinking through the shadows beneath the trees. “So what did you do to get on Archie’s bad side, anyway?”
The demon made a pfft sound. “It ain’t hard. He sent me out to do some job—I don’t even remember what it was anymore. It was a long time ago. I tried to do it. I really did. I was such a loser back then. But he didn’t think I did it right, so he sicced his hit squad on me and left me to die. Problem is—problem for him anyway—I ain’t so good at dyin’. So I sold him out to somebody tougher than him. At least I thought it was somebody tougher than him. Didn’t work out that way.”
“Archie killed this other demon?”
“Yeah. Ripped him to pieces. He ain’t the toughest guy on the block, but he’s smart. And of course he knew exactly who sold him out.”
“I’d think you’d be doing your best to get away from him,” Stone said.
The demon boy looked at him like he was a slow-witted child. “Whaddya think I been doin’ for the last few hundred years? Not that many places to run around here. Believe me, I tried. But hey, if I got the chance to take him out, that means I don’t hafta be lookin’ over my shoulder all the time. I just hope you know what you’re doin’. ‘Cause if you don’t, we’re both in a world of hurt.”
They were passing more bodies now, piled up against the buildings. Some of them looked fresh, dressed in their blue-and-gray school uniforms with their abdomens sliced open or their heads missing. Others were little more than skeletons wrapped in scraps of cloth, their twisted forms contorted into odd positions. Stone tapped the business end of his reality-filter bracelet, and the whole place shifted and fuzzed like an old-style television trying to lock in its horizontal hold. Some of the bodies faded out, but the oldest ones remained. “Are you sure you’re not just stalling? You certainly seem to be showing me the scenic route. Where is Archie?”
“If you think about it, you should be able to figure it out on your own,” the demon said. “Where would a guy like Archie most likely hang out?”
Stone was about to snap at the demon again, but then he realized it was right. Of course. It was the only place that made sense.
And then, as if it had been waiting for him to work it out, there it was. He wasn’t completely sure if it had been there all along and he had missed it, or if it had come into being at the moment he visualized it, but either way the answer was obvious.
When he’d been a student at the far less creepy version of the school, Stone hadn’t spent much time at the chapel. Unlike many schools of its type, Barrow had never required regular chapel attendance, much to Aubrey’s consternation. The only times he had ever visited were during infrequent special assemblies and the required Christmas services. Even so, he was certain that it had never looked anything like this.
For one thing, it hadn’t been the largest building on the real campus. For another, it had been a pleasant brick structure, several hundred years old, with the comfortably lived-in look that could only be attained by several generations of care. It certainly hadn’t been enormous, looming, and constructed of jagged bricks the color of obsidian.
Stone stopped, staring. Along the wall, three stained-glass windows depicted unspeakable scenes of torture—naked, screaming humans being ripped to pieces, stabbed with knives, and otherwise ravished by leering demons. As if to punctuate the scenes, more actual bodies in various stages of decomposition littered the area around the wall. On top of the chapel, a massive steeple rose, topped by a crudely carved, upside-down cross.
“Well,” Stone said, “he’s certainly spared no expense on the imagery, has he?”
The demon didn’t reply.
Stone glanced over at him. Suddenly, the kid’s former bravado seemed to have deserted him; his weaselly face looked nervous as he stared up at the horrific edifice.
“You sure you want to do this?” the demon asked. “You do have a plan, right? Please tell me you have a plan, ‘cause if you don’t, this is the last chance to back out before you get us both killed. And trust me, it ain’t gonna be pleasant. ‘Killed’ makes it sound like it’ll be nice and quick, but trust me—it won’t.” He indicated the area around the chapel. “His choice of decorations might give you a clue about what we’re in for if you fuck this up.”
“You let me worry about the plan,” Stone said. It wasn’t as if he could sneak up and peer in through the stained-glass windows to see what Archie was up to. No, this was going to have to be fast, sudden, and hopefully sufficiently surprising to could catch the big boss unawares long enough to improvise something effective.
He looked around; nobody else seemed to be in the area. No demons, no students, not even any of the shadowy things he’d seen lurking in the bushes earlier. It was as if the whole place were holding its breath, waiting for him to act. He took a couple deep breaths, and with the hand that wasn’t wearing the symbol, reached up and touched the crucifix beneath his shirt. It felt comfortingly warm even through the fabric, and he almost thought he could sense Grace Ruiz’s presence. For perhaps the first time in his life, he wished that something as simple as the talisman could give him the kind of comfort that it gave to her. For now though, he would have to settle for leaning on her faith where his own was lacking.
He took a couple more deep breaths, gripped the sword tighter, and gathered magic to him. A different kind of comfort settled over him, one he understood far better. He thought about the murder victims, about what Archie had done to Johnny Cheng and the Stanford students because of him, and let his anger and resolve fill him. Either he’d take Archie down with magic or with the sword—his exact plan would have to depend on what he saw when he opened the doors.
But one way or another, Archie was going down.
“Let’s go.” Then, without a sideways glance at the demon boy next to him, he strode toward the chapel.
The double doors were made of some kind of gnarled wood, its entire surface roughly carved with the same familiar demonic sigils. In fact, as he got closer, he could see that every brick in the chapel’s construction was likewise decorated with tiny versions of the same sigils. He couldn’t see the roof tiles or the detail of the upside-down cross well enough to tell if they too featured the symbols, but he suspected they probably did.
If this was Archie’s stronghold on this plane, of course he’d have it well protected. So of course it would be impossible for some upstart mage to just blow his way through the doors like he owned the place.
That would be absurd.
Stone stood in front of the closed doors, gathered power, and focused all of it on a concussion beam aimed at the seam between them.
The twisted wood disintegrated, flying into thousands of rotted shards. The doorway, believe in sickly red light, yawed open before him.
He didn’t hesitate this time. With a flick of his mind he called up his protective shield, then marched through the door.
Inside, the chapel wasn’t larger than it had looked from the outside. It wasn’t full of demons lining the pews, or crowded in to hungrily await Stone’s arrival. In fact, the pews—made of the same blackened, gnarled wood as the door—had all been jammed up against the walls beneath the grotesque stained-glass windows, broken and tumbled, leaving a cleared space in the middle of the floor. At the front of the chapel on a dais wreathed in shadows stood a tall pulpit carved with glowing blasphemous images and more demonic sigils. A lone figure rose up behind the pulpit.
The lights came up, revealing the figure. Instead of the cadaverous, skeletal form he’d taken in London, he now appeared as a tall, beefy sixteen-year-old boy, handsome in the dissolute manner o
f wealthy people accustomed to excess and privilege in every aspect of their lives. He loomed over the pulpit with an indolent grin, gripping its sides with both hands, leaning forward as if passing judgment on everything before him.
He was dressed, not in his long black coat and white shirt or the school uniform, but in an unholy parody of old-style priest’s robes. They must have been a thing of beauty at one time: intricately embroidered, finely made of bright white linen, elaborate in a way that was only used during the highest of ceremonies. Now, though, they hung ripped and tattered, stained with blood, mud, and worse. The symbol around his neck was not a cross or crucifix, even an upside-down version, but rather another of the demonic sigils.
“Alastair Stone,” he said pleasantly. “The most useless loser at Barrow. I’m surprised you even made it this far.”
Stone didn’t reply with words. He focused all his rage on Archie’s smarmy, grinning face and let loose with twin beams of pure magical energy, aimed at the center of his chest.
As they had when he’d attacked Archie at the Rose Garden, the beams hit something in front of the boy and dissipated, creating an impressive light show when combined with the chapel’s ambient, sickly-red illumination.
Archie laughed. “Is that the best you’ve got, Stone?”
Stone raised his hand and telekinetically wrenched the pulpit from the dais, lifting it and driving it backward into Archie, intending to crush him against the chapel’s back wall. His magic sang through him, barely tiring him at all. He couldn’t stop now, couldn’t rest. Archie couldn’t stop everything he threw at him, if he kept throwing it fast enough.
Or could he? The boy waved a languid arm and the pulpit split in two before it struck him, each of its sides spinning off to opposite sides of the chapel and crashing into the corners. He made no move to retaliate, but merely stood there, that maddening smile still plastered on his face.
