Angels of Vengeance

by David Thompson

  "I miss you, too," Dan admitted.

  Rachel watched as he stood up and began getting undressed. She gasped when she spotted a purple bruise on his back. "What happened?"

  "Oh, that?" Dan turned around, trying to see his own back, then he stood at the dresser and checked it out in the mirror. "I had a little incident last week while transporting a DUI downtown."

  "Last week?" She gasped and touched the bruised area. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "It was nothing, an accident." He shrugged and walked into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Steamed filled the small bathroom as Rachel sat back on the bed, and pouted.

  Steam billowed into the bedroom when Dan finished and opened the bathroom door. He looked around the small bedroom, and Rachel was nowhere to be found. In just a towel, he walked barefoot into the living room, then peeked into the kitchen.

  Rachel was out, obviously, since her purse and the keys to her car were also missing. He snorted. That was all he needed, a wife with a DUI after the day he'd had today.

  The next morning arrived and Rachel was passed out cold in her recliner with the television still on a cable news network. She had never come to bed, instead she’d sat up all night, drinking.

  Dan switched it off, brewed up some coffee then stood watching his wife sleep. It wasn't the sleep of innocents. It was the messy sleep of someone who'd blacked out and would have no memory of the previous twelve hours. Typical of Rachel, the past two years was a constant battle with her alcoholism.

  Disgusted, Dan went out to the garage and got a soul-shaking surprise.

  His wife's car, a one-year old Lincoln Town Car, was damaged. The driver's side fender was caved in, light broken. He stooped to inspect the damage and a cold chill ran down his spine.

  Cloth was embedded in the wrecked fender. Blood dried in the cracked paint.

  Dan knew what he was looking at: A hit and run accident with a pedestrian. Cloth indicated it wasn't an animal. Neither Rachael nor the car would be here if she'd stopped.

  He stood, stepped back, and tried to decide: phone her father, cover this up and hope it's not a fatality. Or call dispatch and turn her in, to hell with her father.

  Both Dan and his father-in-law had been over this, but there was no covering up her drinking now. The three-week rehab treatment a year ago hadn't produce any tangible results.

  Dan stepped back into the house and grabbed the kitchen phone. He hesitated. First, dispatch and get some detectives out here pronto, and then her father. Waking him up at six, he'd be angry. Even angrier when he heard the news. He dialed the stations direct line and talked to his friend, Jim Cuero. Then phoned her father.

  After an anxious ten minutes, Sargent Detective Jim Cuero drove up and parked at the end of the driveway.

  He joined Dan on the driveway. Dan opened the garage door and followed Cuero as he walked to the damaged fender, knelt, and inspected the wrinkled metal and broken plastic. He stood back and pulled a notebook out of his pocket.

  "Last night, about 3 am, a call came in of a hit and run," Cuero began. "Witnesses described the car as a large vehicle, traveling fast, weaving on the road. The driver ran a red light and went through a marked crosswalk, hitting the pedestrian. The victim died at the scene, a homeless man in his late fifties."

  "She's still inside, sleeping it off in the living room," Dan said quietly.

  "You know, there is no way to make this better. You can't cover this one up, Dan. Not even her father. This isn't like being pulled over and blowing into a tube, borderline and then being driven home," Cuero said, recalling the incident that prompted Rachel’s last visit to rehab.

  "I know."

  "You have a lawyer?"

  "Her father's firm."

  "No, I'm talking about you, personally." Cuero put a friendly hand on his friend's shoulder. "I'm talking about someone who can help you unhitch from this situation. I know a damned good divorce lawyer."

  "Divorce?" Dan was finally having to face the ultimate life-changing decision.

  "Best thing for you," Cuero explained. "This could end your career."

  The end result was divorce. Even with the powerful attorneys her father hired, she was still sentenced to three years for manslaughter in the Texas women's prison system. She did not contest the divorce.

  ***

  Tartarus

  The small coyote was trotting along the River Phlegethon, careful to avoid the flames that licked along the shore. The coyote's eyes reflected the orange fire as he searched along the bank.

  A small rock bridge appeared in the distance, and the animal darted forward. A sniff to check the bridge. It was real, so the coyote dashed across and into Tartarus.

  Its journey continued until he smelled a sweetness in the air. A smell of lavender. The smell led him into dark building and through a polished black obsidian hallway. About every ten feet a torch was in a sconce on the wall, casting a red light, showing the coyote the way.

  An archway appeared and the coyote slowed, and walked slowly to the opening.

  As it passed through the arch, it morphed into a skinny demon, gray skin stretched across a wide skull, jowls like a crab, a hunched back with the spine showing under the skin. He still walked like a coyote.

  The room was immense. The walls a polished black, the floor a polished red, and the ceiling was so high, it was cloaked in darkness.

  A small framed woman sat on a large throne in the center of the room. She turned and watched the demon enter. She was dressed in a torn t-shirt, decorated with the name of a 1970s punk band. Her face was pale white, with multiple piercings in her nose, two in each eyebrow, and countless in both ears. Her pale red hair was long on one side, the left side was cropped very short, allowing a tattoo of a skull to be visible.

  Meet Melinoe, Hades' middle daughter and a tiny rebel without a cause.

  She skipped down the black stairs from the huge throne.

  "What do you want?" She asked, trying not to show any fear.

  "I gotta message from da boss man," it chirruped in a voice like a Myna bird.

  "Let me have it, and you can leave," Melinoe instructed.

  "No can do, chick-girl. Gotta give it to the Boss man, Bune," it argued.

  Melinoe had a hard time listening to the voice. She shook her head and stood her ground. She started tapping her left foot in annoyance. The black canvas sneaker making a slapping noise on the tile.

  "He's busy! He has troops to train." Melinoe explained, then added, "He told me he'd eat anyone who disturbs him, but. Hey! Go ahead. I can do with one less of you assholes around here," she pointed out as she gestured towards a curtained door to the right of the throne.

  The demon shifted its gaze to the curtains. His beady eyes narrowed as it thought. Then the grotesque creature rose up a bit and addressed the girl: "Boss man says expect him in few days. Get the idiots ready to attack. He has a plan for the Furies. I go now!"

  It took off scampering to gain a purchase on the slick floor. It disappeared through the archway and into the tunnel.

  "I'll let him know," Melinoe mumbled. She sighed. How much longer will this go on? Bune had promised her that she could go live in the Furies' old house once they were defeated, and she'd get to witness the apocalypse from the safety of its large porch. Her payoff for helping to release Sorath.

  ***

  San Marin

  Dan finally arrived at the police station after an hour's worth of walking. He was sweating through his dress shirt; his tie loose. He carried his jacket folded roughly over his arm. He went into the building and took a deep breath of the cool air.

  "I fucking hate funerals." He went to the front desk to be buzzed in. The desk sergeant was Sam Kennedy, an older man, well past retirement age, but the Chief kept him on because he was a well decorated cop.

  "Hi Sam, what's going on?" Dan asked as he leaned on the counter.

  "Just sending out a memo about Kelsey's service," Sam said, looking up from his notepad.

 
; "You had to remind me. I just came back from one," Dan sighed.

  "Yeah, I'm sorry I couldn't make it. She was such a nice kid," Sam said as he hit the button under the desk. The half-door buzzed, Dan pulled it open, then went around the desk.

  "It was a typical funeral, Sam," Dan said as he shook out his jacket. "What do you have planned?"

  "The Chief wants a big turnout. So, only the dispatcher is to be on duty here. Everyone else to be at the church by 11-hundred. Patrolmen need to be in dress uniforms." Sam explained. "I'll be your driver. So be here by Oh nine hundred so I don't have to be hunting your ass down."

  "Sure thing," Dan replied. He walked on back to his office. He entered, hung the jacket on a hook and went to sit behind the desk. He leaned back and grabbed a rubber band. He began playing with it, thinking about Brianna. He shot the rubber band at the hanging photo of the Governor of California, hitting the man dead in the forehead. A tap at his door and Jones poked his head in, then ducked as another rubber band hit the door frame.

  "Dude, target practice away from the door," Jones complained. He entered and slapped a file folder on the desk. "Toxicology report on Kelsey."

  Dan grabbed it and began reading.

  "Just like Brianna. A powerful combo of Rohypnol and GHB. She didn't have a chance with that in her system," Jones pointed out.

  Dan slapped the file folder shut and leaned back in his chair. "Plans tonight?"

  "Yeah, an evening with the kids and their momma, as usual. She's expecting me home on time, tonight, bwana," Jones said. "I may even get lucky and maybe she'll have the kids in bed and asleep by the time I get home."

  Dan grinned, envious of Jones's family life. "Then I'll just have to tag along and interrupt your evening with some missing paperwork."

  "Oh, hell no," Jones growled. "You go straight home and put your cell on 'airplane', and get some sleep."

  Dan waved him out of the office and he looked at the pile of reports that demanded his signature. He opened one and read a bit, then flipped to the last page and scrawled his name. He did the same with five other files, then dropped them in the "out" basket and stood up.

  "Screw this," he muttered as he lifted his service weapon out of the top drawer, clipped the holster to his belt, then headed to the door. He paused long enough to just grab his jacket and snap off the light.

  He stopped a moment, looking at the last file on the desk, the file on Brianna.

  The file slid sideways and flipped open. Dan's eyes widened. "What the hell...?"

  He went to his desk in the darkness. He looked at the file, then around the room. Was that someone in the corner? He quickly snapped on the desk lamp and the shadow he thought he saw in the corner was gone. He closed the file, tucked it under his arm, turned off the desk lamp, and went out, shutting the door firmly.

  Brianna moved again, walking to the middle of the room, then did a fist pump. "I did it! I moved something!"

  Alecto appeared in the room. "Seriously? Let's go find that killer's relative, ok? You're going to give someone a heart attack."

  Dan arrived back at his house, walking in not knowing what to expect. The last two times, there'd been someone waiting. He wandered the house, looking, but no one except the orange fluffball was in residence. Even he ignored Dan, just kept on sleeping in his spot on the couch.

  He dropped his work on the other end of the couch and decided to have only one glass of scotch.

  With a small glass, he sat and kicked back. The late afternoon sun was starting to hit the windows of his west-facing living room.

  He looked around again, feeling how lonely the house was now. It was an odd felling after ten years of being single.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tartarus

  Somewhere in the dark dimensions a dragon flew silently across the vast flat plains of Tartarus. The dragon was immense, its color multiple shades of green, its luminescence scales twinkled in the perpetual twilight. Not one, but three heads were looking all around as the dragon wheeled above a gathering of demons and humans.

  One head was in control, a narrow reptilian triangle head, green glittering eyes with a slit of an iris. The second head was that of a human, wearing a crown and with aristocratic features: A sharp nose, and protruding ears on the side of the head, topped by a velvet crown that somehow held on despite the turns and twists of the dragon's body. And finally, the head of a dog, breed unknown, but it's eyes flashed red and its mouth was in a permanent snarl.

  This is the demon Bune. He is typically found in the magical books generally termed "The Goetia", also known as "The Lesser Keys of Solomon." Magicians both now and in the past love to evoke Bune, who is known for bestowing riches upon those brave enough to perform the complicated rituals of binding and protection. He is the second most powerful demon in the Underworld and not to be trifled with under any circumstance.

  Bune wheeled across the landscape and observed the hordes of demons and humans far below. He exhaled a small belch of red fire and black smoke, then dove for the ground, pulling up at the last moment and gently landing between two large encampments. He shifted into a green, leather clad human, still with the three heads for its maximum effect on the troops.

  He marched towards a large tent, which was displaying a tattered Nazi flag, guarded by two men in torn and bloodied German World War 2 army uniforms. Bune stopped as one guard held up a hand.

  Bune fixed his soulless eyes on the man, who had a fast change of heart and was apologetic, "Yes sir, how can I help you, sir?"

  Ignoring the soldier, Bune opened the tent flap and marched through the opening.

  Inside he found General Erwin Rommel, busy studying a huge map on a table, lit by oil lamps attached to the tent support. Rommel glanced up at the appearance of the demon. He stood at attention, and bowed his head.

  "Good evening, sire. What brings you to my dreary corner of hell?" Rommel asked.

  Bune returned the bow. "I bring news, Herr General. Lord Sorath will be with us shortly. He has grown in strength. His host will be dead shortly," he replied in an uncommonly melodious voice. A voice that could cause women, and men, to melt listening to it's very pleasing notes.

  Bune closely looked at the map. "Mass your troops along the Phlegethon, here." A claw pointed at a river marked with fire. "Once the boss deals with the Furies, and with Hades out of the way, we shall attack into Elysian and then move into Hades' own domain. His messenger reports that the sisters will be weakened soon, and easily defeated."

  "What is to become of Hades, Sire?" Rommel questioned.

  "He'll stay imprisoned in the Sorath's old cell. Once we have consolidated power here in the underworld, then we'll commence the attack on the surface." The human head of the Duke grinned, tiny, sharp reptilian teeth displayed along his mouth and back through his jaws. "I'm personally looking forward to the attack on the Furies."

  "I await your command." Rommel bowed his head as the demon spun around and marched out of the tent. Outside, Bune kept walking and transformed back into a huge dragon without breaking stride. He spread his wings and leapt into the air.

  Rommel followed the demon and watched him fly off. He turned to one of the guards. "Bring all the section leaders to me in an hour."

  The guard nodded and started to salute, but Rommel had returned to his tent without noticing.

  This was going to be bigger than when he took control of the Deutsches Afrika Korps and pushed into Tobruk. But he lacked a mobile mechanized army; all he had were a mass of frenzied demons who love to just run, en masse, to the attack and fling themselves into the melee, arms, and weapons everywhere. A lack of discipline. He had plenty of human warriors at his disposal, many were German, but quite a few were from Atilla's horde and no small number of fighters from the days of the Pharaohs, who somehow found themselves in this version of the afterlife. It was bizarre how it worked, but it did.

  ***

  Louisiana swamp country

  Tisiphone rode her demon bike on a blacktop
that ran deep into the southern Louisiana swamps, the road unwinding underneath her. She preferred old fashioned traveling, but the distances were sometimes vast, and let's be honest, a lot of the highways between the west coast of the US and the central areas were mind-numbingly boring, so she'd let her pony twist space/time to allow her to by-pass the less interesting areas. She often made police radar units go batshit when she'd pass a state trooper running speed traps, part of her in the mortal world and part of her outside in the more esoteric dimensions.

  She soon returned to normal space/time when she passed the "Welcome to Louisiana, the Sportsman's Paradise" sign, ironically placed just before one would begin to see huge petroleum refineries, massive flaming towers alongside the interstate highway leading into Lake Charles and the bayous of southern Louisiana. They certainly employed a different definition of "paradise" than most people preferred.

  She exited the main highway and headed south, deeper into the swamps.

  She passed multiple clapboard houses with sagging porches and galleries, sitting beside the road. Old gas stations and wooden shacks selling bait and crawfish, fried fish, and various Cajun delicacies such as gator steaks, boudin sausage, cracklings, and savory meat pies.

  She coasted to a stop next to a small turnaround, felt for where she needed to go, and then made a right onto a narrow dirt road leading back into a swampy area. Huge cypress trees, laden with large expanses of Spanish moss created a canopy over the road as she slowly rode back into the darkness. The dirt road twisted and seemed to run back upon itself. Then the road spit Tisiphone out into a clearing. In the middle sat an old, whitewashed wooden house. It was listing to the side, the front gallery weathered and beaten, the porch's gray paint peeling and cracking.

  An elderly woman in a white dress sat on a yellow metal glider, sliding back and forth as she worked on a pot of fresh green beans. Her gnarled, mahogany hands popping off the tips of each bean, peeling back the string. A quick flick of her wrist, she snapped the stem. She tossed the string and stem into a sack at her feet, and the bean itself into a heavy black cast iron Dutch oven. She looked up, her dark eyes clouded by cataracts, when she heard Tisiphone's bike roll up. When she shut the engine off, the silence descended and Tisiphone began to hear noises: Frogs and birds. Splashes of animals in the water. The sound of cicadas looking for mates. The sounds of the swamp.