by Tiana Laveen
The woman tumbled to the ground in a heap and he fell beside her, yelling out for the crowd to disperse, trying to shoo people away and get some working room.
“I’m a doctor!” he announced as he bore weight on her body, pinning her shivering and convulsing body onto the ground. Forcing her chin upward, he watched in horror as her eyes turned from dark brown windows to her soul, to the dull black shade donned by the demon. “No, fight it, Biyu! Fight it!”
“How did he know her name?” someone exclaimed.
“Leviathan, I command you to leave this woman! I command you to leave her now!” Saint pressed his palm against her heart, applying pressure he was certain would leave a nasty bruise on her upper breast. The woman began to froth out the mouth until she expelled a cloud of black smoke. Saint gave a sigh of relief when a pungent odor filled the area, proof that the demon had been expelled before it had a chance to burrow deep and latch its claws within her. Her eyes rolled, returning to normal, and she looked about in confusion and wonder. Tears burst from her mother’s eyes as she fell to her knees beside her daughter.
“Thank you!” her father exclaimed, his Chinese accent thick.
Saint looked about, frantically searching for the son of a bitch. Hopping to his feet, he burst through the crowd, but the demon had retreated. The black smoke evaporated as if it had never been there. But he could feel the damn thing; it was working, plotting, seeking out another victim.
Saint stormed into the store and yanked down a black shirt with such force, the hanger broke in half. The T-shirt had Jay Z’s face printed on it—that was good enough for him. He shoved it on the counter and paid. His heart beat a mile a minute, hating the urge within him to kill. The taste for demon blood and violence consumed him. After the cashier handed him the plastic white bag with a shaky hand, he raced to his car, jumped in and took off, dialing Cruz.
As he drove down the crowded street, he witnessed pop-up arguments that appeared to have no rhyme or reason, more people falling out just as the young Chinese woman had, frothing at the mouth and convulsing, and crowds gathering to witness and film the demonic displays. The damn thing was moving about like some virus, playing with people for mere sport.
“Saint, what’s wrong? Your energy is practically burning through the phone.” He’d almost forgotten he’d called anyone as he took it all in.
“Hold on, I need to call Lawrence and Jagger too.” He quickly arranged a conference call and could barely catch his breath as he waited for all the men to join him on the line. “I just witnessed some real fucked up shit!”
“You saw one…” Lawrence stated calmly.
“Yes. I am over here near Times Square and I got paid a little visit. And it wasn’t any fucking low-level demon, all right? This fucker had some power.”
“Oh, shit.” Jagger let out an exasperated exhale. “Here we fucking go.”
“What happened?” Lawrence asked.
“He possessed a tourist after he made his presence known to me, live and in living color. I had to push him out of her. Five more minutes and he would have completely taken her over. He has split apart, and is now possessing, influencing, and threatening others. He’s on the move.”
“Interesting,” Cruz stated, as if mulling things over. “He did it in a very public place in hopes that you’d be less likely to respond. He made himself invisible, correct?”
“To civilians, yes, but to me, he was obviously quite real.”
“What did he say to you?” Cruz asked calmly.
“He made fun of my running errands for Xenia and said something disrespectful about my mother-in-law who I’ve been assisting today with my brother-in-law’s homecoming party, as you know. He didn’t want to tell me his name, so I forced him.”
“And what was it?” Cruz asked.
“He told me his name was Leviathan.”
“Leviathan? Saint, that’s the demon of Envy.” Lawrence’s voice was riddled with unease. “He is associated with the sea, and according to Hebrew belief, he is Grand Admiral of Hell. What did he present himself as?”
“Like an ordinary white guy in his mid-30s. His eyes were green.”
“I know what’s to come.” Cruz’s tone sounded grave. “Get ready to see the news erupt with stories of assaults and murders due to jealousy. If it’s happening in New York right now, it is happening where all the King Angel Children are located, too. They duplicate themselves over and over.”
“Cruz, how do we stop him?” Jagger asked.
“For this particular demon, you’ll have to corner it when it sleeps. There’s nothing you can do about it right now. You need to let things run their course. He is going to feast for at least three days until he’s weary. Let him have his buffet. I know it’ll be hard to turn a blind eye, but he wants to sidetrack you, to get you to chase him. He’ll exhaust you and you’ll need downtime to heal. In good news, Saint, he doesn’t want another confrontation with you. Since he is the first to emerge after the low tier demon in your home, that means he is setting the stage as a distraction for full infiltration.”
“So at least one other demonic force is here? Krishna and Lawrence said they could come as one, in pairs or a few at a time.”
“Yes. But it will more than likely lie low until it is sure you are not aware of what’s going on behind the scenes. Leviathan loves to torment people, but isn’t historically too keen on grappling with Angels nor Angel Children. He only showed himself to you because he was a commanded to. They needed to gauge your reaction and personally measure your faith and strength.”
“No offense, but I don’t give a shit about any of that,” Jagger interjected. “You said we need to get him when he is asleep. So tell me, where does he rest? I want to be this fucker’s personal reverse alarm clock and knock him the fuck out.”
Saint could almost taste the hunt in Jagger’s voice. He savored the yearned-for flavor, too.
“You were on the bridge last time with Koki, fighting for your life. This time, you’ll be below it, in the Hudson River. You’ll know when he’s there. He may lure you deep, which could mean your death, or he could float on the surface. It depends on his energy level.”
Jagger let out a low growl. He was itching from within, practically dying to get in on the killing action … thirsty for the fiend’s blood. It had been so long since they’d had a good kill. It was something that at times consumed each and every one of them, even Lawrence every blue moon. Ever since the attack at Cruz’s wedding, they’d been primed for drawing blood and making their enemies whimper and beg for mercy. The taste of demon gore was intoxicating—so acidic and deplorable, and yet, so smooth going down.
“He’ll be in the water. The tide will rise.”
“And when it does, let’s be there waiting,” Jagger insisted.
“Donna is going to loooove this.” Lawrence laughed dismally. “Just great, a demon in the ocean, hiding from Saint until he can come out and mess up shit all over again! They sure have started this off with a bang.”
“I can’t wait to go deep sea divin’! Yo, Saint?” Jagger cackled. “Are you ready for this son of a bitch?”
“Does a mermaid piss in the ocean?”
CHAPTER TEN
Beenie Man’s ‘Who Am I’ blasted throughout the house speakers, while libations flowed and bellies got full with Mama Pam’s home cooking. The heavy aromas of fried fish, macaroni and cheese, and all the traditional fixings coated the air. Saint sat alone on the back lanai with a glass of vodka, but the door was open, allowing a cross breeze and a clear view of his kitchen. Inside, his family and friends milled about, talking and having fun.
He watched the young man out of the corner of his eye. Ira loved reggae songs according to Xenia, so he swayed in fluid motion to the music. Laughter and giggles filled the home and flowed towards him. Red and white balloons floated up to the ceiling, their shiny strings curled and teasing Isis as she tried in vain to collect them, only to release them once again. He and Ira made eye contact,
and the man’s stark white teeth showed as he exposed a pleasant smile.
“Hey man, come on out here and chill with me for a second.” Saint motioned to the man in army fatigues with a curl of his finger. Gripping his bottle of beer, Ira opened the screen door and stepped out into the night. The lights above them attracted a few flying critters destined to die in the mesmerizing glow of an unseasonably warm evening. Ira slumped down next to him in an adjacent white patio seat, the chair sighing under his weight. They slapped hands and nodded to one another as if they’d known each other for decades.
“My mother knows how to throw a party, huh?”
“Yes, Mama Pam went all out to ensure you had a good homecoming. It’s nice.” The man nodded in agreement. “I haven’t seen Xenia this excited in a while. It’s good to finally meet you, man.”
Ira chugged a huge gulp of his beverage.
“Nice to finally meet you, too. Xenia’s told me a lot about you but it’s different when you get to look someone in the eye.”
“Yeah, that’s true. We only got to chat a little bit when Xenia brought you here from the airport, but you and I have barely been able to talk, so that’s why I asked you to come out here. I needed some fresh air and finally spotted you without Xenia glued to your hip.” They both laughed. “Well, you’ll only be here a short time, but just know if you want to stay a bit longer, it’s no problem.”
“Thanks, that’s nice of you. I probably gotta stick to the schedule though, get back home soon. I got some things lined up.” The man shifted about in his seat, dragging his combat boot across the gravel. He stared at the ground where a weed was bursting, trying to make its debut. “I’ve never been to New York before; well, only in passing at the airport on my way to Canada one time. It’s pretty nice here from what I’ve seen. It’s got a cool vibe but these winters, man! The weather in L.A. is more my thing, you know?”
“Roger that.”
“What made you wanna come back to New York?”
“I missed home, just like you missed L.A. And I also had some business ventures to tend to. There are some things you can’t do in L.A., and vice versa.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. So, uh, you’re a motivational speaker and author you said, right?”
“Yes, amongst other things.”
“That’s right. Mama said you are a sex therapist, too.” The man chuckled as if it were the latest joke. “Sounds fun.” He winked, drawing a wide grin from Saint.
“It’s a clinical practice. You don’t get your engine revved or anything like that when you’re dealing with a patient. I imagine it’s like being a gynecologist. After a while, you don’t really see it like that. I’m just doing my job. I had a private practice for many years but now I only do occasional consultations and sessions. I mainly just focus on my other enterprises now, but people who really want my services know how to reach me.”
“People tell you their secrets, man—all the kinky shit they’re into. That must be interesting.”
“Sometimes it’s just vanilla, nothing alarming, but yes … sometimes you get that person who has, shall we say, a noteworthy issue.”
“You could probably write a book on all the freaks that used to come in and out of your door. I dated a girl once who liked to her to ass bitten. I don’t mean kissed or a little peck, I mean, bitten hard to the point that you left teeth marks ’nd shit. I guess to each his own.” The man shrugged and shook his head, as if still in disbelief from the memory of it all.
“There’s a thin line between pain and pleasure. What you’ve described really isn’t as uncommon as you’d think. Biting, hitting, and fighting can even be seen as erotic.”
“If you say so, man.” He smirked and took a gulp of his beer. “I suppose I could see the logic in that, the whole pain and pleasure thing. It’s still a little strange to me. Speaking of sex therapy and weird shit, R. Kelly needs to make an appointment with you, too. The world done lost its mind, man. Since you are the sex man, an expert if you will, tell me what you think about R. Kelly for real, man, off the record of course. I can’t even listen to his music anymore without cringing … sick mothafucka.”
At this, Saint cracked a smile.
“In some ways you’re right, Ira. Urophilia is probably something Mr. Kelly engages in due to the subjugation factor.”
“What do you mean? Like being turned on by makin’ someone else take abuse?”
“Well, kind of. Some people are aroused not only by the act itself, but by what is signifies. To degrade or mark someone with urine or feces makes the person doing the urinating feel somehow superior, empowered. It’s not always seen as abuse though, and sometimes the submissive in the act is aroused by it as well, gains pleasure if you will. But his proclivity to find gratification in seeking underage or very young women as intimate partners points to other issues that would suggest he needs to get to the bottom of what is driving these behaviors, because for him, they all seem to be tied together. Enjoying urophilia within itself doesn’t necessarily denote mental illness, but with the other factors involved, including him continuing to engage with very young women and have what I believe—based on interviews he’s done—a possible unhealthy and skewed view of his deceased mother, it appears he is troubled.”
“He wrote a song about her. I mean, I think it’s nice that he honored his mother in that way.”
“Right, nothing wrong with loving one’s mother obviously, upholding her memory or being a ‘Mama’s boy’. I was one as well and I still hold my mother in high regard. Despite her being deceased, I still show respect to her in my own way, but when you sexualize your mother, in his case unknowingly I believe, it can cause problems. Unfortunately, though, the people who are usually truly mentally unstable don’t seem to know it and refuse to seek assistance.”
“True words … that’s right, man. So, you think he’s crazy?” Ira smirked.
“I’m not certain, but I think he has some issues he needs professionally addressed.”
“That’s real fuckin’ diplomatic of you. Just say the mothafucka is crazy, man!” They both burst out laughing at that. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind, but what are you, like, your race? I hope you don’t think I’m being rude.”
“Nah, not at all.” Saint shook his head and sat a bit straighter, then placed his drink on the ground next to him. “My mother was Northern Korean and my father is Middle Eastern. Egyptian, to be exact.”
“Word? That’s different, wow! I like it. I can see that now, yeah,” Ira’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he studied him, turning his head to observe him from different vantage points. “Yeah, now that I look at you I can see how you are Asian. Definitely see the Egyptian, too. I’ve always been open minded about things like that. People are people, you know?”
“I do, and I agree.” Saint grinned as he lounged in the chair, crossing his ankles and taking in the stars.
“It’s nice to finally see Hassani, Dakarai, and Isis. I’ve heard so much about them, I felt like I already knew ’em. This was just the icing on the cake. Hassani is smart, man.” Saint nodded proudly. “I got to talk to the little brotha for about twenty minutes. His vocabulary is the truth and he seems really mature for his age. I’m impressed.”
“He is all of those things. He’s a really good kid. Xenia and I are blessed, that’s for sure.”
“And Dakarai, that’s my man right there!” Ira burst out laughing. “He is a straight-shooter, isn’t he? He came right up to me and asked if I knew who the Transformers were. I started laughing and said yeah. He then asked if they were in the army with me. I told him no and he said, ‘well you’re not a real soldier then.’”
Saint grimaced and shook his head. “I see my little monster got a hold of you, despite me asking him not to do things like that tonight. Dakarai has no filter. You’d think he’s being raised by a pack of wolves.” Ira chuckled. “I’ve been working with him about what is acceptable and not acceptable when it comes to what to say to people, but he still falls sh
ort of the mark.”
“He’s cool,” Ira said, his eyes dancing. “It’s fine. I like that he’s honest with how he feels about things. I’d rather be around people like Dakarai than fake ass people, the ones that smile in your face then stab you in the back.”
“I agree with you wholeheartedly.”
“And finally, Isis! She’s funny too, cute as she wanna be. She looks like a perfect blend between you and my sister. Mama said she’s doing good in school, too. I wish I would’ve had some say in my niece’s name though.” Both burst out in a fit of choppy chuckles. “Shit, the last thing I want to do right now is think about ISIS… I dealt with enough of their asses while in Afghanistan.”
“Ira, when she was born we didn’t have these types of issues in the world, at least not to this level. ISIS existed obviously, but they still weren’t in the news every day like they are now. It’s a shame. I’ve always loved that name. Isis is the goddess of health, marriage and wisdom. All three of our children have names that signify something meaningful. Hassani means handsome, but it implies someone that is self-reliant, beats to their own drum, is a leader, someone who attracts success in their endeavors. Dakarai means happiness. Someone who spreads joy wherever they go. Both are African names. It pisses me off that just ten years ago, if you Googled Isis, references to the goddess were exactly what would pop up.
“Now you see these religious fanatics, these insane maniacs terrorizing the world, and they take center stage. It’s like the true goddess was robbed. They don’t deserve that name. It should have never been allowed. What you call someone says so much … it’s a map to how they may develop, who they may be. To call a group like that ISIS, they’re actually called Daesh but that isn’t widely known so it negates it altogether, is to acknowledge what they’ve coined themselves, is to say that they are in fact gods. As a nation, we should have never done that. There is no law that states we must call these terrorists what they call themselves. We should have begun to remove their power by denying their name, refusing to call them anything less than deranged lunatics.”
