by Sawyer Black
“Does he even know about him?”
“Calm down, Henry. It is quite possible that he doesn’t know about him. Order From Chaos is powerful. And as they are consolidating that power further, they may be keeping secrets even from Hell.”
Power.
A thought tickled at Henry’s mind. Some detail that flitted like a moth. “Power.”
Boothe tipped his head to listen. “Go on, Henry. You have something, I can tell.”
“I know who the leader of the cult is. It’s the mayor. Fucking Malcolm Lucius and his wackadoodle brother.”
Boothe leaned back, and he slowly nodded. “That makes sense, actually. His family is very well known in the shadows.”
“Yeah, but his brother sold the horn for money when he could have just given it up. They could have blown it and drawn the kid to their cause, and we’d all be in Bonesville.”
“That’s not so troubling when you know about Hennessy’s obsession with immortality. He’s even tried summoning me before. His cause is not necessarily his family’s. Or the Order’s”
“What do you want me to do?” Henry asked.
“Still asking questions to which you already know the answers? I thought you had learned that lesson at least, Dear Henry.”
He looked down at the tattered remains of the suit he had taken from Boothe’s closet. Blood stained and charred. Busting the seams of the silk boxers that barely covered his balls. “I guess I should probably get some clothes, huh?”
“That is certainly a start.”
“I had plenty of sleep, so maybe some water?”
“Very good, Henry.”
“I guess the last thing is to see when the Viazo Grand starts check-ins.”
Boothe smiled and turned to Randall. “Tell Maria that I’ll be back soon… God willing.”
“After this …” His voiced cracked and he cleared his throat. “You’ll help me get my daughter?”
“Henry, have I ever lied to you?”
He bit on his seething hatred and pictured Mandyel’s burning gaze. The paths opened by his choices. His lack of trust. His self-loathing. “You know, I’m beginning to think the answer to that question is no. But what you said just now was not an answer. Please, Boothe. Will you help me get her back?”
The demon’s face softened. Regret flashed by, almost quicker than Henry could detect. Boothe covered it with a smile, and placed a hand over his heart. “Dear Henry, I swear it.”
I’m not gonna fucking cry. Not anymore.
“Thank you.”
Boothe nodded. “Now then. Let’s go kill the good Mr. Peterson!”
CHAPTER 27
Henry filled another pitcher at the kitchen sink. He tilted his head back and drank, the cool water spilling from the corners of his mouth. He set the pitcher down and caught his breath. Utter silence in his mind. He could feel the weight of the city’s sorrow — a low hum of pain that left his thoughts mostly alone.
He closed his eyes and sent his mind out, questing beyond the walls of Boothe’s apartment. The screams of the damaged crashed into Henry’s senses, and he drew his mind back, snapping into his body with enough force to send him staggering into the counter.
I’m getting control of this shit. Hot damn.
“What have you done to my bedroom?” Boothe’s voice floated to his ears, and he winced as the memory of his tantrum.
“It was like that when I got here,” he shouted.
Boothe stomped out wearing a fresh suit. Dark blue with a crisp red tie. Starched white shirt, polished black shoes, and his hair was perfect. “That isn’t funny.”
“Look, I had a meltdown, okay. You got your old lady back, you know. Not me, so fucking save it.”
Boothe pressed his lips into a line and nodded. “Get dressed, Henry.”
“The old hoodie and jeans. Yay me.”
“Learn to inhabit the form of your choosing, and you can dress with style and class.” Boothe spun in an elegant circle. “Like me.”
“What do you mean, the form of my choosing?” Henry shouted over his shoulder while stepping into the closet to pick between the gray one and the gray one.
“Mandyel told you nothing of choice?”
“That’s all the guy talked about.”
“He is the angel of free will, after all.”
Henry slid the hoodie over his horns, grown longer since the last time he’d worn one. “Yeah, but he said this was my true form. Like I hate myself so much, that it picked this form for me.”
“And that’s true, but an unconscious decision is still a decision, Henry.”
Henry stepped out in his demon uniform stretched tight across muscles that had grown thicker and denser in the last few days. “I can’t concentrate on all this shit right now. Let’s just take care of Peterson, and if I’m still alive tomorrow, we’ll chat about free will versus predestination over some waffles.”
“Whatever you say, Henry.”
That was way too easy.
Ezra poofed into existence in front of the refrigerator, jumping up and down with glee. “I went to the Purveyor’s house Master Henry.”
“What in the world for?”
Ezra’s face fell, and his dance broke into an embarrassed shuffle. “To bring back your things.” The goll held up his brass phone and the Buffet Bag over his head. Both were stained with blood but none the worse for wear.
“Holy shit. That’s awesome, but that stuff’s not worth you getting caught or hurt.”
Ezra looked up from under his brow. “Truly?”
“Fuck yeah.” Henry slid the phone into his front pocket and opened the leather bag. “I’d way rather have you around than just this crap, no matter how cool it is.”
Boothe wrinkled his forehead in curiosity. “What does that do?”
“Check it out.” Henry snatched his hand out in triumph, holding a thick slice of sizzling pepper bacon. He took half in one bite, and closed his eyes as he chewed. “Oh man, that’s so fucking good.”
“It makes bacon?”
“Yup. Three times a day if you want it.”
“The Gratia Lapides Sacculi?”
“You got that right.” Henry tossed the other half of the bacon to Ezra. The goll caught it and stuffed it into his mouth. He closed his eyes like Henry. The corners of his mouth glistened with drool. He swallowed and looked up with a smile.
“Thank you, Master Henry. It was delicious.”
Henry rolled the bag up and stuffed it into his back pocket.
Boothe raised his eyebrows. “You’re just going to walk around with the Gratia Lapides Sacculi in your jeans?”
“Where else am I gonna get my bacon?”
“I have no idea.”
“Then, there you go.” Acid roiled in his stomach. Henry swallowed it down and took a calming breath. The effort to keep from thinking was making him sweat. “We gonna do this?”
Boothe held out his hand, and Henry took it. Between blinks, the light from the apartment faded into the illumination from a vintage chandelier hanging in Peterson’s office, deep in the Viazo Grand.
Four cultists in flowing robes stood in front of his desk with their hoods drawn. Three in brown, and the fourth in red.
Peterson paused at Henry and Boothe’s entrance, a steaming cup of tea frozen under his nose. Ezra poofed into the office facing the corner behind his back. Peterson spun with a look of chagrin, and the cultists stepped back in shock.
“Gentlemen,” Boothe said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to speak with this man.” A black spear appeared in his hands. The cultists turned at the sound of his voice, and Boothe spun the spear with a flourish, planting the butt at his feet and leaning on it with an enviable nonchalance.
The man in the red robe stepped away from his fellows and clapped his hands in front of his chest. A blinding flash accompanied a booming crash, and he was gone. The remaining three eyed the empty space, then their heads rose to face Boothe as one.
The one on the left s
napped his hands up and two gleaming blades dropped into his palms, the metal gleaming with dark energy. The cultist in the middle threw his hood back to expose a face completely blue with tattoos. He reached between his open hood and his neck then drew a sword, ringing into his hand like a tuning fork.
Peterson set his tea on the desk and stood with a smile. His wings opened behind him, snapping out like the billowing sails of a pirate ship. “You were saying?”
The third cultist shrugged and raised his fists in a boxer’s stance.
Henry stepped forward and roared. It filled the office with a screeching rumble.
Not bad.
The swordsman leaped forward with a thrust that met Boothe’s spear, and Henry launched into the heavyweight champ with his claws extended. The boxer slid aside like water and rocked Henry with an overhand right that dislocated his jaw.
Holy fuck!
Mr. Knife stepped under Mr. Sword’s lunge, and Boothe’s spear sparked when it blocked the blades, driving the slices toward the swordsman who danced back with a parry.
The boxer peppered Henry’s face with jabs, splitting his eyebrow and squashing his nose with a CRUNCH!
Blows so quick, that his blurring eyes couldn’t see them coming. Henry backpedaled, driving his claws up in a blind swing that caught the champ in the ribs, digging through muscle and bone. The champ squealed, and Henry closed his fist over the thick flesh under the champ’s armpit. He jerked a handful of meat free with a wet ripping, louder than the shredding fabric of the robe.
Boothe spun under another swing of the sword, and sent the tip of the spear into the soft spot under the cultist’s chin. Blood shot from the swordsman’s mouth, followed by his flopping tongue. It hit the floor like a steak on a butcher’s block. His scream matched the boxer’s, and Boothe dropped to spin on his knees as knives flashed overhead.
Henry swung twice more, each blow tearing through skin and bone. The boxer spun away, and Henry caught him by the hair. He yanked his head back and dragged a claw across his throat. Blood sprayed across the office, painting the wall in a rainbow of crimson.
Boothe finished his spin by pulling the spear from the swordsman’s jaw and planting the butt on the floor. He leveraged against the shaft, and whipped a foot up to kick Mr. Knife in the balls hard enough to lift his feet out of his boots. He wheezed a scream, like a steam kettle boiling over, and Boothe silenced his voice with a strike to the throat. Mr. Knife gurgled out his final breath through the gaping wound in his neck, then crumpled to the floor.
Henry wiped the blood from his claws on the front of his hoodie. Boothe stepped up with every hair still in place, and not a single drop of blood to mar his outfit.
God damn it.
Boothe and Henry joined each other at the center of the room in front of the desk. Peterson stood stock still with Ezra hanging on his neck, the goll’s fanged mouth pressed into his skin just hard enough to draw a trickle of blood.
Henry wiped snotty blood from his nose, flinging it from his fingers to splat on the floor. “Now, you were saying?”
“I wasn’t saying nothing.” Ezra gnawed and Peterson sucked in a wincing hiss.
“Ezra,” Henry shouted. “Down!”
The goll dropped like a stone, and Henry leaped across the desk.
He grabbed Peterson’s bloody throat with one hand, and dug his claws into the dickhead’s crotch with the other. His weight drove Peterson back against the wall. The Ben Franklin specs flew from his face, and he snarled in fury.
Henry felt Peterson flare, but his power hit a wall only to echo back into him with the rumble of distant thunder.
I know just what that feels like.
“You see, Henry?” Boothe stepped around the side of the desk to regard Peterson’s predicament. “The ring dulls a demon’s power. Like the snake eating the frog, only to be eaten by its prey, the power doubles back on itself, rendered useless without an outlet. It also acts as a teleport beacon. That’s how Mandyel always knew where you were. An infinite loop that told you where you were going because it always knew where you’d been.”
“I always wondered if I was the frog or the snake.”
“But that’s the trick, Henry. You were always both.”
Peterson rolled his eyes. “Can we get on with it?”
Henry squeezed a handful of balls, and Peterson groaned.
“Fine,” Henry growled. “Have it your way. Where's Adam?”
“I thought you wanted the horn?”
Henry released his hold and spun Peterson around. Two vicious swipes of his claws, and bone broke like twigs, skin parting like bloody paper. Peterson screamed as his wings dropped to the floor in gory lumps.
Henry spun him back around and reset both grips. He leaned into Peterson’s face and roared, “WHERE IS HE?”
Peterson slumped in Henry’s grip, tears welling in his eyes. “He’s in the cells beneath the dry pantry.”
Henry looked at Ezra over his shoulder. “You know where that is?”
Ezra stilled and closed his eyes. He nodded, his eyes springing open. “Yes, Master Henry.”
“Good.” Henry leaned in and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Now that we have that out of the way. You said you raped my wife, and I don’t know if you were telling the truth or if you were only trying to hurt me, but I did make myself a promise.” He leaned in until his lips were touching Peterson’s ear. “And I keep my promises.”
Henry dug his claws in then tore Peterson’s cock and balls off with a wet snap of his wrist. Peterson crumpled against him with a strangled wail, and Henry held him up to watch the light leave his eyes as he bled to death.
He opened his hand, and Peterson’s body slid down the wall. His life force rose up to tickle Henry’s nose, and he waved it away in disgust, flinging the mangled genitals into the corner.
He turned to find Boothe inspecting him with his hands behind his back, his eyes gleaming. The demon bowed. “Bravo, Henry.”
Henry looked at Ezra, and swept his hand toward the door. “Lead the way.”
CHAPTER 28
Ezra bounded into the hallway outside Peterson’s office. A service corridor bustling with activity. Porters and wait staff pushing carts covered in white linen. They kept to their side of the hall, avoiding Henry with down-turned eyes. Ezra didn’t receive a single glance.
They followed the goll into a busy kitchen full of noise and the heavy aroma of a gourmet preparation. A few sighs of annoyance and the rolling eyes of exasperation. Like a regular Friday night. Boothe moved through the place like its architect. Henry walked like he’d entered a different world.
Past the massive refrigerators, they made a left through a stone arch. Much older parts of the building, missing the modern touches covering the ancient stones and plaster. Through another arch and into a larder stacked with barrels and crates. Sacks piled in a corner.
The door at the end was a thick, dark wood. Iron hardware with a giant rod pushed into a rusting hasp. A ring of keys hung on a peg driven into the joints of the stacked stone wall. Ezra stopped at the door, turning around to look up at Henry with an expectant expression on his gray face.
Henry looked over his shoulder, listening for anyone following through the oddly regular activity. “I don’t get it. Nobody gave a shit that a winged goll was leading a demon and a salesman through the kitchens?”
“It is, after all, just a hotel at its heart, Henry.”
“I guess.” Henry shook his head and grabbed the keys from the peg, iron tingling through his fingers like a nine-volt battery to the tongue. “We going through there, huh?”
Ezra nodded. “Yes, Master Henry.”
“What are we gonna find down there?”
“I’m sorry, Master Henry. I can’t see through all the rock.”
“Quite all right,” Boothe said. “And to Henry’s point, why don’t you go back and watch for anybody who might want to cause us harm. Like that red-robed fellow with the tricks.”
“Yes,
Master Boothe.”
Ezra took off like a cat that had heard the can opener. He cut around the corner before turning to the door.
Henry turned back to Boothe. “You think there are any guards?”
“This deep inside the hotel? I doubt it, but let’s be cautious.”
“Fair enough.”
The third key clicked over with a grinding jolt, and the door swung open. An uneven set of stairs descended into the dark. Bright light spilled between the floor and the bottom of the door.
“What, are they growing weed down there?”
Henry ducked then dug his claws into the damp stone of the steps. On the slick landing, he paused and sorted the keys. A scent filled his nose, like the char on a burnt cookie — smoky and hearty with a sweetness underneath that had his mouth watering.
The Christmas after her first miscarriage, Samantha decided there would be no holiday baking. Henry hadn’t blamed her, but after two days, he cracked. How hard could it be to make brownies from a box? After the smoke cleared, Samantha tried not to laugh while mixing a new batch. For the next two weeks, every time they heated the oven, burnt chocolate would rise into the air and he would smack his lips in anticipation.
“What is that smell?”
Boothe’s voice was husky, and unnaturally loud in the close quarters of the stairs. “Virgin blood.”
“Wow.”
“Just find the key, Henry.”
Even though the third key had opened the door at the top of the stairs, he tried it again. Just in case. The same grinding click, and the door swung in on a rusty grumble of ancient hinges to flood the stairs with light.
A long corridor lined with doors. Six and six with one at the end. The burned brownie scent washed over him, and he breathed deep. Sugar and spice. That char. Something floral.
Boothe squeezed past, sending a disgusted look over his shoulder.
“What?” Henry asked.
Boothe shook his head and pressed his fingertips to the first door. He closed his eyes. “They’ve collected the blood, but she’s dead.”
“Bummer.”
Boothe looked at him with a sad earnest expression that Henry couldn’t interpret. “Yes, it is. With her passing, the blood now loses power the longer it remains unused.”
