by Joanne Pence
Hank raised his chin. “Fine.”
“It’s in my pocket.” Michael put his hand in his pocket and curled his fingers into a fist, then held it out to Hank.
Hank looked suspicious as he cautiously reached for the pearl, his gaze fixed on Michael’s hand. “Here. Take it.” Michael thrust forward his hand as he spoke and at the same time delivered a Shaolin kick to Hank’s stomach. Hank doubled over, his gun going off into the crumbling floor. Michael grabbed Hank’s wrist and twisted, causing Hank to flip, head over heels, onto the ground. He dropped the gun, and Michael swooped down to pick it up.
As Stuart’s attention turned for a split second towards Hank and Michael, Jianjun spun towards him, grabbed his arm then twisted around so that his back was to Stuart’s chest and Stuart’s elbow lay atop his shoulder. He then pulled downward on Stuart’s arm, using all his strength and weight to hyperextend and then crack the elbow. Stuart screamed, high and loud, and dropped to the floor, shrieking and clutching his arm. Jianjun picked up his gun.
“Good job,” Michael said. “Let’s tie them up.”
“No!” A woman’s voice ordered.
Michael and the others looked towards the door to the church to see who had cried out.
The door lay open, and two beautiful women in short, black dresses and four-inch heels strolled into the church. Vibrant green eyes latched on to Hank and Stuart.
“No!” Hank crawled towards the back of the church.
Stuart remained petrified, still on his knees, cradling his broken elbow. The woman with long, wavy auburn hair reached him. She pointed from him to a far wall.
Michael tried to speak, to move, but he, Jianjun, Kira, and the Uyghurs seemed frozen in place, as if time stood still except for the female demons and their prey.
“It’s my turn,” Stuart whispered, sounding resigned. “Like the others.” With tears streaming from his eyes, he stood and faced the beautiful redhead. She nodded. Still crying, he bent from the waist and ran hard at a wall. At the last second, still bent, he leaped, keeping his hands and arms down so that his head took the full force of the blow. The room resounded with a loud snap as the bulk of his weight caused his head to hit the wall so hard that his neck snapped. He fell to the floor dead as blood flowed from the crushed bone and lacerations on his skull.
Hank watched in horror. He faced the blonde woman standing over him. “No, no, no! You can’t do this!”
“Can’t I?” she said dismissively. “You knew this time would come. You made a deal. You enjoyed the good and now don’t want to pay the price. Deals are not made to be broken.” With that, she held out a dagger, its hilt crested with old-style Chinese characters.
“Please, no …” The sound from his lips was more of a wail than a word.
The sounds of war filled the church, gunfire, the putt-putt of helicopter blades, and the blast of a ship’s whistle. Horrifying, ugly screams and cries of pain rang in all their heads.
“I can’t …” Hank cried as he took the dagger in both hands.
Michael struggled, trying to shout out, to move towards Hank, to do anything to stop the trance Hank seemed to be in. But nothing worked.
Hank was beyond hearing, beyond reason. He held the dagger straight outward, pointed at his chest, and then plunged it in below the ribcage, angled upward so it struck his heart. Blood spewed from his body, hitting the wall, the ceiling and floor, raining down on him as he fell onto his back, mortally wounded, the hilt of the blade protruding from his chest.
The two women, their tasks completed, turned into black foxes.
Michael, who had been straining to reach Hank, nearly fell to the floor when whatever force had been holding him back suddenly let go. He gripped the gun he had gotten from Hank and fired at a fox. The bullet went right through the demon and didn’t hurt it.
The foxes began to walk towards him. He fired again, to no avail.
“Those women,” Kira gasped, scarcely able to speak. “One of them fits the description of the person who brought a birthday gift to Gene Oliveros’ daughter. The gift that had a bomb that killed his whole family!”
“Run!” Jianjun cried. He grabbed Kira’s arm and headed out the door, the Uyghurs behind him, and Michael following.
They knew their vehicles were useless in the rain and ran downhill. “We’ll need to stay on the hillside as long as possible,” Michael called. “Skirt the road, but try to stay out of sight of any villagers who might be on it.”
Between the dark and the rain, they found it difficult to see where they were going, and the footing was treacherous. Wet mud under Michael’s feet gave way and began to slide. Soon, the mud above him, where the others stood, also slid, and all of them tumbled and rolled down the hill until they came to a spot where the ground leveled off.
Michael sat up, glad he hadn’t been hurt. Jianjun was near him. They looked for Kira and the Uyghur performers.
The four had disappeared.
Chapter 46
Michael and Jianjun searched all around, but could find no sign of Kira or the musicians.
“What the fuck happened to them?” Jianjun shouted, scared and worried. “It wasn’t that much of a slide. Even if they didn’t get caught up in it, they should be here. I was holding Kira’s hand. I know I had her as the mud started to slip. One minute she was with me and then gone.”
“We were getting away,” Michael said. “The demons stopped us.”
“Again.” Jianjun walked in circles, desperately searching, hoping against hope. “They want us back at the monastery.”
Michael met his gaze and nodded.
“Damn!” Jianjun drew in his breath.
It took a lot longer to make their way up the hill to the monastery than it had going down it. The building looked deserted. No light shone.
They entered.
Hank and Stuart’s bloodied bodies lay on the floor. A faint glow came from under the door of the sacristy. They walked back there and opened the door.
The middle of the room now had a staircase heading downward. The staircase was lit as was the floor below. “What the hell?” Jianjun cried.
Michael plunged down the stairs, Jianjun on his heels. They reached a large basement, as large as the church above it. Its walls were wood framed, the floor thick shards of wood and sawdust.
In the center stood a tall, thick iron pole that glowed red hot. Daji’s instrument of torture—her paolou. The heat from it was almost unbearable.
The three Uyghurs stood on the far side of the basement, and at their feet lay Kira, her eyes shut.
“Kira!” Jianjun started to run towards her, but Michael grabbed his arm, holding him back.
“Her mind was too weak to fight them,” Dilnar said. “The demons have her now.”
“So I see,” Michael said. “Finally, I meet you as well.”
Dilnar smiled warmly at him. “Michael, I knew you would recognize me—and that you’d come to me.” She removed the Uyghur headdress, dropped it to the floor, and stepped on it. Her hair was arranged in a traditional Chinese style, parted in the center and pulled back into a braided coil. Michael recognized the woman who had stared at him in Kashgar—and the monster who wanted to attack Stuart the night he sleepwalked outdoors.
She raised her chin and immediately took on a distinction and regal bearing that had not been present in the Uyghur performer.
“Daji.” Michael whispered.
A slow smile spread over her face.
–I make wishes come true. My wishes.
Her voice wasn’t a voice, but something in his head.
“You are the one who will be destroyed,” Michael said.
“You’re so funny,” she said sweetly. “You would never do that. You know I’m the only one who comforted you. Remember the peace you felt when I was near? Whenever I touched you? I can do that, and more.” She moved closer. “Dilnar, you saw as little more than a child. But I’m much a woman.” Her voice changed to the one he would never forget. “Or,
if you prefer, I’ll be her for you. For all eternity, you’ll be with her. With me. No longer alone. No longer lonely.”
“Go to hell,” he said.
She ignored his words and glanced at the two remaining Uyghurs.
—My kinsmen, the Nine-Headed Pheasant. Az’har took off his Muslim hat and gave a bow.
—And the Jade Pipa. Paziliya also bowed and then removed her headdress.
Daji’s cold gaze slid over Michael, Jianjun and Kira, then the demon who had been Dilnar held out her hand.
—Give me the philosopher’s stone or I will use my most terrible creation on your friends. The iron pole sears the flesh quite crisply as the body’s internal organs slowly cook. Death is agonizingly slow, and in the end, welcomed.
Jianjun looked confused, but called out, “Michael, fight her. You’ve got to fight her. No matter what she says.”
“You must be proud, Daji,” Michael said with utter disgust, “to be the creator of something so monstrous.”
The demon laughed.
“Tell us first,” Michael said, knowing Daji’s arrogance meant she loved talking about herself, “how you came to free yourself from the captivity that the Goddess Nüwa placed you in.”
Daji smirked at his request.
“Please,” Michael said. “I would like to hear it.”
—Tell him.
—Yes. Tell him our story. We would like to hear it once again.
—As you wish.
After the Goddess Nüwa gave the red pearl, encased in a bronze vessel, to the warriors who defeated King Zhou Xin, it remained buried in the northern lands for over two thousand years. And then, one day, a slovenly, unimportant Mongolian warlord captured a Chinese nobleman and his family. The nobleman exchanged a secret of the Chinese people for his family’s life. He told the warlord how to find a red pearl that afforded power over demons. The warlord believed him and searched for the pearl. He found it, but it appeared powerless. He killed the nobleman and his family for their deception, and then left the area. Once away from the special elements, however, the demons revived and bestowed their power on the warlord who had saved them.
His name was Genghis Khan and with their help, he conquered most of the known world. After his death, his body was returned to Mongolia, the pearl with him. For a while, the demons’ power was again diminished. But one day, a handsome young man stole the pearl and carried it to the Western world. There, the demons discovered many new playthings. In Egypt, when the ‘pearl’ was pressed to the foreheads of American sailors, the demons turned them, and found yet another continent for their fun. The entire world, one could say, became their oyster.
At her quip, demonic laughter filled Michael’s head.
“Wait, you ‘turned’ the sailors?” Michael asked. “What do you mean?”
—They are the children of the Thousand Year Vixen—the most powerful of the Nüwa’s demons—those foxes who have chosen to join the vixen forever.
Michael shook his head at the folly of men who think they can overcome the evil they accept in the face of temptation. “If they’re your children, why did you kill them?”
—Why do you think they are dead.?
At that, all seven sailors—Daniel Holt, Gene Oliveros, the senator, hedge fund manager, newspaper publisher, Hank, and Stuart—appeared and slowly descended the stairs. Their faces and bodies bore ghastly scars and mutilations from the way they had died.
“Oh, my God,” Jianjun whispered, and Michael knew he, too, could somehow see these dead, these monsters.
—Here is our audience.
The Jade Pipa picked up Kira and walked her towards the paolou.
“No!” Michael and Jianjun cried. Jianjun reached Kira and tried to pull her free, but the Pheasant demon held him back.
—Only one thing can save her.
“Stop. I’ll trade you. Me for Kira and Jianjun,” Michael said.
Daji looked at him coldly, lifted an eyebrow, and said nothing. The other two demons moved closer to the paolou with their captive.
“All right,” Michael said. “You win.”
He took out his key ring. On it was a fob in the shape of a cheap plastic soccer ball—the sort of thing many men in Italy carry around in honor of their favorite pastime. He placed it on the ground, then used the butt of the gun that he still carried to give it a hard rap. The hollow plastic shell split along its glued seam, and out rolled a small red orb.
Michael picked it up between his thumb and forefinger. “Here it is. Now let them go.”
—But we have set up the paolou.
—We want to use it.
—My sisters are unhappy. We have two things you want, but you only have one item to trade. Give us the pearl and you can have the girl, but we keep your friend—the traitor to his people.
“Do you hear them?” Michael asked Jianjun.
“Yes, but I don’t know how.”
He nodded. The demons were influencing his mind, but they, in turn, were controlled by the philosopher’s stone, which he possessed. And through it, somehow, he could influence what others saw and heard, even if other worldly—just as he caused those around him to see this monastery as an erect building, rather than as a flattened ruin.
“I will trade as you wish,” Michael said, “but my friend needs a chance. Let me give him this”—he picked a sliver of sawdust up off the floor—“to protect himself.”
The demons laughed so hard Michael thought his head would explode.
Michael placed the sliver on Jianjun’s palm. “Take this phurba,” he said. “You know the phurba. You remember hearing about it when we were on a dig in Nepal. It’s from Tibet. It kills demons. Use it!”
The demons all but screamed with laughter at Michael and his friend.
“Do it!” Michael ordered.
In Jianjun’s hand Michael suddenly saw a magnificent, three-sided, silver Tibetan dagger. Without hesitation, Jianjun jabbed the phurba into the Pheasant demon’s side, then he spun towards the Jade Pipa who held Kira and drove the blade into its heart. He pulled Kira from its arms as it fell. The demons howled in pain and fury as they writhed on the ground from the magic of the phurba.
Michael picked up the phurba and stepped towards Daji. She backed away as she, too, clearly saw the dagger. But then she waved her arm, starting a fire between her and Michael.
Michael jumped back from the flames. He helped Jianjun run with Kira towards the stairs, hoping to climb up them to escape. But when as they reached them, the stairs began to burn as well.
—Where will you go now?
Daji and the seven sailors around her all laughed with delight at Michael and Jianjun’s fear. They also pointed and laughed at the Jade Pipa and Pheasant’s moans and cries of pain.
Michael took the red pearl from his pocket and clutched it, desperately trying to think what he could do. Then it struck him. The monks. They wanted him here; they welcomed the pearl—and him—and they should know how to stop the demons. Michael pushed Jianjun and Kira behind him, knowing the demons couldn’t directly attack him, and they would have to get past him to reach them. He filled his mind with the vision of the monks kneeling before an unseen altar. “Help us!”
Daji spun towards the demon who had been Hank.
—Hank Bennett, take him, and hold him against the paolou until he gives up the pearl. Do it now!
The Hank-demon walked through the fire and grabbed Michael. Michael was strong, but the demon’s strength was greater as it dragged him closer to the paolou. Still, Michael wouldn’t let go of the stone, and kept concentrating on the monks.
Jianjun charged the Hank-demon and stabbed him with the phurba, but it had no effect. “Help us, Hank,” Jianjun pleaded. “The man you once were, the good man, is still inside you. Don’t let that thing win!”
The Hank-demon stiffened and stopped moving. Its torso bore the scars of Hank’s death, of the way he had stabbed himself in the heart, but now his form seemed to pulsate, as if going between its dem
on self and something else, something that still bore a semblance of humanity.
“Please!” Jianjun cried. “Don’t let Daji do this to you, Hank! You’re strong—you’ve tried to be a good man, even when the demons became too strong for you to fight.”
The Hank-demon swung his arm, lifting Jianjun off his feet and throwing him hard against a wall. He hit it and fell to the floor. The Hank-demon looked from Jianjun to Michael, then to the other sailors, and finally his gaze rested on Stuart who had been his friend. A vision of Hank—of a man suffering and eternally damned—appeared in the body of the demon, but then vanished as the demon took over again. “The man you’ve been all these years is still alive,” Michael said, struggling to physically hold the monster back, but knowing he was failing. “Is this what you fought for, planned for, all those years? To let Daji do this to you now?”
Hank and the demon pulsated, as first one emerged, then the other. It was almost like looking through a strobe light as he moved from one form to the other. “Come and help us,” Michael whispered, calling to the monks as he clutched the pearl, praying for a miracle to help them get away from these demons.
Suddenly, the Hank-demon spun around and lunged at Daji, swinging her around and shoving her towards the paolou.
She was too strong for him and pushed back.
Michael jumped to Hank’s side. Together, they shoved Daji backwards. But then, Daji vanished and in her place stood Irina. Michael drew back, his movements frozen. His heart ached just looking at her face. She reached for him. “Help me, Michael,” she whispered. “Please help me.”
“Damn you! You’ll never be her.” He shoved Daji even harder towards the paolou.
Irina vanished as Daji’s screams pierced through Michael’s head. She tried to run, but Hank’s fury got the upper hand, and he pushed her against the red hot pole. She screamed in rage while he yelled that she took his life from him, took away the man he once was. She fought, but his demonic strength coupled with his human fury was too much for her to overcome.
Their fight caused sparks and embers from the fire to fly about the dry wood cellar, starting many small fires that quickly spread and sucked the oxygen from the room.
