Battle for His Soul

by Theresa Linden

Footsteps sounded in the kitchen. Then her father stepped into view. “Who’s at the door?”

  His low, powerful voice made Jarret’s skin crawl, but he refused to budge. He was here to see Zoe, and he would see her.

  Mr. McGowan hadn’t taken more than two steps down the hallway when his eyes landed on Jarret, and he stopped cold. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  Mr. McGowan’s face flushed, his eyes narrowed, and he peered down his nose. The look reminded Jarret of two moments from his past, both equally disturbing. The first moment was when Mr. McGowan had discovered Jarret had gotten Zoe pregnant. He’d slammed Jarret against the wall right here in the hallway. Pinning Jarret to the wall, the man had shouted threats, sprinkling Jarret’s face with spittle.

  The second time was on the trip Papa had forced Jarret to take, shortly thereafter, once Papa found out that Jarret had not been “respecting his girlfriend.” They’d arrived in California, Jarret clueless as to where, exactly, they were going to spend the next few weeks. Clueless until a tall, dark-eyed monk answered the door to welcome them.

  “I want to talk to your daughter.” Jarret folded his arms and glared at Mr. McGowan.

  Mr. McGowan chuckled, a rather sinister chuckle, and his eyes darkened. “Get out of my house. She doesn’t want to see you anymore.”

  Jarret didn’t want to believe him, but when he faced Zoe, she averted her gaze. Then she exchanged glances with her father, her eyes holding no trace of anger or resentment toward him. None at all.

  Shards and gravel tore at Jarret’s heart. Cuss words and bad names filled his mind. He shot a black glare at Zoe and another at her father, then he stalked away.

  He didn’t need her. He’d never needed her. They were over a long time ago. She did nothing but betray his trust ever since she’d gotten pregnant. She wanted to use that as an excuse to end their relationship? Fine. They had no real relationship. She was lucky she’d had him for as long as she did.

  Ellechial

  Eyes black with wickedness, Deth-kye grinned at Ellechial as he whispered lies in Jarret’s ear. “The witch isn’t worth your time. She’s a liar. You’ll find another girl, many more girls. They will satisfy you much more than she ever had. It’s not her you loved. It’s what she gave you.”

  Frowning, Jarret slid into the driver’s seat and peeled out of the driveway. Deth-kye again rode shotgun while Ellechial took a back seat.

  “Faster, faster,” Deth-kye said. “S-s-speed can numb your mind.”

  “Enough!” Ellechial longed for the grace he could use if the prayer group ever took root. “You have done enough. You are only angry that this situation did not work to your advantage.”

  “Is that what you think?” Deth-kye’s face twisted, his countenance displaying his malignant joy. “This turned out exactly according to plan. Jarret has listened to my voice, has done what I commanded. Oh yes, this is exactly as I had planned.”

  Ellechial turned his eyes to heaven. Deth-kye couldn’t help but lie. His father, after all, was the Father of Lies. He wanted Jarret and Zoe together so they could resume their sinful, destructive relationship. He lost. Yet, Deth-kye had reason to be satisfied. Jarret had listened to him.

  “I suppose you think the boy will run back to Keefe.” Deth-kye wrapped his arm around Jarret’s shoulders and pretended to groom his hair with affection.

  Ellechial refused to answer the demon, though he had wanted it, had hoped for it. Keefe could help, if only Jarret would let him back into his life and listen to him, learn from him.

  “He will not,” Deth-kye spat. “He is appalled by Keefe’s intrusive display of his new-found faith.” He smirked at Ellechial and continued to speak, lisping his words this time. “These are thoughts I like for him to have. I will keep them locked in his mind.”

  He rested his chin on Jarret’s shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Remember California. Remember the trick your father played. He was wrong to take you there. He only wanted to push his values onto you. But you are wise. You can think for yourself. You don’t need someone else telling you what to believe.” With his chin on Jarret’s shoulder, he tauntingly twisted his face to Ellechial and whispered, “Re-mem-ber.”

  “That memory should only do him good,” Ellechial said. “How can you use it to ruin him?”

  Deth-kye roared with laughter, his dark wings quivering. “You shall see. By these memories, I shall soon own him. You will lose him forever. You had hoped, I know, that one day he would take the seat I left vacant in Heaven.” He frowned, continuing with deepening harshness. “He will not. That seat will remain forever vacant. God will look upon it with sadness. And I will laugh. Jarret has a seat prepared for him in Hell, and I will see that he takes it.”

  As Jarret turned down the long gravel road that led home, Ellechial wished he could fly to Monettello and have him prepare Keefe. But his wings were tied and would remain so unless he received power from prayer or permission from God. Monettello would have to encourage Keefe in the moment of the encounter. Perhaps it would be enough. Jarret must choose to stay at home with Keefe.

  “Remember your imprisonment. Remember when you first went to the door of that miserable place . . .” Deth-kye reclined, resting on Jarret’s shoulder as he whispered memories.

  Jarret

  So the memories began . . .

  It was mid-April and the ride from the Sacramento airport was long and dull, the highway and flat landscape offering nothing of interest. Boredom overwhelmed Jarret. He cursed Papa in his mind for not letting him bring his cell phone, MP3 player, laptop, or any other distraction. Papa had said something about a vineyard to the cabbie, but he hadn’t told Jarret a single detail about the assignment. Jarret hadn’t bothered to read any signs along the way, but he should’ve suspected something when, nearing their destination, they drove past a big white cross.

  Their taxi stopped on a quiet road, a small, drab building on one side, rows and rows of bare grapevines on the other. Papa often took the family to help with archaeological digs and occasionally brought them to investigate old mines . . . What assignment could he possibly have at a vineyard?

  “Go tell them we’re here.” Papa pointed to the building, a tan A-frame surrounded by trees.

  Glad to get out of the cab, Jarret yawned and stretched his legs. What he wouldn’t give to be back home. What was Zoe doing now?

  He followed the sidewalk to the A-frame and grabbed the thick metal ring in the middle of the door. No one answered so he turned to watch Papa.

  Papa stood by the open trunk, stuffing his wallet into his back pocket and handing something to the cab driver. Lean, tall and composed, Papa came across dignified, never embarrassing, even with his old cowboy hat and boots. The short, husky driver flailed his arms, gesturing at the cab, the road, and then Jarret. Shaking his head, Papa pulled his wallet out again. The cabbie must not have gotten a big enough tip.

  The door to the A-frame opened and Jarret turned around.

  “God be with you.” A tall balding man with dark creases around his mouth peered down his long nose at Jarret. “May I help you?”

  Taking the man in from head to toe, Jarret shook his head.

  The man wore a long white hooded robe with sleeves that draped down to his knees, hiding his hands. A black garment peeked out from under the robe at the neckline. Was he a monk? Was this a monastery?

  “I uh . . .” Jarret staggered back. He glanced to either side to get some further clue as to where they had come: trees, grass, distant buildings, and vast vineyards. “I think we’re at the wrong place. This is a mistake. Sorry.”

  He sprinted down the sidewalk as the taxi pulled out. “Wait!” He waved his arms, desperate to get the cabbie’s attention. He skidded to a stop by Papa.

  “Did he tell you where our rooms are?” Papa lifted a suitcase.

  “What? Rooms? Here?”

  Papa smiled. “Yes, here.”

  “No, no, no. We can’t stay here. We’re not where you think we
are. Where’s your assignment? What are you supposed to be doing? And why didn’t you tell me anything about it?” Jarret glanced behind him and gestured toward the building. “I think we’re at a—”

  The white-robed, handless monk strolled down the sidewalk toward them.

  “Look,” Jarret said, “there’s a—”

  Papa stepped around Jarret and headed for the monk. “Howdy, there.” He took off his cowboy hat, set his suitcase down, and stuck out his hand. “I’m Ignatius West.”

  “What the—” Jarret jogged to them. “Is this a monastery?” Cringing, he looked the monk over again. “We are not staying here. I’m not staying here. I’m not staying at no freakin’—”

  Papa turned on Jarret. “Shut your trap, son, and get the rest of the luggage. Our job is here.”

  Jarret huffed, dumbfounded. When Papa had said they were going to northern California and gave the cabbie the address of a vineyard, Jarret hadn’t pictured monks. He hadn’t thought monastery.

  He grabbed the other suitcases and stumbled along behind Papa and the monk down a long, shady gravel walkway. They stopped at a low building with several doors and windows all close together. Dinky apartments? The monk unlocked a door and pushed it open. He motioned for Jarret to go in while he remained outside and talked with Papa.

  Jarret stepped inside what would be his prison cell for the next few weeks. Gray cement-block walls closed in around two plain couches and a desk. A room with two skinny beds and a nightstand came off the first room. And that was it. No carpet, no computer, no television, and no radio. There wasn’t even a door to separate the two rooms for privacy. Papa had said the assignment could take as long as whole month. A whole month here?

  Jarret flung his suitcase onto the bed, unzipped it part way, and reached a hand in along the sides. He needed a cigarette and he needed it bad. Once he found the pack, he slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  “Jarret?”

  He jumped and then turned as Papa stepped into the room. “Yeah? Hey, you know what? I can’t stay here.” He tried to leave the bedroom, but Papa blocked his way, so he looked him in the eye. “There’s got to be a hotel nearby.”

  “Sorry, Jarret. We’re staying here. There’s no hotel.” Papa went to the window.

  Jarret gazed longingly at the doorway.

  “Just try to relax, son. Our work is here. And this is a nice place, the trees, the vineyard.” He inhaled slowly. “It’s peaceful here.”

  “You could’ve told me that we were staying at a monastery. Or is this punishment for what happened to Zoe?”

  Papa gave him the eye. “Just concentrate on our assignment. Don’t get all worked up about staying in a monastery. I’m not gonna leave you here.” He smiled, his eyes brightening as if the thought amused him. “Besides, we’re not actually in the monastery. These are guest quarters.”

  Jarret shook his head and turned to go. He’d have a smoke and think over his fate. Maybe he could find a bright side to it. It was a vineyard, after all. Maybe they made wine here.

  “Where’re you going, Jarret?”

  “Taking a walk.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’d like to check out the grounds.”

  Jarret huffed. This was gonna be hell.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NEW DIRECTION

  Ellechial

  Since the creation of the world, waning midsummer sunlight set Ellechial’s soul ablaze with praise for God’s majesty. Leaves danced, and the road to the Wests’ house shone under golden light. Ellechial turned his mind to the Lord. In an instant, he knelt before the heavenly throne to offer adoration and give glory to the Almighty One, the Majestic King. Traveling at the speed of thought, he returned to his post in Jarret’s car.

  The West family’s castle-like house soon came into view, sunlight most gloriously illuminating the cylindrical turrets and the battlements. While the works of man could never equal the creations of God, they were, in their own way, beautiful. Over the ages, many worldly structures directed his thoughts to the Almighty One—St. Basil’s Cathedral in Russia, Basilique de Sacre Coeur in Paris, the Palace of Versailles—reminding him of the power and majesty of God, the attributes of God that he would forever praise and proclaim.

  Once Jarret caught sight of his house, he eased off the gas pedal, probably unsure of what to do after Zoe’s rejection. He never took rejection well. It made him vulnerable and most susceptible to temptation.

  Wings back, Ellechial leaned forward and whispered in Jarret’s ear, “Go talk to Keefe.” Please, Lord, let me touch Jarret’s heart. Let me point the boy in a good direction. “Keefe has always helped you, comforted you.”

  Deth-kye, sitting in the front passenger seat, made a low growl.

  Ellechial had been so immersed in prayers of petition and giving glory to God that he could have forgotten the demon was ever near—if such human weakness had belonged to angels. As it was, he never forgot the presence of the evil ones. He awaited with hope for the Great Day, the day that Deth-kye would be chained and Hell swallowed up forever.

  Deth-kye gave a crooked grin, a pig-like snort accompanying it and reflecting his warped pleasure. It no doubt pleased him immensely that the twins no longer relied upon one another. He whispered in Jarret’s other ear, “Why talk to Keefe? You don’t want to see his smug face when he reminds you that he told you so. He did tell you not to see Zoe. Maybe he and Zoe have been talking. Maybe he planted ideas in her head.”

  Ellechial sent a prayer to heaven. As you have brought about the conversion of his twin brother, so now convert Jarret. Open his heart to Your grace, I pray Thee.

  “What’s this?” Deth-kye’s attention snapped from Jarret to something outside the car. He leaned forward, his head poking through the front windshield.

  In the front yard, two teenage boys crossed swords. Each donned a wire-mesh facemask, a white fencing jacket, and a single white glove. They moved in slow motion, taking deliberate steps and swinging their foils in unison. As Jarret’s car neared, the boy with a shock of blond hair glanced at it, but the other kept stepping and swinging.

  Deth-kye yanked his head back into the car, his expression contorting. “I really hate that kid.”

  “Who’s with Roland?” Jarret muttered, squinting. He drove to the garage and parked outside, his gaze on the fencers. His face muscles twitched, showing he recognized the boy. “Peter?”

  “Yeees,” Deth-kye hissed, though of course Jarret couldn’t hear him. “Don’t you just hate him? Remember when he . . .” He whispered past offenses and a few lies.

  “I hate that kid,” Jarret announced as he swung open the car door and got out. He strode across the front lawn toward Roland and Peter. He had always been easy to read, displaying his emotions and thoughts on his face, in his walk, and in his posture.

  Ellechial kept step with Jarret and prayed. “Don’t do it. Go inside, talk to Keefe instead.” He hoped Jarret would sense his admonition.

  Deth-kye leaped and skipped ahead of them. “Just look at the cocky boy.” He pointed a crooked finger either at Roland or at Peter. “Doesn’t he just beg for a beating?”

  Roland and Peter stopped fencing and watched Jarret approach.

  “Look at the way he stands.” Deth-kye waved his arms dramatically. “Who does he think he is?”

  Ellechial appeared between Deth-kye and Jarret. “Let them be. Roland will be gone in a few days. You need not trouble yourself with him or with Peter. You ought to speak with Keefe.”

  Jarret walked through him.

  “Wouldn’t it feel good to knock him to the ground?” Deth-kye wrapped his arm around Jarret’s shoulders and smirked, his voice a slithery hiss. “He wouldn’t be any competition for you, but it would be fun all the same. It would release tension. It would feel good, rewarding. Can’t you taste it?”

  Deth-kye often directed Jarret to unleash his frustrations on Roland, but Jarret locked his eyes on Peter, revealing his intended target. Peter’s guardian angel lif
ted his wings and swung his shield forward.

  Peter pushed up his mask and held his foil awkwardly at his side. “Hey-ya, Jarret.”

  Jarret gave him the once-over and a subtle smirk. “What’s up?”

  “I’m showing Peter a few moves,” Roland said.

  Roland’s desire to befriend Jarret always clouded his ability to read Jarret’s mood and to foresee his intentions. Keefe had been good at it, almost as good as any angel, though he hadn’t always been effective in steering him, being weak himself.

  “Allow me.” Jarret snatched Roland’s sword and gave Peter a nod. “Assume your stance.”

  Peter threw Roland a wary glance before securing the facemask and assuming the en garde position.

  Peter’s guardian whispered a word of caution to Peter, his wings expanding in his readiness to protect. He gave Deth-kye a warning look.

  Deth-kye cackled and backed up. “He’s got it from here.” He referred to Jarret, who needed no more inciting. Once he got an idea, he typically followed through.

  “Monettello, Keefe, where are you?” Ellechial glanced up at the dark bedroom windows.

  Jarret raised his foil casually and grinned, his evil intention written on his face. With a jerk of his arm, he swung his sword.

  Peter stumbled back with a nervous titter. He swung the foil left and right, awkwardly blocking each fierce attack.

  Jarret lunged one way and then another, keeping Peter off balance. Then Jarret spun with dramatic flair and advanced from behind Peter.

  Regaining balance, Peter made a move to face his opponent, but it was too late.

  A smug grin on his face, Jarret put his foot to Peter’s hind end and shoved.

  Peter’s arms flailed as he tumbled to the ground, the foil slipping from his hand.

  Jarret chuckled and whacked Peter’s backside with his foil. “Touché.”

  The demon Revenge appeared from out of nowhere and shot to Peter’s side. Beet red and fuming, Peter jumped up and tore after Jarret. Peter’s guardian angel rushed for Revenge, trying to beat him back.

  Jarret threw his foil down, braced himself, and formed a fist, unwittingly mimicking the motions of Deth-kye.