Battle for His Soul

by Theresa Linden

  “What do you suppose he has in mind?” Nadriel said.

  “I know not.” Ellechial had tried to learn Jarret’s plan. After all, every movement of a person’s mind has an effect on his body. And angels and demons alike can perceive even hidden bodily changes and discover a person’s dispositions with great facility. The deviousness of Jarret’s intention had been easy to detect, not only from the glint in his eyes and his tone of voice, but also from the change in his heartbeat when the idea had occurred to him. Sadly, bad ideas excited the boy. The details of the plan, however, were known to Jarret and God alone.

  “Jarret never seemed interested in discovering the thief’s identity,” Nadriel said.

  “Nay, he never even realized that he had seen a clue the other day. But I see that his plan for tonight is not good. Be on guard. I am thankful for the prayers of his twin and the others in the prayer group. Should the need arise . . .”

  Nadriel smiled. “Ah, I will be glad to have you fight by my side.”

  Rufino’s dusty green Chevy Malibu sat in the circular driveway. Jarret walked straight for it, jangling the keys.

  Roland took a few steps but stopped. He glanced to either side before his gaze settled on the Malibu. “We’re going in that?”

  Jarret chuckled as he swung open the driver’s door. “Scared?”

  “No.” Roland tensed, but he went around the car and got in.

  Jarret cranked the engine to life and sat gripping the key, squinting and holding his breath while the engine spluttered and rattled.

  “Shouldn’t we call Papa before we head out . . .” Roland said.

  Jarret tapped the gas pedal, revving the engine and gaining a more even tone. He breathed.

  “. . . and make sure it’s okay with him first?” Roland continued.

  Without so much as a glance in his brother’s direction, Jarret turned the air conditioner on high and blasted the radio. His eyes narrowed as he searched stations.

  “Shouldn’t we leave a note or something, maybe tell one of the maids?” Roland glanced from Jarret to the radio. “Maybe Rufino would want to know where we’re taking his car or when we’ll be back.” Bits of songs and voices drowned his other shouldn’t we questions.

  A song with a big, lurching beat and rapped vocals came into tune. A grin stretched across Jarret’s face, and he moved his head to the beat. He gave Roland a satisfied grin and shifted the car into drive.

  Roland shook his head and gazed out the passenger-side window. “You don’t listen to me.”

  “It’s almost an hour to Tucson, plenty of time to talk.”

  They rode without speaking for nearly half an hour, Jarret switching the station whenever a dull song came on. He started to switch from “Lean on Me” when Roland threw him a sideways glance.

  “Like that one, huh?” Jarret actually left it on.

  Roland bounced to the music.

  Jarret condescended to glance, and amusement flickered in his eyes. His self-involved attitude had too often prevented him from appreciating joy in another—especially in Roland. His mouth opened to a crooked grin, a look that said he expected Roland to stop now that he’d been caught moving to the music.

  Roland only smiled and exaggerated his movements.

  Jarret’s grin grew as he broke into song: “We all have pain, we all have sorrow . . .”

  Together they sang, “But, if we are wise, we know that there’s always tomorrrr-ow.”

  Jarret leaned toward Roland singing, “Lean on me, when you’re not strong . . .”

  A happy glow in his eyes, Roland leaned too, bumping Jarret’s shoulder. “And I’ll be your friend. I’ll help you carry on . . .”

  “For, it won’t be long ‘til I’m gonna need . . .” Jarret glanced at Roland and blinked a few times. His eyes grew moist and he swallowed hard. It appeared as though it took effort to continue singing, but sing he did. “You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand . . .”

  Had it occurred to him that this was the person he had beaten up, lied to, tricked, and manipulated over and over through the years? Still, Roland never showed a hint of bitterness. Roland wanted his friendship.

  Jarret’s heart was moved!

  Ellechial flashed to the throne of God, offered praise and thanksgiving, then begged for more grace for his charge. Perhaps tonight his repentance and conversion would begin.

  When he returned to the car, Deth-kye was there, wearing a sneer so deep it contorted his face. “It won’t last. Roland is Jarret’s scapegoat, his dupe. That will never change. His plan for tonight, do you know what it is?” He looked at Ellechial.

  Ellechial did not return the look, nor had he any intention of answering.

  “Well, I do,” Deth-kye spat. “He’s so delightfully envious of his little brother. He plans to get the boy into trouble. And I’ll see to it he does. Or worse. If I have my way—”

  “You won’t,” Ellechial said.

  A round, quivering, fist-sized shadow appeared above Deth-kye. A pointy-chinned, blood-red, grimacing face sprang from the shadow, hooking Deth-kye’s attention. The demons whispered to each other, then Deth-kye vanished. The red-faced demon, still only visible to the angels as a shadow and a face, turned its ugly gaze on them. “We shall s-s-see you s-s-soon,” he slurred and disappeared.

  Ellechial turned his thoughts to God, pleading for Jarret’s safety and conversion. The prayers of the teens had gained him permission to defend, to a point. Jarret’s choices would determine the extent of the help he could give.

  Jarret and Roland continued to sing. When “Lean on Me” ended, another familiar song began, and Roland belted it out. Jarret chuckled, his eyes still moist with emotion, then he joined Roland. They sang and sang until they ran out of familiar songs. Then they sat grinning for a while until Roland finally spoke.

  “So you really think that you know who the thief is?”

  “What?” Jarret’s smile faded.

  “You said we’re going to catch the thief, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Jarret’s eyes shifted, showing his discomfort over the topic. “No, I don’t know who it is. I just figure you already checked sellers on the internet. And Selena called antique shops, right? And he probably doesn’t know any collectors. But I’d bet you my Chrysler 300 he frequents a pawn shop.”

  “You’ll bet your car?”

  Jarret glared. “Well, no, but . . . there’re only so many pawn shops. Why don’t we check out a few? The nearest ones. Maybe we’ll see some of the stolen goods there, or maybe one of the dealers will know something. We can ask questions.”

  “Questions? What if we make someone suspicious? I mean, if one of the dealers receives stolen goods—”

  “Don’t be a dweeb. We’re not gonna say Hey, you got any hot stuff lately? We’ll act casual. We’ll say Papa’s name is George, and it’s his birthday.”

  “Huh?”

  “He collects antiques, and we’re looking for an old Saint George statue or something.”

  “What about the other stuff?”

  Jarret gave a disgusted huff and shook his head. “Okay, so if they ain’t got Saint George maybe they’ll suggest some other religious stuff, other antiques. If they’ve got anything of Juan’s, they’ll want to get it off their hands. We’ll tell them we’ve got money.” He grinned, looking pleased.

  “I don’t know.”

  Jarret’s grin faded, and he threw a sulky glance. “You don’t want to?”

  Roland opened his mouth but closed it without saying anything.

  All the muscles in Jarret’s face twitched. He took a deep breath, as if resigning himself, a most uncommon response for him. “Well, if you really don’t want to . . .”

  Ellechial rejoiced. Jarret was actually considering what Roland wanted. Perhaps Roland could talk him into doing something else, something less dangerous, something Deth-kye wouldn’t expect.

  “I don’t know. Think Papa would care? Think there’s any danger? I mean . . .” Roland gulpe
d back the rest of the sentence as he studied his sulking brother. “Well, I guess there’s no harm in looking. We’re just shopping, right? Nothing dangerous about that.”

  Jarret smiled. “Right.”

  Nadriel set about praying for Roland and whispering counsel. Roland had responded as Keefe would have in the past, giving in to Jarret’s reckless ideas.

  Before long, Roland had their route planned. He located Tucson pawnshops with his smartphone and mapped out the nearest ones. They both went inside the first shop, a crowded but not-too-sleazy place, and spent a few minutes looking around. Jarret did the talking, asking for a Saint George statue, among other things. The helpful but hard-of-hearing owner showed them a few antiques but nothing of Juan’s. They stopped at four other shops, asking similar questions, getting similar answers. Roland created a checklist. Jarret called in a pizza order and picked it up between pawnshops.

  Ellechial and Nadriel prayed and kept watch.

  As the last traces of sunlight faded from the sky, they drove down a street shrouded in shadows in search of the next pawnshop on the list. Streetlights came farther apart, the buildings lower and older. Sirens sounded in the distance. They passed few people but many demons. Evil lingered in the air.

  “You know,” Roland said, “we don’t seem to be having much luck. And this neighborhood doesn’t look too safe. Maybe we should call it a night. What time did you tell Papa—”

  “Don’t start freaking out just because the sun’s gone down. What, are you afraid of the dark too?” Jarret slowed the car, squinting at a street sign. “Besides, we’re already here. Might as well check it out.”

  Roland sighed. “Well, let’s head back after this one.”

  As Jarret cranked the steering wheel and turned the corner, Nadriel pointed and said, “Over there.”

  In an alley near the pawnshop, shadows convulsed with the presence of demons. How many? Was their presence Deth-kye’s doing?

  Five young, tattooed men also occupied the alley, three of them shirtless and with jeans riding lower than their underwear, two leaning against the wall, one smoking. They all turned as Jarret parked the car on the opposite side of the street. Jarret gave them a glance but redirected his gaze to the A to Z Pawn Shop, a plain building with a false front, barred windows, and a half-lit sign. They would have to pass the alley to get to it.

  Jarret turned to Roland. “Wait here. I’ll check it out real quick.”

  “Why should I wait here?” Roland nodded in the direction of the men. “Shouldn’t we stick together?”

  Jarret smirked. “No. You stay here. They look like gangsters. You look like a victim.” He reached for the door handle.

  “What does that mean? I don’t look any more like a victim than you do.”

  “Yeah, right.” Jarret flashed a fake grin and swung open his door. “Just stay in the car.”

  “No.” Roland grabbed his door handle.

  Jarret shot a hand out and yanked Roland back with a tight grip on his arm. “You do what I say. If something happens to you, Papa’ll have my hide.”

  “What if something happens to you? He’ll have my hide.”

  “Right. You really think that?” Jarret paused, sneering. “If something goes wrong, I’m gonna get the blame. Not you. Not Papa’s pet.” He released Roland’s arm.

  “I’m not his pet.”

  Jarret got out. “Stay.” He slammed the door and strutted across the street, his gaze on the pawnshop lights.

  With wings spread wide and shield in hand, Ellechial affixed himself to Jarret.

  Jarret hadn’t given the men so much as a glance as he neared, but as soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk, three of them approached. Five demons came with them, two tall and emaciated, three low to the ground and resembling mangy dogs.

  The guardian angels of the men came, too, but they wore the long tunics of those who could do little on their charge’s behalf. They were unarmed. Ellechial understood their plight all too well. This battle would be his alone.

  As the three men surrounded Jarret, he stopped. “What’s up?” He gave each of them a hard stare. “You got a problem?”

  The one in his path folded his arms across his bare chest and rubbed his tattooed chin. “What is up with you, Pocho?”

  “My business ain’t with you.” Jarret kept a level tone and made a move to step around, but the man shifted his stance and blocked the way.

  The tall demons swooped down and whispered first to one, then to another of the three men. The men spoke to each other in Spanish, talking quickly. Judging by the flicker of Jarret’s eyes, he caught none of it.

  The one blocking him finally spoke in English. “Who is your business with then, Pocho? This is our street.”

  Jarret gave the man the once-over, probably sizing him up and wondering if he could take him. Then he glanced at the men on either side. “I’m going to the pawnshop.”

  “Maybe I am the owner of the pawnshop,” the man with the tattooed goatee said, stepping so close that Jarret flinched at the odor of his stale breath.

  The other two men moved in, taking slow steps. A low growl came from one of the dog-like demons. The other one inched toward Ellechial’s heels.

  Ellechial raised his shield. God willing, he would keep Jarret from harm.

  Jarret’s body tensed. He took a deep breath then reached for the arm of the man with the goatee, as if to push him out of the way. But he never got the chance.

  One of the men came up behind Jarret, grabbed his arms and locked them behind his back.

  The dog-demons leapt. The towering devils shrieked and reached for Jarret with claw-like hands.

  Ellechial swung his shield and spiraled around his charge, light sparking as demons made contact with his shield.

  Demons recoiled. Demons lunged. Grasping, cursing, shrieking . . .

  For the glory of God and the salvation of his charge, with only a shield to use, Ellechial beat back the attack. But then one demon slipped by.

  The man with the tattooed goatee put a hand on Jarret’s shoulder. “So sorry, Pocho. You cannot go yet.” With a fierce scowl on his face, egged on by the tallest of the demons, he raised his fists and took two shots, slugging Jarret in the gut and then on the chin.

  Jarret moaned and slumped forward, though his captor did not release him.

  Hideous but familiar laughter erupted nearby. Then Deth-kye appeared, grinning and pleased with himself.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  LONG RIDE HOME

  Jarret

  The punch to his gut knocked the wind out of him, making Jarret lurch forward. It took a full two seconds for him to recover enough to move. Retaliation drove him. The man behind him still clutched his arms, so he decided to make the most of it. He leaned his weight onto the man and thrust his boot into Goatee’s chest.

  Goatee stumbled back. Was he going down?

  No. He steadied himself, screwed his face into a prune-like sneer, and drew back his fist.

  Jarret twisted his body and jerked his arms, hoping to break his captor’s hold. But the man’s hands clamped down like a steel vise.

  Goatee shot forward, fists ready.

  Jarret tightened his abs, but Goatee delivered one shot after another. Bolts of white hot pain seared through him.

  “Hey!” someone called from a distance. Footfalls sounded in the street, drawing near.

  His captor’s grip lessened. One of the thugs muttered something to the others.

  This could be his chance to break free. But his breath wouldn’t come, and his abdomen cramped. His stomach lurched. He doubled over. Partially-digested pizza rushed up into his throat and out.

  One of the dudes shouted something in Spanish, a word Jarret didn’t know, and all hands released him.

  Jarret collapsed, his cheek hitting the cool pavement.

  “Leave him alone.” The voice resembled Roland’s, only lower.

  Jarret opened his eyes to see, but there on the pavement before him lay a pile of
upchucked pizza . . . way too close. The sour stench hit him, making his stomach lurch again.

  “Who is this guy? Not police,” one dude said in Spanish. The other two mumbled replies.

  “Beat it,” Roland said, if it was Roland. The voice was definitely lower than Roland’s. He sounded tough, hardened.

  The gang took him seriously. Their boots pounded down the alley. Why would anyone run away from Roland?

  With his ribs begging him not to move, Jarret tried to push himself up. A hand clamped his upper arm. Jarret’s head spun at the thought of taking another punch, but the person only yanked him to his feet.

  “Come on.”

  Head pounding, Jarret squinted at the shadowy figure. “Roland?”

  “Yeah, come on. They might come back.” Roland scooted a few steps away, glanced around, then motioned for Jarret to run.

  Hugging his ribs and unable to keep from groaning, Jarret ran. Each step made him want to lie down and die. He must’ve broken a rib or something. Maybe his liver took a hit.

  They reached the car and Roland yanked open the passenger-side door. He started to get in.

  “You’ll have to drive.” Jarret pushed past Roland and dropped onto the passenger-side seat, heart beating wildly in his throat and chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

  Roland stood gawking at him for a long second. Then he shoved something into the glove compartment and ran around to the driver’s side. “I can’t drive,” he said, sliding behind the steering wheel. “I don’t even have my temps.”

  “You have to.”

  Roland shoved the key into the ignition and adjusted the rear view mirror. “What if I get pulled over?”

  “Start the car!” Jarret slumped down in the seat. “Those guys could come back any second.” The pain behind his eyes kept him from checking to see.

  With a heavy sigh, Roland cranked the key and shifted into drive. Though the street had zero traffic, he looked over his shoulder three times before creeping forward.

  “You’re gonna have to drive faster than that.” It hurt to talk, and his voice came out strained. He gingerly touched his ribs. Could one be broken?

  “What’s the speed limit here? I don’t see any signs, do you? Are you hurt bad? Should I find the hospital?” Roland must’ve repeated the questions twenty times before they got to the highway.