The vision had been explicit, leading her to The Order, an obvious indicator for her to act quickly. She didn’t want to think about what would happen once she arrived at the church, or how she would pursue the damning spell. Somehow, someway, her objective was to break the curse.
Fifty feet ahead, she discerned the green street sign printed in white letters Barton Street. The sidewalks were sparsely littered with people; the city was coming to life as traffic increased in volume with beeping horns and squealing tires.
City diners were in the process of unbolting their entrances, and whiffs of the tantalizing fragrance of frying bacon and sausage hung in the air. Her stomach rumbled. She should’ve grabbed something to eat before flying from the apartment. Cruising past the signal at Marine Drive, she banked left then stopped.
Why didn’t I take the car? Stupid.
As she neared the waterfront, her nostrils swapped the fragrance of frying bacon with the unsavory stench of fish. To prevent her skin from being tampered with demon goo, she’d covered every inch of her body. She abhorred demon goo. A dazzling sun was on the rise, along with the temperature. Shoving up the long sleeves to her jacket, she found that her body was already tacky.
Jordan reached the wharf district. At one time, it had sported a plethora of bustling activity where lake barges had loaded and unloaded their wares. The district now consisted of vacant warehouse buildings. Broadening her periphery, she accidentally booted a stray bottle. It hit the side of a building and shattered. The sound carried through the alleyways between the warehouses. Grating her teeth, she was thoroughly pissed over announcing her presence. Her deed triggered a memory, like déjà vu, reminding her of an earlier vision. Although that vision had occurred during a full moon, right now, it was bright and sunny.
Then she caught sight of flowing, white head of hair. An albino. Unlike her, covered from head to toe, the man was clad in a grungy wife beater and a pair of cargo shorts, riding low on his hipbones. Inclined against the building, he had his thumbs inserted into his belt loops, as if it was a laid-back day in the park. He was watching her.
From her proximity, she estimated the man’s age to be in his late teens, possibly early twenties.
For some incomprehensible reason, she didn’t receive the run vibe. Not yet. Her sixth sense told her that his appearance was not coincidental. Squelching into an alley between parallel buildings, she walked vigorously. Her ears tuned in like an antenna, trying to pick up any demon static. Not a peep.
Spying a dumpster, she slunk to the side of it to hide. Still, there wasn’t a hint that the man was trailing. The corroded dumpster regurgitated a rancid odor, stinging her nose. She checked the desolate area and wondered where the garbage was coming from. Cautiously, she advanced from her hiding place.
Overriding her will and control, her body took off as if the satanic church had a homing device. She was close. Stuffing a hand into her pocket, she fingered the vials of holy water for assurance. She also identified an underlying noise.
Music?
She rounded a warehouse, and there it was—wholly secreted in the midst of the once thriving waterfront. Mutinous weeds and clinging vines claimed the façade of the gothic church. The structure was modest compared to today’s standards.
Mopping her sweaty brow, she squinted into the sun, indebted to the illumination, since it was true that demons preferred the black of night to prowl unhindered.
What waits for me inside?
Were her ears deceiving her, or did she really hear music? Inspecting the area, the albino was nowhere to be seen. She predicted he had a part in this intrigue. Which part had yet to be determined?
She cleaved a path through the waist high, bamboo-like grass. The music grew louder as she approached. Maybe some trespassing kids were having a daytime party, out of sight of the cops. She peered at the worn church steps, where the concrete had been broken into tiny chips.
“Okay, Markus,” she said faintly. “Just in case you’re wondering, I’m going in.” Her fingers circled the chunky brass handles and felt a stinging twinge of an electric current.
Somewhat shocked, she let go and stepped back. She stared at the handle as if it was a bad omen.
A composition of head-banging music escaped the church. Not Jordan’s favorite, it was more distinctive to Thrills tastes. Wow, Thrill hadn’t invaded her thoughts in a while. She felt a secondary vibration in her back pocket where she’d stuck her cell, a voice mail awaited. She silently moaned.
He’ll be so pissed.
Again, she gripped the handle, and ignoring the zing, she pulled. Screeching metal, enough to wake the dead, assaulted her ears and powdery rust tainted her airways. With a curt cough to clear her throat, she drifted through the residue.
An abominable sensation welcomed Jordan into Satan’s lair, and an assaulting waft was like a slap in the face: decomposing timber, damp stonework, and a fusty tang she couldn’t put her finger on. The riff of a heated guitar broke her out of her lollygagging. It seemed that the overwhelming wickedness hadn’t affected those inside. The spicy scent of whatever they were smoking and drinking heightened the tang.
Drawn to flickering flames, her sight was impaired by smoke wreathing around an elevated platform. She counted six people ringing an altar, and from where she stood, she could see they’d been partaking in the Ouija board. If her hunch was correct, they weren’t all human. Suspended above, on the main wall, hung the repellent inverted crucifix. A tremor coiled up her backbone, lodging at the base of her neck.
As silently as possible, Jordan passed the narthex and headed into the nave, the central part of the church where the congregation worshiped. The church lacked any pews, but their bolted hinges were still prevalent, looking like stumbling blocks. The boarded-up windows were splintered, and subdued light breached the gloominess. Since studying her father’s journal on the occult, she’d recognized the demonic symbols carved on the walls.
“What dickhead invited the chick?”
Jordan’s gaze hooked back to the players. One boy parted the smoke by hopping off the platform. A hazy cloud followed in his wake.
Another voice hailed from the altar. “Get outta here, bitch.”
The boy soldiering forward raised a hand, ending their commentary. He appeared to be their leader or whatnot. As he approached, she checked his eyes, no red-ring. Though she sensed a demon vibe, it must have been one of the other kids. He was totally bald and shirtless. Bronzed skin glistened in swatches of filtered light. Her eyes traveled over a naked torso of tattoos and his pictorial sleeves ribboned up to his throat. A wink of silver caught the light on an assortment of piercings to his body and face.
Standing within a yard of Jordan, and barely a head taller, he lapped a moist tongue between his lips as if she represented a piece of succulent meat. He uttered only one word.
“Speak.”
His attempt at coercion was pitiful. She’d seen and heard worse. “I’m meeting someone here.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
“Oh, yeah? Who?”
“Someone from The Order.”
His eyes betrayed him with a twitch.
A name popped into her head. “You’re Stringer right?”
He didn’t act surprised that she knew his name, and preening, he expanded his chest as if he was a star. “So you heard of me?” Swiveling to his friends who were leering from the platform, he yelled, “Who hasn’t heard of Stringer? Right, guys?”
Hoots and applause echoed off the walls.
“This babe wants to know if anyone is here from The Order.” His comment elicited tenuous chuckling. Stringer turned back to her. His shoulders dipped side to side as if he was assessing his next words. “Wanna join us while you’re waiting, sweet thing.”
“You bet your life. I want to join.”
His mouth pinched sideways into a shit-eating grin.
THEY SHARPEN THEIR TONGUES
LIKE POISON ARROWS
MARKUS SENSED AND felt
the exponential strength of the possessive curse. His muscles convulsed, attempting to brace Seeley in place. Her body resembled a fortified frame of marble.
When she relaxed into a gummy pile of skin and bones, he released her. Her body plopped inertly onto the mattress like a dead weight.
At first, he thought she’d died.
Suddenly Ezekiel appeared. So unlike him to weave and clutch onto the priest’s shoulder for support.
“It’s not Seeley,” he said, sounding fraught.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Father James, wiping down his spent face.
“Seeley’s not the one who’s possessed.” Ezekiel’s chest swelled taking a deep breath. “It’s the baby.”
Gasps shot from the priests, the infant’s possession had not been foreseen.
“Impossible.” Andre’s stout voice had weakened considerably.
“Seeley is fighting for the life of the child. And the baby’s contaminating her body like a poison.” Ezekiel transformed into a human, struggling to stand upright. “Subconsciously, she’s aware of her condition.”
Markus linked a hand under his brother’s armpits, assisting him to the chair. He’d never seen Ezekiel so weak and distraught.
Father James peered at his mentor. “What can we do?”
“The infant is concealed from within,” Andre said, “untouchable.”
“Could it kill Seeley?” asked Markus.
“It needs Seeley to survive.” Father Andre frowned, a horde of wrinkles channeling into his saggy jowls. “Like a host.” He profoundly inhaled before adding, “If we don’t get rid of the possessive spirit we’ll lose Seeley. And if the infant lives, a pure demon will be unleashed into the world.”
The room quieted as they pondered over of the dire consequences if they failed.
“Jordan must’ve learned something substantial last night.” Father James veered to Ezekiel. “The spirit is lashing out like a toddler having a tantrum.”
“Look.” Father Andre gestured a spiny finger toward the bed. Like watching air being pumped into a deflated ball, Seeley’s stomach expanded. “The infant grows before our eyes.”
JORDAN FOLLOWED STRINGER to the raised alter. The volume of music had been reduced, and she could almost think clearly. Now acclimated to the dreary light, she noticed one person who hadn’t turned to gawk at her. By the body shape, she guessed the person was female. Short blackish-blue hair, that looked as if she’d put her finger in an electrical socket, spiked like needles on her head. Wearing a hoodie, seemingly illogical on such a hot day, the girl flung the hood over her head, screening her face.
Jordan’s demon transmitter clicked off the charts.
“What do we call such a sweet piece of meat?” said one of the boys. “Bring your lusciousness to Tits. I’m your man.”
“Jordan.” And she wasn’t fond of being referred to as a sweet piece of meat.
The boy named Tits dumped an arm over her back, housing her in place next to Stringer. Registering the ensemble at four boys and two girls, Jordan glanced over the Ouija board. The planchette jittered in place as if it was excited.
“I’m Booklyn,” slurred a waifish girl, giggling through a hiccup.
The boy’s sniggered.
A mange of draggled dreadlocks stemmed over her shoulders. “Nah, I mean Br-r-rooklyn.”
Possibly younger than Jordan, the waif with deeply bronzed skin appeared willowy and teetering, she seemed to be having a hard time attaining stability of her legs. Slanted on the altar, she goggled Jordon through red-veiny eyes.
Brooklyn’s either very strung-out or she’s the demon.
“Here take a hit,” said a sandy haired boy, offering a pipe to Brooklyn and stroked the girl’s shoulder.
They’d introduced themselves: Ransom, Tits, Dallas, and, of course, Stringer, and Brooklyn. The lone hoodie remained mum.
“She don’t talk much.” Ransom jutted his chin at the hooded girl. “Says it all through the board.”
Without assistance, the jittering planchette shimmied to the C, then spelled out A-M-I-L-L-E.
“Awesome, man!” said Tits. “See what I mean, she’s righteous.”
Jordan wouldn’t give the girl such high praise for her little tricks.
An exterior and abrupt interfering signal nibbled at her brain. Markus now is not the time to contact me. The message messed with her head, so she locked it away. She decided to get right to the point. “Can the oracle tell me where to find The Order?”
“Whoa, man,” countered Stringer. “You’re dealing with big-time shit. We’re just hacks. Our group eats off their vibes, and Camille—” Before he could finish his sentence, he gagged.
“Hah!” Ransom pointed a finger at the gagging Stringer as if the joke was on him. “Sucker punch!”
Not on the same frequency, Jordan eyed those gathered, and then arrested on the stirring the planchette. They became alert. The piece budged to the G-E-T, paused, then skidded over the board, spelling the letters O-U-T.
“That’s our signal. Let’s vamoose.” Stringer knelt on the floor, snatched a T-shirt and commenced to pull it over his head.
“Where’s everyone going?” Jordan asked, irate at her unsatisfactory enterprise. “I didn’t get my answer.”
“Hey, sweet meat, when Camille says get out, it’s the end all,” Stringer said. “Know what I mean? If you’re looking for someone to contact your dead mommy or daddy, I’d go else- where.” He bundled the iPod dock and said as an afterthought, “Why don’t you hang with me? I’m the answer to your prayers, baby.”
Pompous ass. Jordan wondered how he’d react to a swift knee in his precious jewels. The boys collected the empty bottles and cans into a brown paper bag and started to leave.
“Coming, Brooklyn?” Tits called over his shoulder.
“Later.”
“Your funeral.”
Just as Jordan heard the thunk of the door, an overshadowing of darkness chased light from the interior of the church. A sudden flash, and seconds later, a thunderous crack shook the emaciated building. A storm battered the wooden planks, making them rattle and clunk on the outside of the panes. A pattering of raindrops tinged the rooftop, then a second clap of thunder before the heavens split, pouring down a deluge of rainwater.
The waifish girl, Brooklyn, stretched and yawned and stacked her elbows on the altar. She propped her chin on her palms, unfazed by the aftereffects of drugs and booze. And Jordan immediately detected the glare of her red-ringed pupils.
“So, you’re seeking The Order?” she said matter-of-factly and looked at Camille.
Jordan knew what to expect next.
Camille’s arms lifted and flicked off the hood. “We’ve been waiting for you, Jordan.”
Ronan!
Just as Jordan had envisioned, the left side of Ronan’s face had been scarred beyond repair. Jordan half-expected to have to fight a dozen demons, although, not a single sound of hammering feet stirred the air.
“Still recruiting, Ronan?”
“Drugs, booze, and rock n’ roll. Isn’t that the old saying?” Ronan said. “And refer to me as Camille. Ronan’s dead.”
“Drugs and booze to dull the senses, and head smashing music to jangle the brain,” Jordan said. “And what else gets your saps to perform the blood ritual, selling their souls to the devil?”
“Ahh, that’s where you’re wrong,” Camille unzipped her hoodie. “Souls seek the darkness for a wealth of spirituality. Desirous allegiances to an unencumbered lord to live a passionate life,” she said as if she’d memorized a quote.
“So that’s your motto? Duping people with wealth and lust?” She tried not to stare at Camille’s left eye. The lid had melted shut, leaving a tiny slit for her to peer through.
Camille’s scarred mouth distorted. “We make them happy beyond their wildest dreams. Don’t we, Brooklyn?”
The waif nodded and extended a hand to caress Camille’s disfigured face.
The storm lessened
until the rainfall was just a drizzle as Jordan debated her next move. “I don’t have time for this game, Ro— I mean Camille.”
“You need my help, don’t you?” The corners of Camille’s lips curved in an offensive sneer. “The willful servant of God is seeking my help.” Her spiky head reared backward in an open-mouthed bark, and then back again to glower at Jordan. “And what do I get in return?”
Reckless words tumbled from Jordan’s mouth, “Me. You get me.”
A BLOOD COVENANT
JORDAN SUPPRESSED A shudder and disguised her emotions. Offering herself as bait to save Seeley had been an impetuous choice. Swift reasoning had occurred to Jordan. Since Ronan’s purported demise, she must’ve been recuperating with the aid of The Order. She must also have been demoted a few pegs due to the debacle of their supreme leader, Asa’s, fiery death. And Lucifer’s entanglement with Markus had been more than likely cataclysmic in the realm of hell.
Jordan surveyed the guarded expressions of the two girls reflecting over her declaration. As a tempting codicil, Jordan said, “The Black Order of the Cult would look favorably on the person who binds the white warrior. Your recompense would boost your rank in the echelon.”
“I could take you down, right now, right here,” Camille said with conceit. Her pupils burned into Jordan. “No proposed covenant is acceptable with Jordan Chase.”
Similar to a lithe cougar, Brooklyn struck a pose, ready to do Camille’s bidding. She cocked her arms, fingers tensed, waiting for the order.
Camille stretched her neck as if she was being rebooted from within. Elements of magic bristled in the air as Jordan readied for the clash by freeing a spritz of holy water. It sizzled and evaporated.
Brooklyn and Camille’s laughter bounced around the church. “Is that all you got?” Camille said. Her amused eyes appeared insolent in her mutilated face.
All at once, Jordan felt a hit to her chest, thrusting her off her feet. Brooklyn hopped up and down, clapping her hands like an exuberated child at the circus. Jordan’s mind snagged the planchette. It zoomed into Camille’s temple, knocking her sideways.
Wickedly They Dream Page 14
