by Erik Lynd
“Fuck him,” thought Grace. But deep down she knew that was hollow. Golyat was… Golyat. You don’t fuck with him.
At least not directly. He had a soul for her to work with—a twisted, tortured, hateful soul—but a soul nevertheless, and those were her stock and trade as a soul shaper witch. As she fantasized about what she could do to Golyat’s soul, her eyes drifted to the crystal vial on the shelf, the one that contained an exceptional soul, or at least part of one. It was a part of the Hunter’s soul that the werehellhound had torn from him and had eventually found its way to her.
It was her prized possession as well as a reminder of her failure. It wasn’t unexpected; she was young, untrained, and had no idea how to master a soul. Still, she had been able to hurt the Hunter; in fact, she had almost destroyed him. But then he had found some way to bind that power he has within him to fill the hole left behind by this missing piece. She still didn’t understand what he had done.
Her only comfort was that he probably didn’t know either. In the limited glimpses she had of him, it was obvious he was working on instinct too. They had that in common. Then she smiled. She was a quick study. Like the trap she had left for the Hunter at the abandoned building. It probably wouldn’t stop him, but it would surprise him. Her soul manipulation power was growing faster every day.
And it wasn’t just soul-shaping. There was other stuff… things she couldn’t quite figure out. But it was power, just beyond her reach, and if she kept stretching every day, eventually it would be hers.
She reached out to the soul in front of her with both her mind and her fingers and slowly plucked at strands she could see woven throughout it. She pulled at one, but it was slippery and slid from her fingers like a wet spaghetti noodle.
She grunted in frustration. Each strand was an experience complete with memory and emotions, all tied together. She wanted to see if she could separate one, remove it, from the complete soul. Take the life experience from the poor pitiful wretch. She had been working on it for weeks, ever since she had discovered the strands.
Wait… wet spaghetti noodle. She had an idea. She reached out again pulling at the strand. She couldn’t get a good hold, but she could tease it out, lift it a little way from the whole. She could feel the fear emanating from the soul. Then her head darted forward like a striking snake. She caught the strand in her mouth and then, just like a noodle, she slurped it up.
It was long, but she pulled it into her mouth. The soul spun like a ball of twine as the thread was consumed. She could hear it scream as she pulled the life experience into herself. She could feel its pain, but it was distant as though she was numb to it. And why shouldn’t she be? It wasn’t her pain.
Besides, she was in ecstasy. The thoughts, the feelings, the emotions—everything coursed through her. She had never had sex, but she had to imagine this was a thousand times better. Every piece of that experience permeated her being.
The lingering smell of saltwater filled her sinuses. She could feel the sand shifting under her feet, flowing up between her toes as she wiggled them. The waves roared and crashed next to her. She fell to the ground landing on a towel. Laughter bubbled over inside her and came out.
It was her first time at the beach. The sun was warm, the air full of scents of the sea and coconut suntan lotion. She was young, not more than ten, her hair long and brown. There were a picnic basket and cooler next to her. She pulled out an ice-cold soda, the chill in contrast to the hot sun sent goosebumps up her arm.
Then it was gone. Grace opened her eyes. She had consumed the thread, the noodle, of experience. But all the memories of that moment, when she was somewhere else, when she was someone else, were etched in her, just as if she had experienced it. Grace gasped as she tried to process what had happened. All she knew is she felt… fulfilled.
But already she the feeling drained from her, the ecstasy was leaving. The experience was still there, it was hers now, but the euphoria had abated. She had discovered the ultimate drug.
The soul still floated in front of her, and she could feel terror coming from it in waves. She sorted the threads again. It was hard to find distinct ones, and her impatience won out. She grabbed a thread at random, her mouth darted forward, and she caught it in her mouth with a giggle. This was fun. She slurped.
The ecstasy came again, despite the nature of the experience. It was a funeral and it should have been raining, but it wasn’t; it was sunny. In the movies it was always raining, and that seemed right. She was twelve now, same long brown hair. No bathing suit this time; she wore a black dress, hastily bought a few days ago. It didn’t even feel right. She found herself constantly adjusting it, pulling and tugging. She just wanted to scream.
The preacher droned on and on. He mentioned her mom’s name several times, telling everyone how great she had been, what an amazing person her mom had been.
He didn’t have to tell her. Wave after wave of sadness washed over her. She wanted to be gone, she wanted to be home under her blankets where no one could see her. No one looked at her while they lowered her mom into a grave.
Again, it was gone, but the memory remained. Grace had fallen to her knees; she slowly got to her feet. Her body thrummed with excitement. She felt as though that experience was hers. That she had been the girl at the funeral. It had been a sad experience, but it made her almost giggle with joy.
She delved into the soul again slurping up experience after experience, thought after thought. The good, the bad, all of it. Every thread thrilled her. This poor girl’s life had been downhill after the funeral: drugs, prostitution, living on the streets, disease. All of it had made her soul what it had become. And Grace devoured it.
By the time she was done, she was on the floor rolling around, pleasure coursing through her body. She laughed until she cried. She couldn’t stop, it was everything. The girl, Haley, had become her, she had consumed her and everything she had ever known or felt or lived through was now a part of Grace.
She got to her feet and bounced from one to the other. She was full, but she wanted more, like a junkie needed another hit. She had two other souls ready for experiments, but she knew she would not be able to hold back. Think of the experiences they would have, what she could learn from consuming them. Their life would be hers, they would be a part of her. And they were just the beginning. Her mind was racing. She wondered if this was what a meth addict experienced. She could consume many souls, making each one a part of her. Think of the power, the control.
She heard a noise, like a whimper, and spun to Anabelle in the corner. The old hag had turned around and seen everything. Now she quaked in fear. Grace could see it. What was she so afraid of?
Then it occurred to Grace, what if she consumed a dark soul? What if she devoured something of that immense power, pulled from the well of Hell? Was it even possible?
And that’s when she understood Anabelle’s fear. She probably could take a dark soul that way. They were just souls after all, albeit powerful ones. Grace stared at Anabelle and could feel the smile forming almost of its own will and the giggles emerging from her own throat. Anabelle began to wail, throwing up her hands against Grace although Grace hadn’t moved. Yet.
Grace stared at the wailing woman swinging her arms in feeble defense. Wow, she thought, I am so hungry.
8
Hamlin sat next to Eris’ hospital bed staring at her like he could force her awake by sheer force of will. She looked so small and almost as pale as her hospital sheets. Tubes and wires ran from machines to her way emaciated body. The pale institutional light gave her skin a mottled look.
Not that Hamlin looked much better. The doctors in the ER had fixed him up, but it would take a master makeup artist to hide the bruises and swelling, not to mention the bandages over the stitches. Yeah, he didn’t really make a pretty picture himself.
After getting stitched up, he had made a detour on his way out to look in on Eris. She was a Jane Doe, so the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention t
o himself visiting her. There would be questions, especially if they found out he was a detective.
So, he had tried to slip in unseen. Hard to do with bruised ribs and a pronounced limp, but so far, so good.
Without thinking he reached out and brushed back the hair from her forehead. Part girl, part demon, it didn’t matter. She was good for them, and she deserved better than this. She was as tough as they come. He only hoped she could be tough enough because they needed her.
More importantly, Christopher needed her. He was changing into something—Hamlin had no idea into what—but it wasn’t good. He was a good kid but losing his way. She, demon and all, grounded him. Despite his emotional bankruptcy, even Hamlin could tell she was the only one who could pull Christopher back from whatever dark abyss he stood on the edge of.
He sat down and took her fragile hand in his, the skin so transparent he thought he could see the blood vessels pumping away faintly.
“I’m not sure if you can hear me, but we miss you here. We want you back, we need you back. Rest and heal, but hurry back. You’re missed.”
He leaned over and gently kissed her hand. Then he thought he would stay a little while longer, just hold her hand for a few minutes more.
9
Apophis stared at the ancient building as a tourist took pictures and wondered aloud with oohs and ahs at the antiquity and history around them. Apophis looked once again at the dusty brown structure. It hadn’t even existed when he last walked the earth.
They were in Old Town Cairo, the new capital of this land. In some ways it was familiar. He could smell the cooking from the outdoor market, the spices and scents were a part of his memory.
The sounds too were similar: the sellers hocking their wares, the laughter, the arguments over price or quality. This all invoked his ancient memories. But then there were the differences.
Cell phones ringing, instantly sending messages and voices around the world, vast amounts of information at your fingertips. Kids listening to music with earbuds, lost in their own world as they walked through the real one.
Modern fumes of pollution saturated the place. They were fresh from the ground, so it was particularly pungent to him, while the people of this era had become numb to it.
There was a gritty, grimy texture to this world as though modern excess had left a fine dust on everything. Apophis reached out to touch the old stone and then wiped his hand on his shirt. He could almost taste the modernness of it all.
It tasted of metal and oil. Like a gun barrel.
Yes, they knew what guns were. They also knew what airplanes were, cars, computers, the internet. They were no strangers to technology, innovation, or global politics.
As they lay under the earth, the world slid over them. They were not active, did not have consciousness to form or a physical body to act on the world around, but they absorbed. It’s what they did, these hollow beings, it was what they were built for. To learn, observe, understand, then destroy.
While they slumbered, they watched the world turn. They watched the rise of the great pyramids and fall of Egyptian dynasties, they watched the beauty of ancient Greece crumble away and the rise of Rome. They rode the consciousness of the people of these times. They weren’t omniscient, they did not know all, but they moved through each age following, learning.
There was no rhyme or rhythm to it, they drifted from country to country, in this dream-like state, but following it all. It might have been what kept them sane through the centuries. Although it could be argued that because of their nature they could not be driven mad. They were made not created like humans. But it didn’t really matter. It did not change who and what they were.
And they had a nemesis: The Beast as he was sometimes called, the Hunter of those that had escaped the underworld. His job, to condemn those souls to damnation in that realm. Before anything else, they must destroy him, the who tried to banish Apophis for eternity.
They had followed him when they could, in that dreaming state of undeath. It was not easy to follow one like him, and they would lose track of him for centuries. Then they would catch a glimpse of his power in the world and just like that, he was gone again.
So they had felt the recent transition. The subtle change in the Beast’s power had rippled through the realm where they existed, that place between Heaven and Hell.
And now they had seen the rise of this new hero. The one taking over the role of the Hunter, fighting the dark souls like he was a superhero. The internet praised him and his fighting of the monsters and demons that had suddenly been unleashed on the world. Apophis and his brethren had watched as the world debated whether he even existed, whether these things were really monsters or just mass delusions and special effects.
But Apophis knew what was real. He knew that dark souls and monsters were real. He also knew how to get to this new Hunter. It was all too obvious. The weakness of mortals.
Although the sun had just set and the afternoon heat had not started to dissipate, as one they pulled the hoods of their coats over their heads. In uncanny unison they pulled the scarves around their necks up to cover their noses and mouths. Someday they would not need to hide their identity; for now though, it was still a weapon.
They walked along the market, Apophis’ eyes sliding from stall to stall looking at the faces around him, looking for something specific. Then he thought he saw it: Courage.
A youth leaned against one wall as his parents, tourists, perused a particularly gaudy stall filled with cheap trinkets and low-quality novelty t-shirts emblazoned with sayings like ‘I saw the great pyramids of Giza’ and bumper stickers declaring ‘My other ride is a camel’.
He wore a black t-shirt with a smear of an image on the front, probably a heavy metal band; his hair hung in his eyes and covered his pale skin like the drapes in a house of the dead. He would do.
Apophis approached the boy. The kid didn’t even seem to notice until he stood right in front of him. He looked up out of irritation.
“What the fuck dude?”
American, good. “I will give you fifty dollars to record video of the market for the next three minutes,” Apophis said.
“What?” said the kid. “What are you talking about? Record what?”
“I would like you to record what happens in the next three minutes and then upload and share on all the social media. You do have social media accounts, correct?”
“Well yeah, of course. Facebook, Insta, all that shit. Hell, tell you what, I can go live on Facebook. Instant fame dude. But what are you gonna do, rob somebody? I mean with the scarf around your face and all?”
“I am going to give you fifty dollars for a short, simple task. Can you do this?”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever dude.”
The kid took out his earbuds and held up his phone. “Okay guy, do whatever. Takes a lot of hits nowadays to get noticed, so whatever it is, it better be good. Impress me.”
Apophis spoke directly to the phone.
“This is for the Beast, the Hunter of Souls. You don’t know us, but we know you, we know what you are. Witness our power. This is a taste of what is to come if you do not come find us in Cairo. If we have to come find you, we will leave a trail of bodies to your doorstep.”
“Wait a minute! Who the fuck are you?” the kid said and lowered the phone. “Are you talking about the guy with the sword?”
“Raise the phone up boy. Remember, as long as you continue recording, you will live. Stop, and you will join the chaos.”
The strength of Apophis’ voice, the force of will alone was enough to force the kid to raise the phone.
He and his brothers stepped into the crowd. Long, wicked blades appeared from their coats. Then the killing began.
In a blur of whirling long knives and whipping coattails the three brothers plunged into the crowd. Their blades were precise, striking vital points, slicing into arteries and then darting away to find new victims. The brothers moved at inhuman speed, spinning, cutting, strikin
g. Ten were dead in less than a second, nobody had even moved. The cuts so quick, some who had been struck fatal blows didn’t even realize it.
Then the blood started flowing and the bodies started falling. The brothers relished their task. Apophis leaped over part of the crowd, clearing twenty feet and cutting down as he passed over, slicing over scalps. No death with that strike, but pain and blood were just as meaningful for this message.
The brothers did not just kill, they also gutted some, again the display of pain and suffering just as valuable. It was a full three seconds after they had begun that the crowd woke up to what was going on and the first screams began.
Apophis leaped again and landed in front of the kid he had tasked with recording everything. The phone had drifted down as the kid realized what was going on. Horror and stark fear were written across his face when Apophis’ visage appeared before him. The kid was coming apart.
Apophis had anticipated this, however. He caught the boy’s wrist just above the hand holding the phone and lifted it back up.
Behind him his bothers darted through the crowd killing with inhuman speed. Screams formed the background music to the massacre. Most of the crowd had deteriorated into chaos. Nobody knew where to run, so they scattered in all directions, hitting into each other, trampling over one another as they searched for a way out of the killing field. His brothers danced about them and sprang lightly throughout the mass of people like little birds of death.
“Record it all boy,” Apophis hissed and forced the kid to aim the phone back at the slaughter. “Record it all boy, every drop of blood, every cut and slice. And you get to live, your family even gets to live. If you don’t share with the world, I and mine will find you.”
Blood sprayed across the face of the boy; he screamed but Apophis held his arm in place. “Last chance boy,” Apophis said into the boy’s ear. “Fail and you join the slaughter.”
