by Erik Lynd
He was bald with small, beady eyes, but Grace knew he saw everything. You didn’t become head of the Alliance of dark souls by being an idiot. His mouth was normal sized but looked small on the over-sized head crowning his over-sized body. His thick neck ended in a sausage roll at the back of his head. He was anything but slovenly, however. Everything about him was always perfect. Perfect grooming, perfect dress, perfect killer.
Rings adorned his fingers, jewelry that left marks. Grace knew all about that, sometimes it took magic healing to remove the grooves and cuts left by those rings after a beating. Beatings she usually deserved, but not always.
“How dare you,” repeated Golyat, his small eyes bulging in anger. “You go too far. You misjudge your value to me.”
Grace got slowly to her feet. This was it, this was her chance. She had to be careful, a wrong move here would get her killed. Slow… steady.
Then he was on her. He moved with incredible speed for one so large. His hand struck her face with a backhand slap that spun her around and knocked her to the ground. He held back of course; if he had wanted to, he could have killed her. She was like a fly to his swatter. His strength was legendary. She would be pulp if he willed it.
As it was, she was stunned, unable to get off the ground. She tried to lift herself up with shaking arms. She could feel the blood dripping from her nose and shattered lip, a gouge in her cheek from his ring had almost ripped all the way through to her mouth. She spat teeth.
But it was just pain, he would help her heal. He wouldn’t allow her to be less than perfect for too long. She was his prize, his ornament, and needed to fit in with who he was.
He caught her neck and lifted her several feet into the air. His hands were the size of her head, his fingers easily wrapping around her throat. One hand was all it took to cut off the air from her lungs and the blood from her brain. She would black out in seconds if he let her. And for once she was not entirely sure he wouldn’t.
Quickly she drew upon the new knowledge she had recently gleaned from Anabelle’s soul. She was no master of this new skill; it would take time, and she had to be subtle, too obvious and he would know. Gently she reached out to him with soothing thoughts. Just a little, just enough for him to loosen his crushing hold. As blackness tinged the edges of her vision, his fingers relaxed a little, just enough for the blood to get by. This was so much quicker than twisting a soul.
“I never gave you permission to kill Anabelle and use her for your experiments. She was one of us. Disloyal maybe, I might eventually have judged her ready for death and return to Hell.”
For all his violence Golyat remained calm. Despite his earlier outburst, he was calm now. His voice, deep and formal. He held her out at arm’s length and looked at her with coldness, like a man studying a disobedient animal and trying to decide if he should put it down.
“But that was the Alliance’s decision. Not for a mortal to decide. Not for a child to decide.”
He said mortal as though biting off a particularly distasteful piece of tough meat. She reached out again and slipped in the suggestion to loosen his grip. She could breathe again. He still held her, but she had all the proof she needed. She couldn’t help thinking how tasty Golyat’s soul would be. Would she gain his strength? She had a sudden, frightening thought: would she get fat like him?
“I have given you souls to practice with. Is that not good enough?”
“Yes Golyat,” she said, each word a raspy breath filled with burning in her injured throat. The words were slurred because of her split and swelling lip. “I have practiced with them. I am learning every day. But Anabelle…you know I had special anger for that bitch.”
Golyat stared at her with those cold, unblinking eyes. She reached out with her mind again and coaxed him, turned his mind just a little bit, and gave him the suggestion that he should understand her. She would have mentally appealed to his sense of mercy, but he had none.
In an instant, Golyat went from coldly studying her to roaring with anger. The next moment, he tossed her across the room. She landed on the bed and slid across before slamming up against the headboard. She pulled herself up to her knees. She’d have some bruises from that, but he had thrown her to the bed; it could have been worse. Her face was a different matter.
“You are never to strike or injure one of my brethren again. Do you understand? As it is, I will have a hard time explaining to the Alliance what you have done. They will want your head if only as a show of solidarity. The Alliance is held together by a thread and I’m the one holding the end of it.”
“Like a puppeteer,” Grace said although it came out as ‘pupuyeer’ through her swollen lip.
“Yes, yes, I like that. Yes, like a puppeteer. I am pulling the strings, but they are thin and fragile.”
“Who cares what they think?” she continued; her throbbing lip turned her words to mush, but Golyat seemed to understand. “The next time we see them, they won’t even remember Anabelle.”
Golyat grunted and straightened his jacket and tie. “They will be here in a few days. Perhaps you’d like to be the one to tell them of her demise?”
That stopped Grace cold and a little fear shivered down her spine. She was at best a tool for the Alliance, a puppy that they hoped would eventually grow into an attack dog. In fact, to some of them she was little more than meat. There would be no sympathy with this group. Then a second thought occurred to her; thinking of them all here in the building made her more than a little hungry. What power they had. Her eyes grew wide and she could feel the huge grin on her face. Golyat saw the smile.
“Ha, don’t be a fool! They will tear you apart for killing her,” he said, misinterpreting her smile. “I will give them some story if they ask. Have you learned anything further in your studies? Did her soul teach you something new?”
For a moment she thought she was busted, that he knew all along what she had done. She stuttered trying to get words out.
“I was impressed by what you were able to do with the wretch at the abandoned cement factory, but it took a lot of time and energy. Have you grown more efficient?”
She let out an audible sigh. He didn’t know what she had become.
“Yes, every day I learn more about how to manipulate souls. I am getting faster, and the twists I make are much more effective.”
“Good. Because I believe we will have another shot at our friend the Hunter. I have laid a trap for him.”
“You mean the twisted soul at the cement factory? I don’t think that will work; he’s too powerful for that,” said Grace.
“No. That was more of a test for you and an annoyance for him if he ever even finds it. He has grown more powerful since our encounter in Mexico. If only we had dealt with him then instead of leaving it to that idiot Bailey, we would be rid of him and more of my brethren would be walking the earth instead of festering back in Hell. But no, I have laid a different sort of trap.
“We are getting close to being done with the gate and will finally be able to remove him as a threat. Just today we received the final stone from Egypt. That is why my brothers and sisters come.”
Grace detected something in his voice, saw some slight trickery in his dark soul. “What type of trap?”
“One that will end him once and for all, one that will bring him to our very doorstep where we would all be waiting for him.”
“How?”
“Good quality bait,” Golyat said. “You.”
“Me? As bait?”
“You need souls to work with, to hone your talent. I need a way to draw him to us, a place where we can be ready for him. The bodies will be a path to our door and you.”
“But you are the one he really wants, returning your kind to Hell. Besides you should be happy I killed Anabelle then, it’s another body for you to place.” She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. She braced herself for another blow and immediately sent soothing thoughts. There was a flash of anger in Golyat’s eyes, but no giant han
d struck her.
“Remember your place, girl. You live at my whim and as long as I see the promise of your abilities.”
She held back a smile. Golyat, you have no idea. She reached out again with her mind, gently probing him, opening him up for suggestions. She was not the expert Anabelle had been, but she was getting the hang of it and she knew not to let herself get too cocky.
“Golyat, when the Alliance meets can I be there? I think I could help.”
She could tell he opened his mouth to say no, but he hesitated. He didn’t look confused, not quite, but as close to it as Golyat had ever been. She forced her will on him just a little bit more, but softly, always softly. In a direct contest of wills, nobody could beat Golyat; but if he never noticed, it might work.
“How would you help in a room full of beings you could never understand?”
Grace stifled a laugh. She had just eaten a dark soul, consumed it and everything that made her Anabelle. She understood everything. Even the dark tortures of Hell Anabelle had endured for years were a part of who Grace was now. One could say she had grown up with that simple meal.
“With my insights into the Hunter’s soul and the soul manipulation I have learned, I might be able to share some thoughts.”
It was a lame argument, but with the controlling power she had learned from Anabelle she could see him giving in. He nodded. She smiled.
Then he had snatched her by the neck again and brought he close to the tiny face set in his massive head. “Don’t you dare embarrass me again. Remember, they would not bat an eye if I killed you in front of them the moment you get out of line.”
He tossed her back down on the hard floor. More bruises for her collection. She was reminded once again of how dangerous this line was to walk.
“Use some of the special healing salve I gave you. You look like Hell.”
He turned and stormed out through the shattered doorway, leaving a battered—but no longer broken—Grace on the cold wood floor.
16
When the world stopped spinning, the Library shifted into focus around him. He was on the floor, not quite curled up in the fetal position, but close. His body, though healing from the fight, was still sore and the trip to the Library was always less than a Sunday drive. He rolled over onto his back with a moan.
The Librarian stood near his head looking down at him through that hood of darkness.
“So, how’s it going out there in the real world? Looks tiring from here,” The Librarian said.
“Well it’s a long story. Give me a moment and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I wager it starts with you running off to get in a fight without first coming to research and learn about your latest enemy. By the looks of you it was either that or it started with you saying, ‘here hold my beer.”
He turned abruptly and walked into the comfy study area in the middle of the stacks. Christopher got to his feet and followed much more slowly. He slumped onto the first couch he reached.
“I’ve come to ask for your help,” Christopher said.
“Isn’t that always why you come to the Library? Besides you don’t need my help, you need an excavator or tunnel boring machine.”
“So, you know what happened?”
“My view is limited here, but I know we’re buried deep beneath the ground in Egypt. I hope you have a plan. Because despite my extensive board game collection, it will get very boring here after a while.”
“Yeah well, I guess we’re both fucked,” Christopher said. He caught the Librarian up, giving him all the details he could remember, starting from Hamlin’s discovery of the bodies, though he wasn’t sure it was related to their present situation. Christopher told him about the video sent to lure him to Egypt, and the attack on Hamlin by the thing made by Grace. But there was one thing he hesitated to say. He didn’t know why—the Librarian probably already knew about the Weapon since he was connected to the Hunter’s two primary tools. He was right.
“There’s something you’re not telling me,” the Librarian said.
With a heavy sigh, Christopher spilled the rest, “I lost the Weapon.”
“I know,” the Librarian said.
“I really screwed up, didn’t I?” Christopher said. For the first time in what seemed like months, he felt something other than coldness, other than the hatred that had seeped ever stronger into him when the darkness he had taken into his soul had fused with his being. Something of who he once was, the kid who had taken the weight of the world on his shoulders, was reemerging. Christopher could feel tears just behind his eyes. Then the darkness inside of him rebelled against that weakness, and the tears remained hidden. For now.
“Yes, you did.”
Christopher rolled his head backward. “Helpful as ever. I should have been smarter. Maybe watched the area for a while, maybe tried to hunt down this Apophis and his brothers separately. I just thought they were like the other dark souls I had taken. I should have been able to handle this. If only I were stronger.”
The Librarian was strangely quiet. He usually used every opportunity to use his sarcasm.
“I suppose I’m stuck here. How long can I last, buried alive? No food or water?” Christopher asked no one in particular.
“Forever, I suppose,” the Librarian said.
“What do you mean? I have no food or water. No air either, that can’t help. Eventually, I have to die.”
“Not necessarily. Your office gives you near immortality. You can heal most wounds, you can’t age, and you can’t die of thirst or disease. Only massive damage that you are unable to heal quickly enough can kill you…and certain supernatural weapons and magics, of course.”
“So, I can live forever?”
“Well normally I would just laugh that off. You are an inexperienced mortal who has, against all the odds, survived this long. You should move to Vegas, your luck is so good. But all luck turns bad eventually, so I just assumed, in a year at most, you’d be slaughtered.”
“As always, such a boost to my confidence. I love you too.”
“On the plus side now, it looks like you will live forever.”
“Trapped here playing cards with you is not my idea of living happily forever after.”
“Yes, and then there will be the suffering and torture. Tea?” the Librarian asked. A teapot had appeared from nowhere, but Christopher barely noticed.
“Torture? What torture?”
The Librarian poured him tea in a cup that had appeared from within the folds of his robe. Still no fingers or flesh for Christopher to see.
“Well the power inside of you comes from Hell itself, it gives you all kinds of strength and abilities; you are still just tapping the surface. But as I said it comes from Hell, it does not care for your pain and suffering. That is why every blow hurts as though it will kill you. No, you will not die from lack of food or water, but you will wish you had.”
“Jesus,” Christopher had sat forward on the couch. “You mean I will feel myself starve and go crazy from thirst?” He took a sip of the tea; it was good, refreshing. “But I just tasted this tea. Can I drink and eat here?”
“No. Remember your body is not here, it is there; this sustenance is not real. It feels real and you could have a glass of refreshing ice water, eat a steak, but that will only last for so long. Your body will continue to deteriorate. Eventually it will win out over your mind. Then no matter what you eat or drink here, it will never be enough.”
“How long? How long until I start to feel the effects?”
“Hard to say. Eating and drinking here will trick your mind. It might be several days before you feel your body suffering here.”
Christopher stood up and paced the room. “I should have gone after them one at a time or somehow drawn them to me.” He was repeating himself. He knew it was the frustration talking…and a little bit of the fear.
“You don’t get it do you?” The Librarian asked.
“I do. I fucked up, it was all my fault.”
The Librarian stood there impassively, not moving despite the slight raising of his voice. “That’s the problem if you want my two cents.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re going to give it to me whether I want it or not.”
“You are an untrained, inexperienced kid, and yes I am considering all that you have done over the past eighteen months or so. You have learned nothing. I thought you would be dead the first time Rath noticed you were there. I thought for sure the werehellhound would have you or any other of the dark souls you have encountered, yet somehow you have always survived.
“You are nothing like your predecessor; he was eternal, skilled, and knew all the tools. He had no need of a Librarian. How is it you have succeeded so far?”
“Ah…” Christopher wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer. The Librarian had never seemed this…well, pissed.
“My only theory is that you have survived because you are nothing like him. That is, until you put the darkness with your soul; now you are more like him every day.”
“I don’t think…”
“Yes, I’ve noticed. He was cold and cared only about his work. He had no choice. You have compassion and force yourself to do this to help the world. He loved the anger, the hatred that made him so good at his job, you…you fell in love.”
“Whoa. I think we are…”
“He was alone, you are not. You have a team. But here you sit whining all about you, about how you could have done better, if only you had made better decisions.”
Christopher didn’t know what to say. Then the darkness rose up and washed over him, anger flared. He was the Hunter of Lost Souls, Lord of Damnation. It was him, it was his decision and his responsibility. He stood and kicked over the coffee table as the anger raged over him.
“I don’t have time for a lecture, Librarian. I need out of that hole in the ground. I need ideas, not an analysis of my feelings.”
The Librarian stood quietly for a moment. “Very well, let’s go over this piece by piece. You need a way out of a sealed room deep beneath the desert in Egypt. Hmm. Nope, can’t think of anything.”
