The Edward King Series Books 1-3

by Wood, Rick

  “You!” Simon sputtered out breathlessly between helpless hysterics, barely able to keep his balance amongst all the laughter. “You should have seen your face!”

  Another look at Kristy. Laughing. Rolling around on the floor. Naked. Her body that was only meant for him jiggling about in front of everyone.

  Simon. Pointing at her and laughing. Pointing at him and laughing. The girl he’d shagged behind him laughing like the little slut he decided she was.

  “You’re such a prick!” Martin reinforced.

  “You should have seen your face, mate!” Simon continued. “You looked like your mum after she shat herself!”

  That was it.

  He couldn’t help it. He saw red. Everything drowned out into blackness and before he knew it he had pulled his fist back and landed it into Simon’s face. He didn’t even realise what he was doing until he was on top of him, punching repeatedly, landing his fist into Simon’s bloody face again and again and again.

  Kristy pulled at his arm, her begging for him to stop a distant voice in the darkness. That skank who Simon had shagged backed up against the wall, not getting involved, not invested in Simon enough to stand up for him.

  The laughter had stopped. At least that fucking laughter had stopped.

  “Stop!” he finally heard Kristy shout into his ear, and he stood up.

  Panting. Looking down at Simon. A bloody mess. Simon looking up at Martin.

  Without a second thought, Simon burst to his feet and pushed Martin backwards. Martin stumbled and hit the wall and Simon threw a punch at him, which missed.

  Martin backed up further.

  “Get out of my fucking house!” demanded Simon.

  Martin grabbed a hold of his t-shirt, jacket, and shoes and paced to the door.

  He took one more moment to look back at Kristy. She was in the corner of the room, covering her body with her hands.

  Now she covers her body!

  She looked scared. Intimidated. Weak.

  She looked like his mum used to when his dad got cross when he was a kid.

  He kicked the door open and marched downstairs. Pausing by the door to put his shoes on, he left the house, slamming the door behind him. He marched down the street lit by street-lights, putting on his t-shirt and jacket.

  There went his best friend. His potential girlfriend.

  There went the only things he had in his life beside his mum.

  What was the point?

  Why bother with any of this?

  He walked home with his hands in his pockets and put his mum to bed. Afterwards, he laid in his bed all night, staring at the ceiling, trying to think of one thing he had to live for beside his mum.

  21

  Eddie huddled his coat around himself. Despite being summer, the nights were still windy and mild. What’s more, the whole Devil’s Three thing was giving him a bit of a chill.

  That is what she said, right? ‘Devil’s Three’? he questioned himself.

  He replayed the scene in his head, Kelly beside him, angrily blabbering in her sleep, then – yes, she had shouted it, clear as day. It was the only thing she had said that he could clearly make out, and her words had been particularly precise.

  He took Derek’s spare key out of his pocket and placed it into the door, twisting the first lock, then the second, and gently pushing the door open. It creaked to a dark, cold, empty house.

  Closing the door behind him, he switched on the light and removed his shoes. Funny, even though Derek was off on his search for wisdom in some far-off country, he still felt the pressing need to be polite and remove his shoes.

  Derek’s study was the coldest room in the house. Eddie turned on the light and the radiator, to find neither any heat or lights working. Derek must have switched the heating off, which made Eddie feel a little tinge of sadness – it meant Derek planned to be away for a while.

  He missed him. He needed him. If only he’d get in contact somehow. He’d write to him, if only he knew where to send the letter.

  Nevertheless, Eddie tucked his coat around himself and embraced the cold damp in the air. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was gone 5.00 a.m. and he would likely need to ‘get up’ for work in a few hours.

  He wondered if Kelly was even aware that he had left the bed beside her.

  Scouring the bookshelf, he found Derek’s restricted section at the top. Pulling the chair out from the desk behind him, he climbed upon it and looked across the books. All of them referenced dark paranormal activity and the occult. Once he had come to a book entitled The Devil’s Rituals Vol 2, he took it out and climbed back down.

  He took himself into the kitchen to make a cup of tea and carelessly threw the book onto the dining table. He felt a stab of guilt over how much Derek would hate him for daring to abuse one of his precious books.

  Then he decided, fuck him.

  He wasn’t there.

  He hadn’t even bothered to let him know where he was, or the progress of his search.

  He had no idea if he was even still alive. It was a thought that chilled him, until he decided that a man who had taken on the depths of hell for a living was unlikely to be beaten by anything on this earth.

  After the kettle clicked, he poured the hot water over a tea bag and let it settle. He gazed at the water as it gradually turned brown. His head dripped off into a distant haze as his tiredness hit him.

  He snapped himself back out of it, removed the tea bag and went to add milk, before realising there would be none. Black tea it was.

  Settling himself down in front of the book, he set the cup of tea beside him to let it cool. He skimmed the contents, finding nothing about the Devil’s Three. Slumping the pages of the thick book to the other side, he skimmed the index.

  That’s where he found it.

  Devil’s Three, rituals, page eighty-nine.

  He flicked the pages through, slowing down as he got to page seventy, allowing the next few pages to trickle through his hand. He landed on a brown, aged drawing accompanied by italic writing beneath it.

  The drawing featured three figures gathered around a pile of dead animals. It was an old illustration; Eddie wasn’t sure how old, but it reminded him of Bible illustrations he had read, used hundreds of years ago, made to teach young people about the Genesis story.

  With a wide-eyed, unfaltering gaze, his eyes became glued to the words as he read them.

  The Devil’s Three

  Also known as ‘the threesome of sin.’

  A ritual designed in purpose to bring forth the devil into the flesh of his intended. The ceremony is known to be commonly unsuccessful, but not because it doesn’t work. It is said that the devil hears every attempt at this ritual, but chooses those sinners blessed enough for his presence.

  The ritual requires the three to collect dead animals and a person who is said to be close to the devil as an offering.

  The ritual is performed in a location of significance to the devil, such as the house of one of his victims, or one who has sinned greatly enough to attract his attention.

  The ritual must then be performed by three people. Each person selected will fulfil one of these requirements:

  The wounded.

  The dead.

  The prophet.

  It is up to the sinners as to how they interpret the devil’s three – but it is essential to get it right to show that you are worthy.

  Eddie leant back. His hands drummed on the side of his cup. He remained still, contemplative, allowing the words to sink in.

  It was a lot of information. Things became slightly clearer, but as they did, he became unsettled.

  A ritual to bring forth the devil?

  He and Kelly were in danger.

  If someone was carrying out this ritual – Eddie still didn’t know for definite if anyone was, but presumed that if Kelly was dreaming it, someone must be – then they needed the location of someone linked to the devil. As well as a sacrifice. And dead animals.

  Dead
animals, like the one in his shed.

  And a sacrifice. They need to sacrifice someone who had been close to the devil…

  He had a strong link to the devil – he was meant to be the instigator of hell on earth.

  But surely it can’t be me? They couldn’t kill me, as they want me to become the heir to hell…

  What about Kelly?

  Kelly had been the only human alive Eddie knew to have been possessed by the devil.

  What about The Devil’s Three themselves?

  Three people were needed to perform the ceremony: the wounded, the dead, and the prophet.

  Who were they? And how does someone who’s dead perform a ceremony?

  There were so many questions filling his mind, he felt like they were all going to pour out until he lost track of them. There was too much he didn’t know.

  Then there was the most pertinent question of all: why was Kelly speaking this in her sleep?

  If he was at all tired, that had gone, and he was filled with unpalpable terror. He hadn’t a clue what to do or where to go.

  He needed Derek.

  Tucking the book under his arm, he poured the cup of tea into the sink and left.

  What if the ceremony did happen? And it was successful? Then Derek returned after this happened?

  If the ritual could bring forth the devil, surely it could also bring forth part of the devil? Or a piece of evil, planted by the devil? Or, if the devil was risen, it could surely bring around the part of evil within me far easier?

  Eddie realised in that moment that, despite having the answer written in the book he clutched in his hands – he was still no closer to understanding what it all meant.

  22

  Eddie drove as fast as he could. His mind was full of questions and was aching profusely, but he couldn’t rest.

  Not now. Not with what he knew.

  Soaring down a country lane, his lights on full beam, he knew he was driving dangerously.

  But he didn’t care.

  He truly did not care.

  What if someone got hurt? So what?

  Fuck it.

  He thought about Kelly, and what this meant for her. He thought about those nights in the hospital when she was admitted following her possession. Those nights he would wake up to find himself still in the chair beside her bed, her hand in his.

  Those thoughts disappeared.

  They were replaced with thoughts of his childhood.

  His arsehole father.

  His neglectful mother.

  His dead sister.

  Cassy. Oh God, Cassy. How he missed her. How much he wished she was still there. Not a day went by that she didn’t cross his thoughts.

  It was his stupid fucking fault she was dead. He was the prick, the arsehole, the bastard. He was racing his bike. She was trying to impress him.

  It was his fault.

  My fault.

  It was his arsehole dad’s fault he turned out such a let-down. Sure, he was this great exorcist now. But he had been an alcoholic bum sleeping on his best friend’s sofa for so long.

  It was his dad’s fault.

  No, it was his mother’s fault.

  She was the one who sat there crying whilst his dad beat the shit out of Eddie. She was the one who never cared enough to stop it from happening.

  Why? Because she was some dipshit coward?

  Yes. And because she knew she was next.

  Just delaying the inevitable, weren’t you?

  Those black eyes she covered up for him, those days she kept him back from school so the teachers didn’t see the bruises. She covered it up. She let Eddie’s dad get away with it.

  And he hated him.

  He hated her.

  He fucking hated everything.

  He was filled with rage, ready to punch something. Kill something. Burn something.

  He was nearing eighty miles per hour. He needed to stop.

  Pulling over to the side of the road and putting his hazards on, he buried his head into his shaking hands. His legs were quivering, his heart beating with fury. Everything and anything was shit.

  His fist landed into the steering wheel and he kicked the car door open.

  There was a man at the bus stop. A homeless man. Under a blanket. Some lazy piece of crap leeching off society. Some idiot prick who didn’t care enough to get his own job.

  Eddie marched across the road and put his hands around this guy’s neck. The bum woke up quickly, but was too lethargic to react.

  Probably on drugs, the selfish little arsehole.

  Eddie threw the bum to the floor and kicked the guy in the face.

  He kicked. And kicked. And kicked. And kicked.

  Then he froze.

  What was he doing?

  Why was he so angry?

  Why the hell am I beating the hell out of some random homeless guy?

  Eddie backed up against the wall of the bus shelter. The homeless man was cowering on the floor, his arms covering his head in terror, sobbing helplessly.

  What the hell is going on? Eddie demanded of himself.

  His panting subsided. His heart slowed. His thoughts became clearer.

  He had just gotten himself worked up, full of fury, over what? Memories? Feelings resurfacing?

  He had been so angry.

  They weren’t his feelings.

  But they were, at the same time.

  This didn’t make sense.

  None of it made sense.

  He knelt down beside the homeless guy, and placed a soft hand on the man’s back. The homeless guy flinched and cowered away.

  “I’m sorry…” Eddie asserted, his face full of sorrow, no idea how or why he had come to do such a thing.

  “Please…” cowered the man. “Please just leave me alone…”

  “My God,” Eddie gasped to himself again. “I am so sorry.”

  He stood up, his hands cupped around his mouth in shock at what he had done. He’d never done anything like this before. He’d barely even been in a fight, except with a demon. He’d maybe gotten beaten up as a kid, but had never been in a two-way contest.

  And now this.

  He sprinted to his car, turned the hazards off and drove away, making sure to stay under the speed limit.

  The whole way home, the thought continuously racked his mind.

  What the hell did I just do?

  23

  Martin trudged through the peeling, creativity-killing, blank walls of the school, his hands in his hoodie pockets and his hood over his head. He didn’t want anyone to see him, and he did not want to see anyone. Least of all anyone in this wretched school that he couldn’t wait to leave in a matter of months.

  Everyone was just constantly banging on about how the GCSEs were looming, coming closer, their future awaiting.

  Martin couldn’t give a shit.

  The only reason he was there was because they threatened to fine his mum if he didn’t stop truanting – and that was the last thing they needed.

  Blanking some old, bald, up-his-arse teacher who barked at him to remove his hoodie (“that is not part of the school uniform, lad!” Who gives a crap?) he turned his direction away from the building and toward the cages where all the lads played football.

  Thwack!

  Martin was sent flying to the ground, as if a room full of weights had capsized into his back.

  As he regained his awareness, he looked around to see a ball bouncing away from him, and a familiar pair of scruffy shoes marching toward him. They were the same pair Simon had worn for the past four years, because his mum was a cheap bitch not interested in spending any money on anything that didn’t get her drunk or high.

  Looking up, he saw Simon wasn’t alone. There were a group of lads with him, lads Martin had spent time with at house parties but never really become acquainted with.

  Kristy was there too. Somewhere in the crowd, a big grin on her face, enjoying every moment.

  Martin stood up. Simon shoved him, in an attemp
t to force him back to the floor, but Martin shoved the hand away. Martin squared up to Simon, within an inch of his face, pushing him back.

  “What?” Martin grunted.

  His leg went out from behind him with an enormous surge of pain and he went flailing to his knees. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw some scumbag with his hair greased to his forehead withdrawing the foot he’d used to kick him with, laughing with his mates.

  “Look at this lads, ’e’s on ’is knees!” Simon cackled, leering down at Martin.

  Martin’s anger consumed him, heaving to his fists, spurring him into a frenzy. He attempted to unleash his rage on his former best friend. He leapt up and sent a punch sailing toward Simon’s face, but was halted by a flying kick straight into his ribs from some other guy on his left.

  As Martin bent over, disorientated from the pain, Simon’s started bombarding him with thumps. Fist after fist laid into Martin’s face, sending Martin onto his back, where he stayed.

  Martin curled himself up into a ball, covering his head with his hand, as a group of dickheads laid their feet into any part of him they could harm.

  His ribs, his neck, his shin, his face.

  Anything.

  They were all laughing. Every one of them. It was a chorus of humility, getting louder and louder.

  But the things that hurt him far more than any kicks, the one hysterical laugh that stuck out from it all, the one that really pierced his heart – was the one coming from a female voice.

  The laugh he recognised as Kristy’s.

  The kicking abruptly ceased and his attackers dispersed. Echoes of “teacher’s coming” mirrored the urgency of their hasty departure.

  No teacher came. No loyal student stayed. No one came rushing to his side.

  Just as he expected.

  He was all alone, laying on the floor, clutching onto his ribs with one hand and his face with the other.

  He dabbed his face, glancing at the blood from his lip in his hand. He clambered to his feet, finding himself only able to put his weight onto one of his legs; his other shin was too wounded to move, and his knee was in seizing agony whenever he attempted to lift it.