His second realization was that he must hide the first realization from the rest of the world. Others sensed the power and freedom he had, and it scared them. They didn’t understand him any more than gorillas understood humans. To be safe, he’d need to pass as one of the gorillas. He watched television, saw what it was that people expected to see, and mastered the pantomime. Concern, fear, empathy, disappointment. He could hold them like a hand of cards, then play them as needed with the cool precision of a Vegas pro. The process worked like a charm.
At eighteen, he chose the career of a Navy SEAL, where the controlled application of violence was part of the job. Weapons qualification and hand-to-hand training were good outlets for his growing fixation, while his animal experiments became an enthusiastic off-duty hobby. His job offer from Hell came during an insertion years ago into the hills of Afghanistan.
His unit was sweeping a village that had harbored some Taliban snipers. The place was the usual dun-colored collection of mud-brick and concrete-block buildings. The dirt streets of the village were deserted. With each step, Kyler’s adrenaline level surged until he just itched to start a firefight. He paused outside the locked door on a rundown, one-room shack trying to pass as a home. He kicked in the door and rushed in.
To his disappointment, no militiamen filled his rifle sights. Useless, threadbare curtains hung like the executed on either side of a large broken window. Two small beds flanked a table made of discarded pallet boards. In the corner stood a woman in her mid-forties in a long dark skirt and a white head covering that left just a swath of her face exposed. Two small girls cowered behind her as if she was an impenetrable shield from the intruder at the door. The sun had bronzed the woman’s face to leather and dirt streaked her cheeks. Her dark eyes danced in terror.
There were no weapons in the room. These three were no threat.
He lowered the barrel of his M4, and shot from the hip. A single shot tore the woman’s left kneecap away. With a shriek, she collapsed on the floor. She gripped her shattered leg with one hand and pointed with the other to the two girls, now frozen with fear behind her. Tears rolled down her face as she implored him for mercy in Pashto.
Without a thought, Kyler threw the M4 selector switch from single to burst. One jerk of the trigger sent three rounds into the terrified little girls. Their tiny chests exploded as the impact plastered them against the wall. They fell to the floor by their mother’s side.
With the last valuable things in her life stripped away, the mother’s screams hit a higher octave. The pleading cries vanished, replaced with rage. She pulled herself toward Kyler, lips curled back in a vengeful snarl.
Kyler flipped the selector switch back to single and sent one bullet through her forehead.
Kyler stepped outside and closed the door, like a hotel maid who had just finished cleaning the room. He paused. The street was still empty. No one peered out at him through any windows. He moved to rejoin his unit.
When he caught up to the rest of the patrol, the NCO asked him if he had found anything back there.
“Nah, nothing,” he replied.
About 2 a.m. that night, Kyler stood watch on the team’s perimeter. A supernatural stillness blanketed the moonless countryside. The baying of wolves broke the quiet, and then they too went silent. He flipped up his night-vision goggles to give his eyes a rest from the fuzzy blue image. A cold chill settled around him, not a breeze so much as a…presence.
“Nice work today,” a gravelly voice behind him said.
He spun and swung his weapon to bear on the voice. A stout man in a long black trench coat stood behind him. A fedora shaded his pale, round face and neatly trimmed black goatee. The man raised two fingers and Kyler’s rifle flew from his hands. The man caught it with his fingertips.
Even in the darkness, his eyes seemed to look through Kyler. Kyler’s stomach dropped a few inches. The intruder’s presence triggered some sort of warning from deep in the shared human consciousness. In a country where evil had run unchecked for centuries, this guy emanated a malevolence above all others.
Two wolves came loping in. They sat obediently, one on each side of Oates. They stared down Kyler with piercing intensity.
“This weapon won’t be necessary,” Oates said, “or effective.” He dropped the rifle to the ground.
Kyler looked around to his team. They all slept like the dead, without even the usual stray snore.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m the mentor you always wanted,” the man in black said. His thick New York accent reminded Kyler of the Godfather movies. “Lately I’ve been going by Mr. Oates. Been watching you, Mr. Kyler. You started out right when you torched the Burnses’ dog at age six, and took another good step at age seven when you dragged Freddie Cohen out behind the bleachers, and taught him what the thick end of a baseball bat felt like.”
Kyler hadn’t ever told anyone about those incidents. How could this guy know these things? How could he just materialize out of nowhere? How could he put the rest of the team into a comatose sleep?
Like an anxious elementary school kid raising his hand in class, his subconscious kept trying to answer these questions. Kyler didn’t need to call on it. When you finally meet the Devil, you know.
Oates grinned. “The light dawns.”
More interesting was the fact that Kyler felt something shared between them, a connection, like long-lost brothers finally reunited. In a lifetime of being different from everyone else, he found someone who was the same. The fear that gripped him earlier dissipated.
“I got a career opportunity you can’t pass up,” Oates said.
* * *
And Oates had not lied. Oates usually had to use the carrot and the stick approach with those who signed his contracts, but he just buried Kyler in carrots. Unlimited impunity in return for unlimited service. Kyler agreed and Oates burned the brand of his contract onto Kyler’s chest, a circle with two concave triangles within.
Over time, Kyler realized that Oates needed him to some extent. Even the Devil had limitations placed on him, probably a parting gift when God had stripped the rebel angel of his wings. God granted Satan the power to rule Hell, then condemned him to forever walk the Earth, unable to enter the domain to which Satan sent sinners’ souls. Eons before man would mythologize Tantalus, God had already told that tale.
Then, Oates’ interactions with the mortal had specific limits. Initially, Kyler thought Oates’ penchant for selective human contact was born of a disdain for anything mortal. Kyler seemed to do the lion’s share of the dirty work. As time went on, he realized that Oates could not randomly kill, rape, steal, or commit any of the sins from which he derived so much pleasure. He owned the body of those who had lost their souls to him, but he was powerless against the rest. He had to savor their pain vicariously, through the work of his disciples. And he could not gain a disciple by deceit; no contract could ever be signed through force or trickery. The rule seemed to never be a real limitation. People sold their souls to Oates cheap.
Oates could control members of the animal kingdom, as he controlled the wolves that first night. Their minds were simple and they lacked the strength a soul conferred. But people? Those he could only influence, tempt, and induce. Until they signed.
From the moment the transaction took place, Oates could call the damned one’s soul southward any time, with great latitude in methods, all at once or piece by piece. Kyler had seen Oates snatch people in an instant with a heart attack, and torture others for days by slowly bursting one blood vessel at a time, until their body was a fleshy balloon of red liquid. The threat of a painful death induced the future eternally damned to do whatever Oates asked.
When Oates couldn’t risk the vagaries of human weakness, he used Kyler, his sole full-time employee. The rest were just temps working one final job before a last permanent change of address. Kyler considered his solo posit
ion on Hell’s corporate payroll another part of his and Oates’ special bond.
Oates could travel in a flash from one place to another, but with another divinely delivered limitation that gave Kyler a kick. Oates could not teleport himself across water. God’s inside joke seemed to be that his Son could walk on water, but Lucifer would have to swim. So while Oates could go from Los Angeles to Boston in a millisecond, he still needed a boat for the last leg to Stone Harbor. That was why Kyler drew this mainland assignment to summon the coven.
The apartment door swung open to reveal a knockout of a woman. Dark-haired, dark-skinned, and voluptuous. Perfect eyebrows arched over captivating brown eyes lined in thick cobalt eyeliner. Her sly smile dazzled. She wore a black dress, slit high up one side and cut low in the front. The string of thorns inked around the base of her neck caught his eye.
Oates had warned him that whoever answered the door would be male kryptonite. He was right. The woman hadn’t said a word, and he was already enthralled.
He remembered Oates’ second warning. So much as touch anyone in the apartment, or let anyone else, and there would literally be Hell to pay. Oates was a man of his word about things like that. Kyler forced his mind back on track.
“Camille?”
“Absolutely.”
“Mr. Oates sent me.”
“He couldn’t come himself?”
“He’s a busy man. But he says it’s time for you to join him.”
Camille gripped the doorknob. She closed her eyes in almost orgasmic joy, sighed and reopened them. “We’ll be ready in minutes.”
“Not yet. Forty-eight hours.”
He pulled a long envelope from inside his suit coat. He extended it to Camille lengthwise so he could safely keep at least eight inches between them. The woman had some kind of magnetism within her that he feared he’d discharge if he got too close. She pinched the envelope’s end with her fingertips. He released it like it had caught fire.
“A boat will pick you up at the dock at this location at the time listed.” At least that’s what Oates told him was in the envelope. “Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Kyler stepped back, nodded a goodbye, and headed for the elevator. The penthouse door closed behind him and he sighed in relief. He pressed the elevator call button.
One mission down, one to go. Doing his part for Oates’ Stone Harbor event. The next one involved a group of real scumbags. After experiencing Camille’s excruciating attraction, he was surprised to now look forward to meeting with thugs.
* * *
Camille ripped the envelope open with her fingernail. She extracted the paper within with reverence. The note listed an early morning time and a location out east of Orient Point on Long Island. She crushed the page against her pounding chest.
She opened the hall closet. From the corner she pulled a gnarled ebony walking stick, topped with the golden head of a goat with rubies for eyes. Oates had entrusted only her with this most powerful conduit to dark magic, and only to use at the appointed time, now finally here.
She walked down the hall to the master bedroom and opened the door. Like petals on a flower, five twin beds with red satin sheets radiated from a center circle on the floor. The center circle contained two superimposed triangles with concave sides, one triangle pointed up, one down. Camille’s twin bed was empty, but her four fellow witches, her coven, slept in the others.
“Sisters!” she said. Forms stirred under the sheets. “It’s finally time.”
They would soon fulfill their destiny, and open the way for all of them to join the Master at his side forever.
Chapter Twelve
That night, Scott rolled into the driveway of Allie’s rented house. The mainlander had spared no expense, starting with the ocean-view lot. On an island where sandy beaches were nonexistent, ocean view was the next best thing. Exquisite landscaping surrounded the modern ranch, which was painted a pleasant robin’s egg blue. He remembered selling supplies to the builders and visiting the site when the home was half-finished. He never met the owner, par for the course for the summer-shift residents. Scott shut off the truck and took a deep breath.
The dissolution of their relationship had been a decade ago. And it had been a dissolution, there had been no official termination, no Dear John letter, email, message, text. He wasn’t beneath admitting that at the time, the sense of abandonment had been pretty crushing, the lack of any closure frustrating.
But that water had long passed under the bridge; they were both older, both different now. Would he ask any of his unanswered questions tonight? Should he? At this point in life, did a teenage romance really matter, anyway?
The front door opened before he even left the truck. Allie stepped out, her long hair bouncing around her shoulders. Scott flashed back to an identical scene, him pulling up to Allie’s house in high school and watching her walk out for a ride to school. He never had to knock on the door then either.
But that Allie Cat always had a smile. This Allie looked pensive, nervous. The idea that he’d set her up to be uncomfortable made him cringe. She got in the passenger side and slammed the door. He looked over. She smiled. He remembered she was an actress.
“Ready for a whirlwind night on the town?” he said.
“I took a nap so I’d be able to handle it.”
“Then away we go.”
Scott pulled out and headed into town. He forced some small talk to break the silence. “Is your place nice?”
“Perfect. I opened the windows one night to fall asleep to the crash of the waves. Got a bit chilly though, about 2 a.m. It’s so funny. The whole area was nothing but trees when I left.”
“But for everything that changes in Stone Harbor, a hundred things stay the same. Mackey’s clam chowder being high on that list.”
She didn’t answer. The silence felt ominous. From the corner of his eye, Scott saw Allie wring her hands. The truck approached Main Street.
“Scottie, can I ask something, and you not take it the wrong way?”
Here it comes, he thought. “Go for it.”
“Can we not go to Mackey’s? I’m not going to be comfortable sitting out on display in there. People staring, whispering.”
“In this town? We take celebrities in stride. We have TV stars around all the time. Mick Jagger has a house two doors down from yours. Last summer, the Queen of England ”
“Scottie, I’m serious.”
He pulled the truck into an empty parking lot. “I understand. You know, a lot of cats have been disappearing in that neighborhood anyhow. Probably isn’t safe to eat there. Second choice?”
The corners of her mouth sagged in distress.
“Tell you what,” Scott said. “Dinner at my house then.”
Her face brightened. “Yes! You can cook?”
“No guarantee there’s any food in the fridge,” he said. “I can at least order pizza from Angelo’s.”
“Angelo’s it is. Can’t wait. The only thing worse than LA air is LA pizza.”
Scott ordered the pizza on the way to the house. He hung up and Allie laughed.
“That’s so funny,” she said. “I’d forgotten that here you don’t need to give an address for delivery.”
“Depending on who answers, I don’t even have to give my name.”
He pulled up in front of the house. They left the truck and he led her up the porch steps. As he unlocked the front door, Allie stared along the porch.
“Remember the year we made jack-o’-lanterns out here?” she sighed.
“We spread pumpkin guts all over, and next spring there were vines growing through the porch slats. My father made me crawl under there and pull them all out. How could I forget?”
He pushed open the door and gestured Allie in. She gave him a fleeting smile as she passed. He rushed a panicked sweep
of excess everything from the living room: old mail, a set of socks, two paperbacks. “Make yourself at home.”
Allie plopped down on the couch in the same spot she used to sit when they stayed up late to watch Saturday Night Live. She gave the room a once-over.
“Nothing’s changed,” she said.
“A little, but not much. After Mom died, Dad didn’t change a thing, mostly out of inertia more than sentimentality, I think. After he died, I kind of continued the tradition.”
Scott dumped the crap he’d collected in the laundry room. He returned in time to answer the door and accept a hot pizza. He carried it into the dining room. Allie followed him in.
“The dining room?” Allie said.
Scott thought a moment. “We’re more pizza in the kitchen people, aren’t we?”
“At least we used to be,” Allie said.
“Then we must still be. Nothing changes in this house.”
They transferred everything to the kitchen table, and ate the pizza straight from the box, with two sodas straight from the cans.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t your first dinner invitation,” Scott said.
“Oh, but you are.”
“You’re kidding,” he said. “In these weeks, no one’s asked you over for dinner? Not even Reverend Snow’s adult Bible study group? They shanghai everyone they can.”
“Reverend Snow still runs All Souls? How old is he now?”
“I think he knew Moses personally.”
Allie laughed. “No, no one’s invited me anywhere. They’re not sure how to deal with me. It’s like they think I returned from LA a fragile mess, one raw comment from a meltdown.”
“Everyone saw you go through the wringer last year,” he said. “After all that, what brought you back to Stone Harbor?”
“I had to ditch LA,” she said. “I couldn’t feel myself anymore. I’d spent so much time being someone else, on screen and off, that I’d lost Allie Layton. So I bought Stewie for nine hundred dollars and drove him here to find old Allie. Now he’s my cross-country knight in faded blue armor. After three thousand miles, we’re fast friends.”
The Portal Page 6
