Henry Halfmoon

by Huck Warwicks

  The demon’s fallen grey body lies in a leathery mass of sick flesh. It’s blood, black and foul smelling pools around it. The Spectre floats over to the fallen gargoyle and lowers to its knees. With its black bony hands, it shoves mounds of demon flesh into the darkness of its cowl. The most disturbing grunts, slurps, and chewing sounds fill the air. And in a moment, the death angel’s feast is completed. He rises to his full height again and drifts back out into the street.

  Gross. Awesome. I’m so high right now.

  I turn to the silent horde of demonic onlookers.

  “Boo!” I shout as I fake forward, raising the Harpe with one arm. They flee in every direction, and many who were riding piggyback on the passing spirits are scared away as well.

  Nifty.

  Chapter 18

  I stroll back to the middle of the street, where the reaper has been observing me from under the darkness of his cowl. The Harpe is balanced casually over my right shoulder, and I fearlessly approach the gifter of my new weapon.

  “Neat weapon,” I remark with an air of experience not yet won.

  “It’s a tool. Not a weapon,” the reaper hisses at me, disapproval obvious in his windy voice. “And not to be disrespected.”

  “It’s light, well-balanced, and sharp as hell.”

  “It’s not from Hell.”

  “I like how it just slides through things without me even feeling the resistance.”

  “Like I said, respect the blade. Accidents can happen. You must take care.”

  I take that advice seriously and nod. Also, I thank him for the gift of the Harpe. I’m a classy guy, after all.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude earlier, but I never got your name… I’m Henry Halfmoon.” I extend my hand. The Spectre doesn’t return the gesture, and looking at those black skeletal hands, I’m not offended. Glad in fact.

  “I know who you are, Son of Halfmoon.”

  Son of Halfmoon?

  “And you are…”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he grumbles in an airy yet annoyed tone.

  “Let me guess… you’re death.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Grim Reaper?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The Angel of Death.”

  “Close. I’m an angel of death.”

  There’s more than one angel of death?! Neat-oh.

  “That explains the outfit.”

  A moment later, a loud, shrieking sound whistles high overhead. When I look up, I see a bright red thing streak across the sky. I thought it was a comet at first, but I can’t be sure. It’s so brief, moving so fast, that I lose sight of it behind the skyscrapers before I can better determine its shape. But its destination is easy enough to guess—Grand Central Station. Only seconds after the crimson streak, a loud boom rattles through the street. Like a missile from hell just hit the city.

  “He’s here,” the death angel whispers. “The one you’ve come for.”

  “The Annunaki?”

  “Yes.”

  I head for the steps descending into the subway station below, but the Spectre doesn’t follow.

  “You coming with? They’ll be lots of… tasty treats…” I raise my Harpe and bounce my eyebrows up and down.

  The death angel whispers a laugh, and then shakes his head.

  “No. I must reap another here in a few minutes. See… my blade has already named them. They have the Seal, so I must proceed gently and follow certain customs.”

  Dang it! I wish I could stick around for that! He’s gonna reap a ‘blue!’

  I nod again, and take off down the steps. The train will be leaving shortly, but I have a few minutes to work my way through the crowd of white, hazy spirits. The sight of my blade scares most of the gargoyles away from the white figures and back into the shadows. But some of the little boogers need more convincing than just threats. The fight with one demon is quite frustrating as he keeps leaping from the back of one human spirit to the next. Back and forth. Back and forth. I come close to accidentally reaping one of the two white, hazy figures when I take a wild frustrated swing. The train arrives while I’m locked in the battle with the bouncy little devil, but my timing has improved a little. I catch him mid-air with the point of the Harpe, ripping a gash in his rib cage. I leave him there, alive, hoping he’ll remember the tall dark-haired boy in a hoodie, with a death angel’s blade.

  I’m near the portal, the Seal of Perseus. It’s at the top of the steps leading to the street, just behind the railing. I could cross over here, then board the train to Grand Central. But time moves more quickly in the dimension of flesh. Here, everything slows down. Spirits drift at half speed, and I can move more quickly about the world. The train has arrived, and I decide to take the ride. The door closes before I can board, but I slide through it like a vapor anyway. The walls and doors bend to my will here, and I can pass through them. I can pass through everything here, like a demon. But I can’t be in two places at once, nor can I teleport myself instantly. I’m still bound to being in only one place at a time, still bound to the fourth dimension.

  I’ve lost track of time, but I know it’s well past midnight. I’ve been here for hours. And even in the physical plane, the moon will be setting soon. There’s not much time. The Harpe has filled me with a new hope, and the demon hunting has been an empowering experience, fun even. But now I must set myself to the task of my mission, the goal: stop the Annunaki from possessing the ninth victim.

  The double long train ride finally comes to an end, and I jump onto the platform at Grand Central before the doors even open. This is the same platform that Fritz and I had dropped by earlier to draw one of the Seals. We had scrawled it in white chalk just behind a steel support beam. Even though it was already there, we decided to trace over it, just to be sure it wouldn’t fade away. As the moon approaches the western horizon, I feel nervous and am constantly gauging the distances between the portals. They are my escape hatch after all.

  But the Seal is no longer there on the platform.

  I’m not sure what happened. The moon, though close to setting, has not yet hit the horizon. The cylinder should be here, blue sheets of radiant light beaming up from the three-foot-wide circle. But there’s nothing. It’s been removed. Fricking maintenance do-gooders. How come city employees only do their jobs when no one is looking? What lazy halfwit city worker decided to roll his maintenance cart down here and labor scrubbing away some chalk on the concrete platform three stories underground?

  Something’s not right about this. But there’s no time to hang around and investigate. I’m running out of time. I can feel it.

  With the Harpe in my hands, I sprint up the steps and down the long hallways. Through junctions and up more steps, I finally come to the entrance of the Grand Lobby.

  And there he is—The Annunaki. The demon lord, standing like a cloaked monument among the swarms of white spirits drifting unaware around him. His cloak is familiar. The same cowl and drooping sleeves that the reaper had donned. But the demon lord before me is clothed in deep crimson, a cloak of blood. The folds of his garment glisten in the light emanating from the thick roll of fog about the floor. Living flows of blood swirl around each other across the sickly robe. From beneath his cowl, two tiny yellow pupils blaze like the sun through pinholes.

  He sees me but doesn't move. Nor does he react or flinch when I raise the blade of Harpe to my face and whisper, “What’s his name? Who will I reap?” The blue spark scrawls the demon lord's name across the obsidian blade.

  Amalek.

  This is powerful confirmation. For the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, the dead center of my life’s calling, carrying out my purpose. I feel a strange energy pulsing through me, a boost of fierce determination and creativity. I’ve tapped into something powerful within myself.

  ‘Henry Halfmoon, Demon Slayer.’ Now that sounds like an interesting contrast to ‘Account Manager’ or ‘Broker.’ Hey Henry! Have you ever considered choosing busin
ess administration as your major?

  I can think of nothing so soul sucking and bland. Demon hunting is where it’s at.

  I am the Demon Hunter.

  The thought pounds in my mind and spirit. A new sensation resonates through my being, a sensation unfamiliar to me and most millennials like me.

  Certainty. Absolute certainty.

  And a fearless hope.

  Faith.

  The demon lord continues to scan for its preferred victim, indifferent to my presence. That’s a mistake. I’m going to unleash hell on him, and all I need to do is close the distance enough to reach him with my blade. I’m only thirty yards away. At least I think it’s thirty yards. I imagine a football field painted on the floor in the lobby. Thirty yards seems about right. Not that I’m a football fan. Never followed it. Never played it. For most people, it’s just another excuse to drink to excess and act a fool.

  No time to act a fool. I have demons to dispatch. And right now, I’m facing off with a level-nine demon boss. This is the big one, too. This is Bowser’s Castle. World 8-4.

  Time to save the princess, Mario.

  Amelek’s head snaps to his right, and his beady little eyes fixate on a passing spirit. He moves like a serpent uncoiling from its nest and slithers across the fog. He’s chosen his victim. He follows closely behind her. And when she stops for a moment at a kiosk, Amalek opens his crimson cloak. Like great red wings, he crouches, preparing to envelop her, swallow her in the folds of his bloody garment. But before he pounces, I snatch his attention away.

  “Amalek!” My voice has returned. The sound pulsing with newfound certainty and authority. It’s a booming command, as befits a demon hunter.

  The demon lord reflexively twitches his head in my direction. And before he can turn to face me, I’m charging, full sprint, straight at him.

  Amalek lets up a fiendish call, like a siren, and moves quickly back, putting ample distance between him and the sickle sweeping down at his hood. Before I can turn and set my feet for another attack, I hear a quick snarl over my right shoulder. I’m suddenly impacted by hair and teeth, the force of the monster’s surprise pounce knocks me to the floor, and Harpe skids from my hands. I roll over onto my back and throw my arms up over my face. A fog wolf’s snarling jaws are snapping wildly for my face and neck, muscular grey-haired arms pin my shoulders to the ground. The dog man has me down, and all I can do to keep him from removing the flesh from my face and tearing into my throat is hold him by the ears. Which seems to work. But he’s snapping wildly, and he’s immensely stronger. Time is running out.

  A flicker of annoyance flashes into a righteous, angry rage, and my right leg kicks out an up, right between his hairy legs. My Sketchers find their target on the first attempt, and the fog wolf locks up with a yelp.

  Dog man, is both dog and man, both species have incredibly sensitive balls, and even in the ethereal plane, a blow to the nuts changes the outlook of the fight. The beast cringes and scampers back from me, with the whining of a hurt canine. I scramble towards the Harpe and snag its shaft. I don’t have time to get to my feet. The dog man’s anger overpowers the anguish of his crushed sack. He lunges again, letting out a blood-curdling wolf’s howl, but my blade is already sweeping sideways. The obsidian tip disappears into the side of his neck. His howl abruptly devolves into gurgles as foul black blood fills his throat and spills from his mouth. The light flashes out of his eyes, and he lies in fog, dead—a motionless mound of smelly grey hair and teeth.

  I spring to my feet in time to find Amalek following the spirit up the steps to the Grand Lobby’s exit and out into the street. I dash after him and with a wild swing drive him back from his victim. The sky is brightening now, and soon the tips of the skyscrapers above will glow with the first rays of sunrise.

  That means the moon is setting. If I leave now, I may have just enough time to reach the portal, but Amalek will win, forcing his way into the woman’s spirit, and finalizing the first step of the Beast’s return. All nine women will be possessed. The ritual will take place. I can see no other way to keep that from happening, than to stay and fight.

  The demon lord is too fast for me. My blade misses its mark a dozen times. But I’m always between Amalek and his victim, never letting him close. He continues to shriek at me, slithering to my sides, testing my speed. He’s not attacking me so much as he’s trying to maneuver around me to his victim. A head-on attack would mean certain death for him. And he knows it. I know it.

  So we continue to dance.

  On and on, we struggle. He the wolf, and I the sheepdog. An hour passes by, and the sunlight streaks across Manhattan’s skyline. When the last hazy curve of the moon’s crown slips under the western horizon, Amalek cries out one last time, then bolts back up into the sky like a yo-yo being yanked up into its owner’s hand.

  I’ve won. He has failed to take his victim. Until the next full moon at least. I’m sure he’ll try again. I’m sure I’ll be there to stop him.

  But for now, I’m stuck here. My window to cross back over has closed. And now I must live as a ghost for the next month.

  Yippee.

  Chapter 19

  The great thing about living like a ghost is that traveling is pretty much free. I don’t have to buy a MetroCard to ride the subway. I don’t have to pay for a cab ride. I can slip through the door unseen and ride for free. Come to think of it, I could do the same at the airport. Security would be a breeze. Free flights for a month; anywhere in the world. That’s the silver lining.

  Not that I want to go anywhere or do anything. Honestly, I’d like to just go home. Not to my apartment in Greenwich Village. Home. Where my mom is living alone now, grieving alone. I’m sure she’s twisted in knots about me; worried no doubt that I may not be grieving the loss of my father in a ‘healthy way,’ whatever that means. Come to think of it, I’ve forgotten to return her call. She left me a voicemail days ago, something about a dream she had.

  I can’t make phone calls, though. That should be obvious. Sprint doesn’t exactly cover my service area. But the trains still run in this dimension. So I consider my communication dilemma as the Q-line bumps along its rails. I’m headed back to campus. I need to somehow get a message to the professor. He should know that I’ve stalled the ninth Annunaki. That’s a win, right? I mean, I’m sure they’ll just try again, next full moon. But they can be stopped. And I’ve stopped them, at least once. Plus, I’ve kicked some serious butt with the Harpe. My scorecard presently is two gargoyle demons and one fog wolf. I don’t count Amelek, though. I didn’t kill him, or send him back, or whatever is supposed to happen when the Harpe makes contact with a demon lord. I never made contact. It was an even match, a dance that I was able to prolong enough to save the victim. And Amelek was forced to retreat with the setting moon.

  But there’s always another full moon. What if I had stopped all nine Annunaki? What if I had been successful from the very first crossing over? Would more come along eventually and try again? The thought never really occurred to me. But can’t they just keep trying? How have they gone so long without accomplishing the ritual? Perhaps they haven’t. Perhaps now is the appointed time.

  The books weren’t clear. I have so many questions. I still don’t understand. It seems so futile fighting off demon lords if they can just come back at every full moon and try again. Like fighting the waves rolling onto a beach.

  Astor Place is the next stop. This is where I get off, not bothering to wait for the doors to open. I pass through them like a smoky screen and ascend the steps. It’s a few blocks to campus so I have a bit of a walk ahead of me. But I’m not tired. That’s another benefit of being stuck here. I don’t seem tired. I feel no fatigue.

  Finally, I reach Washington Square Park and for the first time, I see it for what it really is. A strange barrier emanates around its perimeter. The Algolim pack the streets of Greenwich Village in hissing mobs. Gargoyles nest on every rooftop and cling to the fire escapes in winged fussy packs, like too man
y bats clinging to a single stalactite. But they can’t, for whatever reason, cross the boundary and enter the park without a human host spirit. A piggyback ride on a white figure is the only way they can enter the sacred space. Algolim swarm the border of the park on all four sides, packed up against the invisible barrier like cockroaches against a pain of glass.

  And I must either go around the park, or through it to get to Shipley’s apartment. Yeah. Hard pass. Instead, I think I’ll go and wait for him in class.

  I’ve been wondering for some time now if Shipley is a ‘blue.’ Does he have the Seal of Perseus on the back of his neck? Will his eyes glow blue? Is he protected? I’m sure he is. And I’d like to learn how to protect myself as well, get me one of those cool glowing blue tattoos on my neck, too. Unless I already have one. Maybe my eyes are glowing already. I’ve not looked in a mirror in this dimension. It never occurred to me. I’ve always been too unnerved here to think clearly; that is, until I summoned the Harpe. I’m afraid no longer. This dimension now feels familiar to me, the way a leather jacket conforms to a torso over time. Or shoes. That’s probably the better metaphor.

  I arrive at the philosophy building, unmolested by the gargoyle swarms blanketing the campus. The Algolim fear the Harpe, and the one who carries it. Son of Halfmoon, Demon Hunter.

  Gosh Dangit! That sounds so cool.

  It’s early yet and not even the teacher’s pet has arrived. There’s a stillness in the room, unknown anywhere in New York. This isn’t a still city. Not even in the spiritual realm. Especially not in the spiritual realm. But the classroom is empty, except for me and my blade. If I felt tired, this would be the time to catch a quick rest. I close my eyes and give it a try. But my eyes won’t stay shut, my eyelids bouncing back open with every attempt. There’s nothing to do but sit in the silence and wait.

  Finally, movement from the doorway sends ripples through the tranquility of the classroom. It’s the teacher’s pet, of course, come to claim the front row, dead center. I watch as the hazy outline of the overly ambitious ‘academic’ arranges the contents of his backpack. All the contents. No doubt early on purpose, with enough time to squeeze in just a little more study time before class begins.