“No, Professor. I don’t see your name on my blade. But his…?” I point to the Grim Reaper standing at my back with my thumb. “He plays by a different set of rules, as you probably guessed.”
The professor recoils, slinking further into his chair, quaking at the presence of the death angel. It’s hard to tell in the spiritual realm, but I’m sure he’s pissed himself.
“Now, tell me where the woman is hiding…”
“I told you, she’s dead!” he snaps back fearfully.
He’s telling the truth!
“Then where is ‘the Child,’ Professor?”
Shipley nervously shifts his eyes all about the room, weighing his options, scheming, hopelessly plotting, and finding no solution to the puzzle before him.
“If you tell me… we’ll let you live,” I offer. “Trust me when I say that I want nothing more than to see you escorted to Hell. But… if you tell me, we’ll leave you here in peace.”
Shipley jumps at my offer and quickly barks, “He’s here in New York. Chinatown.”
“Where in Chinatown?”
“The cultural center on Canal.”
That's good enough for me. I quickly turn and leave without a word. Before I pass through the door, I look back over my shoulder and give the nod to Fritz, who seethes with anticipation. With a slow and deliberate hand, he raises his blade high over the professor’s head. Before it falls, I catch sight of the tiny blue, glowing letters…
Jeremiah Tiberius Shipley
Chapter 29
“I find it interesting that you lied to him, bruh! You told him that we’d let him go.” Fritz bounds with both disapproval and delight.
“Whatever a man sows, that shall he also reap…” I quote Yeshua Himself. “His lies cost me my life, as well as others.” The subway car bumps along as it approaches the Canal Street station.
“Whatever happened to ‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor?’”
“He’s not my neighbor, Fritz. It was the only way to find out where the Beast is hiding.”
We silently disagree with each other as the train makes its stop at Canal, and we jump off. When we climb the steps to the street above, we hit a snag. Our retreat down the steps is hurried, when we see the massive horde of demons packed into the city block. The cultural center is barely visible as it is almost completely covered with gargoyle demons clutching the walls and eaves of its pagoda-style architecture.
I should have known this place would be crawling with the enemy, but I didn’t think of it. Yes, I’m a demon hunter, and I’ve taken on large numbers of gargoyle demons. Twenty-eight in a single fight is my record. But I’ve never taken on hundreds at once. And this crowd of devils includes fog wolves in a perimeter around the cultural center, and if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, two skeleton giants stand post at its entrance.
I should have anticipated the epicenter of prophesied evil would be active and well protected.
Fritz and I quickly duck back into the subway and to the platform. Along the way, I clip the wings from several gargoyles that try to block our descent down the steps. A long, chilling howl rises from the street above, as a fog wolf notices the disturbance and alerts the horde to our presence.
“Crap. I don’t know how we’re going to get in, Fritz. Any bright ideas?”
“I’m more concerned about getting you away from here safely, until we can come up with a plan, Son of Halfmoon.”
Just then, two fog wolves stalk down the steps on all fours and block our access to the street. Behind us, no subway car has yet pulled up for us to board. There are only the fog-laden black tunnels of the New York subway system.
“There’s only two of them, Fritz. I think we can take them!”
“More will come, Henry. And in greater numbers. We cannot stand and fight right now. We need to move.” Fritz jumps from the platform and heads down the tunnel, his dark-grey cloak quickly disappearing into the blackness.
The fog wolves stalk closer, crouching and growling, their eyes sparkling with ravenous wild hunger. I decide to leave them there and follow Fritz into the tunnel and jump down off the platform. I land between the train rails and run as fast as I can after Fritz. I can’t see him, and within seconds, I’m running in pitch blackness. Behind me, I hear another howl, and as I look over my shoulder, in the light from the boarding platform, I see one of the fog wolves leap off in my direction. He quickly becomes a black silhouette, moving with terrible speed in my direction… in the dark.
“Fritz!” I cry out to the dark space ahead of me. The echo of my voice bounces back and is only answered by the hungry growl of the fog wolf quickly gaining ground. Within seconds, I hear the scrape of his paws pounding through the gravel only a few yards behind me.
I want to turn and fight, and I would if I could see in the dark. But I can’t. That’s the advantage the predator has over me. I quickly realize the dire nature of my situation, and my legs pick up a little more speed.
But it’s not enough.
I hear a quick snarl as the Beast behind me lunges forward and snaps at my heels. I pump harder, but I’m at full speed already. Another snarl and the fog wolf leaps into the air towards my back.
But his snarl is followed by a sickening thud. The Beast collapses to the ground and sings out a chorus of yelps that would make the Devil himself cringe. Another thud abruptly cuts off the cries of pain, and I hear a familiar voice in the darkness.
“Keep moving. Almost there!”
Good Old Fritz.
The second fog wolf takes up the chase when he hears his pack brother’s death yelps. Fortunately, my guardian angel is behind me this time, and we have a decent lead on the Beast. The chase ensues for only a few dozen seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. The demon wolf bellows out a long, melancholy howl somewhere in the darkness behind me. Most likely, he’s found the body of his fallen comrade. Or possibly, he could be rallying more entities to aid him in the chase. Fritz and I don’t hang around to find out, but keep pounding, headlong into the blackness. Finally, Fritz grabs me by the arm and pulls me to a stop.
“What gives?”
“Quiet!” he hisses at me, pulling me away from the tracks and to the sidewall of the tunnel. We pass through a maintenance access door in the wall and ascend several flights of rusty rod-iron stairs. When we get to the top, Fritz lays it all out for me.
“We’re under the cultural center, now. They will send the horde on the street above to the subway entrance to find us. That will thin their numbers quite a bit. We should wait a few more minutes, then we can enter the building… are you ready to fight, Son of Halfmoon?”
I grip the Harpe’s shaft in my hands as I admire the slick sheen of its obsidian blade.
“I guess so, yeah.”
“If we can find the Child, are you prepared to reap it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Overconfidence can get you killed, bruh. The Beast will not go easily. I won’t be surprised if it tries to manipulate you before you can kill it.”
“What do you mean manipulate me?”
Suddenly, a fog wolf bursts into the lower level of the stairwell below us. Behind him, a crowd of gargoyles flap and rush into the room. The horde bounds up the lower flights of stairs towards us.
“You’ll see,” Fritz answers. “It’s time to go.”
We bolt through the door and into the lower level of the cultural center. Without hesitation, we charge across the room to the rising staircase, swinging our scythes with careless ferocity. Abandoning precision, we go for speed and simply work at hacking a path through the room, packed with gargoyles. They cover the ceiling, dangling like bats and descending on us in the same wild manner. The wind from their leathery wings beat the fog from the ground and obscure our view of the room. The air is thick with cackling, hissing, and shrieking. Every swipe of my blade tears through two, and sometimes three, hideous bulging-eyed gargoyles. But the going is slow. The room is too thick for us to kill them all. And mor
e gargoyles rush in from the street, as well as the access door to the subway tunnel, from where we just came. More are rushing in than are being killed. The room is getting crowded.
By the time we reach the rising staircase, my legs are covered with cuts and gashes from the claws of falling gargoyles, and punctures from their fangs gnawing at my legs. Fritz stands at the bottom of the steps and orders me to stand behind him.
With the large expanse of the building’s lower level before him, and the churning frenzy of demons filling that space, he stands as a shield between me and them.
“Go, Henry! Get up to the next level and find the Child. I’ll hold them off here!”
“I’m not just going to leave you here to hold them off alone! There’s too many… they’ll kill you, Fritz!” It’s ridiculous to suggest that gargoyle demons can kill an angel. I should know better. But in the heat of the moment, all I can think about isn’t abandoning my best friend, and not facing whatever horrors wait for me on the floor above.
“Just go, bruh!” Fritz yells from under his cowl. “Get up there and do what you promised me you’d do.” He takes another massive swing with his scythe and skewers four demons. The throng behind them pushes forward in a frenzied rage.
As I take a step backwards and up, Fritz adds, “And you might want to close your eyes for a sec…”
“What?”
Fritz drops his sickle into the fog at his feet, then raises his skeletal hands to his cowl and whisks it back off his head! A burst of intense white light fills the entire lower level. Brighter than the sun, the blaze from the death angel’s face penetrates and scorches. Gargoyles gasp and shriek in pain as the white-hot glow sears their grey flesh, causing them to retreat en masse. Panicked, they flap, trip, and fall over each other, trying to distance themselves from the angel. And while my eyes aren’t completely blinded, I instinctively shield them with my arm, and feel the wave of heat ripple in all directions. When I smell the hairs on my arms singe, I retreat up the stairs, fearing the blazing countenance of the death angel’s face more than the unknown foe somewhere above.
Chapter 30
I don’t know what awaits me on the other side of the door. I’ve had a taste of the demonic entities and their overwhelming numbers up to this point. And now, I’m about to barge into a stronghold of devils that I’m sure will have more potent opposition. My goal is to find the Beast and swing the Harpe. It sounds so easy.
But I don’t know what I don’t know. That’s the only thing that Shipley told me that I learned to be true, that and the paralyzing nature of fear.
Faith is action in the face of fear and uncertainty, a trust or belief that no matter what happens, someone greater than I is in control. And ultimately, everything will be okay… even if death must come first.
But I’m already dead. So what happens if I fail? Will millions die at the hand of the Beast before they have a fair chance to find the Truth? Most likely. That would be my fault, right? Totally. The fallout of my actions once I pass through this door will ring through eternity.
No pressure, Henry.
With a deep calming breath, I attempt to settle my nerves. My hands tremble, so I clench my fists and shake them out, one at a time. Raising the Harpe to my face, I whisper a prayer, but not to the blade as before. I close my eyes and offer the petition to Yeshua Himself if He can even hear me.
“Dear… uh… Yeshua. I’m not sure if I’m even doing this prayer thing the right way, so this is gonna be rough… Bear with me, if you don’t mind… and uh… sorry if this seems a bit rushed… I’m busy right now… I need your help… I… uh… will be fighting demons in a sec… and uh… I know you don’t like demons… and you even let me hunt some of them for you… By the way… I can’t thank you enough for the Harpe and letting me kill demons… It’s been great fun and all… so yeah… thanks for that… but now I have some serious reaping to do… and I don’t want to blow it… I would ask you to give me a victory… but I guess that’s too much to ask if I don’t do my part with everything I have… so help me fight my hardest… help me fight my best… help me know who I’m supposed to reap… and who I’m supposed to spare… I will give it everything I have… and uh… thanks for getting me this far… by the way… Say ‘Hi’ to my dad for me, will you? Thanks… okay, peace…”
When I open my eyes, the obsidian blade of the Harpe shimmers with light. In blazing blue traces, the word Annunaki is scrawled on one side of the blade.
Crap. I hate demon lords. And there’s eight of them, too.
Just for curiosity’s sake, I examine the other side of the blade and see the name of the Beast:
Abaddon.
There’s nothing left to pray, and there’s no reason to stay hidden any longer. Fritz keeps the horde at bay downstairs with his whole face burning like a star routine, and the time has come for me to embrace the fight of my life, or my death, or whatever. I raise the Harpe and quickly pass through the door. The second floor of the cultural center is absolutely packed from wall to wall with the white, hazy forms of Chinatown natives. None bear the Seal, and they all block my view of what’s on the other side of the large, open space. But I can feel it; on the other side of the room somewhere, there’s a powerful presence, like a king. I push forward through the spirits, darting my eyes all about the room, even the ceiling. But there are no gargoyles here; no bat-like demons dangling from the ceiling, no flapping, no fog wolf crouching nearby. But I feel the evil pulsating from up ahead, like ripples of arctic air threading their way through the muscles of my chest and neck. Fear.
The room darkens as I push farther in, and I notice that the congested area is a temple of sorts. A Buddhist temple. The throng of spirits have come to worship and meditate. This is obvious by the way they’re aligned in dozens of neat rows, all facing forward. Suddenly, a long, low gong rings, and the hundreds of worshipers drop to their knees and bend their foreheads down to the floor. The foot-deep roll of fog hides much of their bodies as they prostrate themselves, leaving me in plain view as I stand amidst the rows of arched backs. I don’t see any demon lords, oddly, but I can see the massive oversized Buddha statue at the far end of the worship hall, sitting cross-legged, hands resting with palms open and upward facing. The top of the statue reaches some fifteen feet, its head coming within inches of brushing the ceiling. Its narrow eyes are half-closed with the familiar indifference and self-absorption so common to the Buddha. I hate that look. It’s the haughty, cynical, self-righteous expression of my generation. Come to think of it, all the Buddhas I’ve ever seen look so pleased with themselves, as if life’s a big inside joke. They’re the only ones who have fully evolved and mastered themselves enough to understand it. But self-mastery isn’t the purpose of life. Humility and submission to Truth is.
Even the dark, pale, and blurring effect of the spiritual plane doesn’t diminish the tacky glitter of the statue's gold paint. I’ve never seen one of these statues made of actual gold, whether solid or plated. But every one of them look like a cheap spray-paint job, the graffiti of false gods, and the idol of shortcuts, bypassing belief in God on the way to Heaven.
Another gong rolls out over the worshipers, and they all straighten their backs and sit upright, mimicking the posture of the oversized desk ornament. From behind both sides of the statue emerge eight tall, black-robed demon lords, who stand in a semicircle. With their backs to the crowd, they form a wall of evil between the worshipers and their Buddha.
And then I notice it.
Lying in the Buddha’s lap… is a baby. A flesh and blood baby, in a body with no hazing or white glow; a baby as corporeal as it is, no doubt, in the physical plane. Fully here, and fully there at the same time. And the evil it emanates, feeds the eight demon lords, who lead the hundreds of deceived gatherers in unholy worship.
I bet they weren’t expecting me to crash their party. They weren’t expecting a demon hunter and a death angel to slice their way through the thicket of devils below. And with their backs turned to
me, I creep forward like a fog wolf.
Halfway across the room, the situation changes dramatically. A demon lord turns its black hood slightly to the side and just enough to catch sight of me stalking towards them. Its two blazing, yellow eyes lock onto me, and I see the fires of hell, funneling its light through the pinhole slits in its black face. A harrowing wail comes from under its cowl, and the other seven turn towards me as well.
I stop halfway to my goal, having lost the element of surprise. Now that I’m found out, I feel the fight coming. Eight to one. Crap. I grip the Harpe and crouch, readying myself for the action of demonic battle—my posture an invitation, a challenge.
The fog between us bubbles and churns, and the room strangely darkens. A putrid odor wafts up from the fog, the smell of decay and burnt flesh burns in my nostrils. I gag instinctively. It’s overwhelming, and my body convulses again and again. The air is so thick and foul with the taste of death, I’m immobilized, dizzy and unable to keep my eyes open.
Up from the fog reach a half-dozen rotting arms, their putrefied hands and fingers exposing the slime-covered bones beneath cracked, pale skin, grab at my legs, holding me in place.
And they’re strong! The strength of the grave holds me in place and tries to pull me into the luminescent fog. I raise the Harpe above my head with one arm, while I fight to pry away the clutching limbs of living corpses. I can’t let them take the scythe from my hands. All will be lost if I lose my weapon. So I keep it out of their reach, and pound at the clawing arms with my fist.
One of the Annunaki drifts towards me, the bottom of its cloak gliding along the surface of the fog, as if over ice. Two of the other demon lords spring into action as well; one climbs the statue of Buddha, then along the ceiling like a spider, the other to my right, undulating on the wall surface like a salamander. Their cloaks hang from their shadowy forms as they scamper towards me with serpentine hissing.
Henry Halfmoon Page 18
