Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  "Don't be afraid," Biel said, the smile cracking his face once again. He reached out and helped steady Carver, his hand far gentler this time than it had been before, though Carver tried to cringe. "There's no need to fear me. If I chose to hurt you, I could have many times over."

  That was not as reassuring to Carver as he suspected Biel thought it would be. The stranger was right, though. If he had wanted to do Carver harm, he could have. In fact, he could have when Carver was riding the high but instead took it upon himself to drive that away from him.

  A deep breath soothed his frayed nerves, if only a little, and he managed a glance down at the needle resting on the floor. It was still intact, though emptied of the small bit of heroin Carver managed to get hold of, attesting that this was not some weird trip and was all too real. He really had fallen back into the pit of the addiction he had come to know so well, failing himself and Lisa once more, and now he was faced by some stranger that had, somehow, hunted him down.

  Biel cocked his head to the side, his eyes boring into Carver's own. "She's very sick, isn't she?" he asked, forcing another skitter of anxiety through Carver.

  Carver nodded, but said nothing, looking away from the man again. Could he make it past this guy without being stopped? He had felt the strength the stranger's thin frame had, shocking in its power. He was probably fast, too, and Carver was still trying to find a way through the weakness that coursed through his body.

  "Tell me, if you could be allowed the chance to save her, would you take it?" Biel came a step closer, his feet crunching against the small pebbles the crumbling concrete exuded.

  The challenge made Carver pause. "What?" he sputtered out, not expecting to be asked something like that.

  The smile grew on Biel again. "It's a simple enough question. Would you save your daughter, if you were given a chance?"

  "Of course I would," Carver replied, his voice shaking a little. "I'd do anything."

  "Would you, now?" Biel brought up his palm, holding out one finger toward Carver's chest. "Even if it meant giving up your life?"

  Carver stared at the finger pointing at him, the size of the hand so large compared to his own.

  Did this guy mean to kill him? Was he some kind of psycho freak playing a sick game with him? He was rattled, his mind rushing to fill in the angle Biel was shooting for with all of this.

  Yet, with the fear and confusion, something about being asked it in this dark and lonely place, with the music above still pounding away as six or seven others, just like him, addicts and whores, all seeking out their next trips, steps closer to the yawning grave, made even the surrealness of it real. These damp and shadowed walls, the two-story house above, all serving nothing more than to bring people to an end, a nail at a time.

  The question was a serious one, he could see it in the face of the tall, gaunt and darkened stranger standing before him with a finger outstretched.

  He had done Lisa so much harm. He couldn't deny it; he had abandoned her to her loneliness too many times. From the moment the police came to his door, hat in hands and sadness on their faces, to tell him his wife and her mother was gone, he had set things in motion with Lisa that he could never return from.

  Two years of isolation, of affliction and drugs, of abandonment while he sought out ways to numb his own pain away. All the while, her slowly edging toward oblivion from the tumors finding a foothold within her small body, and him doing nothing to stop it.

  Oh, yes, he had served her wrong. He had never been there for her and would do anything to change the path that fate and his own damnable stupidity had marched her to.

  "I'd do everything for her." The words came out wrapped with all of the guilt and betrayal he carried, bitter tears beginning to pour down his cracked face. "Anything."

  Biel held his stance for a moment longer, watching as the grief over what he had done and become festered inside Carver and broke loose on the surface. Finally, he dropped his hand again and stepped back.

  "I know," his deep voice said, cutting into Carver's grief. "That's why you're perfect."

  Carver put his hands on his hips and bent forward, leaning against them as nausea streamed through, not knowing if it was an after-effect of the drug or because he was tearing himself up, but he closed his eyes and leaned into it all the same. The wave turned into dizziness and bile rose into his throat, but he swallowed it down, gritting his teeth against the bitterness.

  The guilt wracked his system, whatever he did would make no difference for Lisa. The things he did, the cycle he had fallen into, the depth of the heinous way he had treated her, it was too much. He was guilty, and there was no forgiveness for him. Whatever he gave wouldn't make up for it all.

  Yet here was a person before him who seemed to know it all, to be able to touch everything he was feeling inside and push just the right buttons. How? Was he psychic or merely psychotic? Was he even real? For all Carver knew, all of this was only a part of his trip.

  But the sickness was real. The taste of it was still in his mouth and when he spared a glance to the floor the remnants of the fluid that seeped from his veins remained, visible in the dim glow of the light above. Was that true enough? The fire that burned him, that seared every part of himself when the man touched him had been real.

  His thoughts raced as he rose again, the vestiges of nausea finally calming for him to be coherent and he stared into Biel's eyes, a blue so bright they almost glowed within the frame of his dark face.

  "What's really going on here?" Carver managed to ask, his voice cracking through his throat with the dryness pervading it. Arid and sore from the bile that he had to gag back, it barely broke through the beats of the music above.

  "A choice, dear boy." Biel came nearer, his long legs bending as he picked up the needle near Carver's feet. "An opportunity, if you will."

  Carver could not help but stare at the syringe in the man's hand. It reflected the light, sparks glinting across its surface as Biel turned it slightly in his fingers. It was emptied of its authority, now that what it contained had met his veins, but the remnant of memory, the way his thumb plunged the thing into his arm, the weakness he had for it, gave him pause.

  Biel seemed to notice his hesitation and his daze.

  "Do you want this?" he asked, lifting it up. Carver's gaze followed it, unable to wrench himself away from its force over him. "It's a choice, you know."

  Carver wasn't sure if he shook his head no or not.

  The plunger pulled back without Biel touching it. As it did, the inside of the syringe began to fill with a liquid, one deeply familiar to Carver. His eyes widened as it happened; Biel was not moving it other than to hold it straight out before him.

  Was it some trick? Some magician's ploy going on? Or was it an addled part of his mind that could not perceive what the man was doing? When Biel held it out again, it had been filled more than Carver originally had it, and he could not help the way his fist began to lift itself up toward the thing, his need a natural instinct.

  "Do you want this?" Biel's deep voice came through the veil already beginning to overcome Carver's head. "It's a choice, one you can make now. I can leave you with this and walk away." He brought it closer to Carver's face. "Receive it, and I will allow you your misery."

  Carver's hand shook as he lifted it, his teeth bared and tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth as he swallowed hard. The needle gleamed, filled with more heroin than he had ever used.

  It was beautiful.

  The rest of his arm, then his shoulder, quivered along with his hand, joining in the cacophony as it spread through his body. So simple. So easy it would be to draw the syringe from the hands of this strange man and be done with it all.

  He could shoot it in, and ride the bullet until its inevitable end. Maybe, this time, with as much as there was contained inside of it, he would finally be freed from the nightmare his life had become.

  He could take the hit and float the high into the beyond, and never look back.
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  An eternity later, his clench released again, still shaking, but under his control as he turned away from Biel and said, "No."

  Biel nodded, the smile edging to his face. His own hand dropped, and the needle disappeared, perhaps stuffed somewhere within the confines of the suit jacket. Carver could not see, but, either way, when Biel placed his grip on his shoulder, the syringe was gone.

  "I can free your daughter."

  The statement was so blithely made that Carver rounded on him with shock. "What?"

  Biel nodded again, the grin widening. "I can save her life, but, as with everything, there is choice there, as well." Biel's hand pushed. "Do you need for her to live?"

  Carver shrugged the palm off of him, a frown passing over his face. "Of course I want her to live. What kind of question is that? I told you already I would do anything for her."

  Despite Carver's reaction, Biel remained near, still smiling. "Then let me give you another choice. There's a war taking place, you see?"

  Carver furrowed his brow. "War?" What did this have to do with Lisa?

  "Between heaven and hell."

  "Wait, what?" Confusion rocked him.

  Biel nodded, his head moving slowly as he stared at the man before him. "It's been going on for a very long time." Biel took a step back.

  The sounds coming from his mouth did not match the scene around them, the cold and damp basement of a flophouse did not seem to be the place Carver should hear something like this, and he had trouble coming to terms with the things Biel was saying. But, as the man's words continued to pour out, Carver paid attention, desperately wanting to know how this had anything to do with Lisa and getting her free of the cancer that was killing her.

  A war between heaven and hell had been going on for as long as anyone could remember. Angels, demons, all creatures in between vied against one another for a victory none of them understood the reasoning for.

  Who started it no longer mattered. Demons blamed the angels and God, claiming dominion over hell and making it whatever they wanted it to be. Angels claimed if it weren't for the demonic influences on the world, there would be no need for hell, or war, or even death.

  God was silent on the whole thing, His voice nothing more than an echo after creation began, leaving his creatures behind to try to keep some semblance of balance.

  It had become a game, of sorts, between beings eternal and mighty, and the children of Adam and Eve were caught in the middle.

  God could end it all but chose to keep to Himself. The leaders of hell had enough in their army to bring it all down, but the balance was already in their favor. The vast majority of souls born to the world found their way to hell, proving they were right all along.

  Between it all lay the gates of hell, the endless stream of human souls through it feeding the fires and creating new demons in the forges of torment.

  Carver could not believe any of it. It was all too strange, too crazy. There was no way he heard all of this. He had to be stoned, still, maybe even so much that he was on the verge of dying, himself. Some twisted dream borne of hallucinations and nightmares.

  Yet the stone was cold behind him, the feel of the cement against the palms of his hands as he pressed into it more and more with the passage of the words spewing from this man before him seemed real enough, sure enough.

  No, as surreal as it all was, as confusing and unfathomable as it might be, there was no doubt in Carver's mind that what was happening was a real thing. Biel was there, had done something to him to draw the poison from his veins and brought him to a sobriety unmatched in the past days, months, years.

  He reeled from the information pouring from Biel's lips, until he finally held up his hand, the flesh of it pale against the light of the bulb and the chill of the air and asked, "What are you, really?"

  It was a simple enough question, but one he needed the answer to. Of all the things Biel said, about the war in heaven, the passage of time from creation until now, the fate of mankind, Biel had never mentioned which wing he was on.

  "I'm what the world needs most," the man answered, bringing Carver's hand down to rest at his side as he processed.

  Another moment passed before Carver sighed. "What does all of this have to do with Lisa and me?"

  "Now there's the right question and the choice." Biel stepped back again, moving away to face the wall. He lifted his palms into the air, fingers splayed outward like a supplication. "Everything has led to this moment in time, Carver Dax." He turned again and waved his hands around. "You, me, the vestiges of drained hope that are dying slowly above us all have a part to play in this game between God, His angels and the legions of hell. But there are those who need removal, or risk unmaking all things."

  "So? Why should I care? What's God done for me? For my little girl?" As the words came out, he knew he should hold them back, but Carver had a right to be angry with God. His wife, the love of his life and his strength when all was lost, was gone, taken by the crash. Lisa was fading by the minute. All because God decided it was part of His plan.

  All crap. All useless despair and for what? If the priest who showed up to console him after Sasha was killed was right, it was so that, in the end, God could be glorified.

  Screw God. Screw His plan.

  "The point isn't what He's done for you, Carver," Biel said. "It's that, if the uncontrolled elements of hell have their way, God won't matter. Your little girl won't count. You won't mean a thing. Everything will end, and we're not ready for that to take effect. Not yet."

  "We?" Carver asked. "Are you telling me you're a part of hell?"

  That familiar grin again came to Biel's lips. "I'm whatever I need to be to ensure the balance remains in place.

  "If you keep to the choices you've made, your Lisa is going to pass. Soon. You're going to die, maybe sooner."

  Carver nodded. He knew Biel was right. He could feel it coming and, in the moments of clarity between the shakes and the haze, he could admit he might just want it to hit.

  But then what of Lisa?

  Endless cycles. Endless arguments within, all leading to a path of self-destruction he never should have stepped upon in the first place.

  "One way or the other, Carver, you're working to end up in hell. It's the price to pay for the life you've led and the choices you have made." Biel trailed closer again. "I'm offering you another choice. A better retirement plan, if you will. Do what is necessary. You can be my hand, my agent, to spark a fire of chaos within hell they'll never expect."

  "You want me to work for you?" Carver asked, lifting his eyes to Biel's own almost glowing blue.

  "I will give you power, human." Carver's eyes widened a the word, but Biel continued. "You will be changed in ways you could not imagine. You will alter the course of destiny.

  "Your daughter, too, will be preserved, freed of the sickness destroying her, and remain so, as long as you fulfill your fate."

  "She'll get better?" Carver straightened himself as he brought the words out.

  Biel nodded. "If you accept, if you make the choice to become the Hallow, she will be saved, and so will you."

  "The Hallow?" Carver pushed himself away from the wall. "What's that mean?"

  "You will have power no other human does. The forces of hell will tremble before you, and the chorus of the Angelic hosts will sing in their dread." Biel raised his hand, and a flush appeared around the fingers as he splayed them open. In his palm, a symbol began to appear, small at first, but within the span of a few seconds, it grew large enough to cover all of the space. It did not remain still, swirling as the glow shifted colors, going from blue to red and back again, the aura transfixing Carver's eyes and catching his breath in his throat. "Will you accept this destiny?"

  The glow brightened until it was more than the pitiful bulb hanging from the ceiling above, taking over all of Carver's sight, sucking him into it. As the emblem there, a primitive rune of sorts he could not recognize, twirled and twisted, he went into quivers. It was not fe
ar, but something more primal, that he had never felt before. It suffused him, scattering coherent thought away as every part of him trembled.

  How long he was transfixed by it, held captive within the glow, he could not say, but after a time, he began to see a vision of Lisa in her hospital bed, the tubes, and wires coming off of her and into the multitude of machines around her as real to him as the breath caught in his lungs. She was there, truly there, like the bloom had opened a door or portal of some kind and allowed him to glimpse her as she was at that moment. She was awake, her eyes wide as the pain was on her again, the remnants of the drugs flowing within her own veins wearing off enough for her to feel the hard edges of the agony her life had become.

  Tears flowed anew from him, the air finally releasing from his lungs. A great heaving sob broke free from him. She turned her head to face him, but her eyes showed no recognition that she could see him. But had she, somehow, heard him? Had she, in that singular moment of tension as the agonizing decision spun inside of him, been connected to him to know he was there with her?