Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  No, that was wrong. He could learn to control it. He had to.

  He brought his hand back to his head and pressed a finger into his temple, concentrating anew on his eyes, imagining they were normal, that they were nothing apart from what they had been before.

  A brief sense of pressure fluttered through his mind as he did and, when he opened the lids again things once more looked as they should. The sky had shifted to the dingy February day and the small groups of people walking down the street had none of the auras that surrounded them when he saw them before.

  He tried it again, closing his eyes and concentrating on the shift. The fluttering sensation hit him again and he opened them to find that weird enhancement.

  He squinted into it and cast his gaze everywhere he could.

  Colors had more saturation, the contrast was something out of a video game when the settings were incorrect, but everything was sharper, a hyper clarity that kicked pain in within a few moments. He tolerated it, but the watering began quickly.

  There were strange ebony patches in places he did not expect them to be, not there when his vision was normal. The building he was parked near was particularly dark, extending a little distance above it into the sky like a pillar jutting off of it.

  As his eyes roved, other buildings, too, had the pillars. Carver realized these must be where stronger demons, or perhaps greater accumulations of them, resided. Sanctuaries? That seemed the right word to him. They could feel safe to handle whatever dark business they had been sent to do.

  Much like himself.

  It was surreal to look at the work in that way, with colors drained in some spots while others flourished like the light of a summer's day, the people walking around the sidewalks not far away from him surrounded by that abundance, as well. Other sections the saturation was depleted until it was nearly black-and-white, and he had no real point of reference as to why it might be so.

  There was no owner's manual to being the Hallow, as desperately as he wished he could pull one out of his glove box and figure out what all was occurring.

  He shook his head and released the concentration to keep the vision active, his headache diminishing dramatically as soon as he did. His eyes, too, stopped watering, the pressure in his sinuses fading away as the world shifted back to its normal view, though he was still aware that if he needed to, he could turn it on again.

  He climbed out of the truck and approached the building, unsure exactly how he would manage to not only make his way inside, but what to do once he got in.

  The first part resolved quickly. Someone was coming out as he neared the door and held it open for him, allowing him passage into the warmth.

  He muttered a thanks to the man as he plodded, adjusting to the new lighting in the hallway.

  Mailboxes lined the wall to one side, while the other was dedicated to a large billboard covered in papers and advertising. He glanced at them only a moment before moving on.

  The man he was supposed to face was on the third floor, or so it would seem by the numbers he saw on the boxes. An elevator made that part easy, as well.

  By the time he reached the door of James Beech, M.D., he barely moved as wracking nervousness shattered his concentration and his breathing. Thankfully no people were there, or they would surely have called the police on him, the panic in his eyes obvious even to himself as he passed by a metal part of the wall.

  The pressure, too, grew in intensity as he approached the door, a strange feeling of being both repelled and drawn at the same time. Perhaps his growing dread over what might come, the creature he knew the man he would soon face carried within something he didn't want to deal with, was the force that was pushing him to run. Maybe it sensed his approach, using some force of its own to try to make him leave.

  He swallowed hard, the tightness in his throat palpable, and took the rest of the steps to reach the wood.

  He raised his hand but hesitated before knocking. He put it flat against the grain and leaned forward, his ear pressed into it as he listened for anything on the other side. Wouldn't it be ironic for the man to not be home?

  The noise from a television inside told him that was not likely. When he screwed his eyes tight and listened harder, he thought he could even make out the subtleness of a heartbeat within the room ahead, but he could not be sure.

  He pulled back and knocked, the sound echoing around him as he stepped away from the door and his legs tightened.

  Footsteps approached and Carver bent forward, readying himself for whatever might come.

  For the first few seconds after the door swung, Carver did not move. Who he had seen in his vision was there, brown hair short cut in a way similar to his own, and face ruddy, maybe from the effort of walking across the room.

  The two of them stared at each other for that moment, Carver seeking out any sign within the guy that some monstrosity existed. The pressure was so potent in his gut he barely breathed.

  The man, James, opened his mouth, the question of who he was looking at on his lips, but then twisted into something different. The ruddiness disappeared, paling into ash. His hands raised and Carver realized he was trying to close the door as fear ripped the questioning look from the man's face.

  A strange squeal emitted from the man as Carver reached out for the door, blocking him from closing it entirely, and shoved his foot in the way. It banged against the hard soles of his shoes and bounced as James backed from Carver, arms flailing in supplication.

  "No," he shouted in a voice much higher-pitched than his body looked able to possess and the face twisted more as he stumbled to the living room. "Please, not now. Not now!"

  Carver stayed in the doorway for a moment more, watching as the man changed rapidly, bending in perverse ways that no human should be able to do and still have function, coming down nearly to his hands and knees. His mein kept changing, too, the pallor shifting into a darker color, the ashiness fading away to more maroon and his lips peeled backward as his teeth extended outward.

  Carver slammed the door shut. He stepped into the room, his eyes wide as the transfiguration of the humanoid into creature played out in front of him. He put his hand on the wall and gripped it hard as sweat beaded and chilled him, despite the heat of the room, not only the ambient from the furnace but from the creature, itself. A strange odor exuded from it as it bent, nearly weeping as it begged him to leave, to go, that it was not time.

  Carver didn't understand what it meant but he came further into the room, forcing his feet to move.

  He pinpointed the scent: sulfur. It reminded him of a science experiment gone bad when he was in high school, covering the building in a scent like a stink bomb had gone off. It had taken days to get rid of it.

  While the pressure wanted him to run, to force him to move away from this place and be done with this whole thing, something inside of him whirled and, for the next few moments, instinct took control.

  He gritted his teeth as he neared the thing on the floor, the end table near the couch tipping over with a loud crash as it tried to scramble from Carver.

  He raised his hand and the dam in his soul burst free.

  He screamed as brilliant white light flared out from the palm of his hand, illuminating the entire room so brightly he could see nothing else. The demon blared, the luminance entering its eyes, stopping the blood in his veins for the briefest of seconds before Carver ran forward and slammed his fingers into the creature's body.

  His cry rose and the heat was enough to singe his hand as it touched the demon's head, but it lasted only a second as the thing was unmade.

  That was the best way he could put it to himself, as he climbed into his truck, his hands shaking so hard he had dropped his keys twice before being able to get them into the door.

  For a moment, that thing in front of him was still, unmoving even as the scream shot out. Then, starting with the part of the head Carver's hand touched, black particles and dust flowed, swirling around on a whirlwind he could not feel
. It took only seconds, but each inch of the creature was dispersed as the white cut through it until nothing was left but a few spots of sooty material on the floor.

  That, too, bleached rapidly, leaving the merest scent of sulfur behind to indicate anyone had been there.

  Carver backed slowly, his feet barely moving as the light faded from him. He raised his palm up, staring into it for any sign it had done anything, but there was no trace lining the scars.

  The television blared the nightly news as he exited the place, pulling a rag from his pocket to wipe down the handles of the door. He followed instinct, somehow, though his mind was completely locked in shock over what he had done.

  He squealed the tires as he drove from the building and did not stop until he reached the small corner bar a mile away, swallowing down the harsh bitter whiskey in a gulp before he felt he could relax.

  A few days later, he finally sat down with Lisa, talking to her about what was happening while hiding things as best he could.

  She didn't need to know about his addictions, or the extent of the deal he made with Biel, but she knew she had gotten better in ways no one could explain. She accepted it, and not long after, he got the same strange type of message for his second assignment.

  It was only the first of many for him, the three years since then filled with months of hearing nothing, followed by one or two days in a row where he had to seek out another demon somewhere, fulfilling his duties for Biel the best he could. With each, he could not help but wonder if it was the last.

  There were close calls, but with every mission, he learned something new about himself and his powers as the Hallow, and he would do what needed to be done in order to keep himself and his daughter alive.

  A crackle of a branch breaking behind them drew Lisa's attention.

  She spun, the gun in Carver's hands still held down but at the ready in case he needed it. She pulled a large knife from the sheathe at her belt and stilled her breathing, listening closely for any more sound.

  Carver remained unmoving, hearing soft footfalls nearby. He closed his eyes, trying to discern as much as he could while remaining motionless.

  Lisa broke from him, sliding across the flat cleared dirt as she moved to the smaller stand of trees to their left.

  A loud cry and he spun himself around to see Lisa bounding toward the large, dark figure rounding one of the oaks, an object that had remained well-hidden.

  She dropped the knife and bounced on the spine of the huge black dog, squealing, "I got you!"

  The dog barked and kicked away from her, playfully dodging her blows and ducking his head down as if he was going to nip at her legs.

  He broke out in a laugh as Jessup and Lisa tore off into the woods, chasing each other.

  Training day was over for now.

  Carver picked up the ammo box and carried it and the gun back to the house, holding the rifle near his chest to make sure it was secure. He slipped inside as another yelp from Jessup followed and smiled again at how close the two of them were.

  She would be safe with him. He would do anything to protect his Lisa.

  He put the gun into the cabinet he kept near the door, within easy reach if need be by both of them. He didn't lock it, unworried about Lisa getting hold of it. She knew how to handle it almost as well as he did, and would do nothing stupid with it. She rarely pulled it out of its case without him around, anyway.

  He went into the kitchen to start dinner, the meat thawing out in the sink ready to go.

  When he turned to pick up the dishes, he saw a new envelope resting on top of the dark wood table.

  Carver frowned and sighed as he realized the time had come again for him to work.

  Chapter 5

  "Dad, do you really have to go?"

  It was a familiar litany, heard nearly every time he had to walk out of the front door of their house in the woods to serve his duty. Hearing it again did little to assuage his concerns about leaving her, the guilt from his old life still haunting him every step of the way.

  But Carver had to leave. The mission was given and, regardless of however else he felt about things, there was no option for him to say no.

  Lisa wanted to go along, following him as he walked through the dwelling, putting together the materials he might need. He had his kit, the small pack he carried with him at his belt, which he checked and double-checked to ensure everything was in place, but each time he was forced to work, things did not work out completely to plan.

  He never brought Lisa with him, of course, the danger when dealing with the creatures he had to far too much for his little girl to handle, but he could not help the swell of pride he felt for her, the way she wore her courage on her sleeve, ready to aid him if she could.

  That was hard for him to get used to, the way she not only took what he had become in stride, but how excited she was about it. She thought of Carver as some kind of superhero, going out to rid the world of the evils tormenting it, saving people from their lives of misery and woe by banishing, eliminating, those things that wanted nothing more than to drag their souls to hell with them.

  There were times he felt like that, as well, especially when he saw the relief in the eyes of those who had been victims only moments before, possessed by creatures they could have never imagined in their worst nightmares.

  But those were so rare.

  No, mostly Carver had to deal with plenty more than that.

  He learned early the presence of demons was horrifyingly frequent. Had he lived closer to a city, he might be driven crazy by the constant pressure of their nearness. They went about whatever duties they were assigned to do, like Carver himself, and though it tore him up to know they were there, that he could, if he wanted, start a cycle of destruction that would rid the world of them all, he left them alone.

  They were not his mission, not who he was sent to cleanse and, unless they got involved, he didn't bother them.

  Lisa considered him as some kind of hero, but Carver knew better. He was nothing more than a soldier under the command of something horrible, and he could do little to say no to the orders he was given.

  Would she look at him differently if she knew that? If he was to sit her down one day and tell her the truth, would she begin to see him again the manner she used to? If he told her that in the night he beat himself up because he knew he could do more, should do more to fight the evils of the world because there was none else who could, would she understand?

  Carver could sense their dark purpose, their malevolence, their hatred for mankind and how much they craved to have it all destroyed. Oh, they took great pleasure in tormenting, in creating disparities and divisions, in the way they could whisper their darknesses into a person's ears and observe as the human reacted to it without thinking twice. They reveled in their evil, and every time he saw one, he wanted to reach out with the holy light and watch them burst into flames, laugh as they screamed in torment of their own as their essence shredded.

  What good would come of it? There were always more, so many more, and he was bid only to obey.

  A hero? No. He knew better. He was, when it came down to it, a coward. Despite the power within his hands, despite the knowledge he had gained and the abilities he had been granted, he could do little more than be the tool in a game he did not understand.

  Biel was his master, and if he stepped out of line, he feared what would become of Lisa. He could not lose her again. He could not watch her go through the agony as she had before, powerless to stop it from happening.

  So let her look at him as if he was a hero if that is what she wanted to do. He knew better.

  "You have Malachi's number, if you need him, right?" He put the extra shells into his pack, lining the edges of it with their metal and the subtle scent of the herbs mixed with the gunpowder wafted out of the nylon bag.

  "Of course, dad," she replied with a roll of her eyes.

  "Just making sure," Carver said, lightly slapping her on the shoulder. "You r
ealize I worry about you being here while I am gone."

  "I can handle myself." She pulled herself away from him. "Besides, I'm not alone. I have Jessup here with me."

  She glanced down to Jessup, who raised his head at the mention of his name and panted a little. He was nearly always within sight of Lisa, even while she slept.

  "I still hate that I have to go."

  "Well, you could take me with you, you know. Maybe you'll need me one day." Lisa picked up the small book of spells Carver had hand-written off the counter and handed it to him, her eyes bright.

  "I wish I could, kiddo," Carver said, grabbing it from Lisa and plopping it into the bag on top of the rest. "Some day."

  He zipped the sack shut and hooked it to his belt, securing it before taking the shotgun from her. He gave it a once-over, making sure the safety was in place - it was, she was cautious - before laying it against the standing counter in the middle of their kitchen.