by Ira Robinson
"Good girl." He picked up the shotgun and walked toward the door, the crackle of Jessup's nails against the hard floor loud in the space. "Now, do it as soon as I leave."
"Call when you're on the way home so I know to drop the spells."
He tossed the gun across the front seat and turned to the house; everything was in place. The light from the windows beamed across the yard as he swung himself into the diver's side and spun the key in the ignition. The truck fired to life, vibrating beneath him as he did a final check in his mind. He had what he would need.
There wasn't much to go on in the envelope; there rarely was, usually nothing more than an address and the "Consecrate" command. This one would take a while to get to.
He shot a prayer to whatever entity in heaven might have its ears turned toward the small man wedged between forces beyond his comprehension, and aimed the truck down the long drive that led to the road.
Chapter 6
Dull yellow light flaring from the sky accompanied Carver's steps as his feet led him down the wide sidewalk, reflecting off of the tall buildings to the world below.
His body was worn, aching from the long hours spent vibrating in the cab of his truck while his tires chewed through the miles to reach the city, his ears still ringing with the music that blithely kept him company. It jarred him, but it helped him stay awake, and that's all that mattered.
He didn't care much for the modern day pop that bugled through the speakers. The voices of the singers were so obviously auto-tuned into a semblance of harmony, though it was obvious they had little talent. But Lisa loved the stuff, and he determined to listen to it every now and then to see if there was any merit to it. He had yet to discover any, but listening to it made him feel as if she were nearby, giving him a meager comfort during the lengthy trek.
This was not the farthest he had ever gone to find a target, not by a long shot. Once, Biel had him all the way across the country to track down a demon; hours upon hours wasted, really. It took him only a few minutes to kill the thing, a fearsome but minor entity that was, as so many others Biel sent him to strike, confusingly small in the grander scheme of things.
Still, his single duty was to obey, and he was nothing if not compliant, much as he disliked it.
Carver was sure this time was going to be different, though. While he had only an address, there was a pull within him as he traversed the cement walk, his legs pistoning, that spoke to something greater nearby.
He wasn't sure how big, not yet, and probably wouldn't until he reached the address, but it was enough that he thought he should hoof the remaining distance, instead of driving. He might need the edge of stealth, and the truck was not easy to hide. The thing was big with over sized tires and a bed that could carry multiple cords of wood. Or bodies, if it came to that.
According to the GPS, he was still a couple of miles away, but that would be good. It gave him time to focus, to gather his thoughts for the fight that could be coming. Although Biel had sent him after what Carver would deem small-fry in the hierarchy of Hell, he did what he could to not take chances. Even a poor demon could kill, if one was unwary and did not prepare.
The morning air was cool but not unpleasant, drifting across the bare spots of his skin exposed, the pack at his hip jostling only a little with the pounding of his heels against the sidewalk. His heightened sense of smell and hearing was difficult to deal with in the midst of a bigger city, the cast-offs of humans living their daily lives a bit overwhelming. Garbage wafting malodorous scents as the breezes flitted through alleyways he passed, morning traffic heading to work and the dank fumes of exhaust, even the sewer vents and storm drains had their contributions to his awareness. He did what he could to ignore it all, to focus on his center, to put himself together as much as he could, but he missed the free and open spaces around his home. At least there, the emissions from nature were not so bad, if heady sometimes, especially when spring and fall had come upon them.
Carver paused, his steps near skidding to a halt, small pebbles on the sidewalk skittering aside as his boots trod into them.
He glanced up to the sky, catching glimpses of the sun as deep clouds broke apart here and there, the yellow cast along the ground dimming and brightening again every few seconds. Still, it seemed much darker than it had when he slipped out of the truck, the sky not quite as overcast then as now, only fifteen minutes later.
He closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing into the darkness his lids provided, then gave the command to his inner-self to activate his hex-sight and opened them again.
Yeah, some of the demons he felt were around. He could see them, their images blurred somewhat, but their forms were unmistakable to him.
An older woman on the other side of the street walked with a cell phone to her ears, talking into it rapidly. Her face reddened with anger as the words poured forth, and, with the sight, Carver could catch a small demon, barely there, one of the Smoothers. Reminiscent of an old doll left outside too long, falling apart and crusted over with the filth of exposure, it pressed close to her free ear. Its lips fluttered, its claws dug into her neck. While he could not hear what the demons was saying, he had encountered enough of these Smoothers to know they were relatively harmless.
They were there to tempt, to taunt the humans they had been assigned to, latching on to the person without their realizing anything was there, and talked into them, whispering and pushing, trying to drive the human insane or into sins they otherwise would have nothing to do with.
The creature's eyes darted toward Carver, aware of his presence as much as he was of its', but he had no intention of stopping it. Still, the scent of sulfur from the being wafted across the road to him, the fear of the thing at the sight of him overt.
Carver took small pleasure in its discomfort.
The thing about the Smoothers was, if the human wanted to, they could easily discard the beast from themselves by going against what it tempted them into. But the more they fell into the trap the creatures weaved, the more power the individual gave them.
Were they simply shadows of demons, and little more? Probably, at least as he had encountered them. But he and Malachi spoke occasionally about the possibility they were more of demonic embryos, and the more they were able to get a human to do, the stronger, and more real they became. Perhaps they graduated into something bigger as time and temptations went on, until it could become full-blown possession.
He kept the sight active as his feet began to move again, the cadence of his steps bringing him closer to the final destination.
The air itself was beginning to tinge with a haze akin to a fog, but if he shut the sight down, he would not be able to see it. This was not a product of atmosphere, but of something vaster, and he slowed slightly as he realized how big the situation he was walking into might actually be.
Was it because of the set of dogs nearby? They huddled near their owners, chattering away with one another as the animals turned toward Carver, their snouts aimed straight for his chest as they gauged his approach. Did their "owners" realize they were hounds of purgatory having a meeting? Likely not, though the fact the humans had gathered meant they succumbed to the pressures of the thoughts in the hounds heads.
No, hateful as they were and full of the dark mission of hell, with the pride and evil that came with it, they were not the source of the haze. Something much bigger was on the horizon, and it was not his first time encountering its like.
It meant there was either a base of a large group of entities nearby, or a singular one of a much more terrible nature.
Carver did his best to hide the tremble, the nerves on edge that was slowly winding itself up, as he passed the dogs. They could sense it, he was sure, no matter how hard he tried to suppress it. The largest, let out a brief cackle, distracting its owner from the conversation she was having with her companions. She tugged on the leash to get the hound to hush, which it obeyed, but the slack grin on the dog's face was aimed at him as Carver hurried beyon
d their range.
What was Biel sending him into?
The pull was still there, all of the beings around him a niggling pinprick of the urge within, and, though he was nervous, it was more from the excitement at what was to come, not fear. These things were nothing compared to what he was heading toward, and, if he really wished, he could send them back to hell without much effort. They probably understood this, too, but put up a good front regardless. They had their pride, and if they had the chance, he was positive they would try to break for him.
After all, destroying the Hallow would be a deed worth volumes within the vast store of knowledge of Hell.
They remained back, though, and even the hounds exuded a fear of him, despite their strength.
The things he had done to their fellows, he was confident, were already well-known, gossiped about in the dark spaces and hidey-holes the minions of Hell loved to skulk within.
Focus. Must focus on the goal, the source of the darkness he was striding toward. These small beasts were not the targets, no matter the despising he felt when he looked at them.
The haze in the air thickened, as did his ability to stalk through it. It was a repulsion, an impression that he could not quite put his fingers on but was pressing him away, just the same. Oppression, bearing down on him as he reached the next block and the rows of houses it contained throbbed between his shoulders. He inhaled, taking it deep, then coughed lightly as the thick atmosphere choked him a bit. He took another, gritting his teeth as the sulfur scent came, willing himself to embrace it, to take it all in stride. Another few breaths and the transition was complete, the sense of oppression easing as his body became accustomed to it.
Could normal people feel it? He suspected there was at least some aspect of it that would be. The individuals in this neighborhood might be quieter, sulking within their walls while they were home, as a result. Or, they could be the opposite, arguing with themselves beyond what would be considered average, tearing each other down as the ocher of evil centered in their midst spread its influence around.
It was there, in the middle of the road, a home otherwise nondescript among others that looked much the same, white siding and bushes in the front to block out some of the glass fronting the place. A small walk led to the stairs and a red door with a knocker set within. He traced the outline of the house and the black pool of filth that emitted beyond them, jutting up into the sky like the pillars he had seen so many times before.
This one, however, was different, not as thick as he expected it would be, given the depth of negative power that poured out of it.
His head pounded from the sight being active for so long, but he could not turn it off. Not yet. Not when there was this going on.
None of the other houses on the block looked to be the centers of demonic energy, the cradle of filthy air and death that exuded from them whenever something big was around. They were tainted, stained by the presence of whatever was in that house, but were not subjected to it directly, themselves.
No, it was this place and no other, but why, if there was the evidence of so much of an influence, did it seem like there was not enough to account for it?
His feet moved again, carting his body to the door. Carver concentrated, keeping his focus on the red, the subtle twisting of the black pillar around the house hard to see through without effort. He flexed his right hand over and over as he paced, the familiar dam within him aching for release as the pull toward the building increased.
He opened the gate and stepped into the yard, passing by the small hedges that hid some of the white wood fencing surrounding the place and plod the steps up.
He knocked, then skipped back, his hand raised and his eyes squinting, ready to pounce.
Nothing. It remained closed and no sound came through it.
He stepped and cast his gaze all around, the afterimages of the dark haze centered on the house unmistakable. It was touched, in extreme ways, by something beyond the piddling minions that haunted most people. Whatever embraced this place, called it their base, was going to be difficult.
He knocked again, his hand steady as bright sparks of light accompanied the rapping of his knuckles. He breathed deep, the stench of the area and the length of time he had the sight active forcing his eyes to water, the tears streaking his cheeks as it was blown by the breeze.
Steps.
Carver crept back again, the foot falls within the house coming closer. One hand dropped to the pack, in case he needed to grab something from it, while the one marked with the symbols was upraised and waiting.
Crackles of metal sliding away from the door cut through the silence of the street and the creaking of it as it opened was louder than Carver expected. He braced himself, unsure of the horror he might witness.
A short, balding man with thick glasses put his palm on the wood as he leaned against it, breath huffing out in rapid succession. His eyes were glossy, barely focused as his face, the jaw slack and scarcely any chin to speak of held open.
Carver's eyes narrowed, focusing on the skin that hung loosely off of the bones of the man, a sickly green tinge around the edges. The slouch, the way he carried himself, spoke to something dreadful happening to him, but Carver could not quite place what.
Was he ill? Was he, somehow, affected by the darkness surrounding his house in such a way his body was falling apart? Possible, but he had never heard of such a thing. There was no trace of a demon within him, though he had obviously been touched by malevolence. Recently, in fact, seeming to be almost drained by it.
"Are you Bruce?" Carver spat out, lowering his hand to meet the other near the pack around his waist. It was the first thing he could think to say.
There was no answer, but the man twisted his head from one position to the other, barely recognizing someone was standing in front of him.
"Hey, are you okay?" Carver didn't reach out, but the words attracted his attention.
"Hmm? What?" the man muttered, almost inaudible over the light breeze. His arm slipped down from the door to his side, slouching his shoulders more than they had been.
"You okay?" Carver asked again, backpedaling another step. No, there was no demon in him, but whatever touched this guy was definitely potent.
"Yes, thank you," he answered, rasping the words out through a throat that was, perhaps, too dry to function well.
With that, the man turned and stepped into the darkened house, closing the door behind him while Carver tried to grasp a look around his body. Even with the sight active, he could see nothing of the interior; the blackness was far too deep, a tarry pit he could not cut through.
The locks snicked in place and Carver was left standing in the yard, befuddled.
He closed his lids for a moment, turning the sight off, and sighed with relief as the headache that spun his mind began to subside.
He crossed to the sidewalk and made his way down the street, unsure of what exactly was going on in that house, but determined to discover it before he prepared another move.
Whatever he had been sent to do was not there, but the condition of the man and the manner the home had become the center of something powerful was evidence enough that it would return.
Hopefully soon. Night would be coming in a few hours and he did not want to simply stand in sight of whatever called this place its base.
His truck was only a couple miles away. Now that he knew the lay of the land and a bit more of what to expect, he would bring it closer.
He would wait for the entity, hoping it would not be too much for him to handle.
Chapter 7
The fog on the windshield was finally, blessedly, dissipating, letting Carver have a greater view of the street without having to strain.
He cracked the window on his side a little more, the heat from his body filtering as a soft breeze murmured through the three inches already there.
The last vestiges of light from the day were fading, the twilight fully upon the road he watched, smoothing out the
edges of the houses waiting in anticipation around him for the beast, whatever it was, to come back into their midst again.
The truck had not moved for hours, remaining in front of the house half a block from the target. Carver hated to be exposed like this, but there was no way for him to hide, otherwise. He could not just skulk about the bushes, not here in this small piece of suburbia. An older truck with markings as if it were a workman's vehicle was much less obvious than a man trying to shelter from sight, even if people, as a rule, tended to keep to themselves. It served, but he did have to consciously stop his knees from bouncing with anxiety and impatience.
He checked his pack over so many times in the intervening hours since parking the truck his finger was a bit sore. This was probably the hardest art of the job, waiting until something happened, especially when he didn't know for sure what he might be facing.
Over and over, he practiced invocations, using the timbre of words as they piled past the movie screen of his mind to keep himself calmed. They were words Malachi taught him, old concepts of scriptures lost to mankind years ago, the books destroyed by the hands of men who had no understanding of their importance. Some fragments survived, and somehow Malachi managed to get his fists upon them. There was, though they were powerful words, something soothing about them.
