by Ira Robinson
"The Lord is peace, the bringer of balance, creation and destruction in His hands. Good and evil are His by design, for nothing exists without Him."
A prayer, perhaps, from a psalmist forgotten to time, the words pried from a scroll that no longer existed, teaching all things belonged to God. Did that include Carver, himself? Was he, even as he worked under the purview of a demon, within the hands and consent of the God of Heaven? Was He looking down upon him and his actions in approval, knowing the greater plan?
Carver didn't know, and probably never would, but the words Malachi taught him gave small comfort in the moments he felt the most disquieted.
Small comforts, tiny joys. Maybe that's what the passage meant. Find the balance in all, because there's nothing else one can do in the face of evil. It's in God's hands.
In the depths of blackness, there had to be light. After all, they cannot exist without each other. Light exposes the darkness, and without darkness, there's nothing to reflect the light.
Did that include the lives Carver touched? Were they, somehow, still within God's plans? What about Carissa, the little girl he saved the month before?
Her eyes still haunted him, though he convinced himself everything that happened with her was for the greater good.
She was so small, emaciated, really, when he came cross her. She had not been his target; that thing was hours away, another minor player in the scheme of hell.
Carissa was something different. Her eyes, when he saw her in the alleyway behind a chain store, caught his own. He stopped and stared at her, at this poor helpless and homeless child, not more than ten years. At least, that's how old she could have been. She was so ravaged by the demons slithering within her body she could have been much older but drained of all of her essence.
They had done a number on her for sure, and she was more like a carrier of them, a plague-ridden and pitiable thing quite near the verge of death. Carver was surprised she still had life, so pale and loose-hanging her skin was, almost nothing surrounding her bones but the flaps. Barely a trace of meat, sucked away as, perhaps, the demons drove her to the insanity she exuded in her stare.
Even without his hex-sight, he could see the entities that called her body home. They oozed from her, the stench of her not just from lack of water but from the magnitude of the suffering they put her through.
How had she come to be in this state? How could so many, a dozen or more, demons occupy this small figure laying against the dumpster? She was a kid, for the love of God a baby, and yet had been tormented, tortured for so long by these craven entities of Hell that she may have never known anything different.
She recognized a little of what Carver was, perhaps, stretching forth a hand toward him with the begging in her eyes for release from the endless scream her throat could not muster. The demons forced her body to cower against the dumpster, themselves having destroyed so much of her that they could only focus small bits of movement as he stalked toward them, lifting his fist from his pocket and directing it their way.
His breath huffed, plumes of smoke rising out of his mouth as he trembled, red faced and furious, releasing the dam in his arm and sending his power out as a spike, pinioning the creatures inside the girl backward.
A howl emanated from her, all dozen demons inside of her crying out in unison, breaking the silence of the alleyway with their scream as the holy light struck them and, though they each tried to get away from it, were burned one by one until all that remained behind was the husk, the shell of the daughter that once was.
She lay on her back, great heaving breaths coming out in a hiss as the lungs within her, laden with fluid from sickness and decay, grasped at the single strand of life left to her. She turned her head toward Carver, glistening eyes saturated with tears at the relief that had come to her, finally free after, perhaps, a lifetime of one horror show after another.
Carver took her into his arms, his own tears sliding down his cheeks, the anger that fueled his massive attack against the demons that occupied her small body burned away. He wept not for her joy, as she did, as the last gasps from her lungs were spit out and she left the shell of her frame behind, but at the thought God, in His "infinite mercy," could ever allow something like this to happen to a child. How magnificent in His horror He must be, how beautiful in His loving torture of the creations He held so dear.
Did He sit on His throne with a mocking laugh as the girl's spirit faded? Was she even now waiting at the entrance of Hell, joining those great masses of souls that are doomed for the pit?
A small bag sat beside her body and Carver glanced through it, taking in what was left of the life of this poor abandoned soul. A library card was the only identification within, with the name Carissa Littleton.
Was it hers? Maybe, but it could just as well have been stolen from someone, a remnant of another person's life that she tried to cling to as her own.
"God is balance." The litany echoed through Carver's mind as he waited in his truck, the moments of time passing in boredom inevitably leading to his touching parts of his past he wanted nothing more than to reject. Broken, like Carissa, left behind by the God of mercy.
Carver wiped his eyes and sniffed, the windshield fogging up again as the heat of his body rose.
Monstrous. All so monstrously horrible and beautiful, and he was caught in the midst of it, unable to extricate himself from any of it. Was he an avenging angel? Was Carissa better off now that she might be festering in the pits of Hell, screaming for a taste of water that would never come? Or was she truly blessed, given a chance to be in glory, forgiven for things that were never in her control?
Was Carver responsible for her torture? Had he made the wrong move, freeing her from the creatures that were keeping her alive, only to grant her something worse?
He didn't know, couldn't know. He was not privy to the rolls of the names of those in Hell. But the thought he could be a demon, himself, feeding the abyss on behalf of Biel even while he tried to convince himself he was something else kept him awake at night far more often than the dreams that inevitably came.
Beyond the windscreen at the front of his cab, the road lights dimmed. It was only a superficial variation, but his keen eyes caught the difference as he put his hand on the passenger seat. The cool metal of the shotgun played beneath his fingers as he squinted, bringing everything into sharp focus.
The wind remained only slight, but bits of powder and particles of dirt rose to stream along the street, pulled toward the house he was sent to. It was not much, perhaps nothing anyone else would really notice, but, within moments, it picked up, more debris coalescing around the spot.
He shifted in the chair, his stomach dropping as the beat of his heart rose, and he unrolled the window the rest of the way, watching as the pillar of darkness only seen by his hex-sight actually began to form out of the dust floating in the air.
They danced and swirled, circling around the top of the house as the darkening of the world multiplied.
Deeper patches of black, shadows of things unseen, flowed along the road like a river, all ending at the spot in front of the house that marked the gate to the yard, and those, too, increased for a few minutes until a soft chuff met his ears and the particles, soot and bits of debris congealed, dropping to the ground at once in a single point.
Out of the mess a figure coalesced, coming together as a shape he had to squint harder to see, the remaining traces of detritus crumbling in silence.
The woman took a deep breath, as if it was her first one, chest heaving in a great gasp as a smile came to her lips.
Even from the distance she was beautiful, her shapely body wrapped in a dress as black as the night surrounding her, and if it were not for the existence of the street lamps, Carver might have missed her entirely. Her hair, black and nearly as long as her skirt, wafted as she stepped toward the door of the house Carver visited earlier. She slunk across the ground, her heels patting against the cement as shadows flitted around her, dancin
g in her presence.
Although he was half a block away, Carver could feel the pull, the deep evil of this gorgeous creature, his body out of his control as it reacted to the innate sensuality she exuded. Maybe the men in the surrounding houses even now filled with a flurry of sexual activity as the erotic power this woman oozed spread from her.
Carver hurriedly sucked in a breath and swallowed hard, trying to contain the animal instincts that rose within himself. She was irresistible, and she knew it.
A succubus. She had to be. The power of sensuality she carried was so potent it impacted him on a scale he never felt before.
A succubus would explain the condition of the man who opened the door to her knock, taking her into an embrace that was filled with more vigor than Carver would have thought possible, given the state he had been in earlier. This, too, was a part of her power, feeding off of the desires of those in the surrounding area to give it to this man, but only long enough to allow her to bring out more from him, her victim.
A willing victim, yes, but one nonetheless.
This was definitely not the first time this woman had come to the house, but it might be among the last. There was not much left of the stranger.
Carver sighed as the door closed behind them, the power wafting from her cut off most of the way with the barricade between, but there was still something to it, and the pull inside of his guts was more than just his normal sensations when a demon was present.
He pulled the shotgun from the passenger seat and popped the door open, swinging himself from the cab in one move.
This was not going to be easy.
Chapter 8
Gravel shifted beneath his feet as Carver approached the gate.
His eyes flashed from one side to the other, wary of anyone watching. The sight of a man walking down a small city street with a shotgun would draw way more attention than he desired. The last thing he needed was some do-gooder citizen panicking and calling the police in to investigate.
There was no sign of people staring out of their windows, no movement of the curtains as a tell-tale indicator that he was being observed. Maybe everyone was busy with their own affairs, caught in the sensual energy exuded by the demon-woman in the guise of a succubus. Now that he was this close, the surge of adrenaline within him spiked, and not only from the potential of the confrontation coming.
He held the shotgun, the stock in his hands near his hip while the long barrel hovered only inches above the ground. His heart leaped in his chest, running out of control, his ears resounding with the sound of it passing through his neck into his head. So many times before he had been through this, and each time it was as if it were new.
He stopped in his tracks, listening again for any sign of movement other than his own, but the houses around him remained silent as he waited, breathing as deeply as he could so he could gain command.
It helped, but barely. His body wanted loose, and the nearness of such a potent demon as the succubus was driving the animal instincts inside of him crazy.
It demanded to be set free. It needed to be loosed upon the creature merely feet away, within a lair of its own creation, the black pillar above him invisible now, but he well aware of its presence.
Carver bit his lip, a little too hard, tasting a small trickle of blood as he barely controlled the fury desiring to release.
Of all the creatures he faced, never had he experienced such a vigorous kick, the desperation of his power flaring nearly out of control. It had to be something about her, some product of the flow of energy entering him.
Gripping the stock of the shotgun tighter, he stomped up the steps to the door and banged on it with the end, the metallic ring as it pounded the wood loud in his ears.
His eyes darted, catching glimpses of shadows moving at the margins of his vision, but he could not switch on his special sight; he needed to be clear. Things were already threatening to spiral out of his control; he didn't need the added challenge. He knew his target. To turn on his vision would merely make things more complex.
Still, the subtle chitters and scratches signaled other entities around, hovering just at the edges of his awareness. Were they sycophants to this mistress of the night? Or were they on about their own duties, but recognizing something was happening because of his presence?
No matter. They were unimportant. Concentrate. Focus.
The sounds within the house quieted when he banged again, but there was no sign of approach to the exit.
He lifted his foot and bashed it into the wood, sparking an ache immediately in his calf. It didn't break, but the first blow was not as powerful as his second; this time a splintering accompanied the shock.
He reared and hit it again, and was rewarded with the door flailing inward, swinging on hinges bent by his thrust.
He didn't wait; his steps pounded. His shoulder bumped into the door as it swung back toward closed, but he paid it no mind.
The interior was darkened, a small hallway leading away from the entry into a larger room with table and chairs. It was set as if for dinner, two long candles with flame at their tops tapered in their sconces and an array of tableware awaited use. There was no food on them, but he caught the scent of meat and a sizzle from the kitchen next to the dining room was enough to know what was going on.
No walls blocked the dining area from the living room where more candles sparkled in their holders, illuminating a large couch and much smaller love seat occupying the far wall. Two figures were just starting to move, reacting to his crashing through the door into the house. One was quicker than the other.
Did she recognize Carver for what he was? Was her face, marked by confusion and an open mouthed gape, that of shock, or merely an interruption of the way she had been feeding on the man he had seen earlier in the day?
Wisps of brilliant light were even now fading away, trailing from the mein of the man to that of the woman, the slinky dress shifted slightly to the side, perhaps as a distraction for the man while she did her work. The slackness of his jaw was more prevalent than it had been, his eyes glazed over, so much they were probably almost sightless.
Carver sniffed, the heady scent of ancient spices, musky and dark, exuded from the woman rising from the couch, her long arms and legs unwrapping from around the guy like a spider releasing its prey.
Carver knew her for what she was, but, even so, the sight of her forced his body into overdrive, the tension in his gut so powerful he nearly blacked out. He sniffed again, trying to catch his breath, but it only added to the high sensation in his head, and, for a moment, his grip on the shotgun loosened.
It was enough. The gun clattered to the floor, slamming against the hard wood in the dining room.
"Aren't you beautiful?" the woman whispered, her eyes widening, gleaming in the candle light. They were two sparks amid the paleness of her skin. She abandoned the man and stepped toward Carver, her arms outstretched as she cut the distance between them with a sensuality that made him open his mouth, breath gasping.
She flowed to him, her soft hands reaching his neck and caressing it gently. Carver lifted his head, unable to resist the sensation. It had been so long since his body had known the touch of a woman, and the perfume and overt sexuality of this one forced his frame to act against his will.
"Just look at you," she purred into his ear, her lips mere inches away as her hair tumbled down across the trim of his arms and lit it on fire. Her warmth, lithe and red-hot as magma bathed his skin, seeping into his pores, filling his body with melted steel.
Her fingers trailed against his right arm, each of the small hairs tickling gently with the strokes while her other palm remained on his neck. The nails traced the outlines of his scars, tracing them until she reached his hand, which she lifted into her own and brought to her breast.
He couldn't think, could do nothing more than obey her as she breathed into his ear, the slow, supple rise of the breath in her chest hypnotic and powerful, the fire within him beyond his control.<
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"Mmmm," she whispered, and his body quivered in response. "Isn't that just what you want?"
He shook his skull, closing his eyes for a moment as his hand moved against his volition, the darkness behind his lids unable to counter what she was doing to him.
"It's what I need," she moaned, and he opened his eyes again to see her own almond ones bending in, the glistening lips coming in for a kiss.
No, stop this! Resist! His mind screamed the words even as his head bent to meet her mouth, trembling with anticipation at how it must feel, how much glory rested within those yielding pillows gleaming with dampness.
