Consecration

by Ira Robinson

  They were ancient, loosely organized and extremely secretive, but they were useful and Carver tried to keep from making them nervous as much as he could. He was certain, if they really had a mind to do so, they could destroy him. At the minimum, make his life as difficult as it could be.

  Things were already hard enough as they were. He didn't need that extra challenge.

  Malachi, in contrast, was welcomed to them with open arms. He was privy to the highest parts of the chain, at least according to him. Carver was never clear if he was being serious or if he was just blowing smoke, but he did seem to have access to things Carver could only dream of, and the powers he wrought on his own were, perhaps, nearly as formidable as Carver's own as the Hallow. He never mentioned if the rest of the Syndicate gave him any flack for being his friend, but Carver would not be surprised if they did.

  He was grateful for the friendship of someone who had some understanding of what he had been through, not only as Hallow, but a former user, too.

  Carver's own addiction came about through a lifetime of stress, and the loss of his wife to a stupid accident, leaving him to raise a small child without help, led him down that path. Malachi found it to be the only solace from the terrible burden he bore, the knowledge his mind contained, it was perhaps so much his body was large as a result.

  The powers he wielded, too, were such an average person would have gone mad, not least of which his connection to the net of souls, the spirits who passed on and were not taken to either of the end-spaces, but were discarded and abused, torturing themselves with the great weight of guilt and the mire of despair they suffered. He heard them, saw them, was constantly affected by them, and it broke him.

  The church didn't understand him. How could it? Though it was his solace, his comfort, they, too, abandoned him. He dedicated his life to the service of it and it rejected him when what he could do was discovered. Ostracized, cast out instead of held to a bosom that should have embraced him.

  He was clean by the time he met Carver, but the shadows of his addiction and what he had to do to fulfill it still haunted him daily, something Carver understood intimately.

  They helped each other through the rough times, the moments of weakness when the temptation to turn back to the dark days of their addictions grew so potent they were insuppressible. They knew each other's pain, better than anybody else would, not just through the pucker scars that still lined Malachi's arms and were imprinted on Carver's spirit, but through the web fate cast upon them both to be born into something more powerful than anyone could ever be able to comprehend.

  How magnificent this friendship, how glorious the bond between them and how horrible the glue that bound them together.

  Carver spooned the last bit of soup into his mouth, dredging the bottom of the bowl for any droplets left behind and put it down, the spoon clattering in the porcelain loud in the small spot.

  "How did we get here?"

  Malachi took another bite before saying, "Portal. When you used that stone, it was like a klaxon. I think everyone sensitive heard it."

  One of Malachi's little knacks, something Carver tried to get him to teach many times, was the ability to create a portal to somewhere from somewhere, a door of sorts he could open and step through without the passage of time or space interfering between. Carver tried it, following the instructions Malachi patiently gave, but was always a dismal failure. It would definitely make things on him a lot easier if he could do it, but he didn't have the keys for it inside.

  Carver could imagine, though, the beacon he must have created when he used the stone. It was an ancient piece of technology, passed down through the Syndicate for centuries. He was never able to glean exactly where it had originated, but the rumors were that it was a part of an old civilization of humans that was no longer around.

  Maybe that was a story, or there could be some truth to it, as was the case with so many legends. Wherever it had come from originally, it took a lot out of him to make use of it. That it could draw his energy out in the way it did, focus it so brilliantly, made him often wonder if it was something from a Hallow of the past. If there were such things.

  He didn't know if he was the only one. Maybe there were others out there like him, fighting demonic entities when they came across them, sending them back to hell or oblivion at every opportunity. If so, they worked in silence. There was not even a rumor of such a thing happening.

  And if there had been one in history, that, too, was lost to the annals of time, a secret kept so close it was out of his hands to find.

  No matter. He was what the people of the world had, and, whether it was a power fueled by demon or god, he obeyed where he was sent.

  Malachi dug the stone out of his pocket, dead in his scar-less hand. He tossed it across the table to Carver, who caught it and held it up to the dim lamp beside the cot. It looked intact.

  He put it in the pack Malachi took off his waist and left on the table between them, grateful he still had a chance to have it. If another existed somewhere out there, that, too, he didn't know.

  "There were so many," he said, the thought of all of those demons around him touching a part of him that was both horrified and fascinated. "I don't understand. Why did they attack in such force? Why didn't they scatter like they always do?" He leaned back again, resting against the cool wall.

  Malachi shook his head. "I'm not sure. The energy surrounding the place when I picked you up was crazy. I've not felt anything like it before. There must have been hundreds."

  "At least." Carver shuddered. "If it hadn't been for that," he pointed to the pack containing the stone, "I wouldn't have survived. I'm still not sure how I did."

  "They were gone but the cops were almost there. Maybe they didn't want so much exposure?" Malachi shrugged. "Something's happening, though."

  Carver could feel it too. That there were so many gathered in one place was disturbing, but that they had been so bold was unheard of. To come at him at once, as if they were organized instead of the disheveled mess they always seemed to be was troublesome. He hoped he would never have to deal with that again.

  Taking one on alone was bad enough. If the forces of hell were starting to mass like they had tonight, to turn out with such a show of rancor meant something was happening in hell he didn't appreciate.

  Maybe it was him. He had not been sent after many big ones, the direct leaders in the hierarchy of hell, but perhaps there were enough gone now that there was some jockeying for position going on. As their higher ranks emptied, others would invariably step in. They could be bolder than the ones who held those positions over the eons, rallying the lesser beings behind them as the power plays went on.

  Even that would be disturbing, but would make sense, if that were really the case.

  "I've been trying to figure that out for myself," Malachi said after Carver explained his concerns. "If that's what's happening, no one is truly aware of it. We've seen the forces of hell get bold before, when major events happen, but not to this scale."

  "Whatever it is, there might be something big on the horizon." Carver laid back down on the cot again, the soup warming him and making him sleepy. He yawned. "I'm going to have to figure out more ways to protect myself and Lisa."

  "And the Syndicate," Malachi muttered. Carver popped his eyes open and gazed to his friend across the table. "We've got to have all our people safe."

  Carver nodded, though the last thing he was worried about was the Syndicate. They could take care of themselves. They always had. He needed to focus on himself and his daughter more than anything else.

  "I'll keep looking further," Malachi said as Carver drifted off to darkness. "Something has to be done..."

  Chapter 10

  Carver waited outside while Lisa unbolted the door and deactivated the hexes around it, unsealing it for him so he would not suffer their effects.

  The sallow light from the fading sun embraced all in shadows, the trees in the clearing at the edges of their propert
y hidden already, while the bright bulb above the door cast a sharp contrast to the area in which he lingered. He always hated how strong the thing was, but it was ample to stretch the light almost a hundred yards, and it was better to be safe and have too much than not enough if it was needed.

  The clatter of the metal bolts sliding and the soft hum of the spells being dismissed accompanied the high pitched bird songs as they called out their final goodbyes before they went to their nests for the night. They were being swiftly replaced by the entreaties of insects just peeking their bones out in search of their first meal or a mate to join them.

  Though Carver was a city boy at heart, raised in the midst of the streams of humanity eking out their pay at wage-jobs and daily grind, he had become accustomed to the style the country worked. Even if it was only a few miles from town, they were far enough out that nature had a foothold. Lisa delighted in it, fostering a love of it he wished he could have known from his own childhood, but was glad she had taken to it so well. Being around massed people, with the unbroken threads and threats demons attracted to the pool of so many humans would bring, he feared, would drive him to a state of chronic paranoia and misery. Being in a space like this, a sanctuary of sorts outside of that clamoring horde, was in some ways a necessity for him, and he couldn't imagine being any other way at this point.

  The door widened, the light from inside barely competing with the one above the frame, but he made out the figure of his daughter, and Jessup behind her.

  For a moment, they were silent, staring at each other as the barrel of the shotgun in her hand trembled slightly with the beating of her heart and the strain of holding it against her shoulder. Although he called out to her that it was him before she even began to maneuver the door open, she didn't trust his voice alone.

  Good girl.

  She cast her eyes around him, seeking out anything that might be behind him or to the sides of the exit, a frown on her face as the seriousness with which she took this ritual washed through her. He had done his best to warn her of the tricks of demons, and, though he did not care to have a gun aimed at him, she would do what she could to make sure it was safe.

  She backed away, slowly and still holding the shotgun straight at him, but allowing him access to the house. Jessup, too, stepped with her, staring at him with his eyes squeezed tight, looking him up and down. A low growl slid from his throat as Carver advanced into the only home they had known for the past few years.

  "Watch him," she muttered to the dog, who then moved his body downward as Carver took the remaining few steps inside and waited.

  Lisa lowered the gun only a little as she used her free hand to close the door and jimmy the locks back in place. A sparkle of pink crossed over the seal as she forced the last one in order.

  Only then did she put the gun down the rest of the way, leaning it against the wall next to the wood frame. She whirled and ran to her father, throwing her arms around him in a warm embrace.

  "Dad," she murmured, her voice soft and wispy as her eyes dampened. "I've been so worried..."

  He folded her in, kissing the top of her head, a few stray hairs sticking to his lips. "I'm okay, baby. I'm okay."

  When she'd finally let him go, he gestured to Jessup and held out his hand for the dog to sniff. Jessup didn't move, hanging behind Lisa as she backed a few steps. The low growl the animal made when Carver arrived was still there in his throat, but he didn't bite or lash out. The hackles on the back of his neck were, however, raised as he stared at the human in front of him.

  Carver crept aside, beginning the ritual of reestablishing the hexes on the door for the night. It was not the first time Jessup acted this way when Carver got home, especially after working against something intensely. After the experience he had with the mass of monsters, he was not really surprised the dog had an issue with him. He would calm later.

  For now, he stayed next to his Lisa, his eyes on Carver with every move he made, distrustful and wary. Although it bothered Carver, he suspected the scent of demons on him was not something the canine wanted near, and he couldn't blame the animal. Even if he was as smart as the average human and was not a typical dog, he was still inclined to follow instincts more than anything, and that's why Carver liked to have him around.

  He was a superb friend to Lisa, a constant companion in her life that would not let her down, and as valuable of a guardian as Carver could ever wish her to have. If that meant Carver had to deal with him being off-put by his exposure to the demonic, so be it. He was hers more than Carver's.

  "Dinner's almost done," Lisa called out from the kitchen as Carver finished putting the final seal on the door. He walked the rest of the room, making sure everything else was in place, including the barricades and traps they set in case any demons decided it would be an excellent idea to try to attack the house and his family. Lisa had done a proper job of things though. Everything was ready to go.

  "You doing okay?" He crossed the living room to the kitchen where a skillet of meat and vegetables was frying. His stomach grumbled in anticipation.

  "Yeah. All's good." She stirred the food while he gave his bandages a once-over. They were fresh, no signs of blood on them, but he would still need another day or so before the wounds beneath were gone.

  "You sure?" She sounded a little upset and he frowned as he looked at her.

  "Yeah, dad. I'm okay. I was just so worried when you didn't come home or call."

  He pursed his lips, nodding. "I'm sorry, hon. I didn't mean to leave you hanging."

  "It's okay, I understand. I do." She tossed a dash of seasoned salt in to the mix and stirred again, the peppers wafting steam as they turned.

  After they were done eating and she took the plates to the sink to clean them, he kissed her forehead again and opened the large door that led to the stairwell to the cellar.

  He flipped the switch to turn on the light and walked down the stairs, solid and sure though they were made of wood. They didn't creak, held in place by the hands of a carpenter who truly knew their job.

  Climbing down revealed a bit of ache remaining in his legs, but he reached the bottom without stopping and turned the corner to the small hallway there.

  When Sasha's parents had the house built, they used the basement to create more rooms than the upper levels had. They didn't need the space, being just the two of them, but they wanted plenty of accommodation in case family came to visit. No one should stay at a hotel, they said, when there was family around.

  While most of the spaces were now utilized for storage, holding different things he was able to manage keeping during his trips out, one chamber in particular had become something of a solitary zone for himself.

  He tapped the small switch on the wall and closed the door behind him as the light on the desk came on.

  It was not a large room, just enough for him to stretch across twice and most of it was filled with crates that needed to be sorted at some point. He had never gotten around to it, not really wanting to even open them up. Most of the things in the boxes were Sasha's, the traces left after her life was snuffed out, and going through them made him more miserable than he had chance to deal with.

  He didn't even know why he kept the things. They were remnants of an existence that no longer existed, and as much as she meant to him, however strong the fire for her still burned within him, he had done what he could to compartmentalize that part of his past away. He was not that guy anymore. The life he led then, running to work every day and coming home exhausted, fighting over stupid actions that never should have been a problem, kissing and making up with their passion in the night, all that and more belonged to someone else.

  But the boxes were there for Lisa. She remembered little of Sasha, being so young when she died, and so much happening in the life of both herself and the father who abandoned her for so long, it was difficult for her to trace any memories that were solid. They spoke about her infrequently, but he suspected, as she got older, Lisa would begin asking qu
estions about the mother who left her behind more and more.

  While Carver was determined to never hide anything from the child, speaking of Sasha caused his chest to explode, anger and love, hatred of the man responsible of her death and the adoration he felt for her when she lay next to him in the night and he could not help but stay awake and stare at her sleeping face. All that and more came to him every time the thought of her arose, and, in these moments, after he arrived home rough and in a shambles, he couldn't think of anything else.

  He plopped into the chair at the desk, an old leather covered thing he found in the office Sasha's father had upstairs. It had seen many better days but was still comfortable and eased the aching in his legs enough that he sighed with the relief.

  It had been a long ride home, covering the miles in the uncomfortable seat of the cab of his truck after Malachi delivered him to it. He would have given his left arm to have that portal skill at his disposal all the time.