by Irene Ferris
The hole was the exact circumference of the circle they’d drawn out and powered at 3:00 AM local time. She shook her head and blinked as she realized just how long they’d been down there.
She almost didn’t notice the naked body in the middle of the circle.
He was young, she realized when she finally saw him there. Not so young as a child or teenager, but certainly not old either. Maybe early twenties? It was hard to tell. He was curled up in the fetal position, arms crossed in front of his chest. His shoulder-length brown hair fell in loose curls across his face, but she could see his brown eyes staring blankly ahead between the strands. He was breathing slowly, deliberately, as if it took effort to remember how.
“Son of a bitch, it’s still alive,” Marcus whispered next to her. She looked up at him and then nodded. Still clutching her bruised throat, she started to say something and then simply shook her head and rushed over to the duffel bag that Eddie had left open on the floor in the back corner of the room. She had to check Eddie for a pulse before she pushed his limp body out of the way.
“Holy water, no. Shotgun shells, no. Grenade, no. Silver knife, no,” she whispered as she dug through their emergency back-up kit, which had been no help at all against whatever the hell that thing had been. Then with a choked “Ah-ha!” she found the canister of salt.
She showed it to Marcus who read the label aloud with a questioning look. “This salt does not supply iodide, a necessary nutrient. I don’t think it’s got thyroid issues, Jenn.” She barely checked the impulse to throw the canister at his head, and instead wrenched open the spout and ran over to the edge of the dim circle of light.
Pouring a circle was harder than drawing one. You had to be careful to use just enough salt and get it perfect the first time. Not enough salt or a gap and whatever you were trying to contain could get through and do nasty things to you. Too much salt at once and you’d run out before your circle was complete, and whatever you were trying to contain could do nasty things to you without the effort of breaking through an imperfect circle. Neither of these options made Jenn happy, so she measured out the salt very, very carefully and traced the edge of sunlight.
She glanced back to Marcus, who stood there watching the—she hesitated to call it a “person” because she wasn’t quite sure what it was—creature lying in the center of the room. His blonde hair gleaming softly in the dim light, Marcus looked every inch the corn-fed all-American quarterback—if corn-fed all-American football players dabbled in the occult. He glanced over at her and made a gesture to hurry up.
Drawing the circle closed, she dropped to her knees and started tracing sigils into the dirt floor. Her lips moved as she silently sounded them out. She straightened up and frowned. She wasn’t especially pleased with improvising. She often said that improvisation had no place in the occult, that exhaustive preparation was the only thing that would save them from something going wrong.
Of course, now something had gone very wrong, and she needed to learn how to improvise quickly. It didn’t mean she had to like it, though.
She felt Marcus come stand behind her in that close but not-quite-close way he had of doing things. It would have been annoying if anyone else had done it, but she never minded him. It helped that he never did it to anyone else, either. She was the only woman—or man, for that matter—who received his attentions. She closed her eyes and leaned against his legs for a moment, soaking in his body heat before tackling this challenge.
After a long moment, she leaned forward again and spoke. Her voice rasped but she powered through the pain so that she could be heard clearly by the circle’s occupant. “I evoke and conjure thee, O Spirit, by the Supreme Majesty—the true God who is known by the names of Yod Heh Vav Heh, Adonnai, Eheieh, and Agla to appear before me in a fair and comely shape.”
Of course, she thought, the creature had already appeared in a fair and comely shape. What had that thing called him? “A pretty slave.” He certainly was pretty in a masculine way. She peered at the creature who was even now peering back at her from beneath his brown curls. Good. She had his attention.
“In peace I welcome you, O Spirit, and in the name of the Most High I command you to stay within this circle until you are dismissed, to speak honestly, to answer all questions I put to you, and to do as I bid you.” Gods, it hurt to talk. “Name yourself.”
The creature lifted his head to flip his hair out of his eyes, gracefully rolled up to his knees and then gained his feet. He looked up at the opening above and then smiled with what she could only call grim satisfaction. Then he looked at her and cringed.
Chapter Three
Human. They were only human. Mathieu took a deep breath and repeated that mantra internally. Gadreel was gone, and these humans could not harm him.
“Name yourself.” The red-haired woman’s voice was hoarse as she repeated her command. He could see the bruises blooming around her neck from where he stood. She was lucky she’d gotten off so lightly from her encounter with Gadreel.
He looked around the room, now weakly illuminated by the afternoon sun. There were three slumped bodies in the room, one each on the east and west cardinal, and another in the far corner near a bag of some sort. On his right were rickety wooden stairs that led up and out of this place and into the world above.
He made to move to the stairs and the tall blonde man bellowed in a language that was not the Lenga D'òc. “Name yourself and be bound!” Mathieu understood him perfectly. Dread coiled in his stomach in tandem with the sickening feeling of power that bided its time.
Mathieu wrapped his arms around himself. The man resembled Gadreel’s favored form, and his voice sounded much like Gadreel in a rage. He took several deep breaths, repeated the fact that they were all human, very much human, and they could not hurt him. At least, they could not hurt him as much as Gadreel had.
It took a great effort, but he put his arms down and turned to face them. The woman looked at him, and he was suddenly aware of his nudity. Of course, he thought. He should not be surprised. After all, he’d spent the last eight hundred years that way. He closed his eyes, and something twisted under his skin.
When he opened his eyes, the world was framed with the edges and nasal guard of his old helm. Another quick glance down confirmed that he was now garbed as he had been the day Gadreel had taken him. His rusty mail gaped where the lance had ripped out his guts, and his surcoat was bloody and torn. The blazon was still visible despite the damage—a dull red background with a gold three-towered castle on the upper quarter, a white bendlet sinister, with a gold lion on the lower quarter.
He automatically shifted his weight to accommodate the sword on his hip, placing his hand on the pommel. Running his gloved hand down to the hilt, he gripped it tightly as he looked back up at the waiting humans.
The red-haired woman was staring at the blood on his surcoat. She then glanced at his sword and then up at his face. “Spirit, I command you again to name yourself.” Her voice was raspier this time.
Mathieu squeezed the sword hilt for reassurance and then sighed. None of these things were real. Not the sword, the helm, the mail, the surcoat. None of it. All of those things were destroyed long ago, stripped away from him along with his innocence. It was not fitting that something as ruined as he would wear the kit he’d worn when he followed his king to the Holy Land to gain absolution for the stain of his birth.
He closed his eyes and felt the power shift under his skin again. When he opened his eyes this time he wore an old threadbare tunic and breeches. He rocked forward in his favorite soft boots, as he brought his arms up to run his hands over the familiar scratch of the rough fabric woven by his mother’s own hands.
None of this was real either, he knew. But the feeling of something so warm and familiar comforted him all the same, even if the colors were too bright for what he was now. Black and grey bloomed where his hands touched, draining all the color from the fabric. It better suits the dark thing I have become, he thought.
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The man put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and spoke, “Spirit, if you wish to ever leave the circle, you will obey. Name yourself!”
Mathieu closed his eyes and swallowed his fear at the commanding down before answering in the same language. “You are not Gadreel. You do not own me, you cannot compel me, you cannot harm me.” He said the last to reassure himself. He continued, “You do not know my name, you know nothing of my nature. No amount of screaming can change those facts.”
He ignored their stunned glances to each other, as he looked at the edge of their ruined Orbis and read what was left of the spells there. He sighed and shook his head as he saw the flaws in their work—a misshapen sigil here, a deviation from the true round there. An Orbis this deeply flawed would have perhaps been able to restrain an imp, but certainly not a Demon of Gadreel’s caliber.
“I should not know all of this,” he muttered under his breath. “I should only be able to hold it, not understand it.” He frowned at the realization of the full extent of what Gadreel’s demise had bestowed on him. “Power and knowledge. Just what I never wanted.”
Gadreel would have been quite amused by the irony of all this, if Mathieu remembered his former master correctly—which he did. Mathieu might have spent the last few centuries deeply buried to hide his soul from that creature, but he still remembered every moment of torment, every instance of cruelty, every attempt by Gadreel to force the fifth binding on him. Every blow, every caress, every death used to fill his body with power. He remembered everything, and it made his stomach churn and bile burn the back of his throat.
Then he remembered something else, as well. Gadreel would have been more than happy to repay anyone who dared to insult a Demon Lord with a summoning with an excruciatingly painful death. By the look of things, it had been well on its way to crushing fragile human bodies between the expanded borders of their own defective Orbis and the stone walls. They would have all died if someone hadn’t called out to Mathieu.
He straightened and looked back at the red-haired woman. She’d called him from that deep place inside where he’d hidden all those years, and reminded him of something more than a long burning hatred, overwhelming terror and a promise made to make Gadreel pay for all it had taken from him.
He found himself in front of her, down on one knee, looking in her eyes across the line of salt between them. There was something there, just a glimmer, just enough to bring back a memory of pale skin, blonde hair, lips like ripe summer berries. He watched her lips move as she spoke, “Give me your name.” Her voice was still hoarse, but it was strong and commanding.
“So I can be enslaved again? I think not.” He lowered his head and sketched an abbreviated bow at her with his right hand as he lowered his chin to his chest. “But I would have the honor of your name, Lady.”
She shook her head. “So you can do something nasty to me? I don’t think so.” Almost as if she were unaware of it, one corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile.
“So, we are at an impasse then?” Mathieu cocked his head at her and then looked up to meet the hard gaze of the blonde man by her side. He did it this time without flinching. Small steps, infinitesimal victories.
“Hardly,” the blonde man said with a gesture at the salt circle. “You’re trapped. You’re not going anywhere until you’re bound.”
Mathieu looked at the line of salt. “To what purpose?”
The blonde man glanced to the woman, who nodded before he answered. “You have power, and you will use that power to serve us. We bind you.”
“In other words, you are no better than Gadreel. You wish to enslave me and use me for your own devices with not a care for my wishes. This proposition is not enticing in the least.”
“It’s not a proposition; it’s an order.” The blond man shifted, and his foot brushed the edge of the salt circle, marring the design. Amateur, thought Mathieu absently. “Besides, you’ve already helped us. You’re already on our side.”
That jarred Mathieu into speech. “Your side? No, I’m not on anyone’s side.”
“If you aren’t, then why did you kill your master? Why did you help us by destroying Gadreel?” the woman asked.
As if in response to its former master’s name, the dark power under Mathieu’s skin writhed and tried to reach out for the injured people on the far side of the room. He gritted his teeth and forced it back down, down deep into the depths of his corrupted soul.
“Speak, spirit,” she prompted him, unaware of the battle waged a few feet from her, unaware of the danger they were all in.
“I hated it. I hated what it had done to me, and I hated what it had forced me to become. It tore me away from my life and my death and God, and forced me to exist for nothing but its own twisted pleasure. It hurt me.” He paused. “And it was hurting you. I couldn’t let it hurt you. I could never let anything happen to you.”
She returned his gaze boldly. “That means we have some kind of bond.” She sprinkled more salt on the ground. “On that, I bind you, spirit. I bind you to our purpose and our goals. I bind you to my word, to my will, to my voice. I bind you.”
For the briefest moment, he was tempted to let it happen just so he could be close to her once again. There would be no free will, no questions, nothing but the sense of belonging. No decisions to be made, just obedience. No fear, no freedom, nothing to hurt him, nothing to feel but what she told him to feel. But the very thought turned his stomach.
“No.” He touched the burns on his neck. “You cannot and will not bind me. I refuse you, I reject you. I will never be a slave again, not even yours.” As he finished speaking, he leaned forward and ran his fingers across the line of salt, rubbing the grains into the earth.
Her eyes widened in fear. “You’re not supposed to be able to cross the circle. Marcus…” She glanced up to the blonde man and then back to Mathieu. “You weren’t compelled? At all?”
Her lower lip quivered as she realized that she’d been played. Oh, so very familiar. “Only by my sense of chivalry and fair play, dear lady.”
“Jenn.” She let her name pass her lips like a pearl of knowledge. Marcus hissed in dismay.
“Jenn.” Mathieu smiled as he rolled her name around on his tongue. It was very different than the name he’d once called her, but it seemed to fit the body she wore now. “Jenn. No, what you built could not compel me in any way. Your circle was flawed before it was completed. I am shocked that Gadreel kept to it at all, unless it was just toying with you.” Mathieu half shrugged. “Most likely that, actually. It fed upon pain and fear, and the longer the scene was drawn out, the richer the meal.” He turned his attention to his hands and rubbed at an invisible speck of dirt. “I do thank you, Jenn and Marcus. If you had not called me back, I would be still serving that monster.”
Jenn leaned forward and whispered intently, “You owe me a debt, then. Come with us.” She spoke slowly, weighing each and every word carefully. “We belong to a group of people—we call it The Foundation—who have devoted their lives for centuries to studying the occult and creatures like that thing, like you. If you come with us, maybe we can help you.”
“Help me what? Be a slave again?” Mathieu snorted and shook his head. “I thank you, but I require no assistance. I have just regained my freedom and would prefer to keep it.”
She frowned at that, and he felt something then, something more than the slow roil of dark power under his skin. Some kind of hope or regret or some feeling that he’d forgotten how to define. He lowered his head in a half bow and then gazed into her eyes, his brown into her green. “Do you remember?” She stared back at him blankly.
He finally looked away and wondered at the lack of pain. “No, of course you don’t,” he answered his own question, as he made as if to rub dirt from his hands. “It has been too many years, too many lives, too much pain. I would be shocked and perhaps appalled if you knew who you were all those years ago.” The words were bitter on his tongue but no less true.
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�Remember?” She echoed him. “Should I remember something?”
“No.” It occurred to him that perhaps he should be hurt or disappointed, but instead all he felt was a deep sense of relief. It is easier this way, after all. He glanced up at the sky past the hole in the ceiling, at the world above and contemplated his new-found freedom with a growing sense of dread as the power roiled in his gut. He stood to go.
The man next to the bag groaned, and slowly rolled from his side to sit up against the wall. Mathieu had seen his kind in the port of Antioch—the golden skin and almond shaped eyes of merchants from places he’d thought only existed in stories. His shirt and pants were scorched, probably from physical contact with the Orbis wall. Even as flawed as it was, it could still have killed him. He was lucky to still be alive. As it was, he radiated pain from his burns.
Even as Mathieu pondered this, he felt the pain of the injured man flowing into him. It fed the darkness within almost as if Gadreel was still winnowing souls, storing the obscene power in his body.
The thought occurred to him, just for a moment, that it would be so very easy to take over their destroyed circle, activate it by sheer force of will and trap them. It would be nothing to slowly and painfully drain them dry, one by one. Their fear and pain would be… delicious. Gadreel would not have hesitated.
He wrenched his mind from those thoughts. He was not a Gadreel, not a Demon, and he would not do such foul things. He was human, and he was free.
The injured man groaned again and this time the darkness almost leapt free. Mathieu’s body followed, stumbling forward before he was able to regain control. He closed his eyes and dragged the black tide of death back inside where the only thing it could corrupt was already beyond redemption.
He opened his eyes to find Marcus watching him with an odd look. The blonde man gently pulled Jenn to her feet and pushed her towards the far wall, away from Mathieu, away from what he bore. “Jenn, check on Sean and Karina. They’re not making any noise, and that’s not good. I’ll take care of this.”
