But he had no choice, he knew, except to continue. He turned and stepped toward the dark street, ready to continue his search. He halted, realizing that something strange had just happened.
Glancing over his shoulder, Blake saw that the font’s water still held his reflection, as though he had not turned away at all. His shadow still fell across the font’s base.
He looked inside the church and saw the priest caught in midstride, one hand reaching out, his mouth open with the last word he had spoken. Pulse accelerating, Blake turned back toward the street and saw a handful of scattered passersby, each frozen in place, as though he were looking at a photograph of the scene. Even the slanting streaks of rain were stopped in their descent, hanging in the air like dirty streamers.
His thoughts raced in sudden panic. What the hell…?
“We need to talk, Blake.”
The words caught him by surprise. Bracing for an attack, he scanned the area and saw one figure standing in the middle of the street, looking straight at him. A kid, maybe seventeen or eighteen years old, hair weirdly undampened by the rain, though he stood in the middle of it with the collar of his black leather jacket turned up.
“Don’t freak out.” The kid raised a hand to gesture at the street around him. “I stopped Time so we could have some privacy. It won’t hurt you. And neither will I.”
Blake glared at the kid, ready for anything. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name’s Nathaniel.” He walked toward the church. “You don’t know me—but I know you. I know about the cage you were locked in, the deaths of your men, and the boy who blew up the market. I know that the Devil tricked you. And I know that you came back here for revenge.”
“Maybe…” Blake’s expression grew heavy and dark. “You know too much.”
“Maybe I do.” The kid smiled widely, and hopped up onto the church’s porch. “But I’m on your side. I know about that coat you’re wearing, too, and what the Devil tried to do when he put you in it. But most importantly of all, Blake, I know that despite the way you feel, you’re a very lucky man.”
“Lucky…” Blake felt his eyes narrowing. “Is this some kind of joke?”
“I wish it were,” said the kid. “But where souls are concerned, I’m deadly serious. I may work for a different master, but I’m aware of the laws that govern what the Devil can do. And those laws have saved you, Blake. Up to a point…” The kid raised a finger, pointing out through the motionless rain. “Remember back in Afghanistan? If the Devil had been there for you instead of the boy that night, your soul would have been completely lost the moment you agreed to accept his help. But instead, he just used you as an instrument. You were the tool for him. Not the prize itself. So, since you never shook his hand or consciously did what he wanted of you, he was only able to take away half your soul, instead of the whole thing.”
Blake’s glower deepened. “Half my soul?”
“And what’s worse, because he sidetracked Purgatory that way, he was able to take that lost half away with him, straight down to Hell. Without any kind of trial. That’s left you changed, Blake. Forever. It turned you into what we call a wraith.”
Blake eyed the kid. “A what?”
“A wraith.” Nathaniel took another step into the porch. “Have you ever wondered why it is you can’t die?”
“Every day.”
“Well, it’s because you’re half dead already. Half dead, and half alive, and you will be for the rest of time unless you find a way to change it. It’s an evil curse, and the Devil uses it to stop the people he’s tricked from ever coming after him. You’re not the first one he’s done it to. And you won’t be the last. But what makes you special, Blake, is the fact that you’ve managed to fight it—even though I can sense the evil of that coat from here.”
Blake wondered if he could trust the kid. Popping out of nowhere, knowing all kinds of stuff. He looked back to the scene outside. The Kid’s stopped Time, but I’m still moving. If he’d wanted to, he could have hurt me. And those things he just said … Somehow they ring true …
Blake narrowed his gaze. “So you’re saying that the Devil has taken half of my soul to Hell?”
Nathaniel nodded. “It’s burning down there even as we speak—screaming in agony with the rest of those voices you can hear. And as for the half that’s left behind … It’s locked inside the coat you’re wearing. The only reason the coat hasn’t suffocated you yet is because your soul is too strong for it. Even though there’s only half of it left over, your soul is still bright enough to resist the shroud. That makes you something special, Blake. It makes you unique. Like me.”
Blake ran his hand slowly along the front of the stitched-up overcoat. A shroud … Yeah, that sounds about right.…
“And that thing is alive, too,” explained Nathaniel. “It’s been created directly from the Devil’s own evil. A work of genius, really. But so cruel…” He eyed the garment warily, disgusted and fascinated at the same time. “You don’t think that I could maybe … touch it, do you?”
“I wouldn’t…” warned Blake.
Too late. Nathaniel’s fingertips grazed the overcoat’s blood-crusted lapel for only a second. But that was enough to send a visible shock wave convulsing through the kid’s body. His spine arched, head thrown back, teeth clenching as his eyes flooded with darkness. Looking down at himself, Blake could see the coat’s stiff, grimy fabric seething with its own hideous animation, the hairlike tendrils coiling around Nathaniel’s fingertips, seeking to feed upon him. The skin of his hand paled white, as though his soul were being consumed as well.
With a muted cry, Nathaniel jerked his hand away. The desperate motion took the last of his strength. He fell backward, the overcoat’s grasp upon him broken.
Blake looked down at the figure writhing on the church’s porch. Until the kid was still at last. Either dead, or freed.
After a few seconds, he saw Nathaniel’s chest slowly lifting with one slow breath after another. He reached down, carefully taking the kid’s hand and drawing him up onto his feet.
“Damn!” Nathaniel swayed unsteadily, fighting to keep his balance. He shook his hand, as though it had been burned. His eyes widened as he stared at Blake. “That’s…”
“What?” Blake leaned toward the trembling figure in front of him. “Did you see something?”
“Too much.” Nathaniel slowly shook his head. “I saw … visions. Terrible things. It was like … like I was looking directly into his heart.” His eyes locked on to Blake’s again. “How do you … endure it?”
Blake didn’t answer. To be honest, he thought, I don’t even know myself …
He looked Nathaniel in the eye again. “Why are you here?”
“I’m here—” Nathaniel’s voice was still shaking from the shock of what he’d seen. “Because I need your help. There’s someone I need to save. A kidnapped baby. Her name is Ren-Lei. And considering where she’s being kept, I’m not sure if my powers are enough to save her on my own. I can do some cool stuff, I know. But if it comes to a fight, I’d prefer to have someone by my side who has some experience.”
Blake acknowledged the compliment. “And this baby, you know who’s taken her?”
“Yeah, I do. So if you agree, I can take us there without a problem.” He paused. “And in return for saving her, I promise to do something for you, too.”
Blake eyed him more closely. “Like what?”
“Like helping you find the man you’re looking for.”
“The Devil?”
Nathaniel nodded. “Help me save Ren-Lei, and I’ll bring you face to face with him before the end of the night.”
It’s a trick, thought Blake. It has to be. There’s no other way I could get such a lucky break. Except—
He had no other choice. He was no closer to finding the Devil now than when he had started out. And if he didn’t—
Then he would be like this, forever. Locked in the coat’s dark, consuming embrace. A wraith, a thing with on
ly half a soul.
“All right … I’ll give it a shot.” Blake narrowed his gaze and glanced back to his own grim reflection in the font’s stilled water. “But tell me one thing, before we start. This half of my soul that the Devil has stolen. Would it return me to how I was before? Could it turn me back again, into something normal?”
“I think so…,” said Nathaniel. “But I guess it all depends.”
“On what?”
Nathaniel raised a hand to restart Time. The figures outside began to walk again, going about their business. He watched them for a moment, then turned back to the man beside him.
“On whether or not you can get the Devil to hand it over.”
12.
The blossoms had already fled from the tree. Leaving behind on the green-decked branches small shapes that seemed to swell larger even as the people in the garden looked at them. The peach tree’s fruit ripened and grew heavier, their juices sweetening with life, the rain coursing across their bright yellow curves.
From the office tower’s window far above, the Devil scowled fiercely down at the crowd. Their mere presence, even at this distance, infuriated him. If he could, he would have stretched down his arm and gathered them all into his fist, squeezing the lifeblood from their mangled bodies.
Below, the garden square was now a thing of beauty, its stones swept clean, lush grass trimmed, borders thick with flowers. The mingled scents rose on the air, seeping into the tower’s air-conditioning vents and nauseating him with traces of approaching spring. Even worse, the once-abandoned square was now filled with humanity.
He had sent the building guards to chase them away, but to no avail. They just returned, as though summoned by the welcoming reach of the peach tree’s branches. The crowds had gotten so large that they had begun spilling into the streets around the base of the office tower, like some happy contagion.
“Don’t these people have jobs?” muttered the Devil. They should have all been crouched over sewing machines in sweatshops lit by sickly fluorescent lights, or scavenging toxic metals from discarded circuit boards, out in the landfill dumps that surrounded the city. Anything productive and degrading, rather than down there, savoring the simple pleasures of existence.
The rage inside the Devil mounted, as though its flames might kindle every fiber of his being. Bad enough that the people in the garden square were happy—some of them were more than that. He could see their faces glowing with reverence, as though they had come here on a pilgrimage, to witness a miracle happening in a sacred shrine. Some of the people in the garden square even had lit candles, sheltering the small flames from the wind with their cupped hands. The sight served to increase the Devil’s nauseated disgust—he could feel his scowl tightening on his face, like a Japanese Oni mask.
He went on brooding in the office’s silence. A few minutes later, he heard the outer lobby door open again. Maybe his secretary had forgotten something and come back for it.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” A female voice spoke at his office door. “I don’t wish to intrude—but there’s someone here to see you.”
He didn’t bother to turn around to see. “Throw him out in the lobby with the others.”
“No, sir. It’s … someone else.”
The Devil glanced over his shoulder. The witch—cheaply attractive in a sleek pencil-skirted business suit, her overdone mascara and eye shadow stark against her dead-white skin—shrank back from his gaze. As she did, a seven-foot-tall, sullen-looking giant brushed by her in the doorway.
“Who are you?” The Devil glared at him.
“My name is Hank.” The giant gazed straight back. “I really wanted to speak to your lawyer. But he said he was busy. He sent me to you instead.”
The Devil tilted his head back, surveying the man’s bulk. “Oh, yes. The one with no fear.” He gave an ugly smile. “Quite an impressive number of kills you’ve had today, Hank. But so far, the three you were sent to find are still not dead.”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Hank. “I wanted you to know that they’re not as easy to find as your little guy thought. There are so many dirtbags in this crappy town that it could take me a week to find the right ones.”
“I don’t have a week.”
“I know.”
The Devil mulled the problem over for a moment, then gestured toward the chair on the other side of his desk. “Looks like I’ll have to speed things up somehow. Take a seat.”
As Hank struggled to squeeze himself into the chair, the witch cowered back against the open door, her eyes fastened with avid devotion upon her master.
“I think … I have something that will help you.” The Devil crossed the office and pressed a four-digit code into a keypad on the side wall. The wall slid open, revealing a cabinet of solid magnesium that reached to the alcove’s ceiling. When the Devil laid his hand flat upon the surface of the cabinet, magical symbols began to glow there, turning from dull red to blazing yellow-white, as though heated by their own inner fire.
Hank looked at the desk in front of him, and saw the same twisting symbols imbedded in the black stone. The central symbol on both the desk and the cabinet was larger than the others. In both cases, it was a majestic, eight-pointed star.
On the front of the cabinet, that glowing, central symbol separated into two equal halves as the cabinet doors clicked open. Inside it hung a dismantled suit of armor, larger than anything even the giant hit man might have worn. An equally massive shield and sword were at the armor’s side, all of them constructed of the same gleaming magnesium. On the breastplate of the armor was the star-shaped symbol again, placed right above the wearer’s heart.
“There was a great war…” Dark meditations tinged the Devil’s voice. “Long before the advent of humanity. This is the armor I wore in the final battle.” Pride and bitterness sounded in his words. “Before I was imprisoned inside this … pathetic body.”
He turned toward Hank, his gaze locking straight into the hit man’s eyes. “There were three who fought me, fierce in their righteousness. Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael, and their wings were such as to cast this world into shadow. They were the ones—I’m sure of it—who planted the tree in my garden centuries ago. That’s why I’ve never been able to destroy it, no matter how often I’ve tried. It just stands there. Year after year. In expectation of the day when Fate will bring me face-to-face with the three warriors who are prophesied to be my greatest mortal adversaries.”
Hank gazed at the armor and nodded thoughtfully, digesting everything he’d just heard. “I think I get it now … Your lawyer refused to tell me who I was working for. But I should have guessed.”
The Devil scrutinized the hit man’s reaction. “And now that you know it, does it make a difference?”
Hank mulled it over for a second, then shrugged. “Why should it?” he said without the slightest hint of intimidation. “Man or Devil, makes no difference to me.”
The Devil gave a satisfied nod, and turned back to the cabinet. From inside it, he took out a dagger and what appeared to be a crystal flask. “If it was archangel magic that planted the tree and brought those three together, then it’s about time I countered their tricks with some archangel magic of my own.” He laid them both on the desk. “Magnesium, of course—” He pointed to the dagger. “And this—” He held up the flask. “Solid diamond. To hollow it required arts beyond human craftsmanship.”
As Hank watched, the Devil drew out the flask’s glistening, translucent stopper. At the same moment, the dagger’s blade burst into flame, as if the weapon somehow knew that its power was now required.
“Only a weapon forged in Heaven,” said the Devil, “can pierce an archangel’s skin.” He took the burning dagger by its handle and raised it before Hank’s gaze. “And once such a weapon is alight, only shield and armor of magnesium can turn aside its blow. Armor—” He pointed toward the open cabinet. “Such as that.”
Hank nodded at the dagger in the Devil’s hand, its blade sheathed in
flames. “So, the knife … Is that what you’re going to give me?”
The Devil shook his head. “No. I’m going to give you something even more powerful. Something that will allow you to recognize instantly those who have the desire, and above all, the ability to do me harm.”
The Devil put the burning edge of the dagger against his other palm, and cut deep into his own flesh. He clenched the wounded hand into a fist, then laid down the dagger and picked up the diamond flask. He held his fist above the flask’s opening, but instead of a trickle of red blood, a fiery magmalike substance filled the vessel, drop by incandescent drop.
When the flask was full, it looked as if a solar flare had been captured within it. The Devil replaced the stopper, then held the flask toward Hank. “Take it.”
Hank warily eyed the radiant object. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
“It’s simple,” said the Devil. “When the blood is exposed to anyone who intends to attack me, it will react.”
He watched carefully as Hank took the flask. The burning substance remained quiescent inside the hollowed diamond. He nodded in satisfaction, assured that the giant hit man was no immediate threat.
Hank carefully stowed the diamond flask inside his jacket, extinguishing for the moment its fiery light.
The Devil walked over to the opposite wall and punched in the key code. The metal cabinet disappeared as the false wall closed. “So—” He gestured with his hand to dismiss Hank. “You have what you came for. Leave me, and get back to your job. I wish to be alone now to—”
To his surprise, the giant hit man raised a finger. “One question first, if that’s okay.”
Hank worked his huge bulk free from the chair, then brushed past the Devil and strode to the office window. He opened his mouth wide and exhaled on the glass, fogging a hand-sized patch. One blunt fingertip touched the glass and drew the symbol.
“What the hell does this mean?” Hank looked back at the Devil. “I’ve been seeing it all day. And now I find it here, too, on the desk and on that armor.”
Death's Apprentice: A Grimm City Novel Page 12
