by Lori Titus
“I didn’t finish law school,” Chris said. “How...?”
“You don’t worry about that. You will have all the knowledge you need. I know people who will process the appropriate paperwork for you to practice. At the end of seven years, you can leave my employ, or renew the contract. It’s your choice, assuming your work has been satisfactory.”
“How is it possible to take someone’s soul?”
“Ah. And we’re down to the thick of it. I’ve had these onboarding conversations with people before and it’s usually the last thing people ask me. It won’t be painful, relatively speaking. The hangovers you’ve experienced are far worse. It burns a little, on account of the fact that I’m divorcing a part of you from the whole.”
“Why do you want me?”
“You’re unique. I think you already know that.”
“I’m a soldier,” he replied.
“Yes. Let’s talk about that, your career in Black Ops. The dead children are what give you nightmares. God and Country, but damn if you really believe in either now. There’s a reason you were selected for the dirty jobs no one wanted to do. But you’ve still got the soundtrack of your Daddy’s Sunday sermons rattling in the back of your head. You say it’s all shit because that’s the only way you can live with yourself, much less explain all the things you saw. How would this benevolent God you always aimed to serve allow the suffering? Even the quotient caused by your own hands, never mind everyone else’s?”
“I knew this was a waste of time,” Chris got up.
“Mr. Stuckey,” Ramshead called. “There’s another little wrinkle we haven’t discussed that you should know about. You’re dying.”
Chris turned on his heel. “What? What kind of fucking bullshit is this?”
“Not today, and not next month, but soon. It will be cirrhosis of the liver. I’d give it... two years maybe; or I can get rid of your compulsion to drink, as I mentioned earlier. What do you really have to lose?”
Chris shook his head.
“We both know your father wouldn’t forgive you anyway, if that’s what’s stopping you.”
“There’s always a choice,” he replied.
“Oh, I see.”
Ramshead tapped a number into the keypad of his phone.
The phone rang twice before it a timid voice answered. “Sir?”
“Yes, Monica. Where are you right now?”
“Waiting for the elevator.”
“Alright. There has been a slight change of plan. I need you to take the stairs up to the sixteenth floor.”
“What are you doing?” Chris asked.
There was a pause before Monica replied. Her voice sounded resolute. “Yes, sir.”
“I want you to remain on the line with me, let me know your progress as you go.”
Chris stood, arms crossed, listening as the woman huffed into the phone, calling out the number of the floor each time she reached a landing.
“What are you doing?” Chris demanded.
Ramshead grinned, his perfectly white teeth gleaming like a shark’s. “I see that as intelligent as you are, you’re the kind of man who must see things for himself. Stick his fingers all the way through the wound and get some blood on himself, so to speak. I can work with that.”
“Monica,” he said into the phone. “Would you tell me which floor you’re on, my dear?”
“Just got here,” she said. “Sixteen.”
“Excellent. You’ll see a metal door directly in front of you on the stairwell. It says it will set off an emergency alarm. Press the bar anyway.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
The click of the metal door sounded over the line. At the same moment, an alarm rang in the building.
“You wouldn’t,” Chris said.
“Oh, you don’t know me well,” Ramshead replied. “There’s little on this Earth I haven’t or wouldn’t do.”
CHRIS RAN. RAMSHEAD’S office was on the twelfth floor.
He ran to the stairwell. Four flights of stairs.
When he reached the sixteenth landing a metal door stood open. He pushed through it and found himself on the top of the building. He looked around to see where the woman could have gone.
Monica stood on the western facing edge of the building. Chris walked slowly toward her, squinting and shielding his eyes against the sun. He didn’t want to spook her, and at the same time he couldn’t really believe what he was seeing.
The breeze whipped through her hair and her skirt. As he approached, he saw her holding her cell phone in her left hand.
“Monica!”
She turned and looked at Chris over her shoulder. Their eyes met and locked. Ramshead’s voice sounded over the line. She had him on speakerphone.
“Jump.”
Chris lunged for the woman, trying to catch her. She pushed herself forward like a swimmer making an arc off a diving board. She was there one moment and gone the next.
“We can stop playing these games, Mr. Stuckey, or we can continue, it makes no difference to me.”
Chris turned to see Ramshead standing behind him; suit unrumpled, not a bead of sweat on him, and a smile on his face, as if he hadn’t just compelled a woman to jump to her death.
“Why did you do that to her?”
The silver haired man shrugged. “People usually require a demonstration of my power, and it became obvious to me that you’re that asshole who was going to need a little something extra. I just turned over the rest of my staff and she needed to go anyway. I don’t believe in allowing myself to be burdened with dead weight.”
“You think that makes me want to work for you?”
“If you still have doubts, we can move this on to your family members. I don’t have a problem with it. Do you? Your sister, well did you hear that she and her husband are expecting a baby? All it takes is the right call...”
Stuckey’s lip curled in disgust. “You want me, then let’s keep it just to me. Get it over with.”
“I knew that I liked you,” Ramshead chuckled. He reached out and placed a hand over Chris’ chest.
Everything went black.
Chapter Five
Natasha Taylor
While my mother slept, I went upstairs into my father’s old office.
Since he passed on, I haven’t really done much to change it. The room contained an oak desk with a dark brown leather office chair behind it. Now and again I would come up to the room to sit there and remember him. The smell of his books, the wood, even the leather of the old chair comforted me. A bean bag chair still sat on the right side of the room. I used to sit there when I was visiting my dad, often with headphones on reading a book. Daddy was one of those people who mostly stuck with nonfiction, but when he did read fiction it was either a classic or some far flung fantasy including different worlds and universes still undiscovered. He turned up his nose at the steady stream of romance novels, thrillers, and fairy tales I consumed as a kid. He never discouraged me from reading them, though.
His books remain the way he organized them on his shelves: filed by reference manuals, scripture, and historical texts rather than by alphabet. The bookcase closest to his desk held the books he used the most: Hester’s Demons, Compendium to Supernatural Entities, and The Book of the Others. Only certain learned people knew of these books, but for an exorcist or a hunter of any kind, they were the bread and butter—the guides you went back to when you needed to know what you were dealing with.
Others was the largest of the texts and the most respected, though it contained excerpts from Hester’s writings as well. It had been so long since I had looked through these with more than a passing interest. After my dad passed away, I couldn’t even come in this room for months. I didn’t read anything more about demonology or witchcraft for a long time. A lot of it had been committed to memory anyway. I think the main reason I avoided these kinds of things was because they hadn’t worked for the good in my parent’s lives. As much as both of them strived to help people with
their knowledge—especially dad—what had it gotten them in the end but a lot of heartache?
My father had explained demons to me like this: only certain kinds of demons were supposed to be on the Earth, and all subspecies could be broken down into two categories: Nayjeed or Sidhari.
Nayjeed were originally what we think of as guardian angels. Some of them have gotten greedy over the years, and have taken over human bodies so they can have the experience of living in human flesh. They can only possess a dead body at the time of the human’s death, rushing in at the moment a human spirit leaves.
Sidhari are demons who have always existed as such on Earth. They have their own flesh and blood bodies, and most have some type of power—such as telepathy or telekinesis—if they haven’t interbred too much with humans. Their bodies are the same as humans; it’s their soul that is different, more powerful. They cannot inhabit humans, though they are great at mindreading. If the human soul and an angelic one are on a continuum, then Sidhari are somewhere between—just high enough on the spectrum to be considered another race, lower than their heavenly brothers and higher than their human cousins.
The third kind of demon, fallen angels, are not earthbound and come to our plane of existence through a portal. They were never meant to come into our world in the first place. They are outcasts from heaven, damned to wander from one dimension to another, never at home wherever they go. Fallen are the ones who can possess living humans, the ones who seek to destroy. If you hear a story of someone inhabited by an evil spirit that made them do horrible things, you can bet that was one of the Fallen. Summoned through magic, these are the most dangerous of all.
Banishing the Fallen was my father’s specialty. The church called it exorcism; he preferred to call it an eviction. When I asked him why, he said that it was because you could mention it in polite conversation without raising too many eyebrows. A person’s body is indeed the most private of homes, and dispelling a demon was equivalent to pushing out a squatter.
He made it sound much simpler than it really was. Then again, banishing spirits came easier to him than to others. Among those who dared speak about such things, he was well known for his craft.
Though I witnessed several evictions, I never saw anything other than a common demon—one who pushed through an outer dimension and made its home inside whichever unsuspecting human happened to cross its path. Dad didn’t like the idea of bringing me along in the first place, but he made sure I was only exposed to what he would consider the “easy” cases.
The Book of the Others lists Nethers as a subclass of low-level demonic spirits who pledged service to a master. Unable to travel outside the dimension they are trapped in, high-level demons use them to spy on human targets. While they can make themselves visible to some on the human plane, they aren’t present on Earth. They can’t hear or touch, but they can see and send those images back to their master.
The good news was that while I couldn’t fight those things with guns or knives, they were no corporeal threat. The bad news was that they were sent by something evil; a being powerful enough to use them, and that creature was a threat.
What I couldn’t figure out was why anyone would want to harm us? My mother was half out of her mind most days. I didn’t do any sort of spirit work, I was certainly no exorcist.
I remembered my father’s voice. Once they see your face child, they never forget you.
I looked out the window. I didn’t see anything on the corner, only my neighbor Tom walking his German shepherd, his usual evening walk.
There had to be a reason for a demon to suddenly show interest in me and my family.
Chapter Six
Henry Pollard
Henry Pollard owned many homes around the world, but because he worked with Victor Ramshead, he spent the most time in his house in Marina Del Rey. He found the place to be a good mix for his sensibilities; close to the heart of the city to minimize his commute, while allowing him to be near the renewing energy of the ocean.
He’d lived in this house more years than he would like to recall. The problem with living so long was there were so many things to remind him of other people and other times—even when the memories called up were unpleasant. Advanced age meant losing your family, loved ones, and friends, only to replace them and have the same thing happen in another fifty years or so. The cycle of life was nothing if not maddening in its predictability.
Any stranger would guess Henry’s age to be around his late sixties. He was in good health. A few wrinkles didn’t bother him, and though he could have looked younger, he preferred to be seen as an elder. No one would believe that he had stopped counting the years around his two hundredth and fiftieth birthday.
Because they didn’t always have time to speak to each other throughout the week, Henry and Victor had developed a tradition. Once a week, on Wednesday afternoon, they met each other for lunch. Sometimes they did so at the office, but this time, Victor had invited him out to Montez-Blanco, a family-owned Cuban restaurant halfway between Henry’s home and the office. It was one of the few things they could both agree upon, excellent food and good drinks. The place was always busy with customers and gregarious laughter. On this particular afternoon, as on many others, they could speak casually without getting unwanted attention.
When he arrived, Victor was waiting, stirring his cup of coffee.
“You’re late.” Victor arched an eyebrow at him.
“Well, you can’t exactly start without me,” Henry said, taking a seat. The waiter came around and both men gave their orders. Once he was gone, Henry sat back. “How have things been going this week?”
“Pretty well, actually.”
“You have Stuckey in hand?”
“Yes.” Victor’s look of satisfaction made Henry feel slightly nauseous. After all these years, he was well versed in his partner’s ability to manipulate. It didn’t make him feel better about it.
“I’d love to know why this young man is so important to you.”
Victor smiled. “You would? That part isn’t necessary. Any luck with Miss Taylor?”
“Some,” Henry replied. “It’s in the works, but she’s aware of magic; we have to be careful with her.”
“Yes, of course,” Victor made a gesture with his hand, as if swatting a fly. “I don’t really care how you do it, as long as it gets done.”
“It wouldn’t have been my recommendation to send Nethers after her. She saw them.”
“Did she? She’s more gifted than I thought.”
Henry turned his attention to his meal. Victor was the one to break the silence.
“Are you going to tell me what it is that’s bothering you, or would you like to keep me guessing?”
Henry wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and laughed. “Why should I tell you anything? Wouldn’t you prefer to pluck it from my mind whole, the way you do everyone else?”
In their little war of words, Henry realized he had scored a point. There was nothing Victor liked less than to be reminded that he could not read Henry’s mind. It had been that way since they were both young men, back when Henry was first pulled into his orbit. He should have known then not to get involved with this conniving, arrogant man. Victor claimed to know the truth about the great secrets of life, the realms of the dead and other dimensions. Henry had been his eager and willing student. He’d taken in every bit of knowledge he could, hoping to one day surpass his master.
When Victor spoke about magic, he did it in a way Henry had never heard elsewhere. Many witches and warlocks practiced in fear that they would be killed by religious zealots or that their own kind would murder them for practicing dark magic, bringing down the judgment of the goddess upon the coven. Victor had no such misgivings.
Victor did not believe in rules or boundaries. Henry had learned too late that he wanted others locked into boundaries only he could control and define—perhaps more so for his lover than anyone else.
He’d been so impressed, infatuated, and c
ompletely in love with the man, he’d learned about what Victor really was the hard way.
Those days were long gone. Once the veneer and the chicanery became clear to him, there was no love left between them. What Henry did feel was a coldness, a sadness for what had been lost; or really what had not existed. Victor was powerful. He never lied when it came to his ability to wield magic.
The real lie had been the pretense that he ever intended to share anything at all. He didn’t love anyone or anything outside himself, and any spoils he took were for his own satisfaction, no one else’s. His agenda suited his needs, but he disregarded how it might affect those close to him.
Despite the fact that they were no longer in a relationship with each other, they were each the touchstone to the other’s life, the only constant in times that were as much the same as they were completely different. The trappings of humanity changed; the clothing, the technology, the modes of doing things. Deep down, though, man was the same beast he had always been and would remain the same animal until he was extinct. Despite all his power and knowledge of magic, Victor Ramshead was no exception to that rule.
“After all these years, why do they matter to you?” Henry asked.
“Oh, come on....”
“No, I mean it. Why do you feel the need to seek out these particular people?” Henry said. “Especially if you only intend to discard them after a few years.”
“You don’t need to know my end game.”
“Why is that? I’m still your partner, aren’t I?”
“You’ll know when I see a reason for you to know it.”
They ate their meal in silence. After their plates were taken away, Henry ordered flan and coffee. Victor requested a glass of red wine.
“What I would really like is for you to stop pretending we’re somehow on an even playing field with each other. You don’t intend to release me, yet you’re changing up our employees quickly now. I don’t even remember how long this last set were with you before you got rid of them.”
“And what would you do if I were to release you?” Victor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Where would you go?”
