“Start at the beginning,” Aiden suggested in her ever practical manner.
Matthew chuckled. “To start at the beginning, I have to go back to the day I met Magnus.”
Aiden inclined her head in encouragement. She had the implacable demeanor of one who would not, and could not, be denied. It was unnecessary and amusing, because the priest had no intention of refusing her this.
Matthew laughed as his thoughts turned toward the past, and his sedated mind became submersed in the reverie of recollection. “Good God, how can I reduce forty plus years of friendship to that one crucial point in time? There were so many pivotal moments when Magnus and I could have just as easily become enemies. For the first decade, Magnus and I were constantly at cross-purposes. Though, oddly, we always seemed to come out on the same side in the end.”
Wearing a smile, Matthew lifted his decanter. Pinching the long, graceful stem between two fingers, he rotated his wrist so the wine swirled inside of the full rounded bowl. He held up the decanter and peered through it at the fire until the burgundy glowed with a warm red aura—his rose-colored looking glass.
“It was the summer of 1958, and I was a very arrogant, very stubborn, very foolish young man...”
Chapter Eight
The wave of August heat blistered Detroit, causing unbearable suffering by baking sidewalks and cinder block. At night the denizens of the slums climbed onto rooftops and fire escapes in search of even the most minimal relief. The city’s factories poured fire and smoke into the muggy summer air. The rising sparks and ash mixed with the thick humidity to create awful smog—a living hell.
From dawn to dusk, Father Matthew Bunson patrolled Detroit’s streets, preaching God’s word to the desperate masses that needed to be saved. Beneath a priest’s austere attire, he sweated profusely, his throat always parched. His body ached from countless hours on his feet. As a young and foolish man, his vision was myopic. He perceived only faces, not individuals, in need of salvation.
Night brought relief from the heat and drew people into the streets. Matthew made his way along a tight, crowded side street, keeping his limbs close to his body. He moved with exaggerated care to avoid knocking over a fellow pedestrian.
A man of average height and considerable bulk, his powerful build was solid and blocky, muscles toned just shy of bulging beneath the neat, black suit. Neither handsome nor ugly, his face was crafted of angular lines. His eyes were his most notable feature, dark and discerning, because he possessed a terrible knowledge and the grim resignation of a man driven and possessed by a greater purpose.
He passed a row of rundown storefronts composed of adult bookstores and theaters displaying garish XXX signs selling girls and sex. Across the street, a hotel rented rooms by the hour. Moving toward a small gathering of prostitutes, Matthew spotted his quarry and picked up his pace. He didn’t call out until he was too close to be evaded.
“Eve!”
The woman’s head jerked up. Her eyes widened and darted to either side when she recognized him. He charged closer, and resignation filled her wary brown eyes. That didn’t bother Matthew, because he believed in his cause.
“Father Bunson, how nice to see you,” Eve greeted with a forced smile. In her early-twenties, the young woman of mixed racial heritage had dusky skin and light reddish brown hair that fell straight to her shoulders. Her pretty face could have been striking, but she’d already lost her shine.
“It’s good to see that you’re well, Eve. We’ve missed you these last few weeks,” Matthew began, broaching the reason he’d been looking for her. She’d missed Mass for the last three Sundays, and he’d had genuine concern for her absence. Too often women in her profession turned up in the hospital or the morgue.
Eve crossed her arms. Her expression closed up, and her stance grew defensive. “I’m sorry, Father, but my mama’s been sick, and we’ve had a tough time of it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. How are Jimmy and William? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“No, really, everything’s fine, Father, but thank you.” She moved away from him, retreating like a guilt-stricken child before a parent.
With bull dogged persistence, Matthew followed. “Eve.”
From a short distance away, a blood-curdling shriek filled the night and then abruptly ended.
Matthew whirled toward the scream which originated from a narrow alley between two old cinder block buildings.
“Go get help!” Matthew ordered.
Eyes rolling with fear, Eve’s head jerked once, and she turned to run. From what he knew of her, he doubted that she’d seek out the police for assistance, but he held onto the distant hope that she’d prove him wrong.
Flickering street lamps provided dim illumination, but the source of light at Matthew’s back cast the entire alley into shadow. Upon entering the narrow passage, he hesitated for a split second and allowed his eyes to adjust to night vision. He then proceeded cautiously until he came upon three forms.
Matthew drew to a hard halt when disgusting sounds associated with eating—slurping, lip smacking, gulping, and gnawing—filled the alley. Disorientated and confused, it took him several precious seconds to focus on and process the scene before him.
Two ghostly figures crouched over a mound on the asphalt, their long and spindly limbs spread wide in a posture that reminded Matthew of drinking giraffes. The pair’s faces were buried in a fleshy mass as they fed. Matthew took another step forward, and the odor of blood and perforated bowel struck him. The overwhelming and nauseating smell made his stomach clench and heave.
Gagging, Matthew staggered to a halt and stared at a scene he couldn’t process. His disbelieving mind rejected the image that his eyes provided. The creatures, too alien and insect-like to be human, were shaped like men, but obviously were not. Their heads were malformed, as were their limbs. Both arms and legs were long and spindly, bending in the joint at irregular angles which gave the impression of branches bent taut to the verge of snapping. Their movements were ungainly, sharp and jerky, as they hovered over their meal. Tattered remnants of clothing hung from their sparse frames.
Their flesh glowed phosphorescent in the murky light. Leathery skin stretched taut over the underlying bones. Dark contusions—streaks of black and blue and indigo—marred their exposed flesh, bordering hollow gaps where chunks had rotted away.
The feeding creatures hadn’t noticed Matthew, and he remained frozen for fear that any sudden movement would draw their attention. The smallest of the pair scuttled closer to the body on all fours, and the larger one’s head jerked up. Hissing, it drove its rival off and then returned to its meal, massive jaws crunching open one of the heavy femurs so that it could get at the marrow.
Matthew shuddered as he came to a sudden, cognizant understanding of what he was witnessing. He’d interrupted a feeding! That mound of shredded flesh and blood and bone—it had been a person!
Heart jumping and body convulsing, the priest jerked away.
Matthew’s mind rejected the term, but he forced himself to accept the reality. The mound on the ground had been a man, and now he was just meat.
The assailants hadn’t sensed him yet, and escape became the imperative, because he could not help the wretched soul who’d become their unwitting meal. Already, his throat and chest cavity had been ripped open and chunks of rib meat torn out to serve as a meal to the fiends.
Matthew took a hesitant step backward, deciding that an orderly retreat was warranted. Unfortunately, his shin caught a fragment of broken board, and he stumbled. His entire body flailed for balance. Cursing, Matthew kicked the piece of wood away, causing a great clattering commotion. He cringed, but the damage had already been done.
Both of the creatures reacted. Heads jerking up to glare in his direction, their eyes—a mix of gold and green, the cornea the color of tarnished copper, and the sclera a lighter yellow—seethed with malevolence.
Matthew’s mind reeled as he strove to match their identifying cha
racteristics against the teachings of his arcane education. What were they? Demons? No. Too base and plebeian to be of the Fallen whose power was said to be immense. Vampires? While vampires dined in dark alleys and lived in the night’s shadows, they did not partake of the flesh, only blood.
What then? Zombies?
A thunderous roar interrupted his frantic musing as the larger beast sprang forward from its crouched position. It landed in an apish stance, two yards from Matthew. Its thin, bloodless lips peeled back in another threatening snarl, and it considered him, looking for weakness.
The dominant creature’s rumbling growls summoned a chorus of answering calls—angry hisses and gnashing teeth. The priest’s head jerked toward the far end of the alley. His eyes widened with fearful horror as one, then three, then a half-dozen more of the nightmarish creatures emerged. They appeared out of the shadows, staring at him with hateful, hungry eyes.
Another growl from the dominant beast warned the priest that he shouldn’t have averted his gaze. Matthew instinctively leapt backward, crying out as he did, but a heavy shape struck him and knocked him to the ground. Mouth open to bite, the creature’s deformed visage descended toward his face.
The startled priest reflexively threw up his arms for protection and managed to block the attack. Snapping loudly just inches from his face, its teeth closed on air instead of flesh. The ghoul snarled and lunged again, struggling to close its massive jaws around Matthew’s face while fetid breath stinking of carrion and decay huffed up his nose.
Fear hammered Matthew’s heart as he struggled to keep the beast away, barely managing. “Dear God, help me,” he prayed, fighting with animalistic desperation. He didn’t want to be eaten alive!
The beast bore down. Grabbing hold of his forearms, it used its superior weight to gain leverage. Matthew’s arms weakened, and he redoubled his efforts to hold it off, expending precious energy in panicked thrashing. Inevitably, his strength gave way, and the ghoul lunged again for his face.
In desperation, Matthew thrust his arm forward and shoved his hand into the ghoul’s mouth. Its heavy jaws closed on the outer side of his right hand and sank deep into his flesh. As the ghoul’s desiccated yellow eyes glared at him, it chomped down repeatedly on the priest’s hand as if it intended to chew its way through. Drops of his own blood splattered Matthew’s face, and his arm started to collapse.
A strong downdraft of air passed over them, but the priest barely felt it rush over his face. Unsurprising, since he had more pressing concerns at that moment. The definitive and distinct sound of steel blades cut the air, but Matthew failed to put a name to the noise.
A pair of swords crossed the creature’s neck with the singular sound of steel on steel. The twin blades sliced cleanly through the sinew and bone, and the very tip of one cut a long, thin scratch upon Matthew’s wrist.
“Dear God.” The priest gasped, and the fiend’s head dropped onto Matthew’s face, the wide-open mouth coming into contact with his cheek. Matthew shouted at the top of his lungs. Grabbing the severed head, he heaved the loathsome thing as far from him as he could. It whizzed down the alley, bouncing as it rolled away. The priest tore out from under the slack body atop him and kicked and thrashed his way to freedom.
“Ghouls. They’re always losing their heads.” The swordsman possessed both a dulcet brogue and an eminently smug arrogance. When combined with the terrible word play, it irritated Matthew immensely. “How fares your own head, Father?”
Blood dripping from his twin blades, the swordsman stood over him but made no move to lower his weapons and assist the priest to his feet. Considering the continued presence of the other ghouls, Matthew found that to be most wise.
“I find you cut it uncomfortably close,” the priest replied with both ill humor and gratitude. His fingertips touched the cut, and came away wet with blood from a thin and shallow wound that had grazed the inside of his wrist, alarmingly close to vital arteries.
“I take it you like to cut it close?” Matthew demanded.
“The closer, the better,” came the amused reply.
“I’m not sure I can agree with that sentiment,” Matthew said. With an effort, he climbed to his feet.
“My apologies.”
“Apology accepted.” Matthew felt patronized, though he had no proof since he couldn’t see his savior’s expression.
Suddenly, he noticed his hand and realized it hurt much worse than his wrist. The sharp and throbbing pain cut through him. Hastily, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the injured appendage.
“You saved my life, and I’m grateful, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but who are you?” Matthew asked.
The swordsman hesitated, a significant delay, because it told the priest the answer needed to be weighed. “A hunter,” the man finally said, from which Matthew learned absolutely nothing he did not already know.
“That doesn’t tell me—”
“Excuse me a moment, Father.” He whirled away and intercepted a pair of charging ghouls who’d gathered the courage to attack in the face of their alpha’s death. Another four or five hung in the shadows, awaiting the outcome of the conflict.
The swordsman struck with lazy precision and sliced open the first ghoul from shoulder to sternum. With the other blade, he swung at the ghoul’s midsection and hacked through the ribcage. The twin swords met and clashed, and the ghoul fell away in pieces, hitting the ground with a cascade of soggy thunks. The wetness of the sound made Matthew feel ill.
Matthew stood transfixed, gaping in astonishment at the man’s remarkable speed and precision. The skill displayed—the coordination, timing, and rhythm—were as complex and intricate as a dance.
Whirling to meet the second ghoul, the sword fighter intercepted its headlong charge with an out-thrust sword. The undead howled as the blade ran it through, embedding to the hilt in its chest, tip protruding from its back. Arm and weapon extended, the swordsman held the ghoul in place, an artist intent on his work.
“Wait a second!”
Matthew stopped and raised inquiring eyebrows at Aiden. “Yes?”
“Magnus only used one sword that night in the parking lot!” She bounced with the excitement of having discovered a supposed inconsistency in his story.
“He’s versatile,” Matthew said archly and shrugged. “And a showoff. He’s also been known to use guns when he’s not clowning around. Now may I continue?”
“I guess,” she replied with a sullen pout.
Phoenix Contract is available in all parts via Kindle Unlimited.
Click here to read Part Three.
Visit Amazon.com to read the complete story.
About the Author
Melissa Thomas breathes life into her dreams, bringing imaginary characters and fantasy worlds into our reality. She loves her characters so much they become her alter-egos, enacting the exciting adventures she envisions for them. She is a resident of San Francisco, California and adores the picturesque city by the bay. Her hobbies include surfing and scuba diving.
Phoenix Contract is her debut novel.
You can learn more about Melissa at http://thephoenixascending.blogspot.com/
Phoenix Contract: Part Two (Fallen Angel Watchers) Page 5
