by Stephen Ayer
He stood up, and became aware of the sound of running footsteps. More bystanders than he would have liked saw his confrontation, but it was no matter. His ship had arrived and with unnatural speed he blended into the gray morning mist, the shouts of those who would confine him in a cell fading with each light footed step.
Chapter 9: Arrival
Rabat, Morocco
December 18th
As they had left during the night, so had they arrived at night. Captain Hasan had been keen enough not to ask about the peculiar time demands, figuring the reason far more mundane than serving the inclinations of a creature of the night. The taxi driver who picked them up at the airport thought of them nothing more than a pair of awkward Westerners, which suited the two just as well. Only from afar had more discerning eyes beheld the duo for what they really were.
Behind irises of molten flame and liquid sand, a cruel intelligence regarded the two souls with clinical clarity. He snarled upon seeing the resplendent inner light of one and his anger was quickly tempered upon seeing the shadowy soul of the other. Motes of dark ruby light shifted in between twists and plumes of simmering pitch darkness. So full of rage and pain, amounts that would have driven a mortal man insane long ago. If he could get him alone... his masters would be pleased.
Peter and Frank sat in the back of the taxi. The vampire twirled a coin in between his fingers while the angel felt his counterpart’s eyes on him. “What?”
Frank smirked and looked forward. “Just glad you changed into something a little less conspicuous than your ice cream whites.”
The angel looked at the cuffs of his jacket, which had become more of a cream white than a starched white and then fell onto his slacks, dark navy blue, as was his shirt. “Ah yes, a trick of the light, nothing more. We are not burdened by the trivialities of mortal existence.”
“What about sleeping? You burdened by that?”
“Only to dream of past triumphs. Otherwise, no.”
Frank sank into his chair and quickly deduced the angel must have been beyond other mortal concerns as well. “Well at least you’ve changed. A little. I think you’re overdressed for what we’re doing-”
“I’m not a subtle servant, Frank.”
Frank chuckled. “I can understand that. Neither am I. When I kill though, I ain’t dressed for a dinner party.”
“So long as they’re dead, what do appearances matter? Your blood malediction has afflicted you with unseemly tastes.”
Frank rested his head on his fist and sighed. “Fair enough, fair enough.” Impressing more discretion upon the angel was pointless, he realized. Risks didn’t faze to him the same way they did the vampire, much less mankind. The angel’s body was just one in a long line of shells and if he failed, he would come back... again and again.
Most did not have the luxury. Frank hoped the flagrance of his elegance would not attract undue attention.
The two said nothing for the rest of the trip, but kept their eyes on the city outside as night lights bent and stretched against the glassy windows. Their driver drove at manic speed yet kept the calm of an old man, unperturbed by the palpable silence in the cabin and utterly focused on his fare. Frank entertained fantasies on how best to mutilate the tall man in black and thought of what parting words to leave him as he stomped on his steaming, crumpled corpse. The next time they met, the conversation would not be so friendly.
Peter went over his mental notes of what he knew about his target. He had been on the planet for at least a decade, meaning he had been keeping a low profile, which also meant he was likely a demon of low standing and lacked the power or influence to enact his will in a more explosive manner. So the key, as it ever was, was not where he was, but why he was here. Why linger in a realm that can only hold you back?
Why the resource smuggling out of Nicaragua, Mexico and the Congo? The sheer amount of raw materials shipped out of those countries sent a chill down his spine. Unrefined ingredients were a hallmark of witchcraft, not a demonic presence. The musing had reminded Peter of earlier times, when he had sent the pagan wretches screaming and burning back to their heathen lords. It was another time and he was another man, a righteous punishment sent to curtail the spreading darkness of Renaissance Europe.
In truth, many of the witches and warlocks he sent to the flames were no more dangerous than the cults of the time he found himself in now, nothing more than imitators or second hand receivers of great power. Even then, the world had turned its back on those with great power, relegating them to the shadows of history.
Until the shadows grew hungry of the light once more, when simple hedge witches brought pustule ridden demons of pestilence thrashing out of their cauldrons and when desperate peasant wives ran into the arms of warlocks, figuring it better to have a demon within than a disease without.
How he wished he could have exorcised Man’s myriad afflictions with a world spanning sweep of purging white righteous fire, then as now.
“We’re here.” Frank said, and popped out of the car as fast possible and headed towards the hotel doors, leaving the tip and fee to Peter. The angel sighed and gave the driver twenty dirhams before leaving and felt his fists bunch up. Trouble. Right away, the vampire had a quarrel with a local. He ushered for the driver to leave as shouts punched into the night air.
Peter saw what the problem was immediately. A beggar had made the unwise choice of choosing Frank to batter with his entreaties of sympathy and currency. “Frank, just give him a coin or two!”
The vampire picked the man up by the neck and shoved him into Peter. “You deal with him. So sick of this shit...” The beggar stumbled along the ground and grabbed onto Peter’s arms for support. “I’ll be inside.”
Peter held him up and gave him a look of sympathy before dropping three coins into his palm. For a moment he thought he saw something uncanny in the beggar’s eyes, but then it was gone. Just the street lights. “Allah yasahel.” he said to the man and gave him a pat on the back and a nod. Though an Angel of the Cross and not the Crescent, Peter was well acquainted with the customs of his strange and severe cousins. He stopped for a moment and paused to take in his surroundings. He had felt something.
The ice blue glow of the hotel sign fell upon his white jacket, highlighting the elegant name Le Lieu. He sensed the gentle, warm wind that rustled the palm trees and felt the electric discharge from the street lamps. Through it all, he sensed the presence of something so familiar yet distant, but could not place it.
He turned around to catch one last glimpse of the beggar but found nothing but the odd passerby, walking home for the night.
Peter’s eyes adjusted to the abundant light of the hotel lobby, taking in the vibrant red lounge couches and bold yellowish-bronze light that suffused every inch of the room, not a single spot was left in shadow. Moorish designs, octagonal and antique, sprawled along the tile floor in intricate black, crimson and yellow mosaics.
Adjacent to him lounged two men in charcoal suits, their hair swept back. One studied a newspaper while the other glanced at Peter and then returned his eyes to Frank. Peter caught a glint of bronze strapped near the man’s hip but couldn’t make out exactly what.
Followers already?
The man’s eyes were like molten amber, a shade the angel had not seen often during his travels among mankind. The other man lowered his newspaper and gave Peter a respectful nod. Peter returned the gesture and continued on, keeping the men in his peripheral vision.
He found Frank at the counter, leaning in on his elbow, sporting a smile for once as he chatted up the hotel clerk. Her hair fell like a river of shining ebony over her shoulders, framing her youthful face with a maturity she would otherwise lack. With age she would be beautiful, in youth she was pretty. Her excited eyes and wide smile told Peter all he needed to know.
She was food. He saw Frank’s eyes study her smooth and olive complected neck. And unless he stepped in, Frank would answer the call, bringing the woman into a dance of death she
would not leave until she was as pale and cold as the moon.
“Hello!” he said interrupting Frank’s conversation with her, “I take it everything checks out and our rooms are ready?” The woman was terribly expressive and her sharp eyebrows raised as his clear voice cut through the air, a far cry from Frank, whose throat sounded like it had been basted in whiskey before being smoked.
“Oh yes, I’m sorry, sir...” She fumbled for the keycards to the rooms and Frank gave him a steely glare. “Mr. Adams aaaand Mr..... Redd. Yes! Here you go!” Peter leaned on the counter, giving the vampire a stony look in kind for his glare.
“Thank you.” said Peter, taking the card.
Frank was distracted, feeling contempt for the angel and not paying attention that the woman had been holding the card in front of him. “Oh. Yeah, thanks.”
The woman let out a nervous giggle. “You’re welcome! I’m Amira, and if you need anything at all, food, drinks... just call me.” It did not escape Peter’s notice she had her eyes on Frank’s the entire time.
“We look forward to enjoying your service.” His voice broke through the gulf of silence between the two. “But now it’s late and I’m afraid pillows are more needed than drinks.” He grabbed Frank by the shoulder and walked him down the corridor.
“Have a good night!” she called out.
Peter looked over his shoulder and nodded. “Likewise!” He got into the wood paneled elevator with Frank and hit the button for the seventh floor. “Frank, you know as well as I do you can’t have her. Necessity demands I be paired up with you.” Until it doesn’t and I extinguish the black flame that passes for your soul. “Under my eye, you shall take no life, no blood from Man and certainly nothing from her. You will sup on nothing but other beasts, as is your due.”
Frank slumped against the handlebars and yawned. “Yeah... I got it.”
“I would’ve thought you would have had those things in mind when you left the taxi.”
Frank scoffed. “It was just a fuckin’ hobo. You and Bill. Always acting like every life is the same.”
Peter was the first out into the hallway as the doors parted. “It is not cruel or evil to say his death would’ve gone... unlamented. But what William and I understand is that discretion is key.” He led Frank down the hall, noticing the ornate patterns and intersecting lines that graced the plush carpet. “All have a part to play in the grand narrative of fate and destiny, even if the part’s sole use is to be of low use, it’s no excuse to flippant.”
Frank twirled his coin between his fingers once more “I don’t play parts.” I turn people into them.
The angel only chuckled, not slowing his stride. “Then that’s the part you play. The puppet without strings, the cog that does not fit.”
“So is this what you do in Heaven? Just metaphor the shit out of everything?”
Peter stopped in front of a room that was not their own, ignoring Frank’s insolence. “We’re here.”
Frank looked at his keycard and then at the door. “No we’re not.”
Peter put his hand on the door and looked to him. “Yes... we are.”
Sweat broke out across brow and his skin stung as if he had come close to a candle. His eyes widened when he saw a faint glow around Peter’s palm flow up into the card reader. The angel’s complexion grew more radiant while a dry heat came over the vampire. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“You’ll calm down or I’ll bless you in burns. Be patient. These kinds of doors are not so easily picked...” A sizzling sound came out from the card reader followed by a wisp of smoke.
Frank exhaled and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Go faster.” He saw the angel’s eyes closed in concentration while the light on the key slider blinked from red to green. “What the hell are we even doing here?”
The door clicked open and cool air wafted out to greet their faces. “It is not chance that drives us here, Frank, but evidence.” As the angel’s glow dimmed so too did the vampire’s discomfort. Frank stepped in front of the door way and found not even his eyes could pierce the dark that seemed to writhe and undulate in the light of the hallway. “This was the den of the demon.”
Chapter 10: War Dog
December 10th
The Seeker sat in meditation after having repainted magical wards and sigils over his arms and chest. The wind and rain lashed outside against his shipping container like a giant hammering down a barrage of blows upon a rock. But inside, he had established an atmosphere of absolute serenity. Candles and old withered parchment lay before him, the flames wavering yet bright. Inked life runes along the walls ensured ample air supply even within sealed quarters.
There were still four days left of his journey, four long days where he would be left to the idleness of his mind. He could not conceive of a greater torture. The closer he came to her, the more noticeable any spell would be. Anything beyond candles and rose petals and she would know. He let out a deep, rumbling laugh.
Justice comes.
Sitting on steel, his legs crossed, with only the yellowish light of the candles to keep him company, he closed his eyes. He focused on his mark, following her scent across so many impossible leagues as only the gift of magic would allow. She smelled of winter blooms, the taste of something sharp and bitter skimmed along his tongue... and something more. Not her scent, but attached to it.
It was so scant that the Seeker had to strain to perceive it. But once he did, there was no mistaking what powers hunted the witch. The minute whispers in the dark, the faint waft of nothingness, a feeling as if silence itself weighed upon the flesh.
The Outer Darkness stalks your soul, woman.
The scent of those numerous and unfathomable entities gave the Seeker a sharp pang of remembrance, sending him deeper into his fugue, into a place not even his masters could root out. He did not dream and he did not meditate, but crossed between the two and landed in the hallowed fields of forgotten memory...
Battle of Chickamauga, 1863
A crescent moon shined high above the pine trees, yellow and hazy from the leftover smoke and fire on the battlefield. This night was different. Something else hung in the air with the wails of the dying and the embers of bloodshed. This night, the wolf met a fellow hunter, one who had shed the mantle of humanity and embraced something far beyond even he.
The Seeker trampled across dead and wounded bodies, the screams of Union and Confederate soldiers alike just another sound of nature, just as needed to the greater melody as the croaks of toads and the night songs of crickets. It had been twenty years since he had become a Seeker, his identity sundered before the power of the most arcane magics, his memory having retreated like the lunar tides.
The Confederates had won the battle and were sweeping up the incline of Snodgrass Hill, picking out their own and searching for prisoners to ransom. The Seeker loped headlong into a patrol, his wild eyes aided by the lanterns they carried, like little cartons of light, floating in the air underneath the dark outline of the nearby forest.
He cursed to himself when he felt his heavy hind paw crush into a corpse’s knee cap, snapping his leg in the process. As one the patrol swung their guns in his direction, shouting at the sound of the crack. His senses caught the instant pangs of fear that infested their scent, roiling to the top of their troubled souls as the dominant emotion. He heard the clicking of guns and braced himself.
In one breath, the five-man squad fired at once at the bounding shadow. Rounds hammered into the creature’s shoulder, sending bursts of blood flying into the night air.
The Seeker grit his teeth. He fought off the stinging sensation and ignored the hot rivers of red that streamed down his lupine body. He landed on the captain and shattered his rifle with giant hands. Raging claws smashed through bone and eviscerated his still beating heart. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head and a profusion of blood bubbled up from his lips as the werewolf ripped his hand back out of his chest.
A world of pain was visited upon him once mo
re, as the surrounding soldiers unloaded their sidearms into his back. He snarled in agony, feeling the bullets smash and crack his thick bones.
He spun around, wracked with blood boiling rage. The troops screamed upon seeing his vicious, elongated head, alight with pale burning eyes that stood out like frozen comets in the darkness.
“Goddammit Rogers smoke him!”
“Ah fuck!”
“What in God’s na-” The Seeker’s bloodied hand wrapped around the youngest one’s throat, lifting him off the ground and throwing him like a broken puppet into the one that told Rogers to shoot him. Both men collapsed into the dirt, reeling in pain. Two were left standing. He lunged for the closest soldier, frantically emptying his revolver, before the wolf’s jaws snapped around his neck.
He wailed in agony, feebly trying to punch his killer off. Unnaturally sharp canines ripped through his throat and his struggle lessened. The Seeker kept up the pressure until his jaw’s pressure exceeded the man’s neck strength, snapping the top of his spinal column to the sound of a muted crunch. The werewolf pulled away, taking the man’s throat with him, dangling from his chin like a rose in a lover’s mouth.
The wolf’s eyes widened in panic when he saw the final soldier and quickly faced the arithmetic. Six pistols. At least three revolvers. Two in hand. Before he could even spit his piece of throat out, a volley of hot lead ripped into his muscled chest. He staggered underneath the sheer firepower at such close range, and felt his own blood speckle his face.
His steely corded muscles, covered in blood drenched fur, bunched up and he lunged forward. The soldier dropped his empty pistols and ducked forward underneath the wolf’s swiping claws. The Seeker was taken off-guard by the unusual tact, and paid for it in full when the man picked up a fallen lantern mid-stride, only to smash it into the werewolf’s head, sending showers of whitish orange flame across his fur.
