“You’re on your own,” a lieutenant told them. “Akron is now a Sanctuary City. Try not to make too big of a mess.”
Metzger looked at the phone as if he had never seen one before. “What in God’s name is a Sanctuary City?”
It was basically the city’s way of announcing that they had given up. In much the same way some cities had given up on fighting the war on drugs or illegal immigration, Akron went with a: “We can’t stop it so why bother trying” mentality that, as any sane person could have guessed, the problem hadn’t gone away, it had quickly exploded.
Jack’s team was basically on their own.
For two hours, Metzger drove in ever-widening circles, as Cyn reached out with her mind, attempting to feel demonic activity—the city was dark with it. Everywhere they went, the air had a bad feel. It infected their mood and neither of them would have been able to scrape together a smile if their lives depended on it.
After hours of searching, they came away empty handed and frustrated. Finding Jack in the alley behind Truong’s shop didn’t help their mood. He was passed out behind a dumpster, his bloody sword across his knees, the once forgotten Taco Bell bag, torn open and empty, lying discarded by his elbow. Truong’s head sat on the pavement next to the bag and in his mouth was a balled up chalupa wrapper.
In Jack’s hand was an empty bottle; he reeked of whiskey and he snored like bear.
“Oh Jack” Cyn said.
His eyes came open; they were bleary and had trouble focusing on her. “Hey, Cyndia. Whatcha doin?”
What am I doing? She didn’t know the answer to that question, though she asked it of herself ten times a day. She had been crisscrossing the country and the globe for a year and a half and she didn’t know why. It wasn’t because she was such a valuable member of the team; any halfway decent looking girl would have sufficed; demons just weren’t that picky. All they seemed to care about was that their victims had an aura of desperation around them—and she had it big.
She was desperate for Jack, when he was whole that is, when his soul was a real force and not some tattered remnant as it frequently was. She loved him when he was a full man, the only problem was that he rarely was. His self-appointed task was killing him and he was rarely a happy man. At the best of times, he was a man driven by guilt.
Guilt over his cousin and guilt over the murders that sat heavy on his conscience, and guilt over scenes like this—though this was a first for Jack. He had executed Truong. There really was no other word for what he had done. Jack had likely wrapped up Truong’s “trial” in a minute, declared him guilty and now he was like this: bleary and having trouble sitting upright.
She actually liked Drunk Jack, she just never liked the reason behind the alcohol. Stepping past the severed head, she took the sword from him and set it against the wall. She then kicked the bottle away; it rolled funny and she saw a strange sediment at the bottom that looked familiar.
“Wait a second. Wasn’t there a snake in that bottle? I saw it on the shelf when we first walked in.” With a sinking feeling she began looking around the alley floor, hoping to see its remains.
“There was,” Jack said with a grin. He tapped his head and said: “Truong say there is strong magic in adder. Potent magic. Make you strong and fast.”
Cyn looked him in the face, fully expecting him to hurl up the snake and the alcohol at any moment. “When did he tell you that? Before or after you killed him?”
“After.” Again Jack tapped his head. “He said it right here. Like an echo. He also said that you make me weak. That’s why he got the ol’ chalula wrapper in the mouth routine. He wouldn’t shut up. He said that you would kill me. He said I could be more the most powerful sor-sor-er-er. But I said I love Cyn and ya know what he said?”
“What?” Cyn said, breathlessly. She was afraid to find out.
Jack smiled. “He said then we could enjoy ourselves when we were both in hell together for eternity. Wasn’t that nice? Eternity sounds nice. Am I being loud? We should try to keep it down, ya know. It’s night time an’ peoples are sleeping.”
“Speaking of which, let’s get you to bed,” Metzger said, stepping forward, careful not to kick Truong’s head. The captain lifted Jack to his feet and was about to drag him back to the Lexus where Jack would likely vomit and then pass out.
Cyn stopped him. She stared into Jack’s face, trying to look into the pits of his eyes. “You can hear Truong in your mind?”
“Jus a whisper now, but yeah before he was loud.”
“And what did he say about me? Tell me that part again.”
Jack looked her up and down, his head making exaggerated moves. “Robert will use you to get to me. Buuuut, I don’t really think that’ll happen and iffin’ it does, he’ll rue it. Tha’s a funny word: rue. Rhymes with poo and moo and...”
“Don’t believe any of this, Cyn,” Metzger said. “Jack is drunk and Truong...he was a bad man.”
“Yeah, tha’s why I killed him,” Jack said, again nodding his head way up and way down. “You have to believe me Cyn. He was eeeevil. And we couldn’t take him to jail. He knows magic and would just, like break out, no problem. And you know what? He used Bob. Ya know that stupid guy who had the demon in him. He gave Bob the spell, knowing that he would kill all those people. He did it so I would come and then he was gonna kill me. Tha’s way more eviler than me, right? Right? I had to kill him, Cyn. You believe me, right?”
He was begging, his eyes teared over. Jack didn’t want to be the bad guy. He wanted to be good, straight through from one side of his murky soul to the other, but it never seemed to work out for him and that was why Cyn stayed. Jack deserved something that made him happy and she did her best, even when she was hurting, like right at that moment.
“Yes, he had to die,” she said, and it was the truth, the hard to swallow and much harder to live with truth. Cyn loved the idea of a goose farm and little golden chicks running around under foot. Deciding who got to live and who got to die was not a life she wanted to lead, and yet someone had to. Someone had to do what no one else would or could. It was why she was there holding Jack’s bloody sword and wondering if she should do something with Truong’s head.
With a great deal of disgust and whimpering, she took the surprisingly heavy head by the hair in two pinched fingers and brought it back into the store and set it next to Truong’s body. Then, after taking three deep breaths, she searched him until she found a set of keys—one key went to his car, another to the store and a third, likely to his home. She then left, locking the door behind her.
Surprisingly, Jack didn’t hurl up his Taco Bell and nor did he pass out. He stared out the window with a vacant expression until they were at the hotel. They made a strange group in their body armor, carrying shotguns and Jack’s bloody sword; the lone front desk clerk stared as they trooped by.
Jack even showered before bed; it was a long, steaming shower and it was five in the morning before the two fell asleep. Jack was out for fourteen hours; Cyn not nearly as long. He spoke in his sleep, something he did on occasion, though this time he spoke in Mandarin, something he had never done.
“I killed Truong,” Jack said when he woke.
“I know.”
He wouldn’t look in her direction. “Did you watch? I can’t really remember too much.”
She tried to make light of the situation. “Do you remember eating an adder? It was the free prize found at the bottom of every bottle of Chinese whiskey.”
“That I do remember. It felt alive going down. Truong said not to chew so...wait...he was dead then.” Jack got up and went to the mirror and looked deep into his eyes; they were blue all save for the “whites,” these were fantastically red.
“Do you feel different?” Cyn asked.
“You mean now that I’ve hacked a man’s head off with a sword and stole his essence? Yeah, now that you mention it, I do.” He laughed high in his throat, looked miserable for a second and then blew out a deep breath; this was al
l the depression, sadness, anxiety and plain craziness he would allow himself.
“So did anyone get Bob yet?” he asked.
Cyn checked her phone and the answer was: no. Metzger, who had demanded help from his boss, was out looking with two FBI agents tagging along. Fathers Timmons and Jordan, along with a gaggle of local priests and Ignatius Gourman, the Bishop of Cleveland, were in the deep pits beneath Bob’s house, trying to break the ring of glyphs and free the trapped souls. It wasn’t as easy pouring Holy Water on the glyphs this time; these glyphs hadn’t been drawn by the hand of man.
“Maybe you should go take a look at them,” Cyn suggested. “You’re stronger today, aren’t you?”
“Yes, quite a bit. Maybe half-strength; stronger than I should be, but I should save it for Bob. When I catch that guy...well, we’ll see what happens. We’ll see if he’s learned anything from my...I mean from Truong’s book of spells. A part of me sort of wishes he has.”
Cyn worried about that part of Jack—the part that could absorb the power of a dead sorcerer. She feared what it meant, she feared that it would be as addictive as necromancy was, and necromancy was ten times worse than any drug ever invented. Cyn had never cast a full spell and yet she could feel the urge and the need.
She feared that the ugly desire colored her thinking; was it necromancy that had her suggesting they go to Bob’s house? “How about we just go look at the pits?” she said. “Maybe there are some clues as to where Bob might be hiding.”
Jack agreed, and after a heavy, hangover reducing dinner, they drove out to Bob’s place on the edge of nowhere. They both went prepared for battle; however Bob didn’t represent the same sort of threat as Truong. They wore their armor, but their vests were on loose, their helmets left in the car and their weapons holstered or sheathed.
As they entered the house, the stench assaulted them and they both felt the power of the spells in the air, though it was weaker than before.
There were a pair of aged and exhausted priests sitting at Bob’s filthy kitchen table, their faces lined and worn. They had their elbows amongst stained and crusted plates and glasses. The wood tabletop was scored and splintered and there was ancient egg yolk petrified in the grooves and black ketchup splattered like blood. The two men ignored the mess—compared to the lower dungeons, the table was practically sterile.
They seemed to know Jack and Cyn by reputation and their eyes narrowed. Jack’s narrowed right back. The burger he had eaten hadn’t been greasy enough to cancel his hangover out completely and Cyn could see his mood disintegrating.
“Let’s leave them on their break,” she said and escorted Jack through the house. On Bob’s couch was a third priest, sprawled out in what had once been a white robe but was now stained with dirt and feces. He snored like a chainsaw, his mouth hung open showing a white tongue; even his breathing sounded tired.
They made their way down the maze of ladders and deep into the pits where the darkness clung to them and closed in around them. The nearness of the spells was dizzying to Cyn and she was drawn to them, the necromancer in her screaming out to study the spells, to absorb them and then to slice open one of the priests and use his pure blood the way she was meant to.
The temptation was so great that her hands were slippery with sweat on the rungs of the ladders.
“H-How’s it going so far, Father?” she asked Father Timmons. The priest was standing facing the dirt wall, leaning his head against his arm. He took up most of the narrow passageway. The only light came from seven candles stabbed into the ground around him and it was as though he stood in a shifting golden puddle. The rest of him was angular shadows and a wheezing breath.
Before he could answer, Jack said: “You know what? There was…there was a spell. Damn! It’s on the tip of my tongue. It was in Truong’s mind. It was for light, but how did it go? Sha-shi nai something. It was in Mandarin, I think.”
As usual, Timmons was uncomfortable being so close to Jack, and he especially didn’t like it when Jack spoke about what he called his “pagan practices.”
“We’re getting more flashlights,” he said, “so, you can keep your witchcraft to yourself. We have quite enough of that down here already to last a dozen lifetimes. My goodness, those spells the demon cast are doozeys. It’s like trying to pray away an iron wall. Even the bishop is having his troubles and the man is a veritable fountain of power. The Holy Spirit is great within him.”
Timmons then paused, looking uncomfortable, and smiled a smile that was the closest thing to a lie that would ever pass his lips. “Speaking of the bishop, uh, he’s not a man who puts up with much nonsense. He’s very old school.”
“Meaning what?” Jack growled.
“Meaning that maybe it’s best if you come back another time. Your brand of magic, though it may not stem from a place of evil, surely doesn’t stem from God’s love and soooo...uh, it’s not, a uh...”
“It’s not what?” Jack demanded, an unhealthy gleam in his eye.
The priest gave a little shrug and finally admitted: “It’s not welcome. I tried to explain the situation to his Excellence, but there is a certain stigma to what you are doing. In his view and in others as well... and mine as you know, it’s thought that at best you are mistreating the gift of your soul that the Lord has given you. At worst, you are little more than a witch. Do you understand why I’m telling you this?”
Jack didn’t answer; his eyes were narrowed in anger. Father Timmons, a very brave man, put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to anger you. I mean to save your soul. That’s why I joined your team. I didn’t come here to fight demons, I came here because of you, Jack. Your soul is as valuable as any other, and I think we both know that witchcraft will destroy it.”
“I’m not a witch,” Jack said, momentarily taken back. He seemed uncertain what to say in the face of Timmons’ stark admission. “I-I’m a sorcerer. It’s different.”
“Fine, you are a sorcerer. From an outside perspective, there isn’t that much difference between a sorcerer and a necromancer. It’s not the discovery of God’s love that moves you. And it isn’t the thirst for wholesome knowledge or understanding or wisdom you are after. That’s why I wonder if you’ve changed. I have to wonder what brought you down here. Is it the spells? Are you hoping to add them to your repertoire?”
Jack glared and Cyn started pulling on his arm. “Maybe we should go,” she whispered.
He resisted. He had his back up and his chest puffed; he was spoiling for a fight. “You think I need to see those spells? Hardly.” A knife, deadly sharp was suddenly in his hand and Cyn was sure he was going to cut himself and do something he would later regret, but instead he dropped down, and in the glow of the candles, drew out both of the spells that were found in the pits.
The necromancer in Cyn flared up and she found herself staring at the spells, the glyphs slowly etching into her memory. Before she could finish memorizing them, Jack had her by the arm and was dragging her back toward the first of the ladders. “Can you believe that? I thought I was here to help,” he griped. He gestured for Cyn to go up ahead of him but she hesitated, her eyes slipping back to where Father Timmons stood over the circle of glyphs and the arc within it.
She stared until he kicked dirt over the symbols. She then gave Jack a weak smile that went unseen. They were both shadows and she was glad for that. She hated the thing in her and at times like this she feared that Jack would be able to see the need in her eyes.
“You are helping,” she insisted. “Maybe you should poke around the house and look for clues. I’m going to wait outside, if you don’t mind.” She practically fled into the sweet air of the evening. She didn’t want to be anywhere near any spells just then. The temptation on her was very great.
It was full dark out when Jack finally strode out of the house, heading for the Lexus. “Find anything?” Cyn asked.
“Nope,” Jack said, climbing into the car. He stared at the clock and admitted: “I can’t get that spe
ll out of my head. It’s growing on me. And not for the reason Timmons thinks. I don’t have to learn it. I’m not obsessed and I’m not destroying my soul…well I am, but it always grows back always stronger than before. The thing is, I feel as though I need the spell. You heard Truong…wait, did you hear him? When he said that Robert had grown strong?”
“Yes, I did and it scared me, deeply.”
He nodded, holding the keys an inch from the ignition. “It scared me, too. And everything that we’ve been through this last year scares me as well. It’s all building up and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better. That fear is what’s pushing me. I know Robert, he isn’t sitting on his laurels. It’s why he’s in the Sudan. He is looking for stronger and stronger spells and the names of greater and greater demons.” He paused and chuckled. “And here I am feeling that I have to justify myself trying to master a simple light spell.”
“You don’t need to justify anything with me,” she answered, truthfully. Only the night before she had been staring at him in disbelief with a head sitting next to his knee. When he told her that Truong had needed to be executed, she had agreed. She knew the score; she didn’t like it, but she knew that Jack was holding back a dam of evil and if he wasn’t around, it would fall to someone else, likely someone less noble.
She caught a glance of herself in the rear view mirror as she buckled her seatbelt. Her blue eyes locked on her reflection. The burden would fall on her. She had helped cause the evil and she had power equal to either of her cousins. It was a power she never wanted to taste, or so she told herself.
His smile was one of relief. “I knew I could trust you,” he said. She smiled back, but there was just the smallest edge to it. They were leaving Bob’s property behind and she felt her longing for the forbidden spells amp up in a quick flare and then the house was behind them, hidden by a battalion of trees; she breathed a sigh of relief.
The relief was short lived. Night in Akron was dreary. The dark hid things; it hid people that liked the dark, it hid those who worshipped in the dark. Cyn could feel the evil in the air. Bob was out there and if he wasn’t captured or killed, he would only add to the misery of the dying city.
The Edge of Temptation: Gods of the Undead 2 A Post-Apocalyptic Epic Page 6
