by J. R. Rain
I took in some worthless fucking air. “Can you go in there now, baby?”
She nodded, and I watched her eyelids flutter, and then her shoulders sank, and my daughter was nearly a lifeless thing. She breathed and sat straight. The tears stopped and her lower lip quit trembling.
“Are you in there now, sweetie?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
“Does the devil know about the Angel of Death?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, Mommy. He said nothing will help you. Nothing. Not God, not your friends, not Anthony, not your angel, and certainly not Azrael.”
I knew the name, thanks to the Librarian. I was just surprised to hear it come from my daughter’s lips. The Angel of Death.
“Sleep, baby. You are safe here.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
As she lay on her side, I pulled the comforter over her.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, darling?”
“Where are you going?”
My daughter, of course, had picked up on my plans. I said, “I’m going to talk to an old friend. A very good friend.”
Chapter Ten
Fang was behind the counter, looking much as I remembered him back in the day, back when he was a bartender at Hero’s, my favorite bar where I used to hang out with Mary Lou, back before I had learned that he had stalked the shit out of me.
That was, of course, a long, long time ago. Now, he was one of us: that is, a vampire. And instead of serving just beer and wine, he also served human and animal blood, all done inconspicuously, in clear defiance of any health codes.
He spotted me come through the door and waved me over, smiling broadly. Fang, I noted, still wore his two extracted teeth—his two remarkably long teeth—as pendants around his neck, looking for all the world like two normal-sized shark teeth, rather than two extraordinarily long human canines.
“Moon Dance!” he said, coming around the bar and holding out his hands. Fang was tall and thin, but he was now wiry with muscle. Vampirism had been good to him. He had always been good-looking, but he seemed to have filled out a little over the years since his turning. Indeed, there was a glow to him now, which suggested a recent feeding. Not a big surprise, since he ran a no-kill blood bank. Yes, the many human donors here thought they were donating to a real blood bank. Other than that one ethical hiccup, everything else was on the up and up. In fact, his bar was saving lives by satiating those vampires who might have otherwise killed for their nightly hemoglobin fix. With the faux-donation clinic just next door, I knew Fang had, by now, amassed vats full of human blood, many of which were separated by blood type, racial type, gender type, and even age type. Who knew vampires could be so particular?
The bar itself looked like your typical dive bar. Those two gents in the back, sipping on what looked like red wine, were sipping, of course, blood. Except your average Joe off the street wouldn’t know the difference. Fang kept the place dark, kept the music loud. The booths along the walls and window were high-backed, deep and dark, perfect for a vampire who didn’t want to draw attention to himself or herself. And for those vampires who chose not to satiate the entity within, or for those preferred to keep the parasite within them weak, or for those who were generally against consuming human blood, Fang also kept on hand some pig and cow blood, ordered from the same damn butchery that I used. Lucky me.
He gave me a big, smothering hug. He even lifted me up off the ground a little. It had been a while since I’d seen him, and the look in his eye was undeniable: the lanky goofball still had it bad for me. Why these men had it for me, I didn’t know. But I suspected most women had their fair share of inexplicable crushes. I remember all the crushes on Mary Lou. Boys would literally follow her home daily from middle school and even into high school. Hell, her husband had been one of them.
Of course, my crushes just so happened to be an escaped convict-turned-vampire, a guardian angel, and a big, bad werewolf.
Fang set me down after a half-twirl. “And to what do I owe the pleasure, matey?” he asked.
“I need some help,” I said. “And I also need a drink. Not necessarily in that order.”
He grinned. “Still animal blood?”
“Still animal. Yourself?”
“Oh, I am into human blood, Sam.”
“How’s that working out for you?” I asked.
“Edward and I have an agreement.”
“Edward?”
“My dark entity. He only comes out to play when I give him permission. And he goes back in when I say so.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“Mostly, okay. Lately, I’ve noticed he tends to stay out longer and longer, even after I call him back.”
“That could be a problem,” I said.
“I know.”
I said, “Cow and pig blood work every time.”
“Weakens him?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Except, I knew Fang might already be too far gone. Meaning... the opening had already been created. His entity, Edward, no doubt had a foothold, which meant he could probably slip out at will. Slip out and take over Fang. I kept that to myself. Fang would discover it for himself. It was a slippery slope consuming human blood; it strengthened a vampire, but also strengthened the entity within.
Fang went over to a row of wine casks, drew from a shiny spigot, and out flowed a thick stream of crimson. When the glass had filled, he turned the spigot, caught a few remaining drops, and set the shimmering goblet of blood before me. Unlike the other vampires who preferred the anonymity of the high-backed booths, I sat at the counter, front and center, not very far from a few mortals drinking their blues away with mugs full of dark beer.
Fang caught me looking at the closest customer, a house painter by the looks of him. Fang said, “Don’t worry about Matt. He’s a regular, and has long since been given the suggestion to ignore anything and everything vampire- or ghoul-related.”
“Ghoul?” I asked.
Fang shrugged. “A good catch-all. I don’t know who’s going to walk in through those doors.”
I raised the glass, tried to ignore the big fat chunk of meat floating in it, and chugged half of it down. Animal or not, the blood hit the spot. Especially my belly, which warmed first, then radiated out in waves. A good feeling. One that also felt lacking. Like drinking a diet soda. Good enough, but missing that sugar kick. The kick, in this case, was the human element.
“So, what’s got you down, Moon Dance?” he asked, leaning his sharp elbows on the bar. It was just like old times.
I considered how much to tell him, then decided to tell him all of it.
***
Fang and I had long since lost our telepathic communication, and so, even I was tired of hearing my voice when I finally concluded with the events of tonight—that is, when I realized the devil had an even deeper connection with my daughter than I had realized.
“His connection is growing, Sam.”
“Is it a possession?” I asked.
“Not quite, but close. Enough that he can begin to influence her.”
“Well, she’s safe for now.”
He nodded. “Her locked-up space in her mind will only last so long. The devil—he’s going to find a way in.”
“He’s never going to let her go, is he?”
“At least not until he figures a way to get to you.”
“And why doesn’t he just kill me now?” I asked. “Send a handful of demons to do the dirty work for him?”
Fang, whose knowledge of the occult was second only to the Alchemist—at least in my experience—shook his head. “It is common knowledge that the devil cannot engage, Sam. Nor can his demons. They can terrorize, yes. They can do everything but kill or destroy.”
“Unless invited in.”
“Indeed, Sam.”
“And so, he’s what? Scheming, manipulating, orchestrating?”
“All of the above. And, from what you’ve said, you and the devil are inextricably tied together.
But the devil knows the future is not writ in stone.”
“Did you just say, ‘writ’?”
“I did, Sam. I’m a dork.”
Fang was many things, but I had never thought of him as a dork. I laughed and caught his eye. Ah, the fire just behind it was growing. His entity, Edward, was taking an interest in this conversation.
I said, “So the devil hopes to change his fate?”
“It appears so, Sam. And it appears his fate is tied to you.”
“Since when did this happen? Why am I the last to know?”
“The future is a strange animal, Sam. Those who see it only see probabilities. Same with prophetic dreams, as you well know. More than likely, the devil knew of his future fate, but had waited until it had seemed more and more likely.”
“Like if I had been killed off or something.”
“Or, if you had chosen to utilize the diamond medallion.”
“His fate is tied in with my vampirism?” I asked.
“More than likely. I cannot imagine how a mortal would take down the devil.”
“Well, I can’t imagine how I would take down the devil, either,” I said. “It’s something I’ve never imagined.”
“And yet, you are imagining it now. Funny how this all works.”
“But if he had just stayed away...” I began.
“Maybe it was impossible for him to stay away, Sam. Maybe his looking into the Amazing Disappearing Danny Moon led him inevitably to you. And then, his fate, as they say, was sealed.”
We were quiet for a heartbeat or two. Which was damn near a full minute.
Finally, I said, “But how do I do it? How do I kill the devil?”
“The Angel of Death, of course,” said Fang.
“What do you know about him?” I asked.
“Not much more than Archibald Maximus,” said Fang. “Higher immortals, especially those who roam between worlds—and live between worlds—have been created to serve specific purposes.”
“Created by who?” I asked.
“A Creator much more powerful than all of us, I suspect.”
“But why the need for the Angel of Death?”
“A good question, Sam. I suspect some of these higher creatures don’t know how to die, not really. These aren’t reincarnated entities. They are one-offs, so to speak. Very powerful one-offs. Also, I suspect, they might be extremely hard to kill.”
“Then why kill them at all?” I asked. “Why not leave them be?”
“I think ‘kill’ is too strong of a word, Sam. ‘Return them to the light’ is probably closer. And to answer your question, I suspect their end will come when they have completed their purpose here on Earth. Or elsewhere.”
“Or if belief in them fades,” I said.
“For some entities, Sam. Not all have been created by humankind’s common collective. Take the Angel of Death. He would have been created by the Creator himself. Unlike your devil, who was created through mankind’s belief and fear.”
“He’s not my devil,” I said. “So, you’re saying the devil might have outlived his usefulness?”
“Either that, or belief in him is significantly fading. Or...”
“Or what?”
Fang looked at me. “Or he’s gone AWOL. Breaking the cosmic rules.”
“You think that’s happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know, not with certainty. But I suspect he is bending the rules of his creation.”
“Rules of his creation?”
“Every creature has rules governing their creation, Sam. Look at humans. They have an acceptable lifespan, an acceptable range of physical and mental abilities, and an acceptable range of spiritual and creation abilities. Sure, there are a few exceptions.”
I thought of Charlie Reed and his world of Dur. Boy, were there exceptions!
“But,” he continued, “most humans stay within an acceptable range.”
“So, the devil has gone outside the acceptable range?”
“Perhaps, Sam. But I also suspect something else is going on. I suspect an exit point was created for the devil.”
“And what’s an exit point?”
“A known time of death, Sam. We all have them. Many of them, in fact. Most near-death experiences, near-fatal car crashes, near-fatal sicknesses or diseases, were exit points that were diverted through sheer force of will. Through sheer force of life force, too. If a being has decided they’ve had enough, they will likely succumb, say, to their cancer. If a being decides that, ‘Hell no, there’s more to live for,’ they will likely push through. Upon his creation, there might have been such an exit point built in for the devil as well.”
“Well, it looks to me like the bastard isn’t done living,” I said. “He’s fighting back like a cornered hellcat.”
“Hellcat, indeed. But tell me, maybe he is pushing just to get you to fight back. Maybe you are his only answer to leave this plane of existence. Maybe, just maybe, he’s tired of being what he is. Remember the old vamp beneath the Los Angeles River?”
I nodded. I said, “He allowed you to kill him, even though you were just a newbie.”
Fang chuckled at that. “He did. And he did it because he was tired of living, Sam. Tired of killing. Tired of drinking blood. Tired of it all.”
“And you think the devil is tired of being the devil?”
“I don’t know, Sam. But I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I miss you.”
“I kinda miss you, too.”
“Just kinda?”
“Kinda is all I have in me.”
He nodded. “Kinda is good enough.”
I said, “Tell me more about the Angel of Death.”
Fang looked at me, squinted, then said, “Follow me.”
Chapter Eleven
“What about your customers?” I asked.
“They’re used to me dashing off,” he said over his shoulder, as he led me through a side door behind the bar, then through an unused kitchen, down a flight of rickety stairs. He made a right, then another right, then down a long brick-lined hallway, and then finally into an old room that served, I suspected, as his office. Or his vampiric lair. Had I not been what I was, I might have been concerned. This looked like a murder room if I’d ever seen one. Which I had, once or twice.
Except this murder room had an old desk, a chair, a dented filing cabinet and wall-to-wall bookshelves, all packed with books of varying sizes. Not quite as big as the Occult Reading Room, but damn close. It gave off the same creepy vibe. Luckily, though, no whisperings.
Rather than going to his books, Fang opened a middle drawer in his filing cabinet, thumbed through a few manila folders, all while I watched as a half-dozen ghosts flitted through the room, many dressed in clothing from yesteryear. One watched me as I watched him. He seemed to clear his throat, then gave me a deep bow. There were, I noted, a half-dozen bullet wounds—exit wounds—in his back. I bowed as well and he faded away. My life.
“Ah, here we go,” said Fang. He removed what appeared to be a drawing from a folder. He handed it to me.
“You brought me down here to look at an old drawing of what? A temple?” I asked. In the old picture, a row of Corinthian columns marched down either side of what appeared to be a long, marble hallway. There was a bright light above, which reflected off the marble below. The edges of the drawing were crumbling and the whole thing just looked damned old. If I had to guess, maybe over a hundred years old. A yellowish haze sort of washed out the drawing. Something tugged at me, hard.
“I think it’s a temple,” he said, “although it’s one that I don’t recognize.”
I didn’t either. Then again, I didn’t know much about temples. Or anything about temples, for that matter.
“So, why show me?” I asked.
“Such temples are associated with archangels.”
“Are they now?”
He nodded and proceeded to select a handful of books from his shelves. He flipped through
them, and showed me two or three examples. Each depicted a classical archangel within such a temple.
I pointed to the illustration. “How did you get this?”
“Three months ago, a man came in here and gave it to me. He said that I would know who to give this drawing to, and that that the initiate would know how to use it.”
“He said, ‘initiate’?”
“Yes.”
“Did he order a drink?”
“Nope. One minute, I was looking down at the drawing and the next minute—”
“Let me guess,” I said. “He was gone.”
“Not quite, but he was walking out the front entrance.”
I studied the picture, and as I did so, something continued to awaken within me. I had seen these pillars before, but not in the book Fang had just shown me. No, these pillars were situated differently, the hallway longer, too. “What did the guy look like?”
“Short. Balding. White tufts of hair. Long white jacket.”
“Vampire?” I asked.
Fang shrugged. “I dropped the ball on that one, Moon Dance. I don’t remember if he had an aura or not.”
“I’m leaning toward not,” I said absently. “So, you just decided to file the drawing away?”
“Seemed nicer than just tossing it out.”
“And what made you want to give it to me now?”
Fang’s longish face stared at me, unblinking, the fire in his pupil veritably crackling. Finally, he nodded. “You see the light above?”
I did see it, and, yes. Fang, I also noted, suffered from the same long-pointy-fingernail syndrome that I suffered from.
“You said that in the drawing the Librarian showed you, the Angel of Death was high above and looking down into the temple, right?”
“Right.”
“I don’t know about you,” he said, “but that looks like angel light to me.”
“Or maybe it’s just a drawing,” I said.
“Or maybe it’s the same place but a different perspective.”
I frowned at that. Indeed, this perspective was from the floor looking up into the bright light. But why a picture of the wide-open floor?
