Demonic Double Cross

by B Branin

  * * * * *

  “Everyone evacuated after the first shockwave. They thought it might be an earthquake,” Fiona was saying as we waited outside the church for our ride to arrive, “I guess a few maintenance guys are being called to make sure none of the wiring or pipes were damaged.”

  “How is he?” I asked, referring to Father O’Brawley. I hadn’t seen the old priest since I excused myself to check out my new…pectoral decoration.

  Fiona gave a small smile, “He’s sweeping up his office. He says he has an appointment in thirty-five minutes.”

  “For a man of the cloth who just went toe to toe with a demon, he doesn’t seem too phased by it.” I commented, using my hands to try and stretch out the collar of the shirt I had scavenged from the church’s lost and found.

  “For a man who was just possessed by a demon, you don’t seem that shook up about it.” Fiona countered.

  An uneasy silence fell over us as we made eye contact. Ever had to inform someone of bad news? Oh, like, I dunno…telling someone that their best friend was having an affair with their wife? Imagine that awkwardness, amplify it by a hundred and that’s what we were feeling right now. What could we possibly say? We weren’t even sure what had happened! Hell we weren’t even sure if my possession was even over! After all Soul Scream had turned several naïve women into meat puppets, made a junkie into a flying weapon and imbued a doctor with the ability to conjure up a phantom replica of herself.

  Lord knows what else it could do while continuing to run through my veins!

  “So…” Fiona began awkwardly, “I guess we will never talk about what just happened? It’s a little beyond even the usual stuff for a Paranormal Investigator, huh?” When I burst out laughing maniacally, Fiona almost charged back inside the church to get Father O’Brawley, thinking I had been possessed again. That wasn’t the case. I just found it hilarious that out of all of this, Fiona still thought of me as a Paranormal Investigator!

  “No, no. This is just upping the ante is all.” I replied, shifting gears from previously possessed victim to purebred conman, “You could even say it’s personal. So now we both have a vendetta against whatever or whoever is behind this mess.”

  “But…” Fiona said but was interrupted.

  Father O’Brawley provided a welcome distraction as he climbed down the steps to join us.

  “Are ye sure you don’t want to stay and receive a blessing?” The old priest asked me, though the disappointed scowl on his face told me he already knew my answer.

  “No. I think I’m going to do my best to repress this memory and then promptly become an atheist.” I informed him with a smile, “But thanks for the offer.”

  THAWP!

  Grumbling, I rubbed my ear that had just been struck by the old priest.

  “Figured you’d say that,” Father O’Brawley snarled as he reached inside the sleeve of his cassock, “Arthur Broker, the one man who channels Hell itself and still doesn't believe in anything but money, cheap beer and cheaper women!”

  I had to tense my neck muscles not to turn around and face Fiona, who was undoubtedly giving me a harsh glare.

  “But, the Lord is always with you, lad. Even if you don’t acknowledge him as you should.” He went on, pulling something from his sleeve and handing it to me. It was a tarnished crucifix on what looked to be a worn out shoe-string.

  Reaching out, I took the sad looking bauble. Even the Jesus of this particular crucifix looked rather bummed out for being on such a shoddy piece of craftsmanship.

  “Um, thanks. Didn’t the gift shop have a non-used one?” I asked, regretting the sarcastic comment as soon as I felt the sting of being struck once more by the priest.

  “Fool! That crucifix has been in me family for twelve generations! It was made by one of me forefathers who was a blacksmith!” Father O’Brawley growled at me, “As the oldest of me family, I was suppose to pass it onto me son!”

  I looked down at the poor crucifix once more and felt my face burn with embarrassment.

  “…Well, now I feel bad for insulting it.” I mumbled.

  “You should.” Chided Fiona behind me.

  “I dug this out of me old things to give to you. Keep it close lad. Even me great, great grand da held this in his hand as he prayed.” The old priest informed me sagely, “It will keep you safe.”

  No words could have summed up the gratitude that I had for Father O’Brawley at this moment. Giving me one of his family’s most sacred and prized possessions. Me of all people! He knew I was a conman, a cheat and a no good street hustler. Instead of thanking him verbally, I nodded solemnly, knowing that no words could sum up my appreciation for his kindness.

  Turning his back to me, Father O’Brawley started heading back up the stairs and to the church.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” Father O’Brawley called over his shoulder before disappearing over the steps, “You can return it next Sunday at confession. I’ll have the church’s damages summed up into one nice bill by then.”

  Damages? Bill? He was expecting me to pay for being possessed?!

  “You’re a bad person!” I shouted from my seated position, “I’d pawn this twisted horseshoe if I thought it’d even fetch fifty cents!”

  Even as my follow-up insults and threats brought curious glances from many a passerby, I still slipped the tarnished crucifix around my neck. After one more inspection of the poor craftsmanship, I tucked it underneath my shirt. The crucifix felt cold against my skin as it rested right against my interwoven scar tissue. The coolness from its touch spread through my body and I could swear that my aches and pains were being soothed away. I hate to admit it (and will deny it to the end) but I did feel comforted by this crappy piece of Christian craftsmanship.

  I mean, if my scar was a connection or “focal point” to an otherworldly force, couldn’t this religious symbol be a link to something divine? What had Dr. Spriggan said? It’s not the item themselves but the faith we put in the items that had true power? Or something like that?

  Maybe I should have paid more attention…

  All regrets regarding my short attention span were interrupted by my cell phone ringing.

  “This is getting really irritating.” Kurt spoke bluntly, “That fat computer geek of yours told me that you needed our help. Again.”

  Good ol’ Kurt. Just the other day he had helped me kill a flying junkie with connections to a bizarre, drug dealing cult and he had chalked the entire incident up as an inconvenience. Only the Twins could view murder as slightly more annoying than helping a friend move a couch.

  I’m glad that they were able to keep most of their psychotic tendencies drowned in booze and cheap thrills.

  “I promise this one is going to be fun.” I proposed hastily, wanting to secure the Twins as my safety net.

  “I’m watching the car crash marathon.” Kurt countered flatly.

  “Come on man!” I pleaded, “We’re going to be wrecking up an estate! A manor even!”

  “I just saw a guy get dragged behind a truck for three blocks,” The biker replied, turning up the volume on his TV so I could hear the agonizing screams of the victim he was watching.

  Sighing, I dug deep down and decided to part with something very special to me as a bribe.

  “I know Frankie still has some of his special stock locked up,” I offered between gritted teeth, “An entire bottle of Macallan scotch, eighteen years old. It’s yours if you help me out.”

  A long pause. As Kurt considered my deal, I could hear the sound of shattering windshields and screaming steel frames as cars collided on his television. Even with the offer of causing mayhem and the reward of booze, I had only a 50/50 chance of the Twins joining me.

  Sure, destruction and chaos drew the Twins like flies to honey but only when the disasters were on their terms. It was understandable, really. When you are out raising hell for your own reasons (for the Twins that was usually pleasure), get busted and hauled to jail, then tough luck. If you get busted a
nd thrown in jail for someone else’s screw up or request then that could lead to a vendetta.

  Luckily for me, over the years I’ve spent in **** City, the Twins have lent me their terrifying talents plenty of times with no vengeful thoughts being harbored between us. Only once did the Twins ever see the inside of a jail cell on my account (they had been caught smuggling old refrigerators I had been planning on converting to ‘lower body icers’ on a health scam I hatched). But I managed to smooth everything over for them.

  Long story short the Twins were slapped with a trespassing charge, which I managed to arrange to be dropped thanks to one of the gifted attorneys I had the pleasure of knowing. I also paid their month’s tap at the Bin as an apology. But even though we worked well together and could even be considered friends, that didn’t mean they were my personal two-man army…

  “West says he wants to open another tab in your name.” Kurt informed me.

  “No dice. Frankie’s good stuff and I’ll pay for some burgers later.” I negotiated. I might be desperate but I wasn’t stupid enough to try and quench the Twins’ combined thirst on my dollar twice in one week.

  “Fine.” Kurt grudgingly agreed, “You’re at the Saint whatever’s church, right? We’ll be there in ten.”

  This barebones remark was followed by the click of Kurt hanging up.

  I tucked my cell phone away and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. For the next act in this tragic play that had become my life, I was going to have to fall back into my conman routine. It was time to bluff, lie and charm my way into getting what I wanted.

  “What do we do now?” Fiona asked and I found it commendable that she still had faith in me to accomplish anything other than falling deeper and deeper into the world of shit the Daughters of All had made my…our…lives.

  “We’re going to exhaust my very last lead.” I informed her bluntly, instinctively reaching for my flask but remembering it was still half-full of drinking fountain quality holy water, “And pray that everything works out.”

  With that bleak comment, we were ushered into a long, uncomfortable silence as we waited for the Twins to arrive. We were alone with our thoughts and each thought was bleaker than the last. Even as our minds and hearts flirted with depression and hopelessness, we didn’t toy with the idea of calling it quits or try to talk one another out of our course of action. Why? Well, because deep down, I think we both knew that it was beyond our control. Sure my cowardly sense of self-preservation wanted to fantasize about skipping town but honestly, the moment Fiona knocked on my door was the moment I was glued, bolted and tied into seeing this through to the end.

  It just took a demon possession and a ritualistic scar tissue tattoo to make me realize it.

  That’s why both Fiona and I climbed into the Road Killer the moment the Twins pulled up to the church. That’s why we didn’t tell West to head to the airport or the Mexican border. That’s why we both felt buried up to our necks in trouble and convinced we were about to drown in the tide of danger heading our way.

  “So, what’s the plan?” West asked, bringing me out of my depressed reverie.

  Faking a brave grin, I winked at Fiona and then turned to West.

  “Well you see, I was thinking…”