by Diana Estell
“Because I am the law,” said Savila.
Dagon fell into silent despair after that. Reeling from the memory, Dagon became angry. In a quick decision, he put on the second veil and took out a lemon drop, rolling it around in his palm. Living in the light by not blocking his mind seemed more for the protection of Mary than seeking vengeance on the man who killed her parents. He thought about transforming into his dragon but changed his mind. The Seraphs could see him, and he wanted to keep this quiet for as long as he could.
While the Seraphs still sang, Dagon puffed out of view and went dark. He snapped his fingers once and summoned Mr. Cool.
Dagon did not know if Savila knew how close he was to his cohorts. He had successfully blocked his mind from her for eons, but he didn’t want to take any chances. He ate the revolting tainted candy. After all this time, I’m still not used to this stuff ... yuck!
Dagon gave Mr. Cool a black ops mission into the bowels of a Joliet prison.
“That stinks! Why does he get that mission?” said Sledge. “I say let’s crash and smash things! Over.”
“Love your enthusiasm and passion but not now. You three are guarding my Mary, my most special treasure. Over.”
“We know, we know. But …”
“It will be your butts if you don’t shut it! Now gripe less and guard more.”
“What happened to living in the light by blocking your mind?”
“Unpredictable, unplanned circumstances is what happened.”
“Hypocrite!” shouted all of them.
“Can it, you three. I am taking care of business. Besides, I have something else for you to do.”
“TCB to you, too. Get the scuzz bucket.” said Friar.
“That’s more like it, boys.”
Mr. Cool nodded in agreement.
With that settled, Dagon gave Mr. Cool the coordinates.
“That’s a far walk, boss. And the mission sounds dangerous. So, cash is king as they say.”
“Hitch a ride or whatever you need to do. Yes, cash is king, and you’ll get paid. Just keep me posted: where you’re at and when you’re in.”
“Copy that, boss. I can’t wait to see the looks on the others faces when I get back. If I get back, that is.”
“Think positive. Now go. Over and out.”
Under both the veils, Dagon took off his coat and made it into a pillow. Like Alexander the Great, he didn’t look back, risking it all to gain it all. For even if Mary only pitied him, he would still give her love. His mind sang the song that Mary had sung in her sleep. The only alteration was the addition of his name. After all, this was his lullaby.
I love him, his name is Dagon.
It wasn’t long before Mr. Cool reported in.
“Officer Grossman? Come in, Officer Grossman. Over.”
“I am not Officer Grossman. Over.”
“Yeah, you are, boss. Anyway … I’ve hitched a ride in the back of a pickup truck. Over.”
“You what?” Dagon lay down, shifted his body on the bench, then sat up, and rearranged his pillow.
“I hitched. Hey, what’s going on?”
“What is going on?” Laying down, Dagon twisted, tugged, and pulled on his sorry excuse for a pillow.
“The road just became bu … bumpy.”
“Where are you?” Dagon sighed, then turned over and punched his coat, causing a prickly scale to be less prickly.
“On the ba … back of a ye … yellow … pickup.”
“Just contact me when you’re inside,” said Dagon.
The bumps stopped. “Will do, Officer Grossman. Don’t try to fight it. You know that I am freaking hilarious. Over and out.”
Dagon was irritated with this infernal name, but he had to admit that Mr. Cool was funny and resourceful. No time seemed to pass before Mr. Cool radioed back.
“Officer Grossman? Come in, Officer Grossman. Over.”
“Just call me ‘boss.’ Over.”
“Whatever you say, Officer Grossman.”
“Where are you? You’d better be inside.”
“I am, and man is it creepy in here.”
“Good. Now, find him.”
“I’m looking. Are you sure you have the description, right?”
“Yes, and he’s the creepy one.”
“They’re all creepy.”
“Just find him and take care of it and then report back.”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
Mr. Cool stealthily crept along the dimly lit prison hallways, located the target, and radioed his boss.
“Creepy guy found. Over.”
“Are you in?”
“More or less.”
“Get in now and let me know when it’s done.”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
Mr. Cool crept along like a ninja. The creepy target sat in a cell on the second floor. In one fluid motion, Mr. Cool whipped out his sword, placing the tip of the blade into a crack. Taking out a rope from his coat, he tied sturdy knots in several key places. The sword now served as a ladder, lifting him to the second story. Mr. Cool dissolved through the solid metal bars. He sneaked along inside the cell, finding the prisoner fast asleep. Sitting on a stool, he waited until the prisoner woke up. He would forcefully wake the creep if the prisoner wasted his precious time.
The inmate snored away, and with a loud snort, startled himself awake. Mr. Cool remained silent, watching the man stretch and yawn. Bored, he whistled, frightening the man.
“Who are you?”
“You ask the wrong question. You should have asked why I’m here.”
“Why are you here?”
“To kill you,” said Mr. Cool calmly.
The man screamed and called for help.
“Screaming will do you no good. Anyone who sees you will see you sitting on your bed; they won’t see anything else. No one can help you, but I can by putting you out of your misery.”
Shaking and shouting, the inmate looked around to see if anyone reacted to his commotion. No one did.
“You killed the parents of someone very special.”
“What are you talking about? Whose parents?”
Mr. Cool stood, making his way over to the prisoner’s grimy bunk. The prisoner scooted closer to the wall for whatever protection it would give him.
“Did a woman come to you before you killed her parents? Did you see a woman before you became drunk or after?”
The frightened man screamed, his mind shouting chaos from the barrage of questions. He did not even attempt to answer. He squirmed closer to the wall. Paint chips flaked onto his bunk.
Mr. Cool pulled images from the man’s sweaty forehead. Fear and pain radiated from him, and he shook as if he were sick.
“We will watch what happened that awful day.”
He whipped his other hand toward the opposite wall. Like a movie, the images played on the wall.
The prisoner sat petrified, watching his memories displayed. Mr. Cool couldn’t stifle a smile. He enjoyed seeing the pain this movie evoked. His finger firmly pushed onto the man’s forehead, causing excruciating pain. Mr. Cool watched intently to see if Savila had placed an image of Dagon at the scene of the crime. It was not beyond her by any means to frame Dagon for her own crimes. He dug deeply into the man’s memories, causing the man to shriek even louder. Re-watching some scenes, he studied for any sign of Savila or Dagon. He didn’t see either. In a blink, the images were gone.
“I’ve already been paying for this for years now. I’m so sorry.” The man did his best to convey remorse.
“My name is Mr. Cool, and my boss tells me you have not paid for anything yet, but you will.”
Mr. Cool once again placed his finger on the creep’s forehead and swiped it, erasing all traces of the memory of their encounter and momentarily dazing him. From his pocket, Mr. Cool pulled out a razor blade. It provided a perfect coverup for this covert operation. With a swipe of the man’s forehead, a new memory was placed in his mind. He waited until the
man regained some consciousness. With razor precision, the man was sliced dead. Now his death would be considered a suicide.
The soul began fading out of the body, and with his boot, Mr. Cool kicked the soul down into the Abyss.
Another one bites the dust.
Living waters poured over the blade, dissolving all of the blood.
The assassin gripped the rope and slid down it, exiting the cell. He reported his status as he left. “Officer Grossman? Come in, Officer Grossman. Over.”
“What is it?”
“Creepy guy is dead and gone.”
“What about his memory?”
“It’s been erased and replaced.”
“What did you replace it with?”
“Suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“Yep … a razor blade.”
“That’s perfect.”
“I thought so, too. Oh, I found no sign of the wicked witch in his memory.”
“Get back soon.”
“Roger that. Over and out.”
Dagon relaxed. The killer was dead, and Savila would not suspect he had done it. If Savila had it her way, she would have had Dagon sexed up, drugged up, liquored up, and smoked up. Basically, screwed up. She wanted him controllable, moldable, and exploitable. She needed Dagon to be just sane enough to fight, but half here, so he would think handing his title over to her would be the best thing for him. Although Dagon did smoke, he couldn’t find his beloved while drunk or stoned. No matter how his addictive personality would love to succumb to numb. He refused to risk Mary in that way.
One of the shadow soldiers brought this new soul before Savila and even in death he was quaking. Savila read his mind. Death not by natural causes. Savila commanded the soldiers to prod him with pain into the execution room and burn him. He would be made a soldier, but it would not be in glory. His clothes were burned off but would not be placed in ceremonial honor in the Throne Room. The scent of evil scorched like fire over her nose as the man’s flesh burned. Within this man and his burning, Savila saw a ruse. Dagon had been blocking his mind with angelic ash. Like Andrana and her bonded mate, Dagon’s mind should have been opened to her, but it had not been. She saw this flaw as a remnant of his immortality, but in fact this revelation was flawless, sinisterly beautiful in its origin. With delight, she breathed the power of her dominance. The man’s skin burned to dust. Each flake bowing to her supreme authority. Everything worked out just like she planned as protection moved with love in a collision of light and darkness.
“Officer Grossman? Come in, Officer Grossman. Over.”
“I order you to stop calling me that.”
“Nah. Hey, I hitched a ride again, and you won’t believe what I’m riding in. Now, don't look, let me tell you.”
“Okay. I hear wind rushing by.”
“You would, for I am riding in a cherry red Ferrari Testarossa … and flying fast.”
“Are you joking?”
“Nope, I’m riding with a balding man. I think this guy thinks he’s twenty instead of sixty. He has a big silver chain around his neck, and his shirt is wide open.”
“At least he has good taste in cars. Just hurry back.”
“Roger that. Over and far out, man.”
Soon Mr. Cool was right in front of him, and his greedy hand shot out fast. Dagon sat on his bench, took out two wads of cash, and handed it over. Mr. Cool's money-hungry fingers pocketed the cash before he melted away.
In a few hours, it would be dawn, and he would soon be with Mary. Dagon lay down and fell asleep nice and content, for he had accomplished his mission impossible.
16
Whispering Shadows
The day started out mild and overcast. Under his two protective veils, Dagon took his shirt off and pulled out a set of clean clothes from his coat. With his duffel bag down in the Abyss, he looked around for something to put dirty clothes in. A garbage bag fluttered in the wind, partially caught by brambles in the field.
Half-naked, he walked over to the garbage bag. He carefully removed the bag, trying not to rip it. Once freed, he shook it open, smelled, and examined it. Satisfied, he returned to the “Bench Hotel.”
Protecting his bandages, he finished changing. He hoped his fashion choice would earn high marks. With very little to eat at Mary’s house, he stopped at a local grocery store.
Wasting no time, he filled a grocery cart with food and cleaning supplies. At the last minute, he picked up a superb Japanese knife set with water-patterned steel. How strange to find this quality of cutlery at a grocery store. Gratified, he made his way over to the checkout counter. Opening his wallet, he placed some money into the cash register while the cashier filled several paper bags with someone else’s sundries.
Holding two paper bags, he hung the handle of a bucket over one of his wrists. He whistled as he headed for Mary’s house.
“For your callous oversight, this one’s for you,” The Cherbs guarding Mary’s house saluted him crassly with their middle fingers.
“What?”
“The black ops.”
“Why I oughta …”
“You want three middle toes as well? You want us to stick them where the sun doesn’t shine?” said Razz.
Dagon threw them a foul look while his elbow rang the doorbell. Disclaimer insults fired from Razz, Sledge, and Friar. Each insult followed by where, when, and how they would shove things if his neglect continued. The words from them dwindled as Mary’s quick, hurried steps matched his heartbeat. One of her beautiful blue eyes looked out the peep hole. This time, the door opened quickly.
Standing in the doorway, she started to speak, then stopped. She looked at the bags he carried.
“Good morning, luv. Did you sleep well?”
“Um … yeah. Was your hotel okay?”
“I’m glad you slept well. My hotel was fine, but the bed is small and too hard for my taste.”
“Hopefully you won’t be there too long.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice. You know … this stuff is a little awkward. Can I bring it inside?”
“Oh, Dagon, I’m sorry.” She stepped aside.
“Quite alright, luv.”
“You know, you didn’t have to buy all that, but it’s nice. Thank you,” she said as they went inside.
“Why don’t we put these things in the kitchen,” said Dagon.
“Oh … ok.”
The kitchen was still clean, except for a dirty bowl and spoon in the sink. Dagon put the bags on the counter and hung his coat up in the coat closet. Like a true bonded couple, they put everything away together.
“What are you looking for?” asked Mary.
“Where are your pots and pans?” said Dagon. Maybe he should have bought some at the store.
“Oh, they’re over here.”
Dagon watched to see where “here” was.
“Why would you keep pans in here?” he asked in astonishment.
“I don’t know, the linen closet just seemed to fit.”
“Well, let’s put them in the kitchen,” said Dagon, discretely rolling his eyes.
Together, they picked up pots and pans and brought them into the kitchen. Dagon directed where everything should go and together, they organized the pans.
When they finished, Mary grabbed his hand, and he beamed. But his delight turned to worry, causing his heart to beat faster when she wanted to change his bandages.
On the way upstairs, he found more cobwebs. Instinctively, he reached up but quickly withdrew his hand. Before he could protest, he sat in the bathroom, the first aid kit open and ready to use. Mary tenderly removed the bandages and commented on how good the wound looked, which shocked Dagon. True to her word, she re-cleaned his wounds, repeating the same process right down to the stinging liquid. After bandaging him back up, Mary told him that she would do this again several more times. His wounds and scars didn’t seem to bother her, but the recoil of shame would smack him hard when he least expected it.
Back in the
kitchen, Mary brought out two mugs, cream (not expired), sugar, and spoons and placed them on the table. Dagon pulled out a chair and tilted his head, squinting at each of the items in front of him.
Sitting across from Dagon, Mary poured each of them a steaming cup, leaving a little room at the top.
“How do you take your coffee?”
“What is coffee, luv?”
“This is called coffee, and some people enjoy the flavor of cream or sugar or both added to it. It’s pretty common, lots of people drink it in the morning, but some drink it more often.”
She fixed his coffee the same way she liked hers. She watched him take a first sip.
“Do my taste buds detect a familiar flavor in this coffee?” said Dagon.
“You can’t tell anyone. This is my secret ingredient.”
“What happens if I tell?”
Mary gave Dagon a flirtatious look.
Dagon moved his chair back, went over to Mary, and drew her into his arms.
“I think the benefits outweigh the risk.” Mary kissed him and shared her grandmother’s secret formula for fabulous coffee. This created a natural opening to learn more about Mary’s past. Her grandmother was already old when Mary and her sister came to live in the house with her after their parents died. Mary’s great-grandparents were Swedish immigrants. Her grandmother loved to cook, but this talent was not passed down to her and only very little of it to her sister Catherine. The sisters were the only grandchildren, so when she passed, their grandmother left everything to them.
Dagon moved his chair closer to Mary and had a second cup of her special coffee warming his hands. Dagon found Mary staring down at her toes, which kept curling in, and she seemed nervous.
“Um … Is it okay if I ask you some questions?”
“Yes, luv.” He wanted to answer what he could for Mary.
“You said that you are half-human but that you are a man. What does that even mean? I mean, how could you be half-human?”
“Rampart, we have an update on that other job you requested,” Friar buzzed in. “The Glynns, friends of the Bennetts, live just down the street. Sending you coordinates. Over.”
