by Erik Lynd
When he reached the car Silas laid Abigail down on the ground. She was still breathing, but the breaths were shallow. If her mortal formed died, she would make her way back to the afterlife. He thought mouth to mouth might be in order. He lifted her gently and put his lips to hers.
His demonic fury rose up against her compassion and love and it was like mixing night with day. He could feel the energy flow through both of them. He could feel her heart speed up and he could feel warmth spreading across his face, calming his racing heart. For a moment the exchange was almost painful. Then it just seemed right.
It was different from the fake kiss last night at the restaurant. Different, but Silas was not sure why. It ended the same, however; a stinging slap across his face.
“Oww! What did you do that for? I was saving you,” Silas said.
“From what exactly? My virtue?” Abigail said.
“No that,” Silas said and nodded back at the blazing apartment building.
She looked over her shoulder and the inferno. “Oh,” she said and reached up to wipe a smudge off his cheek.
“Ah, cops and firemen are at the end of the street, guys. Do you want to get going?” Steve asked.
Silas smiled at Abigail. “Told you he had some balls.”
He helped her to her feet and they got in the back seat. When they were in, Steve ran to the driver’s side. His door hadn’t even shut before the tires started squealing on pavement.
“Holy shit, guys! What the hell happened back there?” Steve asked. “One minute everything was quiet, the next, bam! The place exploded. What the hell was in there? Was that some sort of monster you were fighting? I could see a little in there and he was one big dude. I mean, you’re big Mr. Silas, but that thing was huge.”
Silas and Abigail looked at each other from where they lay exhausted and battered on the back seat. Silas reached over and hit the button for the glass privacy screen. Steve was cut off in mid speech.
“Thank you,” Abigail said.
“No problem.”
“Looks like we got a new convert,” Abigail said.
“What do you mean? Steve?” Silas asked.
“He saw past the Pale and his conscious mind is not going to be able to cover up for it. He has seen too much.”
“We can let Mort know to watch him,” Silas said.
“We can send a recruiter to him; see if he can handle it. Maybe get him involved,” Abigail said.
Silas shrugged, “Maybe, but for now he is my driver.”
St. Abigail pulled herself more upright in the seat. “What about my bike?”
“Just text Mort and he’ll send someone around to collect it. You didn’t use yours to smack a hell hound, so it should be easy to get back.”
She pulled out her phone and started doing just that. Silas looked out the window at the city moving by. Silas liked New York. Dirty and grimy, filled with dregs of society, but still a bastion of that spark that gives humanity its edge. The lowest of the low and the highest of potential all together in one large city.
What the hell was he thinking? Why was he waxing poetic? He looked over at Abigail and glared. It’s because of the aura she has about her. It made him sick to think it had that power over him.
“Did you hear what that old man said in there?” St. Abigail asked when she was done with the text.
“You mean the geriatric cannibal?”
“Yes. He said that Webb wanted to purify them, wanted to give them a better life. He called them his flock. Who does that sound like?”
“Any given evangelist?” Silas offered.
“He said he was gathering them from the streets. Silas, this sounds very similar to what Michael was telling us about his brother and the street preacher.”
Silas nodded. There were connections.
“Perhaps we should go find Michael and listen to him this time. I mean really listen,” St. Abigail said.
Silas nodded again and then winced at the pain in his shoulder. Abigail seemed to notice that he was not moving his shoulder for the first time.
“How’s your shoulder?”
“Won’t be doing any jumping jacks anytime soon, that’s for sure.”
“Let me see it,” Abigail said.
“Why? So you can poke and prod it and make it hurt even more?”
“Silas don’t be a big baby, let me see it. And take off your jacket.”
“I don’t think I need…” Silas started.
Before he could finish St. Abigail reach over and yanked his jacket part way down his shoulder. She was not gentle; if he had been a mortal the pain would have been bad enough that he would have screamed, as it was he just grunted.
“We can do this the hard way or the easy way. What’s it going to be Silas?”
“I like a woman who can take charge,” Silas said and took off his jacket carefully.
Abigail’s stiletto whipped out and sliced his t-shirt.
“Hey!” Silas said and was ignored.
“Quiet. I have a feeling this isn’t the first time a woman had a knife on you.”
Abigail touched his shoulder, not as gently as Silas would have wanted, and closed her eyes. “It’s healing fast, but maybe I can speed it up a little.”
Silas felt warmth like he had felt when his lips were on hers. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy it. Moments later her hand fell away and the spell was broken. Silas moved his arm and tested it.
“And?” Abigail asked.
“Little stiff, but I’ll be busting heads again in no time,” Silas said.
“I guess that’s as close as I will get to a thank you?”
Silas was about to respond when the privacy window slid down.
“Where to, boss?” Steve asked.
“The Dark Horse, off thirty Eighth Street,” Silas said.
St. Abigail frowned. “What about Michael? Shouldn’t we be trying to find him?”
“In the last twenty four hours I have been chased by hell hounds through a mall, attacked by a pack of mutant cannibals, and fought a troll in a burning building. To put it mildly, I need a drink.”
“Cool,” said Steve from the front.
“Besides, I got band practice in a few.”
“We almost got killed several times, there is a religious lunatic creating monsters in the city, and all you can think about is getting a drink and band practice?”
Silas patted her on the knee and said, “Yep, and it only gets weirder from here. Sit back and enjoy the ride.”
He then proceeded to follow his own advice.
Coth watched the limo pull away from the blazing apartment building. That had not gone as he expected. Fire light reflected off the scales covering half his hulking body and in his eyes, wet with tears.
That Silas is a walking demolition team. Webb may not have returned here anymore, but he would be upset that this man destroyed the birthplace of his work. This was in many ways a holy site and now it was burning like any other piece of trash in this city.
Coth ducked further into the alley as fire trucks and police vehicles pulled up next to the fire. He had to leave; this place would soon be crawling with government humans. He slipped down the alley, darting through the next street. He didn’t stop until he was two blocks away. Then he pulled out his cell phone.
It had been so easy to slip up to the limo. Coth was usually too big to go unnoticed, but with the distraction of the fire he could have been a giant pink elephant and still no one would have noticed him approach the limo cloaked in a heavy over coat and hooded sweatshirt. The driver had not even turned around when Coth had banged his head on the car door placing the tracking device under the frame, but by then the explosions had started and all hell was breaking loose.
Now he brought up the tracking app. Instantly, a map of New York appeared and a blip marked the location of the limo. Amazing what you could pick up at your local consumer spy store.
He glanced around to make sure no one was looking, then lifted a manhole cover
and dropped down. He checked the phone again, and then he was off running through the sewers. His feet found their way through the tunnels without thought. He held up the phone and followed the red blip knowing that wherever it led him, vengeance would be waiting for him to claim.
9
“Silas, you’re drunk,” Abigail said.
And he was, happily so. Well maybe just buzzed, but it was hard to drink enough alcohol to get really drunk when you were a demon. He looked down at the twelve shot glasses stacked in a pyramid. It was a monument to his inebriation.
“Yes rock and roll is always a little better when you are less in control of yourself,” Silas said and winked at her.
St. Abigail turned to Mort for help. “We should be heading out to find this street preacher or even heading to the Undercity. Not sitting here at a night club.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! This ain’t a night club. You see some sort of DJ in the corner spinning? Do you see bright lights blinking on and off in time with the music, anybody with glow sticks around here?” Silas asked.
“I see a drunk at the bar struggling not to puke, and a fifty year old hooker eying him like he’s a catch.”
“Right! This is a bar,” Silas said. “Nobody here is going to show up in fancy clothes or feather boas trying to be seen. No feathers allowed.”
“You might want to tell that to him,” Abigail said and nodded over Silas’ shoulder.
Silas turned and saw a man in jeans with a button up work shirt tucked in sitting at the bar. His hair was long and black, shot through with gray. Woven through his hair were strips of leather holding a few feathers. He was definitely an Indian. He sat facing the bar and Silas couldn’t get a good look at his face.
Silas turned to Mort with a raised eyebrow. “Any chance that is the Indian that Father Delentante talked about?”
“Could be. But there are lots of Native Americans in the city; not all are dressing the part.”
“I suppose I should go over and just ask,” Silas said and stumbled to his feet.
“Si!” Walt called from near the stage, waving to get his attention.
Time for their first set. Silas looked around. The bar was half full and it was still early, might be a good night. He decided the Indian could wait. It was time to get the party started. He walked to the stage and jumped up, grabbing the microphone.
“This first song is dedicated to someone special,” Silas said. “She’s sitting in the back. She’s perfect like… well like a saint. The song’s called Fuck Me.”
He looked over at Kitten, who looked at him as if he was crazy before beating out the four count and launching into the song. Fat Carl thumped the bass and the song was on.
The music flowed and he rode in like a wave. He let the lyrics fly from his tongue. Yeah, this was what he was meant for.
He was so involved with the music, it took him a moment to notice the strange man in the back of the bar by the door. He was a slim man wearing an old suit too small for him. His hair was slicked back, large sunglasses perched on his nose dominating his face. A speck of something red dripped down his cheek from beneath those glasses. From the stage Silas could smell it was blood.
The Indian was staring at the slim man with a stoic look on his face, but Silas could see the hatred inside him. Hate was a hard thing to hide from a demon. Slim didn’t seem to notice the Indian staring at him. This was trouble, Silas could feel it.
He looked around the room as he sang searching for others who might be out of place this night, and he saw them--several large individuals concealing their bulk beneath long coats and large hats. He could see the glint of scales on some, and if it had been any brighter in the bar somebody would have noticed the creatures moving through the crowd. A group of three sat at one table and another handful scattered throughout the crowd. They were slowly making their way closer to the stage. Silas could see that they wouldn’t get to the encore tonight.
He glanced at St. Abigail and could see she had spotted them also. Her stilettos were in hand, but held low to remain unnoticed. Normally Silas would not have expected such an attack out in the open; most people don’t want to risk breaking the Pale so obviously, but these guys did not seem too worried about that. Perhaps that was even part of Webb’s plan. He was remaking the world, what did it matter if he helped instigate Armageddon?
He looked back at the band. Walt was looking at him oddly, probably wondering why he was more distracted than usual. Silas nodded toward the audience, and after a moment of scanning the crowd Walt nodded back. Good, he had seen the creatures approaching.
They were almost at the stage. Silas looked back at the slim man. This must be Mr. Webb. Mr. Webb, the Indian, the monsters--with all the players in one room this could be over really quickly.
A group of the lizard creatures had made it to the stage. They jumped for the front. Most were going for Silas, but a couple leaped at his band mates. They were probably thinking they could take care of the humans quickly and then join the others on Silas. Boy, were they in for a surprise.
As a handful of the creatures leaped on the stage in front of him, Silas stepped forward onto the pyrotechnics stomp box. The sparkle fountains, usually reserved for a big Saturday night show, exploded up at the lizard creatures. The dazzling light display played across their glasses, like the ones at the monastery these also wore tinted goggles, and stinging sparks engulfed them.
With a combination of roars and screeches they fell back onto the dance floor, scattering people in all directions. One of the beasts leaped at Carl, who calmly slipped the bass guitar off his shoulder and swung it like a battle axe. The hardened hide that all ogres had, usually concealed by the bulky coat he wore, tore through his clothing as he put power behind that swing. It connected with the lizard creature’s head and sent it spinning into the dark of the bar.
Another lunged at Kitten, who dodged aside at blinding speed, then spun and drove her custom carbon-fiber drum sticks vertically down through the collar bone and into the heart of the creature. It hit the ground dead, spilling over the drum set with a crash of cymbals and metal. Kitten’s canine teeth had already lengthened. She was eager for the fight and, most likely, the blood afterward. She held the other carbon fiber stick ready--no self-respecting vampire would use a wooden stick, even if she was the drummer in a rock and roll band.
The one who had attacked Walt was faring no better. As the lizard creature, leaped it must have noticed Walt changing, growing bigger, hairier, more wolf-like. Now it found itself snapping at the neck of a werewolf. With a snarl Walt completed his transformation into an eight-foot werewolf and wrenched the lizard creature off his fury chest. With a screech of surprise, it fell back into the crowd.
Silas looked back at the slim man standing by the door, beyond the people running in all directions and screaming in confusion at the sudden violence.
“Oh yeah,” Silas said into the microphone looking at Slim. “This is rock and roll bitches. We don’t fuck around.”
The creatures were regrouping, now more leery of this rock and roll band. Of the nine original lizard men, seven remained. They circled the stage cautiously. In the back Silas saw Slim flicker, and then there were three of him. Abigail had been moving toward him. Now she paused, unsure of which was real.
The creatures split, doubling up on his band mates, but leaving only a single one for him to deal with. Apparently these creatures thought his band more dangerous than him. Once again, big mistake.
As they rushed the stage, Silas stepped on another pedal. This one lit up the sign behind him. The band’s name--Burning Soul--burst to life behind him, bathing the room in bright light. The lizard creatures pulled away, shielding their eyes. His band mates, always up for a good ass-kicking, didn’t hesitate; with various battle cries they jumped into the confused group.
Silas slammed his fist into the face of the creature closest to him. It felt like hitting leather-covered metal and made his knuckles sting. What the hell were these things ma
de of? The creature came at him, all claws and teeth. Around him his band mates were holding their own and looked as if they might be winning. Over the creature’s shoulder he spotted St. Abigail as she whipped her blade through Slim. It passed through, and the image only flickered. She jumped at the second image, and passing through it, continued her momentum to confront the last image.
By now Slim had seen her coming and had time to prepare; he raised his hand in a flicking motion. Abigail immediately fell back as though bouncing off a wall.
A fist covered in scales slammed into Silas’ stomach and he doubled over. He couldn’t let Abigail distract him like that. He came up hammering a double fist into the creature’s distended jaw. Its head slammed up from the force and Silas had the satisfaction of hearing its jaw bone snap.
Suddenly, he was surrounded by fog. Coming out of nowhere a thick, pale green cloud rolled in, instantly reducing his visibility to zero, and from the surprised cries of his band mates he knew they were having the same problem. A claw came out of the fog and before he had time to react, it had sliced a gouge in his left arm. He spun in the direction of the attack, but the creature was gone.
Pain exploded up his back as he was struck again, this time the claw sliced his jacket and flesh like butter. He spun again, but his attacker was gone. A scaled hand clamped around his boot and pulled. Silas fell onto the ground.
Apparently their attackers were not as inconvenienced by the green fog. It had to be sorcery. He racked his memories from his past. Acting more on instinct than any sensory perception, he rolled to the right. An extra-large boot with razor-sharp claws ripping through the toes slammed down where his face had been moments before.
He heard Walt bellow in a roar of pain and Kitten scream as though touched by sunlight. This wasn’t good. If he didn’t act quickly he might lose his band, and it is very hard to put a good band together.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. He hesitated a moment--after all it was a good Cuban--before crushing it in his fist, being careful not to spill the tobacco. The spell was supposed to be done with ashes, but this was all he had. He brought his closed fist to his mouth, but before he could do anything, a creature was on him.
