Devil's Return

by Percival Constantine

  I turned from the books and saw Whitey leaning against the door. Looked like he was my spirit guide through this little journey. I heard his question, but I didn’t answer right away, just took a few moments to look around the small room.

  “This was where I grew up,” I finally said.

  Whitey cocked an eyebrow. “This place? Shit, I’m sorry…”

  “Anyone ever compliment you on your tact?”

  “Nah, not really. Why do you ask?”

  I snickered. “The Sons of Solomon aren’t exactly preachers of the prosperity gospel. They believe in living a life free of material distractions. More focus on the important things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like studying the mystic arts, fighting the forces of darkness, deciphering the secrets of the universe, blah, blah, blah,” I said.

  “Don’t sound like their biggest fan.”

  “I’m not. Sure, they took me in, trained me, taught me a lot of important things. But I hated growing up here,” I said.

  “Why’d you stay?” asked Whitey.

  Something changed in the room just before I could answer his question. Now we were no longer alone. A knock came at the door and I looked at Whitey. He said nothing, so I started to approach. Before I reached it, the door swung open. I stopped in my tracks when I saw who stood there.

  “Alistair?”

  “I know you’re not happy with me, son,” he said.

  I shook my head. “What are you talking about? How’d you—”

  “Luther.” Whitey’s voice drew my attention to him and I saw him shake his head. “He’s not talking to you. Well…I should say not exactly to you.” Whitey pointed past me.

  I turned around and saw a young boy, couldn’t have been more than six or seven, sitting on the small, twin bed. His head rested on his bent knees, small arms wrapped around his legs. When he looked up, I saw his cheeks were stained with tears and he looked right at me with big, crimson eyes.

  “That’s me…” I turned to Whitey. “What is this?”

  “You saw the title card. The Life and Times of Luther Cross,” said Whitey.

  “So this is all just a memory. I can’t interact with it in any way,” I said.

  “That’s about the size of it. Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

  I leaned against the desk and watched as Alistair crossed the distance between the door and the bed. For some reason, I didn’t realize it before, but I could see it now. Alistair was definitely a young man, maybe in his thirties or so. His hair wasn’t the familiar white I’d come to know, but the dirty blond color it was from my youth.

  “It’s not fair,” the young me said.

  Alistair sat on the edge of the bed and reached into his jacket. He took out a pair of Lucky Strikes and lit one.

  “So that’s where you picked up the habit, huh?” asked Whitey.

  “Started when I was about fifteen,” I said. “Found ways to sneak out of the dorms and would go down to the nearest convenience store. That’s how I practiced my power to influence people—would use it on the clerk and force him to just give me a pack of smokes.”

  “And it was all because of him?” asked Whitey.

  I nodded. “Yup. Alistair Carraway.” I chuckled. “Man, I idolized him when I was growing up. Wanted to be just like him. Globe-trotting magician, battling demons and monsters, living the life. All the while, I was stuck in this place.”

  I kept watching the scene play out. Alistair took a few drags from his cigarette and sighed, resting his elbows on his thighs, the cigarette dangling from a hand between his legs.

  “If it’s any consolation, I don’t wanna go either,” he said. “But I’ve got responsibilities.”

  The boy put his forehead to his knees and muttered in a barely audible voice, “I thought you said I was your responsibility…”

  Alistair sat up and put a hand on the boy’s head. “Hey, you are. Don’t get it twisted, son. But I’ve still got a job to do. And the type of work I do, well…it’s no place for a kid. You need to stay here. With your teachers. And your friends.”

  At that, the boy sprung from his spot and crawled across the bed. Once he reached Alistair, he threw his arms around the man and just sobbed into his jacket.

  “When was this exactly?” asked Whitey.

  “When wasn’t this?” I asked. “This is how it always went. Alistair would come into town, stick around for maybe three months, and then he’d be gone for three months on various jobs for the Sons. Every time we had this conversation. This exact same conversation.”

  I knelt down in front of the bed and examined Alistair’s face. My memory was filled with so many vivid details of these tearful goodbyes. The feel of his coat against my face, the smell of tobacco mixed with aftershave, and the sound of my whispered cries echoing in my head.

  But this was the first time I saw Alistair’s face during one of those moments. He looked like someone had ripped his soul apart. Alistair almost never showed that kind of vulnerability around me. I always knew he cared, but until now, I suppose I just hadn’t realized how much.

  “Seems it was just as hard on him,” said Whitey.

  “How would you know?” I asked.

  “Because I was a father, too. I remember coming home from a late night at the theater to find my kids on the couch, having fallen asleep waiting for me.”

  “Alistair’s not my father.”

  “Who are you kidding, Cross?” he asked. “Look at his face. That’s a father. He wasn’t the guy who impregnated your mother, but he was the guy who stuck around and saw to it you were taken care of.”

  The image of Alistair putting his arm around me as a child faded into darkness. Then a new scene appeared, in a gymnasium. There were a bunch of kids running around in shorts and T-shirts, playing basketball.

  “This still the Sons of Solomon?” asked Whitey.

  “Yeah,” I said. “They weren’t stupid. You just keep shuttling kids from classes to tiny rooms, eventually they’ll crack. So they gave us outlets for our energy. The temple had a gym and a rec room with board games and TV and VCR. About once a month or so, they’d even hook up a video game console and let us play.”

  We walked across the court, not even worrying about the kids. I knew how this type of scenario worked, I’d seen it enough times in my life. This was basically just like a home movie, albeit one you could walk around in.

  “So where are you?” asked Whitey.

  I stopped on the court and nodded. “There.”

  Whitey followed my gaze and we both watched as a version of myself at about ten years old sat in the corner, holding a basketball and just watching the kids play.

  “That’s why Alistair’s comment about friends made me lose it. I never really had any. Not while I lived here.”

  “Why was that?”

  I turned to Whitey and pointed at my eyes. “Why do you think?”

  “So what, they knew about your heritage? Seems pretty irresponsible for the Sons to tell the other kids something like that.”

  “No, they didn’t know per se,” I said. “But you take a place where all the kids are pretty much the same and you drop in one kid who’s different, then that kid will end up singled out.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Whitey.

  “That’s human nature.”

  “Alistair never knew about this?”

  “I never told him, if that’s what you mean,” I said. “He never said anything himself, so I don’t know for sure if he knew or not.”

  “Hey Cross!”

  A group of three kids walked past us, over to the young Luther. “I remember this day…”

  “Who are they?” asked Whitey.

  “Brian Graham, Robbie Patten, and Jeff Reynolds,” I said. “All legacies.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “There were two types of kids raised by the Sons of Solomon—orphans and legacies,” I said. “Orphans are pretty self-explanatory—those kids who didn’t have
anyone else in the world. But the legacies, those were the ones whose relatives were members of the Sons of Solomon, sometimes stretching back centuries. That was the case with these three.”

  “You enjoying the game, you little freak?” asked Jeff with a sneer on his face.

  “Leave me alone, Jeff…” the young Luther replied.

  “Hey Jeff, think you might make the little bitch cry,” said Robbie and both he and Brian started laughing.

  “Is that it, freak? You gonna cry now?” asked Jeff, still sneering as his friends laughed.

  “Y’know, if someone ever talked to my kids like that, I would’ve smacked the shit outta them,” said Whitey. “Didn’t you have teachers watching out for you?”

  “Robbie and Brian were dumbasses, but Jeff was always a smart guy,” I said. “He made sure to wait until he knew there were no adults around.”

  Jeff grabbed the young Luther by the shirt and lifted him off the ground. “Hey, I’m talking to you, you little bastard!”

  “Let me go!”

  “Yeah…” I said with a nod as I watched Jeff slam the young me against the wall. “I definitely remember this.”

  I remembered the fear I felt in that moment. I remembered the laughter of the other kids. I remembered my heart pounding so loud, I couldn’t make out what Jeff was actually saying. All I could hear was the laughter. And my heartbeat. My breathing as it grew heavier. The desperation I’d felt. Begging him to stop, for someone to help me.

  But all those cries did was draw the attention of other kids. Some just stood frozen and watched. Others joined in the torment, spouting insults at me. Freak. Weirdo. And then the sing-song chant that I’d come to despise.

  “Bloody-eyes Cross! Bloody-eyes Cross! Bloody-eyes Cross!”

  The kids shouted that as Jeff continued slamming me against the wall. And then it seemed like I wasn’t only watching it happen all over again, but that I was experiencing it, too. I felt like I was both standing at a distance beside Whitey while simultaneously being back in the gym all those years ago.

  That was when everything changed.

  “STOP!” the young Luther had shouted.

  There was a flash of red from my eyes and everyone was silenced. It was a moment that seemed to last for eternity, but in reality it was only a few seconds. And when the kids recovered, they all looked disconcerted. In Jeff’s case, that quickly turned to anger.

  “The hell was that? Did you do something, you little freakazoid?”

  But now the fear in me had turned to anger. And before Jeff could take out his emotions on me, I took mine out on him. I screamed and kicked him in the shin. I wasn’t a strong kid, but that day, somehow, I was. The kick dropped him to the floor of the gym. When he tried to get up, I threw a punch and knocked him right back down. Blood freely flowed from his nose. And I kept going, getting on top of him and pounding his face.

  That feeling of my tiny fists striking his face was something I could remember with perfect clarity. How my knuckles started to sting and how it soon felt like I was punching something wet and sticky.

  And then I remembered being pulled off. This time, I could watch it. Some of the adults had heard the commotion and they came running. They pulled me away, but I was still half-crazed. I didn’t remember seeing Jeff’s face. I could see it now, though.

  I moved closer and looked at him. Jeff was barely moving. He lay still, silently sobbing. His face was covered with welts, cuts, and blood, his eyes swollen shut. I watched as one of the adults helped him up. Jeff bent over almost immediately once he got to his feet and coughed, spitting up blood and even two teeth.

  The rest of the kids were all silent, just watching as it happened. One of the adults finally told them all to return to their rooms and they moved out slowly and silently.

  “Wow,” said Whitey. “Guess you showed him, huh?”

  “Yeah…” I muttered. “Guess I did…”

  13

  The scene changed again and I recognized where we were. A large room with bookshelves lining the walls and in the center of the room, placed in front of stained-glass windows, was a wide desk. The ten-year-old version of me looked very small sitting in one of two large chairs placed before the desk. And seated behind it was a man with glasses, a bald head, and a silver beard.

  In that moment, I felt just like I looked in that chair—small, insignificant. I couldn’t even bare to meet Thomas’ hard gaze and so I just fixed my eyes on my hands in my lap, my fingers nervously tapping on my legs.

  “Jeffrey Reynolds has a broken nose, he’s missing a few teeth, and he’ll need stitches for several of the cuts you gave him,” said Thomas. “It’s fortunate you didn’t fracture his skull, though it seemed you were getting there.”

  “Who’s this guy?” asked Whitey.

  “Thomas Morgan, he ran the Sons of Solomon chapter where I grew up. Still in charge now, actually,” I said. “Not exactly my biggest fan. No one here ever really was.”

  I watched as Thomas continued his lecture.

  “Do you know who Jeffrey’s father is?” he asked.

  Young Luther said nothing, just shook his head slowly, not even looking up.

  “Marcus Reynolds,” said Thomas. “His lineage’s association with the Sons of Solomon dates back centuries. He’s also a very prominent attorney who provides us with extremely valuable donations—not only in terms of money, but also in terms of legal services.”

  “I’m sorry…” the young Luther said.

  Thomas slammed his open palm on the desk. The sound caused the young Luther to jump in his seat and finally look up. Thomas’ nostrils flared as he stared at the boy.

  “Sorry’s not good enough, Luther,” he said. “I don’t know what Marcus Reynolds will do, but he didn’t sound too happy on the phone when I told him that his son had to be rushed to the hospital. He has a lot of pull here and if he convinces other senior members to vote in favor of ousting you from our order, I don’t think I can stop him.”

  “He was lying,” I told Whitey. “The cambion son of Abraxas? No fucking way Thomas would ever cut me loose.”

  “So why make up the story?” asked Whitey.

  “Simple, he wanted to scare me. Make me realize that even what little I had could be taken away at a moment’s notice. I can see it in his eyes now.”

  “What’s that?”

  I stepped forward and leaned over the desk, looking into Thomas’ eyes. It was there. There was a bit of sweat forming on his brow. His eyes twitched just slightly whenever he looked into the boy’s face. I could even smell it.

  “Fear,” I said. “The only reason I was able to hurt Jeff as badly as I did was because of my powers. This was when they started manifesting. And it scared the shit out of poor old Thomas.”

  “So he wanted to keep you in your place.”

  “Pretty much the size of it. He needed me to grow up to be his weapon, so he had to be sure he could control me,” I said. “Doesn’t matter what you’re dealing with. Name your institution—Heaven, Hell, the Sons of Solomon, the Vatican, whatever. They’re all filled with petty, self-serving bureaucrats. Thomas is no different. His brand of scum always rises to the top.”

  “You’re confined to your room for two weeks, no contact with any of the other children,” said Thomas. “And for the rest of the year, you’ll be working on library duty.”

  “What?” asked the young Luther. “But the library—!”

  Thomas held up his hand. “You should have thought of that before you attacked Jeffrey.”

  “But he—!”

  My protests had fallen on deaf ears. Thomas wasn’t having any of it. He went on, saying, “You’re also to handwrite a letter of apology to Jeffrey. Two pages, single-spaced.” He jerked his thumb to a spot on the wall between the window and the bookshelves. A paddle was mounted there, with the Sons of Solomon symbol on its surface. “And be thankful I’m not taking that down to punish you. Now return to your room and wait there. Someone will bring your dinner up
to you. Portion-controlled, of course. That’s also part of your punishment.”

  I watched as the young version of myself slid off the chair and walked to the office door. His shoulders sulked and his head hung low. His bottom lip quivered as he tried to hold back tears.

  “With caretakers like that…” muttered Whitey, followed by clicks his tongue. “No surprise you can be a bit of an asshole at times.”

  “No one really knew what to do with me,” I said. “Not Thomas, not anyone else at the temple.”

  “One thing I don’t get,” said Whitey. “What was so bad about library duty? It’s not like you’re scrubbing toilets.”

  “The library was the coldest room in the temple. The books were old, dusty, and massive. And they had to be handled extremely delicately because of their age and rarity. Slightest bit of damage to them, even a dog-eared page, and you were looking at a severe paddling.”

  “Charming place you grew up in, Cross.”

  “That was only part of the reason all the kids feared library duty.” I said. “There was also the matter of the librarian.”

  “Who was the librarian?”

  “Sebastian Butler. The one man every kid in the temple feared most. Being assigned to library duty basically meant you were his slave. And he wasn’t exactly what you’d call fond of children. He was a crazy old hermit who only ever went from his room to the library. He could probably count the number of times he’d seen the sun on one hand. The kids had a nickname for him—Batshit Butler.”

  “He sounds like a fun guy.”

  I smiled. “That was the thing. Thomas thought he was punishing me. But really, he was doing me a favor.”

  As if on cue, the scene changed once more. We were no longer in Thomas’ office, but instead, the massive library beneath the temple. Whitey and I were standing in the middle of the room and we watched as one of the massive doors opened and the young Luther walked in. His eyes moved from side to side with uncertainty, every step a cautious one. I remembered the fear he felt—could still feel it even now.

  A hacking cough startled the boy and he looked to the source. “M-Mr. Butler?”

  “Mister?” asked a gruff voice.