Damned If You Do (3 page)

He'd claim that soul for himself if it was the last thing he did. He had no other choice. He didn't think he could stand to walk away now.

The music began to wind down, and the crowd buzzed with excitement. The attendees were a motley mix of black and white, Latino and Asian. They cheered when Reverend Thaddeus's opening act—introduced as Reverend Bob—mounted the stage, a tambourine in his hand.

Abaddon leaned back in his seat and watched the show.

The sermon was short on fire and brimstone and long on a New Testament-style celebration of Christ's love. By the time Reverend Rawlins took the stage, half the crowd was on their feet. There were lots of bible verses, at least half of them taken out of context, but nobody seemed to mind. Fifteen minutes into his performance, the musicians started up again. Not hymns this time, but lively music, giving the congregants a strong beat to clap and stomp to as the Reverend raved and the collection plate began to make its rounds.

“The Lord commands us to love our neighbor!”

“Amen!” his back-up and the choir shouted together, spurring the crowd to echo him.

“To love him as your brother!”

“Hallelujah!”

“The Lord commands you to help the poor! To love your brother as yourself!”

“Praise Jesus!”

“We're told in Mark that there is no commandment greater than this!”

“Amen, brother!”

“Hatred stirreth up strife, but love covereth all sins!”

“Hallelujah!”

“And when I leave this Earthly plane, when I approach those pearly gates, when I face my Lord to account for my sins—”

“Praise Jesus!”

Abbadon had seen a lot of religious fervor over the years. He'd seen bible thumping, faith healing, and serpent handling. He'd seen people writhing on the floor and speaking in tongues. He'd even seen a couple of good ole boys in Mississippi drink strychnine. But he'd never seen anything like Reverend Rawlins's Rainbow Revival. All around him, people wearing Birkenstocks, tie-dye, and corduroys danced and clapped and sang. They laughed and praised. It was like a rave without the drugs. Like some little corner of Woodstock where everybody was trippin' their balls off on Jesus.

The music increased in tempo. The crowd cheered. Reverend Bob ran up and down the aisles, shaking his tambourine, making sure the collection plate never stopped moving. Seth played on, his hands pounding the keyboards, his brow glistening with sweat. And Reverend Rawlins—

Abaddon stopped, staring at the stage.

The Reverend still preached, but what nobody but Abaddon seemed to notice was the way Reverend Rawlins and his small band of followers kept glancing Seth's way. Some looked anxious. Some looked hopeful. Seth was oblivious, lost in his sightless, musical world.

“Maybe the Holy Spirit will visit us here tonight!” the Reverend yelled, his eyes sliding again toward Seth.

“Praise Jesus!” the crowd answered, focused on Reverend Thaddeus, even as the choir turned as one to check the young man playing the keyboards.

What exactly was going on here?

They all seemed to be waiting.

Stalling.

Hoping for something.

All but one.

Off to the side, the black foreman stood with his shoulders back and his hands clasped behind him, calm and solid, unswayed by the spectacle before him.

And he was staring directly at Abaddon.

Ch
apter Three

An Abundance of Baphomets and Beelzebubs

Wh
atever the reverend's group was waiting for, it didn't come to pass. Eventually, the fervor crested and broke. The music mellowed. The revival came to an end. Congregants shuffled for their cars, mopping their brows with tissue, smiling and laughing. On the whole, they seemed pleased with the performance.

The Reverend's group was different. Abaddon sensed disappointment from them. They continued to glance Seth's way, although only the guitarist approached. He laid his hand on Seth's shoulder, leaning close to speak, and Seth nodded. Abaddon wished he could hear them, but the noise of the retreating crowd was too loud. The guitarist kissed Seth—not in a romantic way, but a brotherly Kiss of Peace—and left.

Abaddon saw his chance.

Nobody stopped him as he mounted the stage and approached the bank of keyboards. The call of Seth's soul seemed to have abated a bit. His cheeks were paler too. He looked exhausted.

“That was quite a performance,” Abaddon said.

Seth turned toward him with a smile. His blind eyes seemed to stare over Abaddon's left shoulder. “You came.”

“As promised.”

“Did you enjoy the sermon?”

Abaddon decided to dodge the question. “I thought the music was amazing.” He leaned over the nearest keyboard, taking in the expansive setup. Seth had a Wurlitzer on his right, a Nord Electro stacked over a Fender Rhodes, front and center, and a Hammond B3 on his left. “How many instruments do you play?”

“All of them.”

Abaddon blinked. “All of them? You mean—”

“My favorites are fiddle, piano, and guitar.” Seth touched the keys gently, as if reassuring himself they hadn't moved. “I used to play harp too, but I don't enjoy it as much since my father died.”

Abaddon pictured Seth as a cherub on a pillow cloud, little angel harp in his perfect hands. It brought a smile to his lips. “Electric guitar is definitely sexier.”

“Sexier?” Seth touched the scarf around his neck, looking uncertain. “I suppose that's why I prefer fiddle and keyboard.”

Had nobody ever flirted with him before? Abaddon wondered at that, but before he could think of a response, they were interrupted by the big tent foreman.

“Brother Abaddon,” he boomed, climbing the steps to the stage. “The revival is over. It is time for you to leave.”

“Has anybody ever told you that sound just like James Earl Jones?”

The man didn't even crack a smile. “Go home. Seth needs his rest. The performances are tiring for him.”

Seth leaned toward Abaddon, smiling apologetically. “Brother Zed is a bit of a worrywart.” Then louder to Zed, “It's okay, Brother Zed. We were only talking.”

Zed's scowl grew more profound. “You trust too easily. Abaddon is not like you. You cannot assume—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Abaddon said, holding up a hand to stop the man's words. “I'm a bad influence. Whatever.” He turned to Seth, who seemed amused by the entire exchange. “Seth, how about if you walk me out?”

“That's a bad idea,” Zed said.

“That's a wonderful idea,” Seth said, as if Zed hadn't spoken at all. He reached across the keyboard toward Zed, stopping short of laying a hand on his arm. “It'll be fine, Brother Zed. I'll only be a minute and you'll be able to watch me the whole way.”

Zed glowered, and Abaddon resisted the urge to stick his tongue out like a five-year-old. Seth felt his way from behind the keyboard, taking Abaddon's arm. Even through his sleeve, the contact was enough to make Abaddon's heart pound. He tried to play it cool though. He smiled at Zed as they walked past him. “Nice robe. Peace and love to you, brother.”

Zed scowled. Seth seemed unfazed.

“If you could just guide me through the chairs—”

“Of course.”

“I do okay outside, but I always have trouble inside the tent for some reason.”

Abaddon felt Zed's eyes on his back as he led Seth down the aisle, like a wedding in reverse. He breathed a sigh of relief when they stepped outside into the cool night air. Crickets chirped around them, audible even over the buzz of the revival's generators. The lights from the tent and the departing cars on the other end of the field drowned out the stars and cast an eerie glow over the remaining congregants who stood in small bunches talking to some of the Reverend's group. Seth let go of his arm. Abaddon's flesh still tingled from the contact.

“Did you enjoy the sermon?”

“You already asked me that.”

“You didn't answer. My brother is a wonderful speaker, isn't he?”

“Oh.” Seth's sect seemed to call everybody “brother”, so Abaddon wasn't sure what to think. “You mean you and Reverend Thaddeus are actually siblings?”

“Yes and no.” They strolled slowly through the clumps of people toward the parked cars. Now that they were outside, Seth's steps seemed sure and steady. “I was actually abandoned at the revival as an infant. One of the women heard a baby crying in the night. She went looking and found me under the piano bench. Thaddeus Rawlins Senior was the Reverend back then. His youngest son had died of crib death only a few months earlier, so the Reverend took me in.”

“Was he the one who named you Seth?”

“Yes.”

“The replacement son, given to Eve after Cain had slain Abel.”

Seth ducked his head. “Exactly.”

They'd moved past the people into the no-man's land between the revival and the parked cars. Abaddon pinched Seth's sleeve, being careful not to touch Seth's skin, and angled them off toward the edge of the field. He didn't have a car, and Zed was sure to notice unless Abaddon could lose the man's surveillance in the darkness cast by the trees.

“So the elder Reverend raised you as his own son?”

“Yes. He was a wonderful man.”

“When did he die?”

“When I was sixteen.”

“I'm sorry for your loss.”

“It's okay. ‘I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, shall be able to separate us from the love of God.'”

He'd shortened the verse significantly, but it was still obnoxious, and Abaddon found himself laughing. “You're gonna drive me crazy with that shit.”

Seth only smiled, and Abaddon wondered that somebody so devout could also be so forgiving. “So your brother took over after your father died?”

“Yes. The group changed a lot after that. But for the better, I think.”

“They're unique, I'll give you that. Most of the revival preachers working this region are old school.”

Seth laughed. “Oh, I know. I've visited some of their tents. All they talk about is Hell. ‘We're all sinners on the road to damnation, so repent now or know God's wrath.' That kind of thing.”

“Exactly.”

Seth shook his head, tilting it back as if to take in the stars. “I've only ever known one God, and He's not vengeful. He's charitable and forgiving.”

Abaddon had always thought of God more as the absentee CEO of an enormous company, more interested in golfing and perfecting His tan than in the activity of humans, but he didn't argue.

They'd reached the trees, and Abaddon slowed his steps. “They were all watching you tonight.”

“Who?”

Abaddon stopped and turned toward Seth, wanting to see his face. They were lost in the shadows now. Abaddon's supernatural power allowed him to see Seth's face clearly in the darkness, but the boy's expression was still difficult to read. “Your group. They kept looking toward you like they thought you might burst into flames.”

“Oh.” Seth scuffed his toe in the dirt, seemingly uncomfortable for the first time.

“Why were they—?”

“It's nothing.” But he once again touched that bit of scarf that peeked through the open collar of his shirt, tugging it up higher on his neck as if he were cold, even though it was a pleasantly warm evening.

Abaddon waited, thinking Seth might elaborate eventually. He didn't though, and when it became clear he didn't intend to respond at all, Abaddon opted for a change of subject. “That guy Zed doesn't like me much.”

Seth chuckled. “Zed doesn't like anybody much.”

“Except you.”

“He seems to think it's his duty to watch over me.” Another car engine started, and Seth turned his head toward the sound. “Are you parked near here?”

“I didn't drive, actually. I'm a devil. I come and go as I please.”

Seth laughed, still thinking it was a joke.

Abaddon glanced toward the revival. It wasn't hard to find Zed. He stood with his hands on his hips, his boubou ruffling in the light breeze, staring in their direction. “You better get back, before your guardian angel over there sends out the search party. Can you make it back to camp okay?”

“I'll be fine, Brother Abaddon, but thank you for asking.”

“Thanks for walking me to my nonexistent car.”

“Thank you for keeping your word and coming to the revival.”

“Uh…” This was getting ridiculous, but he was strangely reluctant to leave. “Thank you for inviting me.”

They both fell silent, staring awkwardly at their feet. Abaddon had no memory of dating, but he figured this was what it felt like at the end of the evening, when you had to decide whether or not to kiss the other person goodnight. The thought of kissing Seth made his blood roar in his ears.

It made a few other things happen too.

Zed's voice boomed across the field. “Seth! Enough talk!”

Seth sighed and gave Abaddon an apologetic smile. “Peace and love to you, brother.”

Peace and love were the last things on Abaddon's mind. His thoughts were decidedly more carnal. He cleared his throat. “Goodnight, Seth.”

He watched Seth turn and walk slowly back toward the tent, which was now dark. He fought the ridiculous urge to call out. To beg Seth to stay, even if only to stand at the edge of the field together a few minutes longer.

And as if Seth had heard that call, he turned. “We'll be here all week. Maybe you'll decide to come back?”

Abaddon smiled, feeling the brightness of Seth's soul all the way to his feet. “Maybe I will.”

* * * * *

As much as he longed to stay in Kentucky where he could keep his eye and his soul sense on Seth, there was still a mountain of paperwork to do in Hell. But try as he might, Abaddon couldn't keep his focus on his work. He found his mind drifting over and over again to the bright cotton-candy luminescence of Seth's soul, and to the unhappy look on Seth's face when Abaddon had asked what his group had been waiting for during the revival.

“Where in the world have you been?” Baphomet asked, rushing over to Abaddon's desk. His tie was loose and his glasses askew. He held a stack of papers and reports to his chest like a nerd clutching his calculus book. “Did you find some souls?”

“Oh, I found one all right.” Abaddon frowned at the form he'd been trying to fill out with his typewriter. He could never get the blank spots lined up right with the strike of the keys.

“Only one?” Baphomet glanced over his shoulder, making sure nobody was listening. “You have less than two weeks to meet your quota, and you only harvested one soul?”

“Damn it!” He'd been distracted and typed his name in the date field and the date in the name filed. He ripped the sheet out of the roller. “You have any Wite-Out on you?”

“Abaddon!”

“What?”

“Do you want to get demoted?”

“Of course not!”

“Then you need to be out hunting—”

“Look, I found a soul, all right? Not just any soul, either. This one is off the fucking charts. It's—”

Baphomet held up the top bundle of papers off the stack in his arms. “Then why didn't I see it on today's report?”

Abaddon sighed. “Well, I don't actually have it yet.”

“What? What in the world were you doing up there then?”

“I'll get it, okay? I'm going back again tonight. And I'm telling you, this is it. I found the mother lode.”

Baphomet shook his head. “You should quit searching for the one, and just fill the quota. Land a handful of everyday, pedestrian souls, and get back in the black.”

The thought of a pedestrian soul had never been less appealing. “No way, man. I can't give up on this one. This is the soul to end all souls. The fucking sweetest, purest thing I've ever felt. He's perfect.”

“You're such a sap.”

“I'm not being a sap. I'm being realistic. This soul is my ticket. I won't have to harvest again for the rest of the year. I'll get a promotion. I'll be King of the Department. I'll— I'll—break the record!” He paused, thinking. “Hey, who holds the current soul record anyway?”

“Baphomet.”

“You mean you?”

“No, dumbass. The other Baphomet.”

Abaddon frowned, thinking. “The guy with the red hair?”

“No, the other one.”

“The one with the beard?”

“No, the other other one.”

Abaddon scratched his head. “The short guy?”

“No! The other other other one.”

“I can't think of any other Baphomets.”

Baphomet sighed, looking over his shoulder again to make sure no managers were in sight. He leaned closer. “The one with the great big mole.” He touched the side of his nose to clarify.

“Oh! Mole Baphomet! I know who you mean now.” He frowned again. “That guy holds the record? Who'd he bag?”

“Tom Brady. 2001. Right before that game against the Jets. That's why Drew Bledsoe got hurt.”

“I knew that guy was too good to be true!”

“Baphomet landed Belichick at the same time, but that dude has the soul of a shriveled prune. It was Brady who sealed the deal.” He signaled to the eighteen-inch stack of papers in Abaddon's inbox. “You'd know, if you kept up with the memos.”