Dark of Night - Flesh and Fire (30 page)

He was gone, but only for a moment.

Impact brought him back from the void as his body was driven into the ground below. He felt one shoulder blade disintegrate and a tremor of pain ravage the rest of his body. His blinking eyes stared up at the sky. Blood filled his mouth and he coughed it out onto his chin.

The face of the demon came into view, twisted features and teeth filed into points. In the burning eyes, he saw rage and none of the regret he'd detected when he'd first seen the demon standing over Chloe's bed. Samael's expression told Les that this wouldn't be quick and painless.

Samael lifted him high into the air and threw him down to the forest floor. More parts of him broke when he landed and he cried out in agony. The demon was upon him within moments, pulling up his beaten body and jacking him up against a tree. The pain was terrible, but at least he knew that the longer he endured it, the closer Chloe would get to safety.

He pulled a rosary out of his pocket and jammed one end of the cross into the demon’s ribs. The demon let out a howl of surprise and let Les fall back to the ground. There was a sickening sound as the demon pulled the religious jewelry out of his flesh. The cross sizzled in his hand until he tossed it away. It didn’t buy Les as much time as he would’ve liked, but it was something.

The demon made a grab for him, but Les was waiting with a jagged stone in his one good hand. The pointed end of the rock connected with the demon’s temple and drew blood. Les knew this wasn’t a conflict he would win, but he intended to give this monster the fight of its life.

A kick brought Les back to the ground with the wind knocked out of him. The demon straddled him. Les was immobile, beaten to the point where there was no fight left. Fatigue hampered his attempts at crawling away. He coughed more blood onto his chin. His one arm was totally useless. He tried to focus on Chloe and Todd, the hope that they’d escape Samael and get to safety. It worked at first, giving him something else to hope for, even if all hope was gone.

When Samael reached into him and began to work, there was only pain.

~Samael~

It was the perfect place to wait for her. Swimming in the murky waters of the underworld, Samael let the bloodthirsty sirens peel the flesh from his bones. It always grew back, only to be flayed again. He came to this sea to be tortured, whenever the act of inflicting pain grew monotonous. When he needed a break from the norm, something new, coming to this place rejuvenated him.

He wanted to be at his peak when she arrived.

He opened his eyes as she fell from the sky, broken, bleeding, and afraid.

Her spirit body glowed in the darkness, and upon her skin, Samael could see her book of life. Every step, breath, sin, and every meaningful relationship swirled and danced across her skin like an animate work of art. He'd waited for this day as long as he could, then had forced her hand and brought her here. Like him she’d spent her life wanting to know and feel so much more than her limited experience allowed. They differed in that she was a victim. His victim.

Now that she was here, she didn't have to be a victim. Things could maybe be as they were before. He could love her and she could grow to love him.

He took her trembling naked figure into his arms. He could see that Chloe’s faith was one of finality. She’d believed most of her life that death would be the end and that she’d sleep forever. Her shock as Samael held her was similar to that of the faithful when they came here, those of the conviction that death would bring them peace and heavenly reward.

She looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging him not to hurt her, to let her go. He tried to find the words to explain himself. He tried to find a way to show his love, but found that he'd forgotten how. He punched into her chest cavity and stole her heart. Even in the underworld, it pumped with hot life. He closed his fingers around it, feeling her essence travel into him, letting his essence invade her.

Disbelief kept her from struggling free. Despite all she’d seen, she still waited for sleep to come. His hold on the deepest part of her confirmed that it wouldn’t. He held her heart out in front of her eyes for her to see, showing her love as he now understood it: possession, total ownership. He tossed her heart aside and pinned her to the ground. As he entered her again, first sexually, then digging his fingers into the sides of her face and burying his teeth in her neck, he read her thoughts. They consisted mostly of one repeated phrase, a question:

Why can’t I just die?

* * *

Samael licked his lips as he recalled the sweet memory. He left behind the mangled corpse of her father and the smoking wreck of the black car, crawled inside Farnsworth's vehicle and revved the engine. Pleased with his handiwork he accelerated, prepared to reclaim what was his.

Remembering the first time he touched her brought the memories and secrets that he had stolen from her. He saw places she’d been and people she’d known. His thoughts drifted to a town called Red Grove, the house where she’d grown up, the streets she’d walked, the places she’d eaten, drank, and fucked. He mined Les’s memories, too, and heard the so recent instructions for her to go home.

When she got there, he would be waiting.

~Chloe~

The car pulled off at an exit that said Red Grove, Population: 34,581. When the trees broke, they came upon a street lined with houses. Occasional renovated homes stood taller and more lavish than the others, but for the most part a lot of the dwellings looked the same as they had when Chloe had lived here. Few stores were still open, the rest abandoned behind whitewashed windows and “For Lease” signs. A large brick church dwarfed all of the structures. Saint Justin’s. She’d only been there a few times, for christenings of her cousins. Her father had always maintained that the spiritual world was too large and wonderful to be confined to a church. Thinking of him got her choked up. The final image of him, shotgun in his hands, eyes possessing the age-old instinct to protect his daughter, brought a gush of tears.

“You okay?” Todd asked. It was the first time he’d said anything since they’d driven off in her father’s car. He stared ahead at the road, but seemed to be looking inward, trying to process everything that had happened.

“What the fuck do you think?”

He pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

“I guess I just wanted this to be different. I didn’t want anyone to get killed. Certainly not Dad.”

“I never thought I’d see him again. I hate to see him go so quickly.”

“With Samael, I doubt it was over quickly.”

She swallowed. The thought of her father being assaulted by Samael was the worst thing she could imagine. Samael inflicted pain with an artist’s passion and a surgeon’s precision. She only hoped that all the years her father spent studying the occult had helped him find a passage away from the agony, that he'd be spared the fires of the underworld.

Todd tightened his hands on the wheel as they passed by the church. “Do you think this will work?”

She scaled the steeple with her tear-stung eyes. Over the crucifix white clouds moved across the sky, gently indifferent to her plight.

“God, I hope so.”

“God…” He said it like the word tasted bitter to him, like the idea that such a being existed in this new, altered worldview was the most distasteful thing imaginable. He bit his lip and looked like he was about to say something, but was afraid to speak. He’d had this tick for as long as she'd known him. He had done it a lot towards the end, when confronting her about drug use, when she had started to slip away.

She looked back toward the exit, thankful not to see anyone behind them. She knew that Samael was undoubtedly still after her, and felt bitter relief knowing that her father had bought her some time.

Todd drove silently, but his eyes shifted back and forth in quiet desperation. She put down her window to let some air into the car. The scent of pine trees was strong, clean, of this world. She hoped it would ground him and keep him focused on the task at hand. He let out a bleak sigh as he pulled the car into the parking lot of the Black Horse Pub.

She sniffed and wiped at her eyes. “What about you? Are you okay?”

He put the car in park and shut off the engine. He took his time responding to her.

“Let’s just get through this.”

She looked up at the wood-carved sign for the bar. The face of a black horse accompanied the stenciled name. Its wide yellow eyes, once wild and vibrant, were now faded and split.

What would getting through this entail? If her father’s advice had been wrong somehow, then he’d died for nothing. That would be worse for her than a thousand hells.

~Warren~

Warren Glaze's father had given Warren the money to open The Black Horse Pub back in 1979 after Warren's career as a salesman failed. He had hoped to open a place to get a beer, listen to good music and meet people. After thirty-five hard years, Warren liked to think that he’d made a successful run at it. There were some regulars, some people who came and went, and for the most part there was little trouble. People who moved on either died, relocated, or got sober. Sometimes they came back, because they either passed through town or fell off the wagon.

The dead never came back, of course.

That was silly.

At least that’s what he would’ve said before the night a ghost walked through the door and sat down in front of him.

Warren never considered himself a religious or superstitious man. Proud to call himself a realist, he believed in what he could see, touch, smell, hear, and feel. A cold craft beer sliding down his throat. A crunchy blues guitar riff. Cigarette smoke swirling through the air (he missed smoking desperately; he’d quit after it’d been outlawed indoors). His fingers petting his wife Trish’s curves. Concrete stuff.

The ghost walked in with an older man that Warren sort of recognized. He wondered first who the man was. When he saw the ghost beside the man, he tripped over his feet. He stopped himself short of crashing into the shelves and knocking bottles of liquor to the tile floor.

It was a slow night, but Nelson Sharpe sat at the bar drinking and noticed Warren’s stumble.

“Shit, War! Watch your step. You ain’t as young as you used to be.”

Warren glanced around. A group of men in the pool hall continued to play, keeping to themselves, while Nelson watched him with mixed concern and humor. He did a double take at the couple walking through the door.

The ghost was a young, dark-haired beauty. She wore a small black dress. He remembered her because she’d been a huge presence in the Black Horse during its formative years. She and her boyfriend, Todd, had played a handful of memorable shows that summer. Was the man with her now Todd? No, no way. And no way was this woman who he thought she was. That was just crazy. She had to be a daughter or something.

Nelson tapped on the bar. “You all right, War?”

Nelson followed Warren’s gaze.

“Relax, stud, looks like she’s spoken for. Although, she clearly likes them old.”

“Can it, Nelson.”

The ghost crossed the bar with her man. Though a pretty young thing, something stretched her features into a mask of panic. Her dark eyes surveyed the room with intense urgency. Her teeth pressed hard into her bottom lip. Warren couldn’t take his eyes off of her. Nelson laughed dryly.

“Not polite to stare, old man.”

The ghost seemed to hear. She turned to lock eyes with Warren. She
was
a ghost. He couldn't mistake her features. The man walked ahead of her and blocked Warren’s view, it brought him out of his hypnotic state, but left him feeling confused.

The man sat down at the bar and the ghost sat beside him. Warren looked back and forth between the two. His mouth opened and closed, unable to find words. He glanced over at the stage, empty tonight, but full of memories. Many of them involved this ghost before him and—yes, the man sitting beside her. But why had Todd aged and she hadn’t?

Because she’s a ghost, stupid. That’s why
.

He gulped.

“What can I get you two?” It came out in a small, fragile voice and at first he feared he’d have to repeat himself to contend with the music playing on the jukebox.

“Warren,” said Todd, “it’s been a long time.”

“Todd… Jesus, man! Is that really you?”

“It’s me. I know how I look.”

Warren managed a laugh. “I didn’t age so well myself.”

He made himself look at the ghost.

“Who’s this?”

“Come on,” she said, a rich voice that evoked the first time they’d met. Todd had introduced them before a show. She’d come up to sing. Together Todd and this ghost had captivated the audience. They were local rock stars. “Don’t you recognize me?”

He shook his head. “I recognize you, but it’s
impossible
. You can’t be
you
.”

“Hey, War, you gonna introduce me to your friends?”

He flashed Nelson a look.

“What? Did I say something?”

“Can we talk?” Todd asked.

Warren nodded. “Sure. Hey, Nelson, I’m gonna run to the back. No helping yourself. And don’t let those jokers in the billiard hall try anything funny.”

“Aye aye, boss man. I’ll stand guard.”

Warren motioned for Todd and the ghost to follow him and stiffly walked to the kitchen. Audrey, a college student working the summer away at his bar, was back there playing on her smart phone. He would have admonished her, but it was a slow night. He told her to leave them alone and watch the front.

“Make sure Nelson behaves himself.”

She nodded and left the kitchen. When they were alone, Warren collapsed against the wash basin. He spread his palms out and took a breath.

“Okay, what the hell?”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing.” Todd turned to Chloe. “Do you… feel anything?”

She shook her head, her lips pressed together in a grimace.

“What does that mean? Feel anything?” Warren had started to sweat. He tried to remember if he’d taken his blood pressure medicine that morning.