Murder The Light: The Demon Whisperer #2 Page 2

  A sensation of flight, yet darkness.

  Things of the dark didn't fly. They were chained to the bottom of all bottoms.

  Could be another dual-divinity, like Chiara. But it didn't feel like Chiara. It felt—out of place. Just odd.

  Yeah, he knew she was one of a kind, but still. If that face was of the same ilk as she, something should have resonated.

  Right?

  Shit, he didn't know. A glance up at Mack's drawn brows made him think that the angel wouldn't know, either.

  And, considering who that angel worked for, the guy could be pretty darn judgmental sometimes.

  "The face was unremarkable. Just some dude. But there was a major feeling of…" Simon eyed Mack, carefully selecting his words. "Conflict. Spiritual conflict. Like clashing polarities."

  "So. Human? Or Divinity?"

  "Looked human. Then again, most of the time, you do, too. Except when you…" Simon waved his palms, like jazz hands, at the sides of his face. "You know. Do the thing."

  "Yes." Mack smirked, shrugging his shoulders. The fog of his ghostly wings billowed behind him. "The ‘thing'. Well. The ‘thing' makes me think that there is nothing new to find here, Simon. You've doused in every town between Belmont and the Atlantic. She is not here. You would have found her by now."

  Simon's stomach went to rocks, suddenly heavy. He hadn't wanted to admit it. But Mack was right. He'd actually resorted to dousing, mage pre-school level, just trying to catch a wisp of her. She wasn't here.

  "Perhaps it is time to go back to Baltimore," Mack said. "You are more comfortable there. Here, you are not."

  "But I grew up here. This is home." Odd word for a feeling he couldn't remember. Maybe if he said it enough…

  "Not anymore. You closed all your doors here, Simon. Leave this place. Baltimore gave you shelter and you feel like you are in your own skin when you are there. And she was there, at least once. Perhaps you will pick up a trail there."

  Simon eyed him, searching for some sign of deception. Mack didn't approve of Chiara but he was too much an angel to lie. Out of all the people on the planet, Mack was the only one he could trust. And he wasn't even people.

  "Maybe you're right,” he conceded. “You want to take us there?"

  "I most certainly can do that." Mack nodded. "The usual landing?"

  "You mean, at the diner? Yeah. Need to make sure the van's OK."

  "Alright. Come." Mack wrapped his arms around Simon from behind.

  As the fog of angel wings surrounded Simon a desperate thought flashed into his brain. "Wait a sec, maybe it's too soon to travel. I was just in the bar—"

  Too late. Mack opened the portal and hurtled them both through time-space-existence. The rush grabbed him by the belly and spun him head over heels into infinity. He only had the frame of mind to clutch onto two thoughts. One was that prophesy. Light's scion, tarnished…

  The other thought was the certainty of a very, very rough landing.

  Downtown

  Atlanta, Georgia

  The view from the corner office was nearly panoramic. This high up, there was little to obstruct the view. Minimal framing interrupted the wall to wall, floor to ceiling windows. No glare, no reflections. Just 270 degrees of visibility that spread the city out like a beach blanket.

  During the day, the city sparkled like crushed diamonds, sunlight glinting off chrome and glass and the shiny pieces of mortality scattered about the streets far, far below. The rising heat of summer streets made the air waver, giving motion to the light and creating the illusion of sunlight upon a dancing ocean.

  At night, the cityscape and the starry skies melded into one, making her kingdom appear deep and dark and boundless.

  It was rather like standing on a mountain, with all the world spread out before her. Minus the annoying wind and most likely filthy trudge to the top. She didn't look this good by accident, after all.

  Luminea stood in the corner, inches from the glass, hands hovering near the panes. Glass. Cold, hard. Brittle. Breakable. Glass was made from little more than heated sand. With a simple gesture, she could blast it all the way back to its humble origins.

  But, no. She wouldn't. It takes an ordeal for a handful of dirty sand to be transformed into pristine, perfect glass, so pure that one had to touch it to be sure it was even there. Nearly invisible, deceptively strong, and utterly capable of sealing off the world.

  She respected glass. She understood it.

  Right now, she stood in a tiny box, encased in glass, encapsulated away from the rest of the world. One day, her perspective would reign. It would not be she in the box. It would be the world, and the world would lay upon the palm of her hand. And she would grind it back into sand.

  She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose, flexing her fingers, unknotting the fists she'd unwittingly made. Such emotions were for the deep, not for the surface.

  A rap at the door broke her introspection.

  "Come," she said.

  The door opened behind her. "She is awake, madam."

  She needn't look to see who'd spoken. Even if she didn't recognize the voice, she knew there was only one person who had the authority or the clearance to be here. She only needed one person.

  "Thank you, Zophiel." She turned to look at him, mouth down-turning when she saw his face. She clucked her tongue. "Really? A ginger?"

  He bowed low, eyes to the ground. "A temporary inconvenience, madam. I was rushed."

  "Mmm. See to it that it is very temporary." She turned back to the cityscape, where twilight was rising in the distance, blanketing the ocean in misty shadow. "Oh, and Zophiel?"

  "Yes, madam?"

  "See that my daughter is ready to receive me. I will be down directly."

  "Yes, madam." The door closed behind her.

  Luminea pressed her palms to the glass. Hard, rigid glass.

  So much like that which had once been a heart.

  Baltimore

  Maryland

  Simon stood in the parking lot across the street from the diner he called home. Well, home was a loose term. More like home base.

  His head was still swimming with the after effects of the portal. God, he loved those things. Zipping through time and space in an eyeblink that felt like a pinprick of infinity, a peaceful, restful, no demons chewing on your ass kind of happy place. It was the only place he never felt haunted, or chased, or damned.

  Portals were how angels traveled. Holy wormholes. They all had VIP passes for the pearly gates, too. Simon's trips with Mack through them, the goody-goodness he experienced there, made him dare to hope maybe once all this horseshit on Earth was done, his soul would end up someplace bright.

  He'd be pleased even if he ended up somewhere in the neighborhood of the light. Heaven's suburbs. That would be swell enough for him, considering his time alive was being spent in the demon-infested ghettoes of an exorcist's vocation.

  He rubbed his eyes and stretched out a hand to steady himself. Still a little woozy. Small price to pay for first class travel and a taste of the Great Beyond. Mack hovered like a nervous aunt, looking like he worried Simon would face-plant the bumper of the Toyota he'd propped himself up against.

  They'd arrived to find the van perfectly unmolested. The chicory really did its job this time. Invisibility spells weren't hard to pull off and they were super-effective but the longevity was sporadic. Sometimes they didn't last as long as a guy wanted.

  Like when a guy had to leave town and stayed away longer than he'd planned because his partner got abducted.

  Mack had stuck around only long enough to make sure Simon wouldn't pass out in the parking lot and get run over in the darkness. Said angel business called. A Ladder, a Summons, whatever. Simon didn't know.

  Didn't care, either, because at the time all he'd been able to think about was whether or not that last vodka would stay down. Despite the thrill and serenity he always felt during a portal, physics was still physics and alcohol was no remedy to avoid motion sickness
.

  A cup of coffee or three in the diner and he just might be good for the night. Considering how long he'd been away, tonight would be a long one.

  He staggered across the street, taking a moment outside the diner door to pull himself together. Not too crowded tonight, a handful of regulars he recognized to varying degrees. Kelly was behind the counter, late shift again. Her mom must be staying overnight, watching the kids. Loud music playing from the kitchen. Rainier on the grill, then, and Shug on the register. Shug was hard of hearing so he never minded the radio. Who knew if he even heard it?

  He waved to calls of "Murph!" as he sank into a back booth. Out of the way, quiet, near the can. In the corner. He could see everyone, everything. The waitress came over with a mug and a full pot, pouring him a hot cup before setting it down. She made a little chatter: work, kids, how'd he been, looked a little rough, better leave this here and save her multiple trips across the dining room.

  He endured her care and thanked her. Coffee, quiet, and a safe place to rest before heading out to work.

  He'd missed Baltimore. The sounds, the scent of the air, the people. Boston had its northern charm, to be sure, but none like Charm City. He'd learned and forgotten the lore behind the city's nickname once he'd made substantial inroads in the battle against the rising dark. His charms were the only ones he cared about.

  But there was something else about Baltimore he'd missed. Chiara. What they'd started here. What they'd faced. She'd sat at this very booth with him, right there across from where he sat now, pretending to eat a fruit cup.

  He laughed and rubbed his mouth to cover it. The look of surprise on her face when she'd bitten into that first piece of cantaloupe. What a kid—

  Sobering, he pulled the carafe toward him and poured another cup. Wide awake. Widely aware of what was wrong with Baltimore. With Chiara missing, it lacked a certain hope.

  In his eyes, anyway. Most days, his eyes were the only ones he looked through. It made him biased.

  He sat for another thirty minutes or so, fueling his caffeine machine and planning out his night. He'd been away for weeks so there was no telling what he'd find out there. Pulling a twenty from his front pocket, he smoothed the bill and left it on the table. Extravagant for a couple of coffees, but he knew how hard Kelly worked to raise her kids. With any luck, they'd stay in the Light she worked so hard to guide them toward.

  May as well start at the front sidewalk. He walked a quick salt circle around the building to reassure himself that at least this place would remain his safe house before striking off to find the closest ley line. Ley lines were streams of power that flowed beneath the surface of the earth, like an invisible underground river system. Old cultures recognized magic, its influence upon the visible world.

  Today, only a handful were trained to detect the flow of mystical energy beneath their feet. Far fewer than the hoards that found it by instinct, fed from its power, and used it to manifest things not meant to walk upon the earth.

  Dropping deep into his subconscious, he walked, feeling the strength of the ley lines, seeking the larger streams, following them and watching keenly, on the lookout for abnormal activity.

  He spent most of the dark hours dousing and measuring pendulum swings, keeping notes in a mini-notebook, the kind grade school kids used to write down their homework assignments.

  The flat pencil he kept with it needed sharpening. The tip had been worn down to the point where it needed more attention than simply peeling back the wood to renew the lead. Around five in the morning, he'd taken out his pocketknife to freshen its edge, but when he cut his thumb, he knew he had it throw it all in. Wouldn't want to accidentally blood a pencil. Who knew what kind of fresh hell a nine-year-old could cause with it if he dropped it in the street?

  Was as good a time to quit as any, besides. All the ley lines were just as they'd been when he left, and there were no major breakouts of Dark activity. Quiet here, too. He'd covered more ground than he had anticipated, thanks to the wand hit and three large coffees.

  Once he'd gotten his physical bearings, he realized he was too far from his neighborhood to walk back to the van. Worse yet, he didn't have enough chicory to hitch a ride with an unwitting driver. Daylight was too far off to go hunting along the roads for a fresh supply. When he tripped over his own feet, he knew it was time to call it a night.

  Time to bunk it in the boonies. Hip, hip, whatever.

  He found a motor inn that didn't ask why he didn't have a motor and took the cheapest room they had. Which, by the way, was any of them.

  No one remarked that he didn't have more than the clothes on his back, either, but that's just good customer service. Don't ask, don't tell, don't pay attention. It all suited him fine.

  He'd once briefly considered getting a backpack for these walkabouts, just so he'd look like he had more purpose to be walking about. But really, besides his amulet, his wand, and the charms stuffed into his pockets, he had little else.

  And, as he lay on the lopsided bed after a surprisingly decent shower, he realized he didn't really need anything else.

  The humidity was raunchy, but even he wasn't brave enough to prop the door open. The AC was crap and the ceiling fan only a little better. Simon stared up at its slow rotation, the odd slanted shadows it threw onto the ceiling, and rubbed his chest, his fingers running over the edge of his amulet.

  His constant companion. He'd only taken it off when Chiara went down that staircase in Belmont.

  He chuffed out a dry laugh. The staircase in Belmont. What a mouthful. Still, it was easier than saying Hell.

  And the time before that, the last time he'd been without his amulet…he breathed heavily, a sudden weight on his chest. The anxiety was real. Memories seemed so much more immediate when it was dark.

  Kent. The last time he took his amulet off was with Professor Kent.

  Kent was old school. English magic—now, there was a true example of tradition. The old gent was a pillar of tradition with his tweed jackets and the way he never went without his cap. He was disciplined, well-spoken, as resolute as the Tower of London, and quietly, masterfully, powerful.

  In short, Kent was everything Simon was not.

  Curiosity had drawn Simon to Kent, but that wasn't what kept him. Simon was green, his magical education spotty and eclectic. Kent was the Holy Grail of mages.

  Absolutely mind-blowing. There wasn't a topic Simon could toss up that Kent didn't spike over the net. Not a single trivia question he couldn't turn into a demonstration or lecture. Not a single random musing that Kent didn't turn inside out and hand back to him as if he'd solved a Rubik's cube in under fifteen seconds.

  Simon knew apprenticing would not be easy, and would most likely be painful. But he never thought that, at the end of it all, Kent wouldn't give him back his amulet. Instead, then prof disappeared, taking Simon's stamped-circle of soul with him.

  Kent seemed like he'd have been classier than that.

  He hadn't even released him. Just up and left in that decisive enough for today way he had, only he didn't come back the next day, or the next week, or ever. Simon spent the next three years nearly out of his mind while he hunted it down and got it back.

  Shit like that left a mark on a man's soul.

  And it wasn't the thirty months of near-insanity because the metaphorical key to one’s psyche/soul/magic/everything was just out there, somewhere, who knows who had it or what they'd do with it—

  It was the abandonment of all he'd come to think of Kent. The reverence, the respect. He hadn't given it easily and having to revoke it wounded him, terribly.

  He tugged the chain out of his shirt and rubbed the amulet between his thumb and forefinger. He had it now. That's what mattered. Pressing it to his lips, he swore a promise to it and to himself. Never will that happen again. Never will he feel like that again.

  Never.

  Chiara paced the perimeter of the unfamiliar suite a sixth time without discovering anything new. Three rooms. Be
droom, parlor, and bathroom, all sumptuously decorated. High-end furnishings, an antiquated style she'd admit she found aesthetically pleasing, if she'd been asked.

  But she hadn't been asked. She'd been dragged here by the force of Enochian magic, against her will, by a woman who never did anything without making a complete spectacle. If it was worth doing, Mother would often say, it was worth watching.

  Without a pause, Chiara started circuit number seven, fairly certain she'd seen everything she would be permitted to see. It didn't stop her from looking.

  It was what she didn't find that drew her brows together in a furious line, agitation snapping her footsteps with every renewed circuit. Not a single clue to reveal where she actually was, nor the faintest memory of how she got here.

  She frowned deeper. Not a door, nor a window that could be opened, not even a mysterious sliding panel. No ways in. No ways out.

  And she was wearing herself out trying to find one.

  The rooms were bathed in a soft beige glow that seeped in from the walls and ceiling. Not noticeable at first, when she was pre-occupied with finding a route by which to escape. It was only after she'd begun feeling along the walls, knocking, listening for a pocket door, that she discovered the light source was the confines of the room itself.

  And it wasn't through odd technology. The light was a byproduct of magic. Enochian magic. Specifically, wards that hampered her power. At least, the paternal side of it. Somehow, she didn't think it was a base-model feature. This room had been built specifically for her.

  This room had been Hell-proofed. She felt it in every bone. The deprivation felt very much as if her ears had been completely stopped up and she could only hear her voice from within her skull. It was uncomfortable and disconcerting and made her worry her defenses were compromised.

  After no less than a dozen passes, she dragged a chair into the barest corner where she hoped no one could sneak up on her and drew up her feet, hugging her knees, waiting. Worrying.