Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) Page 6

  She raised her index finger next. "I can force you out—and you know I can. Might hurt, much to my own regret, since you've never personally done me any wrong."

  She twisted her wrist, displaying three fingers, and regarded the demon with a thin-lipped glare. "Or, I can have this man here shove you out with his chanting and smoke and—" She sniffed the air and shrugged. "Mandrake root, it would seem. Doesn't look like much, I know, but he's got power. And that makes the third option a relatively painful choice."

  Laughing, the demon dropped its grip on Simon and swiveled its head toward her, like a cobra in sway. YOU THINK THIS ONE HAS ANY POWER? CHARLETAIN. SCHOOL BOY. WEAK.

  Chiara circled the host, ignoring him. "Or...I suppose we can call my father, and he'll show you the error of your ways. And that will be the most excruciating choice of all. I guarantee it."

  The demon-infested man huffed out a big breath, smoke curling out of his nose. ALL THIS TALK OF CHOICE. WE HAVE NO CHOICE. WE HAVE NO WILL OF OUR OWN.

  "Speak for yourself," she said.

  YOU ARE A DISAPPOINTMENT TO HIM.

  "Don't presume to know him...or me. And insulting me really isn't the way to go." She raised her hands. No longer ticking choices off her fingers, she splayed both hands, which took on an eerie glow, as if flames rolled beneath the surface of her skin. "And I may have understated myself. The 'me option' is really going to hurt."

  The demon stepped backwards. CHIARO—

  "Shhhh," she hissed. "No more talking."

  She lunged, grabbing the host by the shoulder and driving him back against the wall. She slapped her other hand onto his forehead. The sounds of searing flesh, a wet sizzle like a steak on a hot grill, made Simon's stomach quiver.

  The demon screamed and fought, shaking, thrashing, convulsing. But it was no match for the lady, whose eyes blazed as fiercely as had the palms of her hands. The demon struggled but failed to shake loose from her grip.

  Chiara grimaced and pushed the host to its knees.

  The host threw back his head and wailed, a moan of a multitude of voices. A swirl of black fog slithered out of his open mouth, bellowing out into a swirling column of sullen heat and pitch-black smoke. It condensed into a dark, rumbling mass that tumbled into and upon itself until it disappeared with a thunderclap and a retina-searing flash.

  The host collapsed. Clean. Exorcised.

  Surprisingly, still alive.

  Chiara picked up his baseball hat and tossed it down at him.

  The kid pushed up on his hands, looking around, confused. "What happened?"

  She squatted beside him, tin in hand. Without answering, she smeared the jelly on his head, then into his eyes, mouth, ears, everywhere.

  He sputtered and pushed her hands away. "What the hell are you doing, lady?"

  Standing, she glared down at him. "You were possessed, you fool, and it was your own damned fault. I suggest you find a church, confess your sins, and find the good in your heart before Hell takes you for good. And I promise, they'll do more than burn your face."

  The jelly sizzled and smoked, smelling like burned hair and incense. He groaned and gingerly reached up to his face.

  "Remember that pain," she said. "It's just a taste of what an eternity of Hell will feel like if you don't find the light." She coldly turned away and left the boy on the ground, and left Simon staring holes in her back as she walked away.

  Stubborn fool.

  Chiara busied herself with a handkerchief, wiping the last of the chrism from her fingers. If she wasn't careful, she'd accidentally rub her eyes or something and then it would really burn.

  She scowled, thinking about that young man. It would only be a matter of time before he opened himself up to darkness again. All the chrism in the world wouldn't be enough to burn the stupidity out of him.

  And for all the demons to break through—

  Chiara couldn't make herself look at Simon. She knew that he knew. This one little possession just pushed the two of them through a doorway she knew she'd never find her way back through. She didn't want that with him.

  She didn't want that for him.

  It wouldn't do any good to walk away, not now. But there was nothing wrong with trying.

  Simon followed silently behind her. She could sense his turmoil, sullen and brooding, a storm beneath the surface.

  At least he waited until they were safely out of sight of the passersby before he closed the distance between them and spun her around to face him.

  She didn't expect to see all that suspicion, heavy and accusing, glaring back at her from behind his pointed finger.

  "You banished that demon with hellfire."

  Chiara looked away and shrugged away from him. What could she say, besides yes, I did.

  "And not just any old demon, now, was it? That was a minion of Bal—" He broke off, unable to say it. "He serves a general. Of Hell. And you used hellfire on him. Of all the—"

  He was sputtering mad. "You don't just get to throw that stuff around. I think there's a story you mean to tell me."

  "Is that what you want?" She spread her hands, suspecting nothing she could say would make him feel any better. "A story? I've got a universe full of them."

  "You're sassy, sweetheart, but it's not enough to get you out of this. What are you? Demon?"

  Her lips curled in disdain. "As if. If I were demon, don't you think your angel buddy would have drawn on me?"

  "Backstory, then. " Simon regarded her shrewdly and slowly nodded his head. "And I will have it. I just don't know what I want you to tell me first. Do I ask about how you came to wield hellfire? Or do I go right to the heart of what's bugging me and ask why do you know that demon?"

  She rubbed her brows. Why did this man have to be so damnably curious? It had been ages since she even tried to connect with another human being. He was special. He was...open-minded. But no one could be that accepting. Not considering the truths she held.

  Not even the man who stared at her now, the man with pockets full of charms and secrets and an unforgiveable past. She saw the resolve in his eyes, the demand for answers.

  "Okay, you want to know?" She swallowed hard. "First, swear your silence."

  Simon rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. I solemnly swear—"

  Flippant man. Have mortal men truly lost respect for an oath? He needed to be encouraged to take this seriously.

  She lowered her barriers, the ones that hid her divinity from humans, and allowed her power to physically manifest. Her eyesight dimmed as the power surged, causing her eyes to glow.

  "Not words, Simon." She bared her teeth, her voice rumbling into a growl. The power was a thing of its own, a force that disdained mortal control. "Swear. With your soul."

  His eyes grew wide and he backed up a step. Was he afraid? Would he run? Her resolution stumbled. Why did it bother her that he might? Her barriers sulked back up, as if she were ashamed for him to see her, as if she stood bare before his scrutiny.

  He didn't run. He just stared at her, hard, and set his jaw.

  For a moment she thought he'd reach for one of his innumerable charms, the pocketful of magic he carried around like so much change.

  But he surprised her.

  He merely nodded. "I give you my solemn word."

  She felt the words when he spoke them. He hadn't even reached for an amulet. His oath had bourn a solid conviction and a silent trace of magic enforcing it.

  Hmm. Just shy of a blood oath. She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Suddenly, he had new value, most deserving of a reassessment.

  "I have a lofty heritage," she said.

  "I'm listening."

  "I'm...Enochian."

  That made his eyebrows shoot up. He rocked back on his heels and shoved his hand deep into his trouser pockets. "Well. You now have my full and riveted attention. The Enochians were the offspring of angels and humans. But they don't wield hellfire."

  "True. But only my mother was Enochian. My father..."
<
br />   "Ah." Long silence. "The darkness you left behind when you riffled through my brain."

  Yes. The darkness she left behind. As much as she tried to distance herself from it, that particular aspect of herself wasn't something she could simply turn off.

  "I assumed he was a dark mage, which would give you that oily stain." He chewed the side of his thumb.

  Oily stain. It made her feel...soiled. Wounded, she lowered her eyes. "If that's what you want to call it."

  "But he isn't a mage, is he? That darkness comes from demonic influence. No wonder you said I know him. I'm a demonologist." He spit to the side. "Of course I would. So. A half-demon who exorcises demons. That's a new one."

  "Don't trivialize it." She couldn't keep the edge out of her voice.

  "There's no possible way to trivialize any of this. Are you out of your mind? You have a direct connection to hell. You can't go making enemies like this, especially not that one."

  "I'm not afraid of him."

  "You should be. No wonder Mack was ruffled when he saw you. You shouldn't even exist. Angel blood, and demon—it's not a matter of disagreeing on holiday plans. It's bad chemistry. Plain and simple."

  "I have a purpose, Simon. I know what I have to do. I've never shied away from it. I know you find me...an abomination—"

  "Now, wait." His whole demeanor changed. "I never said that."

  "You don't have to. I see it in your eyes. There is so much in your eyes, Simon. Such despair, such guilt. Such condemnation for what you see as a failure in another person."

  He looked away, a shadow casting down over his expression. Hurt and trying to hide it.

  But not for long. He rolled his shoulders and slowly looked back at her.

  "I just watched you exorcize an officer of Balazog Corinthian," he said." A demon of no small influence. And you did it without even breaking a sweat. If we're gonna work together, I think I deserve to know who I'm working with. You really need to tell me who your father is."

  Not a chance, on this plane or any other. "My father is a collector. A connoisseur of the strange and wonderful and impossible and damned. And one of the things he collects is offspring. He's not really a family man. Bad relationship with his own father, I guess. Left him with screwed up family values. He chose my mother because of her exquisite genetics. They probably should have tried to get to know each other a little first before jumping into the whole parenthood thing."

  "You're a divinity. I gotta be honest. I'm having a hard time wrapping my brain around it, and my brain is stretchier than most. Half demon, half Enochian—"

  "I am mortal." Her voice went nearly hoarse with conviction. At least in part. These days, more theory than anything else. "There is a piece of me that is mortal, a piece that is all my own. And that is why I fight to keep humanity free of divine influence. I fight because I know how precious mortality is. All these corrections—it kicks the power back to where it belongs but it's just not enough. I cannot make them unsee what they saw. I cannot make them forget what it feels like to be a divinity."

  He nodded and dropped his head. "I can."

  She turned. "What?"

  With a sigh, he met her gaze. "I said, I can. I can make them forget. And I do. When I complete an exorcism, I cast a little follow-up disremember spell. It's easy, actually."

  He shrugged. "A rapid hypnotic induction, a few words of a spell I learned in Guatemala and a pinch of mandrake root under their tongue. I mean, I've just ripped a demon out of their body, out of their psyche. They are usually quite open to suggestion after an experience like that."

  "And..." She pulled at her lower lip, thinking. She never thought it possible. Memories were part of a mortal; embedded with scents and sounds and emotions. So many parts of the human brain were wired for memory storage, making it difficult to isolate any one spot. From a scientific view, erasing a memory was complicated. From an emotional standpoint, it was probably impossible. Even the things a person thought they forgot could resurface with the right trigger, conscious or unconscious. "You do that to every one you exorcise?"

  He scratched his hair, ruffling it. "More or less. Some guys, they might be useful. I let them keep the experience if I think they're worth it."

  "Worth what?"

  "Joining the fray. I'm not the only mortal out there fighting. I don't know too much about the big wigs, now. They have their own organization and rules and credit union memberships. I'm a bottom feeder, a freelancer. I just kick a new recruit their way every now and then."

  She mused, staring at the fire until it was a blur, lost deep in her own thoughts. "So that's where the money comes from. You get a... referral fee."

  Simon suddenly smiled, cheeky and wide.

  "Clever girl, you are. You didn't think I made a dishonest living, did you?" He shook his head. "Show a girl your mug shot and she never forgets it."

  The sky was mottled with thick clumps of cloud swatches of deep blue peeping out in spots. Simon shifted the van into park on the side of a long stretch of highway, scanning the tree line. This felt like the right spot. Mack's angelic GPS was usually right on.

  Chiara squinted in the same direction. "What are you doing?"

  "Watching. Mack said he'd be here." He pushed up his sleeve to check his watch. Okay, more than watch. Also had compass orientation: the usual N-S-E-W, latitude, longitude, planetary positions. You know, he'd say. The basics. At any rate, he was in the right place at the right time.

  A shaft of sunlight suddenly pierced the cloud cover, sending down a broad, shining stream.

  "Ah, knew it was coming." He grinned. "You can smell it."

  She sniffed experimentally. "I don't smell anything out of the ordinary."

  "Of course, you can't. You're a divinity. It would be like trying to smell your own breath. Now, come on."

  He hopped out of the van, lighting a stick of chicory and tossing the smoking twig over his shoulder. Without even a glance behind him, he jogged across the grass toward the trees, heading toward the spot where the shifting beams of sunlight pulsed and shone down like a shimmering curtain.

  "Where are you going?" She called after him, carefully stepping through the grass behind him.

  "You wanted to see what Mack's all about," he said. "This is the perfect explanation."

  He led her through the thin scrub of birch and laurel bushes, using the bright sky as a compass.

  "I don't understand." Chiara stooped to avoid the thin branches that picked at her, snagging her hair like nasty little fingers. "We're following the sunshine?"

  "Not just any old sunshine," Simon called over his shoulder at her. "That's a Jacob's Ladder. Quaint Bible story, you'll remember; Jacob fell asleep on a stone and dreamed of a great golden ladder, upon which angels ascended and descended. He called it a Gateway to Heaven. Later on, the Christ recognized the brilliance of the imagery and referred to himself as the Divine Ladder."

  They emerged from the woods at a patch of meadow, open field. Less than a hundred yard away, the sunbeams fell upon the grass in a sunny puddle. Quite like finding the end of the rainbow, gold and all. He glanced over at her, interested in seeing her reaction.

  Chiara's mouth made a tiny O of wonder.

  Grinning, he dug a cigarette out of the pack and crumpled the wrapper. "Thing is, it wasn't a dream, and it wasn't a ladder. Jacob was the son of Isaac, son of Abraham. Living descendant of the man who made a covenant with God. As such, he was aware of the existence of a real, living god and that knowledge causes the ability to see divinities. Angels. What he saw was a shaft of light, just like that one, and the angels that traverse it."

  "Mother talked about angels, the stories her ancestors told. The Ladder is the only connection between Heaven and Earth, just as a hell gate is the only connection between Hell and Earth."

  "Hell gates have never been proven to exist." He raised a lecturing finger toward her. "I have it on good authority."

  "You need proof to believe in something?"

  "Ac
tually, I do." Simon nodded. "We'll agree to disagree on the gate thing but you're right about the Ladder. It's how earth-bound angels communicate with the boys upstairs."

  "So Mack can get up to Heaven on that shaft of light?"

  "Mack? Nah, not him. He's literally earth-bound. A Watcher. That's why you can't really see his wings. His job is to keep an eye on us wretched mortals and report back. He's over there, right now, talking to one of the messengers, who will slide back on up to get his next orders."

  She squinted and wrinkled her nose. "So, right over there, there's an escalator to Heaven? I don't see anything."

  "Not yet, you don't. We need to cross the circle. Follow and stay low."

  They hunched down and skulked closer.

  "And angels are just sliding up and down and delivering heaps of divine information?" She lost the wondrous expression and lowered her brows. "That sounds very much like interference, doesn't it?"

  "Hey, now. I didn't bring you here to cause trouble. Just—try not to antagonize him, will yeh? He's usually a bit rammy after one of those things. I think it hurts him, you know, being stuck down here like some common mortal. He's obedient to the Will…but he misses home."

  "You mean…" Chiara grasped his arm, half-turning him toward her. "He doesn't want to be here?"

  "He's a Watcher. This is his deployment." He shrugged. "Trouble is, it's not a simple 18-month tour of duty and there's no leave. I always thought it sounded like a prison sentence but I try not to make him feel worse than he does. It's his place to be here. It's his duty. Who am I to judge or to criticize? It's the Will of God. I'm just a puny mortal, a pawn in this great and terrible game."

  They crept toward the swatch of sunlight in the field. No ordinary sunlight…the grass glittered with life, the air held fragrances usually sullied by traffic and pollution. Birds were drawn to the area, filling the air with their songs. Even the wildlife seemed to congregate in the area. All was a sense of peace and serenity.

  The air rippled around them, similar to the wards he'd placed around his vehicle. An invisible line. This one took a hell of a lot more than burning chicory.

  Once they crossed the border into the sunlit space, that serenity vanished. It went from a pastoral picture to the trading floor on Wall Street, the inside of a war room on high alert.