Murder The Light: The Demon Whisperer #2 Page 9

  But black t-shirts didn't do anything to hide the purple bruises in his nail beds. Those started showing up the day before. And his toothbrush had been an unsettling shade of pink this morning. Anyway.

  He sized up the host, wondering if he needed to call 911. Maybe not. The guy looked like he'd passed out standing up, but he was breathing. That much was okay.

  Something else caught his notice.

  Looked like the smoke lingered. Weird, considering the breeze than continuously flowed through the streets of the harbor city, as if it breathed with life of its own.

  He squinted. No. Not smoke. Too thin, too straight, too well-defined. His second-sight showed the possession was resolved. The demon was exorcised. Nothing but tired, messed-up people left in that body.

  But there was something else. Looked like a string. Simon walked around, peering behind him. A black string that came out of the center of the guy's back, between his shoulder blades. It trailed up into the air, straight up like a string on an invisible balloon, disappearing into the heights.

  "What the hell?" he whispered.

  The host roused, shook his head, looked strangely at Simon, and mumbled.

  Simon shrugged. "You okay, pal?"

  The guy scrubbed his eyes with his palm, blinking hard. "What was I doing?"

  "You just asked for directions to Westminster. Did you hear anything I said?" Simon squinted his eyes and gave him a suspicious look. "You sure you're okay?"

  "Yeah, just…sorry. And thanks." He walked off up the street, not in the direction of Westminster, and banged a right around the corner. That string went right along with him.

  Simon heaved a sigh. Curiosity would kill him one day, he knew, but still.

  He counted to three before he followed, hurrying to catch up. The host had already made it to the end of the block, tethered to that funky black string.

  Not smoke.

  Had to be bad. Had to be. He scanned the sidewalks, scrutinizing the people. There. Across the street. There was another black string, this one tied to a twenty-something in a snap-back and droopy basketball shorts. The kid glanced over at Simon.

  Wait a second. Simon knew that face.

  It was the kid from the bus. The ride-along with Chiara. The one who'd been possessed by one of Balazog's a-hole minions.

  He wasn't possessed now. In fact, the second-sight thing added a gentle glow around his face. Chiara's chrism. That had to be why Simon saw Light within him now.

  Well. Looks like heaven left a stain, too. Good to know the Devil wasn't the only one leaving a mess behind.

  So. Two previous exorcisms, and both had a weird tether on them. So, bad. Had to be.

  Bad was getting to be a regular thing.

  Simon followed the punk kid, chanting Mack's name in a low desperate litany, across town and up through Fells, trying to hang back enough not to be noticed but not enough to lose him. Mack joined him halfway to Butchers Hill.

  Terrible name for so quaint a neighborhood. Little bit foreboding. Hopefully, things wouldn't turn out as pessimistic as he anticipated. Because things usually did. Oh, well. Maybe if he took up different work, he wouldn't have to prepare for things always going to hell.

  "Okay. There, guy in the red shirt and stupid hat." Simon nudged Mack with his elbow and pointed with an unlit cigarette between his fingers. At least his smokes were good for something, considering how expensive they were these days. "See it?"

  The kid was only half a block ahead, strolling along the tree-lined street as if he hadn't a care in the world, talking on his cell phone. Mack leaned his head closer and followed the line of sight along Simon's gesture.

  "Nothing that should alarm you, if you were capable of seeing it." The angel looked down at Simon, a curious tilt to his head. "What is it that you see?"

  "I don't know. A rope? A line? Something."

  "I see only a touch of grace upon him. Chiara's chrism, if I were to speculate. But not a rope or line." Mack shook his head. "I will inquire. But I do not anticipate I will receive good news."

  Simon fiddled with the cigarette. Still so odd to be playing with it and not smoking it. "Me, neither, but I'm getting used to it."

  "You should not 'get used to it'. That is pessimism and pessimism is the enemy of hope."

  That was refreshing. Pessimism was the enemy of hope? And here all along he'd thought it was just him. "So are black string trailing off former hosts. I don't like it. It's like the darkness was exorcised, yeah? But it still has a grip."

  "Perhaps it isn't darkness." Mack folded his hands and took up his default stance, the serene monastic sway. "Perhaps because the soul has been saved, it has a special link to the Light, as if the Shepherd is watching and keeping track."

  "Then why isn't it a gold string or a rainbow of something shiny and happy looking?"

  Mack gave him a sideways glance. "As I said…I do not anticipate good news."

  "Yeah. But, don't lose hope, bro." He clapped the angel on the shoulder. "That would be bad, coming from you."

  "Yes, it would. I must investigate. I will return when I have information." The angel stepped back a pace, melting into the fog of his wings, leaving Simon with an unlit cigarette and a chest full of pessimism.

  Nothing to do but wait and wonder what would happen next.

  Simon woke up curled on his side, knees drawn tightly to his ribs. That was the first clue that something wasn't right. Usually, he started the day spread-eagled on his back, deep in the fluff of the mattress, as if he tried to press every possible inch of surface area into the impossible comfort of the pillow top.

  The second clue that something wasn't right was the stomach cramp, the tight ache that vice-gripped his belly and lower back. He'd barely made it into the bathroom in time.

  Perhaps it was a repercussion of the previous day’s exercises. The stroll home from Butchers Hill had been nothing short of phenomenal. It played out like a scene from a movie, full of effortless exorcisms. Six or seven of them, at least, and none requiring more than a point and a command.

  Go back. That was all. No ceremony, no thumb rings, no precise intonation invoking the Name of One more powerful than he. A man across the street, his black tether swelling on engorging power, his shadow growing. A woman leaning on the windowsill of an apartment overhead, eyes flitting to hot red upon seeing Simon. The driver of a bus who had flipped his sign to NOT IN SERVICE despite having a full load of passengers. Simon just stepped in front of the bus, pointed at the flickering shade of the pre-manifesting demon and, like an annoyed school teacher, said “You. Out. Now.”

  And the demon sizzled out. The driver regained control of the bus and swerved barely missing Simon, but back on course.

  All the demons sizzled out, every single one Simon encountered. He pointed and commanded and continued on his way, a merry bit of bouncy music playing somewhere in the back of his head. The nosebleed was no worse than usual, so bonus right there. He wasn’t even tired by the time he’d gotten back to the apartment, and he should have been completely knackered. Long walks were the enemy of a seasoned smoker.

  Bonus bonus—he didn’t black out and wake up in a ditch. Maybe he was getting the hang of this new thing. Falling asleep with a sense of satisfaction made for sweet, optimistic dreams. Then the pain woke him up.

  Looked like he was paying for it today.

  When he at last felt like he could get off the toilet, he stared down at the water a long, long time before flushing. The pool of dark blood made him realize something wasn't simply not right.

  Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

  This blood price was escalating. Wiping the cold sweat from his upper lip, he avoided meeting his own gaze in the mirror. Would he be called on the tab before he found Chiara?

  It took him a long time to get down the stairs. Pretty bad when you had to stop to catch your breath on the way down.

  He slid bonelessly through the gap in the front door, unable to push it farther than the initial sticki
ng point. Overhead, the sky was thick and sullen with dark, unspilled clouds. The usual balminess of the harbor air felt flat, stale.

  Dropping down on the stoop, he propped his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. Didn't feel like it was going to be a swell day.

  His suspicions were confirmed when his lifted his head and looked dead into Mack's stare. The angel stood on the sidewalk, statue-still. His expression seemed set in stone, heavy and resolute.

  Simon groaned. "You don't look like you got good news."

  "Did you notice the Ladder that went up to the North a short time after we parted ways yesterday?" There was an odd tightness to Mack's voice, as if Simon's answer didn't matter.

  He warily eyed the angel, unsure where things were headed. "Yes."

  "So did I."

  "And…?"

  "And I hadn't been Summoned to attend." It came out like an accusation.

  "Well, that's weird." Simon swallowed another a wave of nausea, half-concerned that another bloody trip to the can was imminent. "Right? 'cause your expression is making me think it's weird."

  "It isn't weird, Simon. It's unthinkable. Any time a Ladder goes up, every Watcher upon the Earth is Summoned. It is our right. It is our duty. It is our reward."

  "So…" Simon's stomach had lumped up like he'd swallowed a wad of cement. He was pretty sure at this point it wasn't the blood price making him so uncomfortable. "Was there a glitch?"

  "A glitch? You might call it that." Mack nodded and flicked his glance away. "Or, you might use concise language and say that I have been determined currently ineligible for summoning."

  Too many long words in one sentence for a guy who was bleeding out on the inside. Oxygen deprivation made a guy dopey. "Ineligible. Why?"

  "Well, perhaps that is the part you can explain. Would you explain why you have tainted my purity?"

  "Whoa, pal." Internal hemorrhage or no, he was not sitting down for something that heinous. A man had to stand for something. He swayed when he stood, but didn't fall down. "You need to back that right up. If I was going to taint someone's purity, she wouldn't look like you. And I'm pretty sure she'd already be tainted—"

  "Stop it!" Mack advanced on him, grabbing his collar and hoisting him up straighter. "You always do this. You make jokes about things that are not the least bit humorous. Do you have any idea what this means? My purity, tainted? Ineligible for a Summons? And why? What did you do, Simon?"

  The angel released him and backed off, his storm relenting, and pointed a sever finger at him. "Because you did something. Too many new strange things happening to you at the same time that I have been shunned."

  Simon gaped at him. Shunned. That was never a good word. Too many images of banishment and exile and rejection. It was the ultimate punishment for a creature that thrived on connection, on communion. An angel shunned was an angel denied access to the very reason for its existence.

  And it was his fault. All of it.

  How did he even begin? With an apology? With a flat-out admission that he'd screwed up worse than he ever had before? With the truth?

  Mack seemed closer to emotion than he'd ever appeared before, true emotion. Angels could be snotty and they could be bossy and they could be downright judgmental sometimes but there was one thing they should never, ever be.

  Heartbroken. Disappointment so weighty, so galactic that, at this moment, Mack looked like his heart had been broken, busted, and blown to oblivion.

  And it had been all his doing. Simon felt deflated, felt like he was nothing more than a sorry stack of failures. He sank back down, the gravity of his sin crushing the last of his strength. "I should have told you when it happened. Shit, I should have told you before I even did it. But I didn't have a choice."

  "You are human," Mack said, his teeth gritted. "You always have a choice."

  So much heat. Angels had no choice, no freewill. He knew it was a touchy topic with Mack, who followed orders with explicit precision. But never before had his friend made him feel like he'd squandered his own will.

  He lowered his eyes, chastised. "Sometimes, it doesn't feel like I do. Like that day. I was getting nowhere, Mack. Even with that vision. Might as well have been a figment of my imagination because I was nowhere closer to finding her. So, I looked for help. Her kind of help."

  "And?"

  "And…I summoned her father."

  "Her father being…?"

  "A demon, Mack." He chickened out at the last minute. Would it make a difference? Would it change anything by telling him who the demon was? "I summoned a demon because I couldn't think of anyone else willing to help me find her. And all this—the nosebleeds, the new…talent, your shunning—it's my fault. It's my fault you aren't getting the Heavenly memos."

  Several long moments went by, Mack saying nothing. Would he leave? Would he bring God’s swift hand down upon him? But neither happened. With a sigh, Mack sat down on the stoop next to him.

  "There is no fault. You did not intentionally create this situation." Mack eased up on the attack, seeming to regain some of his benevolent tolerance for him and his unending screw-ups. "This is an effect. An unhappy accident. But you did choose to contact the demon. And you choose to continue using this power."

  "To do the right thing." Simon spread his hands, palms up and pleading. "I've knocked out more possessions in the last week than I have in a year. Real results, victories for the Light. Isn't that what counts?"

  "Simon, if you sell your soul to bring about world peace, the result would be a wonderful, beautiful thing. But you would not have a soul. And you would be lost. And the loss of even one soul is a terrible wound upon the heart of the Light."

  It was so hard to counter a statement like that. He'd known Mack a long, long time and there were some things that he held sacred. Mack's reverence for a soul's redemption was one such thing. "So…what do we do now?"

  "We follow the lead I have found."

  "What? A lead? Why didn’t you say so? Can you trust the source?"

  The look Mack dumped on him was as close to are you fricken kidding me? as he'd ever seen the angel get. "It is the same source who informed me of my current designation. She, too, does not put faith in coincidence. He has shared news of a particularly suspicious disturbance."

  "Okay. That's good, right?" Bad news, but good that he got it, he supposed. Mack mustn't be actually shunned if the other angels still hang out with him. "A real lead from a bona fide source. What's the plan? "

  "We leave at once to investigate this disturbance. I have examined it, from afar. The energy feels suspiciously like your compatriot."

  Simon didn't like the repetitious use of the word suspicious. Considering the situation with his current state of reprimand, Mack was exhibiting more than the usual amount of bias. The angel was entitled, he'd give him that.

  But still. The word painted Chiara in a negative tone. It flushed through his veins, a hot infusion of resentment.

  He had no right to get indignant now, not after all Mack had done. Certainly not after what he was enduring, all at Simon's doing. "What are you waiting for? Let's go."

  Mack stood and folded his hands over his abdomen, slowly shaking his head. "I think we should discuss some things first."

  "No. Not with a fresh lead. Delays could be catastrophic. Talk later. Portal now."

  "Simon—"

  "Listen, Mack." He pushed to his feet. "It's already taken too long.We’re running out of time."

  "But I do not know—"

  "You know where she is. That's enough." A cramp doubled him over and he swallowed, hard, the taste of pennies in the back of his throat.

  Mack righted him with a touch on his shoulder. "You are in no shape to travel, Simon."

  "Are you kidding me?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, wiping it on the seat of his jeans without looking. "Just get me there. I'm not the one who matters anymore."

  But that was only part of the truth. Truth was, time was running out.

  For C
hiara. And for him.

  Simon sat on the curb, trying to hold his forehead in place. A chunk of sugared ginger made the back of his tongue tingle, the peppery sharpness seeping into his copious saliva.

  Dammit, the sun was too bright. What happened to that nice, miserable cover of gloomy clouds?

  Maybe Mack had even held back his hair while he yacked into the gutter. Always seemed like the type that would. At any rate, Simon was grateful someone had his back. More often than not, it felt like too many others were aiming for it.

  The strength of one true friend outweighed the threat of a thousand enemies.

  He swallowed another mouthful of ginger-lanced spit, his stomach slowing its roll. A few minutes more and he'd be almost right as rain. Right enough to walk upright and not get picked up for public drunkenness, anyway.

  "Are you quite sure you are well, Simon?"

  Simon waved at him as if he shooed a slowly-moving gnat. "Never better. You know I love a good portal."

  "You never suffered ill effects before." Mack hovered nervously. "Your physiology is unbalanced."

  Unbalanced? Might say that. "Just a little woozy."

  "Is this nicotine withdrawal? I've never seen you go through it. Where are your cigarettes, Simon?"

  "Ugh." Simon swallowed a wave of sea-sick, the thought of menthol-flavored smoke making his stomach bob. "Why? You want one?"

  "No. They are harmful. A deplorable habit, but not one I ever imagined you to relinquish."

  "Well, we all change and grow."

  "No." Mack shook his head pensively. It wasn't an insult; it was, simply, an open assessment, a truth he already accepted. "You do not change and grow. That is contrary to your nature. You are rather…set in your ways."

  Simon squinted up at the angel, who was back-lit by the much-too-bright sun. "You might be impressed."

  "I'd rather not be. Your surprises often result in explosions."

  "They do not! And that was, like, one time." He paused. "Two. Okay, two times. Jeez, Mack. When are you going to let that go?"

  "I cannot forget. I am incapable."