“How did he really die?” she demanded.
The Custodian glared, and her skin crawled all the more.
“Far more peacefully than scum like him deserve,” he said. “Something painless yet lethal while he sat in a chair, cleaning his illegally obtained firearms.”
“Did you plant those there, too?” she asked, trying to remain calm.
“Don’t go down this road, Agent Isabel,” the Custodian warned.
She was seething, not having the faintest idea what she should do. This—all this—went against everything that she was and represented as an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“Would you rather tell them the truth?” the Custodian asked her. “Would you rather tell law enforcement that their brothers in arms were slain by demons?”
He paused, and she could feel his eyes burning into the side of her face.
“And how exactly do you explain to mothers and fathers that their precious babies were responsible for these terrible acts? That little Sarah and precocious Ryan have blood on their hands and in their teeth before they’ve barely learned to wipe themselves.”
She didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond because, as horrifying as it was, there was a kernel of truth to his words, and that just made her want to grab her gun and shoot him square in his smug face.
The Custodian pulled a phone from his pocket and looked at it.
“I think I’m done here,” he told her, and again he smiled. “And you have a statement to present.”
He turned and left her, returning to the van in which he’d arrived.
“Good job today, Agent Isabel.”
• • •
Craig Isabel wore the darkness of the room like a blanket.
He’d pulled the shades of his hotel room, not letting any light in if it could be helped. He sat at the room’s tiny desk, holding the dog-eared picture in his hand.
“He was so smart,” the man said, staring at the photo that he could not really see, but he could see just fine. He’d looked at this picture so many times, he could have seen the image in the darkest of places, at the bottom of the sea, or deep beneath the bowels of the Earth. He saw the image always, when he was awake or when he was asleep.
The picture was of a little boy when he was alive, and smiling. A perfect moment of bliss frozen in time.
Craig Isabel wanted that moment again.
“And I’m not just saying that because he was my kid,” he said, his thumb gently rubbing over the slick surface. “He was incredibly bright. You could just see it in his eyes. The way he looked at things, like everything was a puzzle, and he was going to figure it all out. He was amazing to watch.”
Something shifted in the chair, pushed deeply into a pocket of shadow across from where he sat at the desk.
“But he is gone now,” a voice reminiscent of the blade of a knife sliding across a sharpening stone said from the depths of shadow, as if it were coming from down the length of a long corridor.
“Yes, he’s gone,” Craig said, the picture of his son inside his head becoming all the more alive, all the more vibrant. His son was alive there, that happy moment stilled in eternity.
“Such a shame,” said the voice. “From what you have said, the child held such promise.”
“He did,” Craig agreed. “Such promise. I bet he could have been anything.”
Craig chuckled, holding the picture all the tighter as if afraid that the darkness of the room might take his precious photo.
“Typical dad, right?” he said. “My son could be an astronaut . . . my son is going to find the cure for cancer . . . my son could be president of the United States if he wants.”
He laughed again, sadly.
“My son could have been all those things and more.”
The darkness churned.
“But now he is just—dead.”
He didn’t know why he did it, it just happened, and Craig Isabel began to cry. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t cried before, he had cried many times since . . .
He remembered the phone call from Brenna, the sound of absolute dread reaching out from the cell phone to wrap its cold, dreadful hands around his face to kiss him long and hard until he couldn’t hold the phone anymore, and he had dropped to the floor of his work, where he was in the middle of his shift.
It was Halloween night. His son was taken on Halloween night.
He moved the picture away from him, not wanting his tears to ruin the photo, to mar the frozen moment.
“The tears will do nothing except show your weakness,” the voice said with complete disdain.
Craig tried to get ahold of himself. He’d done it before, and he could do it again.
The memories came with the force of a home invasion, the doors kicked in, the excruciating moments there and in his face. Rushing home from work, the Halloween lights twinkling happily from the porch seeming to mock him. It had felt wrong the moment he had walked up the driveway. The air felt heavier, thick with the stink of . . .
Craig didn’t know what it was, it was like the air was being changed, transformed into something more noxious. He remembered how it made him choke, how it made him cry, and how he didn’t care if the police officers who were still there were watching. She was there in the foyer, just standing there, shoulders slumped.
He’d always thought she was the strongest of them, the weight of the world, the terrible things she saw every day as an FBI agent, unable to bend her.
But she had been bent that night, bent to the point of breaking.
He had hoped that it had been some terrible mistake, that their son was perfectly fine, that after she had called him, he had been revived.
It was a miracle!
“Miracles aren’t for the likes of you,” the voice in the shadows said, as if it could somehow read his mind. “No matter how much you pray . . . or how loud, there will be no one there to answer you.”
Craig looked up from the photo that he could not really see, turning his straining eyes to the chair in the deep, deep black.
“But you did.”
“Your sorrows ran so very deep,” the voice said.
“But you answered,” Craig said. “You heard my sadness and my prayers.”
A sound came from the darkness like the gurgling of a clogged water pipe.
“I was not the one you were praying to.”
“No,” he said. “But you were the one that heard . . . the one that answered.”
He couldn’t see, but Craig knew that he was being smiled at.
“The depths of your misery sang to me,” the voice in the darkness spoke. “Drawing me to you with great curiosity.”
Craig remembered how far he had fallen before the voice had spoken to him. He’d left everything behind. It was as if everything in his life had died with his son. It was all gray, rotting, turning to black. He had tried running, disconnecting with everything associated with the overbearing sadness of loss, but it only followed, growing bleaker, darker, until . . .
“You were on the brink of ending it, I believe,” the voice said. “When I found you.”
“I had pretty much hit rock bottom,” Craig said. He realized that he was holding the picture of his son far too tightly and was wrinkling it. He loosened his grip, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles with his thumb.
“You were going to end it,” the voice reminded him.
Craig sighed, not proud of that moment.
“I was,” he said.
“And that was when I knew that a relationship between you and me could be mutually beneficial.”
At first he’d just thought that he’d gone crazy, finally insane from all the grief, but then he’d listened to the voice and what it had to offer . . .
And suddenly, insane wasn’t quite so bad.
“There were things
that I needed,” the voice spoke. “And things that you desired so very badly.”
Craig nodded, knowing full well that the voice could see him perfectly from the shadows.
“And I would give you these things—this thing—if you would only help me.”
“I’d give you anything that I could,” Craig said, the image of his living child vivid inside the theatre of his mind’s eye. “If you could . . .”
“I can, and I will,” said the voice. “But first . . .”
“I’ve made contact,” Craig said, talking of his wife. “At first she was mad . . . furious, but now . . .”
“She has forgiven you?”
“Not quite yet,” Craig said.
“When?” the voice asked impatiently.
“I don’t know,” Craig said. “There was a lot of hurt there, this could take some time, and . . .”
“The longer this takes, the longer your child spends in the ground.”
The words were like a punch to the gut, and he actually saw his son, lying in the dirt, the worms crawling across his perfect face as the other insects of the Earth began to feed . . .
He was about to tell the voice that he would try to speed things up, that he would try to reach out to Brenna again when—
His cell phone began to ring.
Craig left the table, moving through the darkness to where his phone lay upon the bed.
His heart leapt as he saw who it was.
“It’s her,” he said, stifling a laugh, certain now that this was how it was supposed to be, how it was all supposed to work out.
“Hello?” he said, answering.
The voice of his wife on the other end of the call sounded sad and tired.
Desperate.
She wanted to see him—needed to see him.
They still had so very much to discuss.
Craig looked toward the patch of endless shadow, to where his savior had been, and knew that he was gone.
For now.
10
John helped his wife to lie down.
Her body was bruised and battered, twisted by the dark powers that had emerged.
Theo moaned ever so slightly as he fixed the pillow below her head.
“You good?” he asked her, carefully watching her expression.
“Yeah,” she said with a grimace. “Still smarts a little, but it should be all right in a bit.”
John knew what she said to be true, the demons inside as well as the mystical sigils placed upon her flesh helping her to heal much faster than normal.
But it didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt like hell.
“Please just rest, okay?” he said, pulling the covers up over her.
“I need to know what’s going on inside,” she said, her eyes glinting in the semicool darkness of their bedroom. “I need to know what the newbies did to . . .”
“Newbies?” John asked, sitting on the corner of the bed. “You make them sound like Pokemon.”
She smiled. “What else should I call them? My newest demonic infestation? Too much work. Newbies is fine. I need to know what they did, what they said to the others.”
John knew that she was right—the risk of her losing control was always present, but it was made worse by these newest influences. Still, she needed at least a few hours rest, or exhaustion alone would affect her tight rein on the demons.
He tucked the blanket under her chin and smoothed her hair on the pillow. “You need to sleep a bit,” he said firmly.
“I know, but . . .”
He knew that look. Even before being possessed, Theo was a force to be reckoned with, and there was very little that could stop her when she set her mind to something.
“No buts, love,” he insisted.
She glared.
“And don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“You know what I’m talking about,” he said with a smile.
“I really don’t.”
“Admit it—this one took a lot out of you. You need to rest.”
She made a face at him but then said begrudgingly, “I am a little sore.”
“Which means that you’re a lot sore.”
“How do you know so much?” she asked him.
“I pay attention,” he said with a sly grin and a wink.
“You’re amazing,” she said, and smiled.
John felt his heart melt, reminded of how much he loved this woman . . . and how close he’d come to losing her forever.
He would never let that happen.
Never.
“Please, rest and heal. You know that’s what you need to do. The newbies aren’t going anywhere; you can deal with them later.”
“Yeah, but what if they’re causing trouble in there,” she said. “Riling up the . . .”
“The oldies?” John suggested.
“Good one,” she said, and her arms snaked out from beneath the covers to wrap around his neck and pull him down to her.
“This is resting?” he asked her, as she kissed him hard.
“No, but it is healing.”
“Oh yeah?” He kissed her back.
“Very much so,” she whispered, and kissed him longer.
He was so tempted to join her, to slip beneath the cool covers and see where the kisses might take them . . .
But Theo needed her rest, and if truth be told, so did he.
“Okay, okay,” he said, as she tried to draw him farther into her embrace. “This is not going to help you.”
“You have no idea,” and she smiled that smile, and he had to look away before he was entranced by her spell.
“Nope,” he said, gently pulling her arms from around his neck and sticking them back beneath the covers.
“Are you rejecting my advances?” she asked, pretending to be hurt.
“If you only knew how difficult it is,” he told her. “You would have a whole new respect for my superhuman willpower.”
“I couldn’t respect you more,” she told him. “Though I have to say I am disappointed in my powers of seduction.”
“They’re working just fine,” he said, giving her another quick peck. “But your health and well-being win out over a roll in the hay every time.”
“Roll in the hay?” she repeated with a giggle.
He smiled as he stood. “Get some rest, I’m going to go check on our houseguests.”
She turned onto her side as he headed for the door.
“I thought you would be mad,” he heard her say sleepily.
He stopped and turned. “About?”
“Our houseguests, Griffin and Cassie.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, and I thought you’d be mad about Nicole.”
“Funny how that works,” she said, snuggling down under the covers.
“Yeah, funny,” he said quietly, the sound of breathing telling him that she was already fast asleep.
• • •
It was difficult, but she forced herself awake.
Theo needed her sleep to heal, John was completely right about that, but she also had to know what was going on inside her.
She had to know if she was still in control.
If she was still their master.
Pulling herself up from the mire of sleep, she collected herself and prepared. Then she closed her eyes and allowed herself to drift, not into the healing embrace of sleep, but beyond that—deeper into her mind, her soul really, where the infernal had grafted themselves.
The demons had changed the landscape of her psyche once more. It resembled a desert, bleak and harsh and void of life. A wind moaned across the dead world, shaping it with its fingers.
Theo was naked as she trudged across the sand, drawn to a strangely sculpted rock in the distance. That wa
s where they’d taken up residence this time, she knew, uncomfortable as the blowing sands scoured her bare flesh.
No, she realized as the sandstorm grew more powerful. Not her flesh, but the special markings upon it. The tattoos that gave her control over their demonic antics.
The storm enveloped her, and she collected herself, aware that monstrous residents of her body were again attempting to wrest away control.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” Theo asked. “And here I thought we understood one another.”
She called upon the power that the sigils marked upon her flesh gave her over the hellish, immediately feeling a rush of heat as the strange symbols changed from black to a glowing white. The sand being hurled at her body melted on contact, turning the air around her to a smoky haze.
“Are you through?” she asked, knowing they were close by.
For a moment, the winds grew even stronger, as if they were desperate for one last try, but Theo stood strong, her naked body radiating a heat that rendered the abrasive particles harmless.
“You know I’m coming for you,” she said, her angry words carried by the wind. “No matter what kind of landscape you build, I will find you, and when I do, it will not be the least bit pretty.”
The sandstorm subsided some, and once again she could see the rock structure, now populated by the demonic. They watched as she approached.
“There you are,” she said, stopping to look up at them. Her body continued to radiate a pulsing white light, and she could see—sense—that it disturbed them greatly.
The child, Billy Sharp, stood at the edge of the cliff, looking down at her.
“I thought we understood each other, Billy,” she said.
“There is no understanding,” Billy replied. “Just moments of mutual benefit. You needed something, and so did we.” The demon giggled like a child. “That doesn’t make us friends.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” she said, turning so the light from the sigils shone directly into Billy’s face. “I want the newbies.”
“Newbies?” Billy repeated gleefully. “Oh, I like that.”
“That’s great,” Theo said sarcastically. “I live to please you.”
“And well you should,” the little boy said with a snarl. “We will go that much easier on you once we manage to take full control.”