Faustus Resurrectus (42 page)

“Jo, I—I…”

But he knew she was dead. His detached persona recognized that Lucifer wouldn’t have been able to leave her body if she wasn’t. Still, he stretched a hand to her face. Her skin still felt warm where he’d caressed her a million times before.

“I—”

Killed you!

“
In Reality, Mephistopheles has his place. We have Ours.
” Lucifer’s voice rang from the amaranthine figure like a death knell.

Mephistopheles leapt to his feet. “I beat you!”

“
Winning and losing are points of view. Our faith in Reality never waned.
”

“You can’t deny me! I beat you!”

“
Where are the contracts, Mephistopheles? We knew there were none, and so there were no sacrifices. And thus, there would be no bargaining.
”

“Then why did you come?” Donovan asked without looking up from Joann’s face. “Why didn’t you just ignore Valdes?”

Lucifer surveyed the death, the misery and fighting surrounding them. He looked at the stage backdrop, at the people who no longer twitched and shivered, at the blood that covered the stage.

“
Where’s the fun in that?
”

Donovan raised his eyes and swore he saw the tiniest smile.

“
But there is a last item—
”

The amaranthine figure opened its arms, and it became less defined as human and more like an enveloping cloak. “No!” Valdes screamed. He ran to the stage, clutching at the monk’s robe. “Help! Help me!”

“Not my problem,” Mephistopheles snarled, thrusting him away.

Valdes stumbled and fell through the liquid form. It shifted shape to envelope him, sticking to him like gelatin. Valdes screamed soundlessly. The fluid swirled and began to dissolve him, staining itself with his liquefied body.

“
We shall await your return to Hell, Mephistopheles, with…anticipation.
”

And he was gone. Without Lucifer’s essence to hold its shape, the blood splattered to the ground, leaving only a dark, shiny puddle.

Donovan remained dimly aware of events. They came to him in a peripheral, secondhand way, as though from a television set in another room. He couldn’t take his eyes off Joann’s body for fear it would disappear as quickly as her life had. Disgust welled in his throat. He wanted to vomit the deed from his life, to run away and never stop or have to live with what he’d done—what he’d
had
to do—when a stray, self-preserving thought trickled through his addled brain:

The blood of a martyr is powerful magic.

He raised the spire to his eyes and examined it. The black wrought iron glistened wetly with her blood. He despised himself instantly.

From the south end of the Lawn, two masses of brilliant light flashed on.

The Prince of Darkness bellowed in pain, shocking Donovan from his reverie. Rage overwhelmed his every instinct as a sound began in the back of his throat, a low Rottweiler growl that built as he gripped the spire tighter. His muscles tensed and he stood, scanning the ritual clearing with predator’s eyes. From the stage, twin shadow riptides shot south. The lights vanished, swallowed by the dark. Donovan padded forward slowly, not wanting to spook his target, before a burst of energy shot him in to attack. With a guttural snarl he flung the spire like a spear. The iron shaft smashed into the center of the monk’s brown robe, lancing into Mephistopheles’ chest and knocking him back onto his throne. Breath exploded from his lungs as the chair tipped backwards. Donovan leapt up the stairs, seized the end of the spire and wrenched it free. He howled, raised the spire and hammered it down. Fury rendered him incoherent. He shouted and taunted and raged, pounding the spire hard into splitting bone and flesh. Mephistopheles tried to roll out of the way, to change form or protect himself, but the holy water, Joann’s martyred blood and the iron itself formed a potent magical bludgeon. Again and again Donovan battered the devil, madness blanking his features but burning in his eyes. No thought or reason drove his actions; there was only the fury, a raging, flaming hatred that seared his throat and spilled scalding tears down his cheeks. He was screaming now, his arm a blur as he tore into the devil’s physical body. Mephistopheles wasn’t moving. Bone and flesh hung from his face while blood and brain soaked into the stage…

…Slowly Donovan regained his senses.

I think he’s dead now.

He looked at the shattered thing at his feet, feeling no regret for the savagery he’d unleashed. Instead, shock at what he’d done—
had to do!
—to Joann welled in his soul, pushing him to the edge of catatonia.

Movement in the corner of his eye made him jump. He whirled and saw Faustus, no longer pinned by Mephistopheles’ tendrils, cradling Joann’s body.

“
Get away from her!
” He heaved the spire. It spiked into the ground just in front of them, marking the spot like a tombstone.

Faustus didn’t move. He looked back steadily, sadness at Donovan’s loss palpable. Donovan started forward, fresh fury peeling another layer of sanity from his brain.

“
I said get away from her!
”

Surprise instantly transformed the sorcerer’s expression. “Beware!”

Before Donovan could react, a giant fist slammed into the side of his head.

***

“
In nomine Jesus Christ,
consummatum est
. Amen.”

Father Carroll panted, sweat pouring off his forehead and dripping from his beard.

“Lord, please,” he implored. He’d recited the Purification Benediction six times and was astounded that the gateway remained unaffected. His intestines roiled like overcooked soup; he knew he couldn’t do this much longer. “Forgive my weakness, but please don’t forsake me!”

Pain racked his body, forcing him to his knees. He whimpered, biting his back teeth, but began again:

“‘By the power of Christ!

Listen and submit yourselves to God! Resist the devil, and he will flee

from you! Draw nigh unto God, and he will draw nigh

unto you! Cleanse your hands, ye sinners, and purify your

hearts!’”

This time the gateway began to hum. Renewed, he dove into the Latin part of the prayer. Now the mirrors started to glow. Astral winds stirred the wheat stalks. Father Carroll’s voice rose as he neared the end.

“
In nomine Jesus Christ,
consummatum est
! Amen!”

The glow from the mirrors shot forth, intersecting to form a latticework of light. Every candle melted simultaneously, spreading red and black wax over the tarnished silver chain. Their fire rose into the air and formed a ring that stretched the mirror light into a column. Father Carroll clenched his fists, urging it on. The light hit the ceiling and stopped; it couldn’t quite make it over the top. Father Carroll cried out. “Why, Lord,
why?!
” He slumped forward, defeated, and buried his face in his hands. “Why…?”

He saw the blood on his hands.

“Blood of a martyr…”

He dipped his fingers into his wound and raised them to make the sign of the cross.

“In the name of the Father, and the Son,” he swept his hand through the air, his gesture throwing red drops across the gateway, “and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“
Consummatum est
,” he murmured, surrendering to the pain. His body fell across the gateway.

BOOM!

The roof exploded. Light sprayed from the gateway, through Father Carroll and into the pitch-black morass above Central Park, chasing the darkness like a spring rain washing the air clean. His last thought was of Donovan, and he smiled.

“Go to the light…”

***

“What now?” Fullam replied. He aimed the firehose to Conrad’s right and twisted the nozzle. A blast of water sprayed the cultist who was creeping closer, scythe blade rising. He spun away with a shriek, smoking and blistering where the water had touched him.

“
Holy water!
”

Conrad snapped his head over, then back at Fullam. “What in the name of God—sergeant, where is my daughter?!”

Above them, night became day. Everyone froze.

At first Fullam thought someone had fired off a flare. He stared into the sky and knew it wasn’t a flare. This was infinitely purer, the clearest, brightest sunbeam on a perfect summer day. It filled him with joy, with the sense that the tide of battle had irreversibly changed.

Donovan or Maurice?
he wondered.

The light spread and blossomed, sending radiant streams down into the darkest corners of the park. Wherever the streams touched a cult member, Fullam witnessed an amazing metamorphosis: whatever had transformed them into a super-killer seemed to emerge as a shadowy, semi-solid form. It resembled a smudge of black smoke but with vague features that tried to scream. The light drew it, and hundreds of other “smudges,” into itself without darkening—oil and water in the sky. Like a vent clearing a polluted room it reversed itself, taking the foulness along as it disappeared back to its origin.

***

Donovan saw a white flash before his reflexes took over and had him scrambling to gain a second to recover. When the stars faded he saw Mephistopheles wasn’t dead at all—he’d recovered and returned to Coeus’s form. He was dressed as Coeus had been when Donovan had encountered him at the aquarium, in a patchwork black suit and dirty t-shirt but without the sunglasses—his cataract-covered eyes had been replaced by Mephistopheles’ white-speckled purple orbs.

“You can’t exorcise
me
with an iron bar, Donovan.” His pineapple fists clenched and unclenched. “And if I can’t touch you with darkness, I’ll do it in a more satisfying way.”

Joann’s body lay just in Donovan’s line of sight.

Satisfying?!

With a roar he charged the giant, plowing into him and taking them both to the ground. The holy water in his clothes sizzled as they rolled around in the grass and dirt. Mephistopheles grunted and flung an arm out, separating them enough to get to their feet. Donovan charged in and began working the giant’s body. The stole and bandage were like hand wraps to a boxer, sparking white where they struck. Mephistopheles staggered back. Donovan threw a right hook. Mephistopheles shot a hand up and caught it. His massive paw smoldered and blistered but he squeezed Donovan’s fist. Donovan screamed and rammed his forehead into the giant’s nose. Mephistopheles lurched upright, seized Donovan’s jacket with his free hand and dragged Donovan off the ground. He released Donovan’s fist and hooked an uppercut into Donovan’s torso. Something snapped. Donovan grunted and ineffectually battered the giant’s head. Mephistopheles sneered, raising Donovan and body slamming him to the ground.

Donovan hit the earth so hard he blacked out. Instinct instantly drove him back to consciousness and he returned to pain so severe he was sure the giant had broken his back. He groaned and opened his eyes to see Mephistopheles inches from his face.

“I sometimes forget how
fragile
mortals are.”

He lifted Donovan upright. Donovan weaved in place. The giant laughed and timed his backhand just right. Donovan spun clumsily, blood flying from his nose and mouth as he dropped to his knees. Mephistopheles picked him back up and slapped him like a handball. Donovan dropped again, feeling the whole side of his face begin to swell. He tasted dirt.

I’m sorry, Jo. I’m so sorry—

Suddenly it was daytime.

Mephistopheles shrieked and threw his arms up for protection. Through his daze Donovan saw hundreds of black shapes pulled into the light. Way down the Lawn, he heard cheers and shouts of triumph.

Father Carroll!

The realization slapped him to his senses. An image of the priest submerging The Jogger flashed across his mind’s eye.

The South Gate House!

He pushed up to his feet, staggering off the Lawn. The surrounding brush stretched a spider web of prickly branches across his path. He fought through them, leaving flecks of skin and blood behind. His heart pounding in his ears couldn’t cover what he was sure were Mephistopheles’ footsteps pounding after him.

“I’ll have to make him mad enough,” he chuckled with borderline hysteria, “to chase me.”

He plunged out of the brush and bolted across the concrete overpass.

“
Donovan? Are you there?
”

Fullam’s voice startled him. Donovan snapped his head around before realizing he still had the radio Frank had given him centuries ago. “Frank?”

“
It’s over, baby! We won!
” Heart-pounding relief echoed in the sergeant’s words. “
Where are—?
”

“Frank, listen,” Donovan cut him off, dodging behind a tree at the base of the stone steps to the reservoir. The South Gate House waited at the top like the Supreme Court. “Get an ambulance! Get up to the stage! Joann is—” He swallowed. “Joann is—” He tried to force his words past the cork in his throat but they wouldn’t go. “Listen—I’m not done. Go get Father Carroll up at the Cancer Hospital. Bring him to meet me at the South Gate House. We’ve got one more thing to take care of. Hurry!”

“
The South Gate—
”

“Donovan!”

Mephistopheles was suddenly at his back. Donovan gasped and spun. One scarred hand snatched the front of his jacket. The wet leather sizzled and smoked. Mephistopheles chuckled. “Did you think shadows would hide you from
me
?” The radio slipped from Donovan’s hand as abject terror threatened his sanity. “I
am
the dark.”

***

Faustus remained perfectly still as he watched Mephistopheles chase after Donovan Graham. When they were both out of sight he gave his full attention to the body of the woman in his lap.

“Honor bound am I,” he murmured.

***

Holding Donovan aloft by the burning grip, Mephistopheles marched up the stairs. Mucus and saliva thickened his breathing as he savored the endgame. In front of the Gate House door he thrust his arm out and released the jacket. Donovan slammed back into the entrance and kept going as the door blew off its hinges and skidded across the Gate House floor. It hit a desk, scattering office supplies all over him, and stopped precariously on the edge of the spiral steps leading to the bowels of the reservoir station.