The Demonists (11 page)

The woman’s mouth was opened impossibly wide—wide enough to engulf the killer’s head, her snapping shut on his neck, severing his head with a single bite.

Griffin could only stare, dumbfounded, at the sight of the headless corpse swaying from side to side as a geyser of blood shot up from the neck to paint the ceiling red, before it finally collapsed limply to the floor. The woman, her face hideously distorted and adorned in scarlet, chewed, powerful jaws grinding the skull to paste. The sight and sound of it made him to want to gouge out his eyes and poke holes in his eardrums.

Then she turned to Griffin. Her face was suddenly relatively normal despite being covered in drying blood, and she smiled, a normal-sized smile.

“Thank you for trying to help me,” she said as she gradually lay back down upon the bloody mattress and appeared to go quickly to sleep.

Griffin slid weakly down the wall, his legs no longer capable of supporting him. He had to steady himself a moment on the floor before reaching for the cell phone in his pocket. His hands shook as he touched the appropriate contact number.

“She’s safe,” he said into the phone, his eyes filled with the horrific imagery of what he’d just witnessed.

“But we have a bit of a situation.”

S
omething didn’t seem right.

Anastos turned the screen of the tablet toward himself while still pointing the gun at John.

“Kevin?” he asked. “Kevin, answer me. What’s happening?” His question was answered with the sounds of struggle. “Kevin!” he demanded, his face twisted in anger.

Anastos locked eyes with John’s. “Maybe you’ll just have to go first,” he said, lowering the tablet and raising the gun.

John tensed, preparing to be shot again.

Multiple shots rang out, and he couldn’t help looking down at himself to be sure he hadn’t been hit. He looked up at Anastos and followed the man’s gaze toward the elevator, which had opened to disgorge several figures with guns.

Anastos shot at them, and they returned fire, causing the millionaire to duck below a hail of bullets as he ran back toward the glass enclosure where the Devil box still sat and the elemental spirits ran amok. Careful not to be shot himself, John pushed himself over into a corner and used the wall to push off against to help himself rise. He could see Anastos inside the glass laboratory, attempting to take possession of the Devil box.

Bullets raked across the front of the glass enclosure, causing the framework of the room to crumble, as well as obliterating the wards and sigils that had been etched into the transparent walls. With the glass shattered, the elemental spirits were now free, gaining in strength and ferocity as they escaped into the complex.

John watched as Anastos grabbed the box, tucking it beneath his arm as he headed for the exit. There was no way in hell that he was going to allow the man to escape with the accursed box, and he pushed off from the wall, keeping his head low beneath the gunfire as he went after him.

At the freight elevator at the back of the lab, John watched as Anastos retrieved a ring of keys from his pocket, found the one that he needed, and opened the metal sliding door.

John quickened his pace even though each footstep was excruciating, but he couldn’t let him escape.

Anastos was sliding the door closed when John leapt. He managed some pretty good distance, blocking the elevator door with his good shoulder and then throwing himself inside, sending himself and Anastos both falling to the larger space of the freight elevator. “What are you doing?” Anastos shrieked indignantly. He was still holding on to the box and swung it around, striking John on the side of his head with a corner. John fell backward into the wall, doing all that he could to stay conscious.

“I was actually going to let you live,” Anastos said, climbing to his feet, gun in hand. He aimed the weapon and was about to fire. John lashed out, sweeping Anastos off his feet with one of his legs. The millionaire went down but still managed to keep his hold on the Devil trap, protecting it with his body. The gun fired, sounding like thunder in the confined space. John managed to avoid the shot, throwing himself toward the man and grabbing for the weapon. The barrel was hot and scorched his skin, but John held on, attempting to wrench the weapon away. Anastos fought crazily, kicking out, one of his feet connecting with John’s injured shoulder and causing excruciating pain. John lay there, gasping for air, hoping that the explosions of color in front of his eyes would pass. Through the fireworks of agony, he watched as Anastos got to his feet again, still protecting the box.

The man reached down, retrieving the gun, and came to stand above John.

“I’ve had just about enough of you,” Anastos said breathlessly, placing the cold end of the gun barrel against his head. “Maybe they’ll do season eight with somebody else.”

John’s actions were sudden, and desperate. From what he remembered reading on the Demonist scroll, he began to recite one of the rituals. Specifically the ritual that had been used to trap the elemental spirits in preparation of binding them to the Devil trap.

He imagined it would be like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull as his voice grew louder, carrying outside the freight elevator, inciting the elementals to come to him. He hoped that they would get to him before Anastos had a chance to pull the trigger. He hoped that they wouldn’t be too late.

The elevator shook as if held in the hand of some gigantic child playing with a rattle, signaling to John that the first of the elemental spirits had arrived. Anastos lurched to one side as he pulled the trigger, firing harmlessly into the elevator wall as the Earth elemental reacted to its summoning.

“What did you do?” Anastos asked, eyes wide with shock slowly turning to fear as he began to realize what John had started. John continued to utter the words from the ancient rite, pushing himself away from the man who still clung tightly to the Devil trap.

John knew that the spirits would be drawn to the Devil trap, the thing that had held them captive for so long.

They would be drawn to it, and they would be angry, seeking to destroy the object before they could be bound to it once more. The wind elemental was next, rushing into the enclosed space with a whoosh of air, picking the millionaire up in a shrieking maelstrom. John pushed himself deeper into the far corner of the elevator. He could see the man staring helplessly through the wall of wind, his eyes begging for help. But John wasn’t feeling the least bit merciful toward the man who was willing to hurt Theo to get what he wanted. The fire spirit rushed into the space next, merging with the cyclonic body of the air elemental. Again the two spirits were locked in conflict, battling as Cyril Anastos’ body was burned and torn apart by the violent melding of the elements. The water elemental was late to the party, flowing into the elevator space and partially extinguishing the heat of the fire spirit while knocking Anastos’ blackened remains from the grip of the swirling wind.

John watched in horror as the Devil trap fell toward the floor. He had no idea what the outcome would be if the box should break upon the floor.

Pushing off from the wall, John reached out as the trap continued to fall. Even though the floor of the elevator violently shook, he managed to get beneath the box, cradling it to his chest, all the while continuing to recite the ancient rite of binding, which returned the elemental spirits to the four corners of the container.

John lay there on the floor of the elevator, fighting to remain conscious, but it was a losing battle as the darkness around his eyes slowly began to close in.

And just as he was drifting off, he became aware that he was no longer alone, barely managing to open his eyes to glimpse who had joined him.

He recognized the older man from the hotel almost immediately, the horrific nature of his scars something he could never forget.
But what is he doing here?
John wondered, feeling the Devil trap taken from his grasp as the darkness rushed in to take him down. . . .

She had no idea how much longer she could hold out.

Theodora Knight pulled herself tighter into a ball within the darkness of her subconscious, listening to the taunts of the demonic entities that now shared her psyche.

“Why continue to fight, woman?” asked one.

“It’s all for naught, it truly is,” affirmed another.

“Give yourself over to us completely, and the pain and torment will end,” said another.

Theodora ignored them, even though they were much closer to her now than ever before, the inner light that shone from her astral form growing dimmer the longer she remained trapped within herself. Soon it would be gone, and then . . .

“He can’t save you,” chided a voice more child’s than adult’s, but she knew better. “All his books, and scrolls and words . . . they will never be enough.”

“You belong to us now,” growled a demon eagerly. “You just don’t know it yet.”

They were all laughing, trying to break her down, but she remained strong.

For now.

She could feel them reaching out, testing the light that emanated from her soul. They hissed and shrieked as the light burned them, but each time they touched . . . or poked . . . or pushed upon it, the glow diminished ever so slightly, as if a piece of the darkness that the demons represented was left behind to stain her aura.

Their attention to her was greater now that the light wasn’t as strong, but she would not let the fire go out, feeding its heat and illumination with thoughts of love and words forged with the stuff of purity by good men and women whose purpose it was to fight back against the spread of evil and the demonic.

“Lovely words,” cooed an entity so very close to her ear. “But they tarnish so very easily . . . smudges of black covering up their luster, and then . . .”

It was as if somebody had hit her with an axe.

The pain was intense—excruciating—and she cried out as the demons around her laughed and laughed.

Her guard was coming down, the pain that she felt chipping away at her resolve, and giving the entities the opportunity that they had been craving. They crowded all the closer, continuing their words of encouragement.

“Won’t be long now, sweetheart.”

“That one must’ve hurt like the blazes,” said one on the verge of laughter. “Let’s do it again so she knows that her time is coming . . . that it won’t be long until we’re feasting upon her soul.”

Theodora prepared to be struck again, fortifying herself the best she could, hoping and praying that it would be enough when— The demons were screaming, crying out in pain the way that they used to when the aura of her soul was so much brighter. She wanted to know what was happening, but what if it was a trick? Something to make her drop her guard so they could attack?

The screaming went on, the sounds of their awful shrieks dwindling as they fled deeper into the shadow of her subconscious.

And then she heard the voice.

Stern. Powerful. Yet filled with kindness.

It was a voice that she’d heard before, but not in the realm of the living.

“Go on,” the voice ordered. “Scurry back to the shadows where you belong. My granddaughter-in-law is not succumbing to you this day. Not if I have any say in the matter.”

Theodora opened her eyes, confident now that it was all right, and saw her there, radiating with a light that forced the darkness away.

“Nana?” she called out, surprised that her voice sounded so weak— so frail. Perhaps things were even worse than she had believed.

The woman turned from watching the shadows, her beautiful old face stony at first, but then breaking into a smile.

“Hello, Theo,” she said. “How’s my girl?”

Nana Fogg was one of the most alive ghosts that Theo had ever encountered in all her years of being a medium. Even though she had passed from the physical world long before Theo and John had married, it truly didn’t matter all that much because Nana’s presence could always be felt.

Sometimes much stronger than others.

“I’m so tired, Nana,” Theodora said, not wanting to break down, but barely keeping herself together.

“There’s a good girl,” Nana soothed, and she opened her arms to take her into her loving embrace. “You’ve got to hold on . . . you’ve got remain strong for John.”

“I know,” Theo said as Nana’s light seemed to infuse her with strength. “But it’s been so hard—the demons are so strong.”

“But it’s a fight that you . . . ,” Nana said, pushing her chin back so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. “That the
world
cannot afford to lose.”

In his dream John saw the jar.

Its bronze-colored surface glistened as if illuminated by some unknown source of light. John knew what it was, what it was going to do, for he had already lived it.

And then they appeared from the shadowy edges: Phil, Becky, Jackson . . . all alive again. They were moving closer to the jar, scrutinizing its coppery surface as the tiny, jagged cracks began to appear.

Get away from it,
he tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come—or maybe they had, but they just couldn’t hear him. He tried again, this time louder, and still they leaned in closer, reaching out to touch the deadly container.

And then she was there, his beautiful wife. They reacted to her, backing up from the jar, and he found himself relaxing, breathing a sigh of relief as she moved to stand before the object. He told her that he loved her, and she looked at him, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her sexy mouth, before she turned her attentions to the jar.

He screamed as she reached for it, her hands wrapping around the still-cracking surface. There was something that looked like smoke leaking out from the multiple fissures and swirling about her head. He was begging her to put it down, and to get away from it—for them all to get away from it—but she ignored him holding the receptacle of evil in front of her, carefully studying it.

John tried to run toward her but found himself unable to move, as if he were bound by invisible chains that prevented him from reaching his love. He stretched his arms out to her, his fingers beckoning, but she ignored him, her entire focus riveted to the container.

And when it looked as though it was too late, that the contents of the jar were about to be released in a devastating explosion of supernatural ferocity, she—his wife—did the strangest of things.

Just as the container began to quake, the cracks spreading across the rounded surface like a wildfire unchecked, she opened her mouth incredibly wide, wider than any human should have been capable, so wide that it would have required her jaws to become unhinged like a python’s, or a boa constrictor’s.

And she shoved the jar into her mouth, slamming her jaws closed and swallowing.

John watched the shape of it as it traveled ever so slowly down her throat, eventually disappearing into her stomach.

Theo then looked at him and smiled, extending her arms as her belly began to grow, the impression of clawed hands pushing outward upon the tight flesh.

“They’re all inside me, John,” she said, her words deafening inside his head.

And the others were all looking at her now, Jackson, Phil, and Becky, the fear in their expressions growing exponentially with the size of Theo’s belly.

Until it burst, spewing evil like Pandora’s box out into the world.