The Demonists (6 page)

He reached the bottom level and opened the door into the coolness of the special floor. Looking left, and then right, he got his bearings and walked to the end of the corridor, where two nurses—a man and a woman—worked at a medication cart. They both looked up as he approached.

“Don’t bother with me,” the stranger said. They seemed to consider his words before returning to their medication pass.

The stranger continued on down the hallway and stopped before a room at its end. He paused for a moment before letting himself in.

The room was cold, unusually so, and his mind flashed back to the long and painful hospital stay he himself had endured while recuperating from the burns. At times, he was thankful for that experience, for it had prepared him for the life that would follow, and the work he had to do to make the world a safer place for his daughter.

Which was had brought him here, to Theodora Fogg.

Slowly he approached the bed, staring at the woman lying there. She was surrounded by machines that beeped and hummed. Her wrists were bound to the sides of the bed.

He reached down to pull the sheets aside, and jumped as he realized that her eyes were open. She was staring right at—through— him, the gaze so intense it was practically something physical.

He said nothing, imagining that the spell that had been placed upon him would continue to do its job, but . . .

The language that left her mouth was unlike anything he had ever heard before, and he removed his phone from his jacket pocket to record the strange flow of speech.

“I’m guessing you can see me,” he said as he put away his cell phone.

Theodora smiled, and he felt the burn-mottled flesh on his neck and back prickle with sudden unease. Her teeth were razor sharp, like those of some primordial predator from the ocean’s deepest depths. A tongue purple and forked emerged from between the jagged rows, seductively stroking the awful teeth as she chuckled.

From another pocket in his jacket, the stranger removed a hard case and opened it to reveal a needle and syringe. He carefully removed them, attached the needle to the syringe, and slipped its tip into the soft flesh at the bend of the woman’s arm.

She said something to him then, her dark eyes going to the new wound in her arm and the bead of blood that formed there. The bead broke free of the needle’s point of entry and began to move about the skin like an odd insect larva, leaving a slight scarlet trail on the pale flesh of her arm.

The woman began to laugh insanely.

Quickly the stranger finished collecting the blood sample and returned the needle and syringe to its case. He turned and left the room, the woman’s raucous laughter seeming to follow him down the corridor and out of the building.

The man walked down the drive toward the exit, moving faster than when he’d first arrived. He wanted to be away from this place as quickly as he could. Away from the hospital and the twisted thing it housed.

As he stood before the gates that seemed to take an interminable time to open, he took his phone out and made the call.

It was answered on the first ring.

“It’s Royce,” he said, passing through the gates and hurrying down the lonely road into darkness to where he’d left his ride. “It’s true.

“And it appears to be even worse than what we were led to believe.”

One month later

T
he renovations were coming along quite splendidly.

John Fogg stood in the grand entrance to his new home—
their
new home—taking in the changes made since last he’d visited. He was satisfied, but couldn’t help wondering if the work could be completed even faster.

“Mr. Fogg!” someone called, and he saw Burt Lansing, his contractor, come out from the side hallway that led to the kitchen.

“Burt, hi,” John said, reaching out to take the man’s hand in a hearty handshake.

“What do you think?”

“It’s great,” John said with a smile, imagining what it would be like once it was finished.

“Everything is moving along according to schedule,” the contractor said. “Plumbing and electrical are coming along nicely, with drywall waiting in the wings, ready to go as soon as they’re finished.”

John nodded his pleasure with the enterprise, but still the question danced at the edge of his thoughts, trickling down to his mouth and . . .

“Don’t you dare,” said Stephan Vasjack, entering through the open front door, satchel slung over his shoulder, wagging a finger at him. “What?” John asked.

“Just don’t,” Stephan said, taking off his sunglasses and looking around. “I know that look.”

“What look?”

“The look that says thanks a wicked lot, but here’s twenty-nine other things that I’d like done in the next half hour.”

“I wasn’t going to ask for anything,” John lied.

Stephan stared at him as Burt Lansing laughed.

“I don’t believe you,” Stephan said, putting his sunglasses in his bag.

“Well, if you need anything don’t be afraid to ask,” Burt said, patting John on the shoulder and heading back from where he’d come. “Thanks, Burt,” John said, waving before he turned to Stephan. “I can’t believe you embarrassed me like that.”

“You were going to ask him for something. Admit it. I know,” Stephan said.

“I was going to ask him if it was possible to speed things up.”

“John,” Stephan said, heading for the library that had been made into a makeshift office to the left of the main staircase. “They’re already working seven days a week at a price that I find totally obscene.” He tossed his bag down on top of a desk made from two-by-fours laid across three horses. “They can’t work any faster than they already are.” John followed him into the library. “It’s just that . . .” Stephan pulled his laptop out of his bag, flipped open the lid, and powered it up. “I know, you want Theo to come home.”

“I’m afraid the longer she’s in the hospital, the harder it’s going to be to make her well.”

Stephan pulled an old folding chair over to his makeshift desk and sat down, refusing to look at him. John knew that he was keeping something to himself.

“What is it?” John asked.

Stephan shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

“No, just like you knew I was going to pester Burt, I know that something’s up. “What? Spill it.”

“I know you’re doing all this for her,” he said. “But . . .”

“But?”

“Are you sure that this is the right thing to do? I saw what I did back at the Cho Institute and it scared the living shit out of me, and I’ve been with you and Theo for how long? Believe you me, I’ve seen some scary business. I’m just not sure how safe it’ll be for her here . . . for us.”

“The process to cure Theo will be a long and complex one,” John explained. “And I’m sad to say that there are no guarantees that she will even survive the process.”

It was the first time he’d said these words out loud and they were like a physical blow to him.

Stephan got up from his chair and came to him. “John, I don’t want you to think that . . .”

“I completely understand your concern,” John said. “I’m pretty damn afraid myself.” He chuckled. “I’d completely understand if you wanted to step back from this, maybe take a leave of absence until—”

“Like hell I will,” Stephan said. “I can only imagine what the business would be like when I came back. If you think this is right, then there’s no reason for me to doubt you. I’ll be right there by your side for as long as it takes.”

“Thank you, Stephan,” John said.

“You’re welcome,” Stephan answered, returning to his laptop. “Now that all that’s out of the way, I thought you were supposed to be traveling today?”

“I am,” John said. “I called the car service. They’re picking me up here.”

“And you did that all by yourself?”

John laughed. “Remember, there was a time before personal assistant business managers when I had to handle these sorts of things by all by my lonesome.”

“Who are you kidding?” Stephan said. “I’m sure Theodora took care of most of it.”

John laughed again. “Yeah, she probably did.”

They were quiet for a moment.

Stephan’s fingers fluttered over the laptop keyboard, the faint clicking sound interrupting the pregnant silence.

“Romania?” Stephan questioned. “And what do we hope to find there?”

“I’ve been invited to an archaeological dig,” John explained. “It appears that a vast and unexplored library has been located beneath the ruins of a monastery in Wallachia. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but this library could contain information that just might help me make Theodora well again.”

“We can only hope,” Stephan said.

The sound of multiple car horn beeps made them look toward the window.

“Car service?” Stephan reminded. “Airport?”

John looked at his watch. “Shit,” he muttered, already on the move. “Gotta go.”

John left the library office, heading out into the foyer to the corner where he’d left his luggage.

“Make sure to text me you get there,” Stephan said.

“Yes, Mother,” John answered, slinging his travel bag over his shoulder. “Hold down the fort. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Me, too,” John said as he slipped out the door, hurrying down the front walk toward a waiting black sedan.

A woman was coming toward him wearing a dark suit, white blouse, and large sunglasses.

“Good morning,” he said, dropping his bags on the ground in back of the car. “Can you pop the trunk? How’s the traffic? We should have plenty of time to get to Logan, but if it backs into the Ted Williams tunnel we’ll be screwed for sure and—”“John Fogg?” the woman said abruptly, removing her sunglasses.

“That’s right,” John said impatiently. She still hadn’t opened the trunk.

“Mr. Fogg, I’m Special Agent Brenna Isabel from the FBI.” She held out her hand.

John was startled, but took her hand. “I’m sorry, Agent Isabel. I mistook you for my driver.” He shook her hand as he looked around and spotted another sedan on the other side of the driveway. A man with a face he recognized waved him over.

“That’s quite all right,” the agent was saying. “I’ve phoned you a few times, but we haven’t been able to connect. I chanced a drive over this morning, but it looks as though I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

“Actually, yes,” he said, releasing her hand and bending slightly to retrieve his bags. “I’ve got a flight in less than two hours, and with morning traffic and all . . .”

“I completely understand.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in the look.

John felt her official coldness, and was certain that Agent Isabel was a no-nonsense type. He glanced back to the waiting car and the driver impatiently tapping his watch, although he had to admit that the agent’s visit did pique his curiosity.

“Look, would you give me a call when you return?” She reached into her jacket pocket and produced a card, handing it to him.

He dropped his bags again and took the card from her. He quickly looked at it, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid the card inside. “Certainly,” he said, picking up his luggage and starting to his ride on the other side of the driveway.

“When will that be?”

He stopped and looked at her.

“Your trip? When will you be returning from your trip?”

“I really don’t have a return time planned yet,” he said. “I’m going to be doing some pretty heavy research, but I’d like to be back as quickly as I’m able. I promise I will call you.”

“I’d really appreciate that,” she said, and he caught wind of something very serious in her tone, something that almost made him stop and ask what was so important that an FBI agent had come looking for him.

But time was wasting, and he didn’t want to miss his flight.

He lugged his bags to the waiting sedan and tossed them into the open trunk, slamming it closed. The driver held the back passenger door open for him as he quickly climbed in, catching sight of Agent Isabel still standing beside her own car, watching him. He gave her a brief wave as his driver pulled away.

She did not wave back as she slipped on her sunglasses and walked to her car.

Theodora Knight lay curled on a bed of shadow within a dwindling circle of light.

Her circle.

She knew that the light was coming from her, from within her own body. And she knew that it would not be long until it was gone, until the darkness rushed in to fill the space.

To swallow her whole.

But until that time she would fight, she would stoke her inner light, letting it radiate from her body to keep the encroaching shadows, and the things that lived inside them, at bay.

Yes, she knew they were there, those foul horrible things, just outside her glowing sphere, just beyond the touch of light.

Waiting.

For they, too, knew that the illumination would not last forever, and eventually they would be able to claim her.

Until then she would do all that she could to keep the glow alive and hold the darkness back, and pray that there was still hope for her.

That the darkness would not win.

With those thoughts she felt the pressure of the shadows all around bear down upon her, squeezing the sphere of light, testing its strength.

And something just beyond the searing influence of her soul’s illumination, something hissed with confidence—
Soon.

Barrett Winfield knew that he was dreaming, but it seemed so very real. He stood upon the rooftop of his old school, looking out over a vast and once thriving city, now reduced to rubble. Teachers with whom he had worked knelt on the rooftop around him. They were filthy, covered in the dirt and dust of destruction, their tears leaving winding trails through the grime on their faces.

And they all looked to him, begging for his knowledge. “Teach us,” they pleaded. “Show us how to live in this changing world.”

He wanted to tell them to fend for themselves, but he could not bring himself to do so, even though they had treated him so unfairly.

The spirit of what he truly was wouldn’t allow him, no matter how badly they had mistreated him. He was a teacher, after all, and now it was his turn to teach
them
.

“Look,” he commanded, pointing at the ruins of the city. In the distance, alarms wailed mournfully, mixing with the cries of the injured and terrified. What still remained standing of the many ruined buildings began to vibrate and crumble, falling apart as the ground beneath the city’s center began to crack and swell. As something forced its way up from beneath.

His fellow teachers were all sobbing, their eyes fixed to the falling structures and the heaving Earth below them.

“Listen,” he told them, turning his head ever so slightly as a terrible howling filled air. The sound was everything, deafening in its intensity, so loud that it caused the flesh to tingle, the bones to ache.
Glorious.
The teachers had covered their faces, ducking their heads. “Watch!” he ordered, for this was how they would learn. And even though they were frightened, they did as he commanded. As their
Teacher
ordered.

And the world’s new, dark lord pushed up through the deep rock, dirt, and concrete, born to this new time and place. It—he—was a thing to behold. To describe his awesomeness would have been impossible.

And the Teacher reveled in the sight, while the others were stricken silent, thick tears raining from eyes wide with wonder and terror. “Do you see?” the Teacher asked them. “This is the beginning of the new,” he explained. “The world that you know now will soon be nothing more than a fading memory. This will become real.” The demon-god surged upward, its many mouths open and belching thick clouds of black, oily smoke that stuck to the sky and swallowed the sun. Darkness fell upon them, and the Teacher knew that it was only a matter of time before the entire planet was wrapped in a cloak of shadow.

The immenseness that was his god continued to spread out over the ruins of the great city, flowing out and beyond, some of its many, many mouths singing the most beautiful of songs, while others vom ited the clinging darkness.

The Teacher listened to that special song, and heard in its beautiful tune a message only for him. A message that told him that sacrifices would have to be made for this wonder to be true.

To actually become reality.

And then Barrett realized that this fantastic moment, this transcendent experience had yet to occur.

That this was all a dream.

And his sadness and rage were like a thing alive. He looked at those who had spurned him, cast him out from their tribe, and he hated them more than ever before. One by one he took them, tossing them from the rooftop of the school, down into the enormity of his master, to be swallowed up by his awesomeness.

To be one with the god.

There was nothing he wanted more for himself, but he knew that his work was not yet done.

To see this dream—this beautiful fantasy—come true, he had to do his job. He had to teach. He had to plant the seed.

And in order for that seed to grow, the soil had to be rich, and moist with the blood of the innocent.

Barrett Winfield opened his eyes to the new day.

He lay atop the stained mattress, wrapped in sweat-soaked sheets, and realized that something had happened—that he was no longer the same—that he had been transformed.

His old self was gone. Only the teacher now remained. The Teacher.

He smiled. Barrett had been weak, without purpose, but now . . . The Teacher rose from the bed, filled with the drive to continue his holy mission and fulfill his purpose. He stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the filth of his old life, anxious to wash away the last remains of Barrett Winfield, to slough off that skin and reveal the Teacher beneath.