TWENTY-SEVEN

MASONVILLE’S AIRPORT HAD only one terminal, and when I got past the security checkpoint and turned down the main walkway, I spotted packs of Creepers at each gate, crowding the doorways. Some wore those pointy hoods, and as one of them clung upside down to a wall, its head twisted in the opposite direction of its body, at last I was able to read its marred forehead:

witch

I shuddered.

I stopped and stared as a stream of shackled new arrivals, people that had just exited a plane, entered through the gate nearest me. It was bad enough that Creepers swooped down on them like vultures on bleeding squirrels, but even worse was that among all the Creepers there, at least half had the same scar-marked assignment on their faces:

suicide

Yeah, the Creepers clearly lacked stamina, but they used what strength they had to strum through people’s cords, no doubt searching for transgressions that catered to their deadly assignment. It’s not like I had to see the labels on people’s cords to figure it out. Anyone with depressed, hopeless, self-hating —broken attitudes like that —was particularly vulnerable to Suicide, especially teenagers. The younger a person, the easier he or she tends to fall for lies.

Welcome to Masonville, Texas.

At least my spiritual sight appeared to be fully functional again —a solid twenty/twenty. My theory was that my preoccupation and entanglement with enemy forces had been dulling my senses. Thankfully, that was all behind me.

As I boarded the plane, a longtime question of mine was answered: people’s Creepers traveled with them. They curled up inside the plane seats so that it looked like their victims were practically riding in their laps. And there were Creepers in empty seats too, apparently anticipating susceptible souls.

Ugh. There was no way to get away from the stench. But at least the Creepers leaned away from my light as I made my way down the aisle, headed to my seat near the back of the aircraft.

By 7:46 p.m., flight 4401 was airborne. I’ve never forgotten the flight number because I’ve never forgotten what I witnessed out the window.

When we took off, the first thing I saw was that inexplicable, boxy black object hovering midair near Masonville High. As we climbed above the clouds, there was nothing remarkable except the picture-perfect sunset. The sky was an awesome blend of bright colors that reminded me of a blanket Ray Anne had bought Jackson. I stared into the distance, praying for Riley and tuning out the chatty women next to me.

I could have sworn I saw a cluster of dark figures hovering far off to my right, but we passed it so fast, it was a fleeting black streak. Minutes later though, there was no mistaking the phenomenon in the sky. A massive troop of armored Watchmen moved swiftly in a line above the clouds, shoulder to shoulder, advancing toward my side of the aircraft. There had to have been at least twenty of them, lighting up the sky like a blinding wave rushing the shore. As they passed over our plane, I pressed my face against the window and angled my neck to try to get a decent look.

The Watchmen had their backs to me now, their radiance beaming through the unshaded windows across the aisle. Meanwhile, my fellow passengers sat scrolling mindlessly on screens and dozing off in front of movies that couldn’t possibly have compared with the real-life action happening outside —beings beyond Marvel’s wildest imaginings.

Minutes later, as I scanned the sky and the final hues of sunlight, a mass of Creepers emerged, appearing from beneath the carpet of clouds for brief seconds at a time like smoky puffs of pollution. They traveled in sync with our aircraft and in the same direction, some galloping like beasts on all fours while others charged upright on invisible air, all at an astronomical speed.

I spotted a huge and ornate, yet mangled chair perched in the sky, facing my window, with what looked like nasty tentacles and big bones and some kind of black seaweed stuff draped all over, dangling far below. A wicked being with dark hair as long as Molek’s, clothed in tattered gray robes, sat tall in the chair like it was his throne. Or hers. It was hard to tell.

I watched the androgynous creature stand and point, as if commanding the migrating Creepers to keep moving. This was another Creeper monarch in its own distorted right, a principality on par with Molek. It stretched its arms out, forming a T, then fell forward, vacating its throne to plunge facedown into the clouds, toward earth, I imagined.

“That’s it!” I startled the lady next to me, and she nearly choked on her pretzels. That midair object closing in on Masonville High was a throne. Molek’s throne. Hadn’t the old man warned me of the consequences should the Lord of the Dead remount his throne above the town? I’d mistakenly thought he was being metaphorical.

My belief in spirits of the dead visiting the living had been shattered, so I was confused all over again about who the old man was. That said, my trust in his motives hadn’t wavered. And my concern that Molek was headed back to Masonville wasn’t wavering either. His throne was closing in —soon he would too.

Lord, I prayed again, hold him back so the town has time to gather —five more days. And, please, get the people there.

My eyes were fixed on the caravan of Creepers still charging alongside my window when four of the largest Watchmen I’d seen to date lowered into my line of sight and closed in fast on the horde. I’m serious when I say they were as tall as two-story buildings, their muscular arms as thick as steel beams. Instead of armor, their colossal bodies were covered in flowing garments that reminded me of a Julius Caesar statue my mom kept on her fireplace mantel. Their feet were covered in glistening, gold, sandal-like shoes that matched the thin crowns encircling their heads.

All four of them held gigantic stained-glass-looking bowls, and in unison, they tipped them, dumping a shimmery liquid onto the startled mob of Creepers. The most astounding part was the sound. When the liquid poured out, I heard hundreds of voices talking all at once, and there was singing, too. It was so ear-poundingly loud that, for a few seconds, it overpowered the blaring hum of the aircraft.

I wish I could describe the Creepers’ reaction, but I didn’t see it. Once drenched, they howled and stopped moving. My plane immediately left them and the ginormous Watchmen behind.

The lady next to me tapped me and handed me the ginger ale I’d requested. I sank down in my seat, dying to tell Ray Anne every unbelievable thing I’d just witnessed.

I sure would have liked to get bowls like that dumped on my property.

It was nearly eleven at night when we made the descent into Tulsa, too dark to see any Creeper thrones that may have been suspended over the city. Just like back home, evil forces mobbed the shackled newcomers, but the majority of these were named Violence. I didn’t have to research it to know the crime rate had to be high here.

I’ll admit, I’d been so focused on making a difference in my hometown, I’d lost sight of how the problem of evil was everywhere.

I called Ray, and thankfully, she said she thought her new cough meds were helping. I described all I’d seen during my flight, and she freaked. Sadly, there were no updates on Riley, much less Tasha, but news reports confirmed my father was still hospitalized in Tulsa.

As I waited outside the airport for transportation, I practiced what I would say if I was actually able to get to my father tomorrow morning. But nothing I came up with sounded remotely right.

A man in a suit, I’d say midthirties, stood next to me carrying on an intense conversation on his cell in a foreign language. He was attached to a Creeper with an unfamiliar word burned into its forehead:

luxure

I looked it up on my phone —French for “lust.”

Two women walked past me, dodging me with their suitcases, both wearing African-style dresses with matching head wraps in colorful patterns. One was a Light, but the other was shackled and tethered to a Creeper. It was a hooded one, like the ones I’d been seeing back home. I was able to catch a close-up glance and saw the word uchawi carved into its nightmarish face.

Thanks to technology, within seconds, I found out it was Swahili for “witchcraft.”

From these two observations, I drew a couple of interesting conclusions.

One, base-level Creepers —the kind that function as underlings to demon kings —clearly took on the earthly language of the culture to which they were assigned. And like most parasites, they tended to stay and hunt prey in their allotted territories, unless their human host traveled.

Two, Creepers with the witchy hoods were obviously assigned to partner with humanity in the dark art of witchcraft. I knew now that had to include everything from casting spells and conjuring so-called spirits to trendy gatherings in the woods where students hoped to become one with water, fire, and air. Hadn’t Veronica’s program drawn a hooded demon’s attention like an infected sore attracts flies?

I splurged on a decent hotel room and relished every minute of my steamy shower. I ordered a three-course meal from room service but hardly got three bites down. The thought of coming face-to-face with my father tomorrow sabotaged my appetite. That and the mental flashes of Riley being abducted and abused.

I sank into bed and did a search on my laptop, eager for some new realizations. Sacred grounds. Dominant bloodlines. Unorthodox holidays. The terms Elle had rattled off.

I was disappointed when I learned they were all related to the occult. I’d already known for a while now that my grandparents had engaged in satanic worship on my land. It’s what devastated my mother’s childhood and warped her personality for life.

Elle had acted like it was such a major secret, my life would somehow be in danger if I knew. A member of the press sensationalizing things —what a surprise.

I shut my laptop. So much for uncovering new revelations. I didn’t want to study and learn the ins and outs of the occult any more than I wanted to become an expert on the history of the slave trade. It was all a sick, sad part of my family’s past that, thankfully, had died with my ancestors.

I’d already turned off the lights when Detective Benny called and questioned me about Riley. I told him everything I knew. His voice cracked multiple times, like the worry and stress were getting to him. The longer we spoke, the more I wondered who in the world could have taken Riley and whether she had any chance of survival. As we hung up, I got the impression Benny was plagued by the same thoughts.

Lying on my back in the silence, gazing at the moonlight-speckled ceiling, I heard a familiar rustling in the walls. Who knows who all had stayed in this hotel —in this very room —and what they’d done to evoke a paranormal pestilence, but it was definitely there. Good news though, Custos showed up at the foot of my bed, on one knee, watching over me, and the noisy infestation quieted down.

Despite the comfort of Custos’s presence, I may have gotten a grand total of two hours of sleep. I could hardly shield my eyes from his light, even with a pillow on my face. That plus the intense anticipation of finally meeting my father kept my eyes open.

I showed up at the hospital at exactly nine o’clock in the morning, when their website said visiting hours started. My timing was impeccable; the lobby was swarming with reporters and TV crews from all over the world, all there to cover a press conference with my father, I learned. Minutes later, a set of double doors opened, and people filed in, pushing forward like a herd of spooked cattle, shuffling over death dust —typical in hospitals. More than anyone, I had to get in there.

As I merged into the crowd, my stomach was a mess of tangled knots and my mouth a parched desert. I’d spent a lifetime dreaming of laying eyes on my father, and now that the moment was almost here, nervousness held me by the throat.

I’d just passed into a hallway when a guard stopped me, gripping my arm. “Identification?”

I noticed the press people all flashing badges before receiving clearance to hurry through another set of doors. I thought for sure I’d be turned away. But then I remembered . . .

I reached into my wallet and pulled out the press ID Elle had given me. I held it up to the guard, who looked from the picture to my face and then waved me on. I owed Elle a big thanks, for sure.

We were ushered into a room that was way too small for the number of people crammed in it, and I stood in the back with all the TV cameras. These people were all here on assignment; I was trying to fill the biggest void in my life. Even if my mother had made a better effort at motherhood, I was convinced no fatherless child escapes unharmed.

The kingdom of darkness knew that too and had used it against me —in more ways than one.

We all stared for a while at a table lined with three empty chairs, waiting for Stephen Grayson to make an entrance. When the door finally opened, I could hardly blink or breathe.