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My knees went weak when Deputy Gardener led me into the interrogation room. I stumbled and propped my shoulder against the door frame. If putting my gear in the lockbox amputated a piece of my spirit, crossing this threshold gored out a meaty chunk.
Gardener tightened his grip. He didn’t force me to keep moving, just held steady.
“Something wrong with you?”
I shook my head. Speaking had equal chances of words or vomit. Gardener guided me toward an empty table. He hooked the handcuffs to a chain which settled on the table with a deafening rumble.
“Water?” I croaked.
He took one more look. Traces of concern hid on the fringes of his hard-ass scowl. He was under the wrong management to start having a conscience. Some little piece beneath my sternum like the last green leaf on a tree shuddered and broke free as the interrogation room door closed. More wards were being sealed.
I’d sunk deeper and deeper into trouble. I’d allowed the redneck vibe of this town to cloud my judgment. With all the old magic floating around, I should’ve anticipated the sheriff’s involvement. Hell, Becky might even have a dose of power for all I knew.
But I wasn’t dead. Not yet. That meant they wanted something. And the Sheriff hadn’t asked for backup from his state and county buddies for a reason. Avoiding scrutiny and legal process had been important and I was starting to understand why. But why then had he bothered to call in all the reinforcements? To find his brother’s killer? An intimidation tactic? Something else?
The oppressive wards let up slightly as the door opened and Deputy Gardener returned. He stepped inside and set a paper cup on the table. I gave an abrupt nod and watched the water ripple until, after another hard stare, he left.
Seconds later, a polite rapping sounded on the door.
This time when the ward retreated, a rotten presence rushed into the gap. The man who came in wore a cleanly pressed and perfectly tailored suit. It almost matched the pristine white walls, but with a subtle yellowing. Ivory. Old bone. He had a helmet of salt and pepper hair which must’ve been a toupee. Coal black, dense eyebrows gave the impression they’d grow tangled and wild if not perfectly plucked and waxed. His mouth seemed sewn into a perpetual smile courtesy of an undertaker’s handwork. His eyes, those were empty pits. They made the smile unreadable and his intent an indecipherable warning.
This was a man who’d gleefully accepted the disassociation of the Below. Who existed in This World only through a constant effort of will. Or sacrifice.
Two other men stood in the hall, backs turned, hands clasped. My visitor turned his frozen smile on them and closed the door. He measured my situation from beside the door, his eyes scrutinizing the cuffs and chain before he sat.
Grinning, he scooted the metal chair forward with little childish hops. I noticed a golden cross on his lapel, pinned upside down. He followed my gaze and affected a blush somewhere under the putty-knife makeup. Using his pointer finger, he righted it.
“That happens.” He spoke in a cheerful tone as fake as his face.
Only half an hour ago I’d been thinking, best case, I could talk my way onto their search team. Worst, I posted bail and finished my job. Nowhere had being magically shackled in a spiritual dead zone with a full-on demon been part of the plan.
“You were at Hallewell’s,” I said, swallowing my fear. My parents had raised me to be God-fearing, though it never took. The Lord’s mysterious ways were too vague. The body I’d seen at Fenwick Hall was anything but. “The former Mr. Hallewell.”
The man’s head tilted wistfully. He plucked the blood red square from his breast pocket and dabbed at dry, cracking lips. “I went to share the Word. Only, his faith wasn’t strong enough to allow me into his heart.” He tucked the pocket square away and smoothed his jacket. “I had to find a more...expedient route.”
“Mordecai Sunday,” I said, recalling Becky’s mention of the television preacher. “You didn’t find what you were looking for, did you?”
He wanted the sword. Hell, he’d probably set all this up. I didn’t need to mention it to see the gleam in his eye.
“You’re a quick one, aren’t you? My father maintains you’re a lesser breed. Subhuman,” he said, conversationally.
“Sounds like a charming guy.”
Mordecai feigned an apologetic pout. “I don’t harbor such prejudices. You all taste the same.”
Despite the mountains of wards and protections, the man, or beast seated across from me radiated the bleakest emptiness of the Below. I’d been cut off from my own power and totems, so instead, I focused on him. Unlike me, who needed to reach in and borrow from the spirit realm, he was nothing but spirit. I could use that if I were cautious. I didn’t want to pry too hard, just lightly push the boundary ajar. Too much and this clown’s aura would drive me insane.
Mordecai sneered into my silence. “This is where you ask what I want. Where I give you the bargain. It’s how these things work.”
I said nothing, just carefully probed around the edges. Too many words with these kinds of creatures never ended well.
“If you were one of the faithful, I’d simply ask.” He motioned toward the hall. “And like our goodly, righteous Sheriff, you would serve.” Mordecai’s lips parted enough to expose a row of straightened, polished teeth. “Sadly, I have had to rely on other methods to ensure your cooperation. Your role in the brutal murder of an elderly veteran for instance.”
So there was the catch. I’d already been leveraged. This bargain ended one of two ways, with either me signing over my soul or spending my life in prison.
“You’re thinking you have a way out. You’re thinking I haven’t yet accounted for every possible variable,” he said. “That you might stall and buy time. That you might see a light, a tiny ray of hope, which isn’t me.” He allowed his rigor mortis grin to turn into a toothy, gleaming leer. “But you’ve been lost. A walking ghost since you left the Baltimore Police. Your family.”
My muscles tightened and the chain clinked as I pulled out the slack. I tried to tell myself they’d already run my prints. Fed my biometrics into their Big Brother bullshit. He was playing bent to get a rise out of me. Typical interrogation tactics, but I couldn’t shake them. And this beast knowing about my son? Hell no.
Tearing open the Below to shut his mouth right now felt worth the risk. With Death always cruising the block for me, I wondered how preacher man would like to meet a Gallu face to face? I probed deeper over the boundary, my concentration becoming obvious.
Water sloshed inside the concrete interrogation room.
The preacher scanned the ceiling. The walls. “My, my.” His gaze found mine. “You seem tense.”
“Don’t test my spirit,” I warned.
Big talk. Whatever I summoned would likely be my last spell. Death himself? I had no protection. Battle magic? I’d be able to do some righteous superhuman shit but even if I won the fight, I’d die with a head full of voices and lungs drowned in blood. The hope of ever seeing my son again would end. I’d be tossed into my own unmarked grave with no chance for righting my life. Maybe I could find Atofo and share in his misery.
Hands which had been rubbing eagerly since he returned the pocket square, stopped. Mordecai began to pick absently under the manicured nail of his pointer finger. Gripping it between thumb and forefinger, he yanked.
The nail slid out from his fingertip with a sickening squelch. It never separated, only grew in length, darkening to the color of dried blood. He reached inside his breast pocket with the other hand and removed a document.
“I have no desire to taste—” he stopped himself and straight up giggled. Like schoolgirl giggled. “To test your spirit. What I desire is a sword. An item for which I am willing to trade said spirit.” He unfolded the paper and scribbled in the air above it with the one, long, dripping nail.
I stared, stone-faced.
“No?” He frowned and carefully folded the document before stuffing it back into his inner pocket. Slamming the tip of his finger into the tabletop, he drove the extended nail back into the bed, relishing the pain. One quick suck of the bloodied finger and he stood. “You’ll need time to think.”
“You can’t keep me here.”
“Here?” His face scrunched, perplexed. “Oh no, no! We have a much better facility. A private correctional institution where we will reform you, reshape you, into a more desirable member of society.” He gave a beatific smile which never quite found its way out from under the heavily plastered makeup. “My Heavenly Father knows best. Promised Land is much more than a ministry. You’ll see.” He went to the door and knocked once. “You’ll be happy to help the faithful soon enough. I’ll inform the Sheriff that he can transport you in the morning. Have a blessed day.”
One of his bodyguards opened the door, staring me down through darkly tinted shades. Ripples of flesh where his neck should’ve been, the guy was built like a bulldog had crossbred with a Mack truck. Chin high, I returned the glare. He didn’t let up until he started to pull the door closed.
With the warded threshold cracked open and a walking rift between the realms passing through it, my opportunity was slipping away. I’d prepped for battle magic or even death to keep the demon from eating my soul right here and now. But since I was off the menu, I went for a more subtle approach. I bit hard into my cheek and reached into the Below.
Hitching a ride on a garbage truck full of bloated corpses would’ve been more pleasant. My stomach heaved and lungs clotted. I spit a droplet of blood into the cup of water and had to fight not to retch up more.
“Atofo!” I sputtered into the swirling contents of the Styrofoam cup, more blood spattering the table. “Atofo! I need your help!”
The slowly diffusing strands of blood feathered across the water. Shapes became more definite. In the unsettled murk materialized the face of an owl drawn in crimson. Saucer eyes stared from under an angry brow.
The door clicked shut. The blood slowly diffused inside the cup. Exhausted, I let my forehead drop to the table.
Prayers. Maybe I’d finally say a few because I didn’t have anything else left.