Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1) (17 page)

"What there must be is war!"

"And you've already been to the general's tent. You have already sat down and dictated the terms of that war. It's war by proxy, Father. I know the terms as well as you. War by proxy, fought amongst your mortal toy soldiers, no divine assistance or interference or persuasion. You agreed to arbitration. You are bound by the terms."

"Unfair terms. He encouraged his temples to be built. What kind of piece do I get to speak?"

"None, because it is not yet your time."

"I can bring about that time," he said, his voice little more than growl. "I've waited aeons. All I have to do is show them who is the mightier, who is the wronged."

"There cannot be interference! You and all yours, and Him, and all His—keep your damned noses out of this. It isn't your war to fight anymore. It's theirs."

"You think it's not my business? This is personal, child. This is the very definition of personal."

"It's beyond you, now. What happened to you…it's too far gone to be of consequence anymore. It's not you versus Him. It's Light versus Darkness. That's all. It's so simple. Just let it go. Stop interfering."

"And what are you? You fight for the Light, while you reap all the benefits of the Darkness. What are you if not interference?"

"Then you shouldn't have given me humanity. That was your biggest mistake. You engineered me but you didn't foresee this. My humanity keeps me beyond your—and His—jurisdiction."

"You will obey me, Chiaroscuro." Lucifer sat back, straight and firm in his throne. The ruler, with eyes of silver ice and the shadow of leathered wings arching behind him. "I am your father. I am the king of all darkness. I am Hell!"

She smiled thinly, trying to warm her eyes in the light of his cold fire. "But I am not. I am human. And I have free will. This isn't your war anymore, Father. It's mine."

She took both his hand and tugged him to his feet. He bowed his head to her. She stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

"And I'm going now. Goodbye, Father. I'll see you soon enough." She patted his arm gently before turning toward the door.

Lucifer watched her leave, his Morningstar eyes like quicksilver again. "Oh, yes, you will. You most certainly will."

Hand in hand, Simon and Sarah stared at the scorched earth where the Staircase had been. A lazy wind scattered the salt, destroying the circle.

His brain did a flat-line buzz for a moment as he struggled to comprehend—no, accept—what had just happened. He was the one who'd opened that portal, not Chiara. She couldn't re-open it.

It was his spell and he'd just shut it down on her, stranding her in Hell. Was this how God felt when He shuffled cards and dealt out judgments? Did God feel this dirty, this low, this despicable all the time? Was this to be his eternity?

"No, no. You can't be gone." He shook his head, wobbling on the edge of a soul-deep abyss, feeling the stones crumble beneath his feet. His shoulders crumpled and he felt the plunge coming. He knew it and he knew he deserved it. "You can't be."

A familiar sound, a clearing of throat, came from behind him.

He whipped around to see Chiara. A thin glowing line hovered in the air behind her. The remnant of a hell gate, fading like a gentle memory. But not her. She remained, firmly in their world.

His heart thumped, blood resuming its natural flow, warming his adrenaline-chilled limbs in a wash of heat. She survived.
He
survived.

"How did you—" Simon grabbed her up in a tight embrace, spinning her off her feet. "It's you. I know it's you."

She nodded, serenity settling upon her features as if she were allowing herself to relax, from the insides out.

What had she seen? Endured? Because of him? He felt shamed, dropping his gaze to the scattering of salt and expended magic, still smoking in the dirt at their feet. "I had to seal it. A lesser demon broke out. Smelled like minion rank, you know, that weird rotting onion smell they have but—I couldn't risk—oh, God."

He swallowed around a knot that wanted to choke him and courageously met her eyes. "Can you forgive me?"

"There is nothing to forgive." She laughed gently, as if she hadn't spent another forever in Hell, and cupped his cheek. "You did the right thing. Didn't he, sweetie?"

"That was you?" Sarah peered up at her, scrutinizing her from head to toe. "I like you better like this. You're prettier."

Simon rubbed his eyes. "I don't think I want to know," he said.

Chiara smiled at Sarah, ignoring Simon.

"I think so, too. I'm not one for extremes. Anyway." She cleared her throat and squatted down to Sarah's level. "How would you like to go home, Sarah?"

Simon just looked at her over Sarah's head, something heavy and unspoken in his eyes.

Chiara blinked rapidly, her eyes unusually bright and whispered. "Me, too."

Back at the hotel, next door to Chiara's suite—in a regular room—Simon went through the rituals of a series of complex catching-up spells.

Chiara paced outside in the breezeway, pausing to peer in through a crack in the drapes.

Mack sat cross-legged in front of the door, eyes closed. She knew better than to think he was asleep. She was pretty sure he didn't need eyes to see what went on around him.

A few hours into the vigil, he spoke. The sudden sound of his voice made her jump.

"That was a selfless thing to do," Mack said.

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the railing. "It was the only thing I could do."

"It had such a profound effect on him. Just look at him."

The sliver of light between the drapes didn't offer much of a view. Occasionally he would cross in front, hands raised, the muffled sound of his voice coming through the glass.

Sometimes, she didn't need eyes, either. She saw him with her senses, saw his aura. For the first time since she met him, there wasn't a jagged edge ripping through him, keeping his pieces from coming together, from being whole. He was healing, just as Father had said.

But unlike Father, she
did
like Simon whole.

Well, more whole. There was a weakness he kept hidden, even from her. It was a weakness he seemed unwilling to relinquish.

Time. He needed for time. And for a while, at least, they had it.

"What is he doing?" Chiara hooked a thumb over her shoulder toward the room.

Mack leaned his head back and opened his eyes. "He's assimilating her. She's been in Hell for seventeen years. She can't just scamper off into the world."

She crossed her arms, hugging her ribs. "When I looked in before, I didn't even recognize her."

"Well, he's helping nature catch up. The spell will rapidly age her body seventeen years. She's growing up right before our eyes. Then again, most mortals do that, don't they?"

She smiled gently, appreciating the sentiment. There were very few beings that shared Chiara's perspective, especially when it came to lifespans. "How is she going to live? A ten-year-old who suffered in hell for an eternity, thrust into an adult body—"

"There is a second spell. A much more difficult one. That's the reason I'm here—to guard him, to help him conserve energy and concentration. He's rebuilding her psyche. Seventeen years of manufactured memories and experience to write over her memories of Hell. He's giving her a real past."

"But time in Hell doesn't pass in real-time." A shudder ran through her, a chill that dripped down her back. She knew what happened in Hell and she didn't like dwelling upon it. "Her soul's been aged to an impossible point. Her soul can't be rebooted. Her innocence has been destroyed."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Mack said, his voice soft.

The minutes dragged past them in silence. The door clicked open. Simon wandered out and pulled out a cigarette, leaning heavily against the frame of the door. "What, a party and you didn't invite me?"

"How is she?" Chiara asked.

He shrugged. "Sleeping."

She peered through the open door and saw a figure lying on the bed, eyes closed, a rosy glow hovering over her body like tinted valley fog. But the ten-year-old was nowhere to be seen. There was a woman, late twenties, lines etched near her eyes even in the relaxation of deep sleep.

He cupped his hand around his lighter, even though there was no breeze to disturb the flame. "She needs time to stitch her parts back together."

"Will she be okay?" she asked.

"As good as she'll ever be. You said it yourself, you can't unsee a divinity. She'll never lose the scars of inevitability or the certain knowledge of what lies beyond the mortal realm." He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms before rubbing his head, leaving his hair in tousled spikes. "Eventually, the guises will break down and she'll remember. It'll start as a vague itch she can't put a finger on, that will grow into a conviction she can't prove. One thing is for sure. She'll be recruited by some paranormal team or another. But that's a bridge we can cross when we get there."

"So what's next?"

"What else? We get a good night's sleep and tomorrow we take her home. And..." He took a deep breath and gave her the full touch of his gaze. "We talk."

"About?"

"You opened a hell gate to get back."

Oh. There was that. She knew it would come up, eventually. Such a critical time as this needed complete honesty. "Yes."

"What price did you pay for it, kid?"

She blinked, taken aback. Of all the things she thought he'd follow up with, personal concern was near the bottom of the list. No accusation, no reprimand or disdain tinted his tone. And his body language was completely open.

He was worried about her.

She reached over and stroked his arm. "None of consequence. I promise."

"I don't know if you're lying to protect me or if it's actually the truth. In which case...I hope it's the lie." He grinned, lopsided and charming.

She returned the grin. Intuitive man.

Not long afterwards, Chiara stood watch over Simon and Sarah as they slept. He'd tried to eat something but said he was too tired to chew. He sprawled face down on the other bed and was twitching himself to sleep in less than a minute.

Chiara never left the foot of his bed, never let her guard down. Mack remained outside against the door. It was as safe as safe could ever get for a child who'd been rescued from Hell and the man who never gave up on the hope of getting her back.

It was an idyllic morning in Belmont. Birdsong and early morning traffic, dog-walkers and school buses. This was what life was like when Simon was sixteen years old, back when magic was more evident in the force of an early spring than in a kid messing with powers he didn't understand.

He pulled the car over diagonally from Sarah's parents' home and switched off the ignition.

Sarah hadn't said much on the drive over. What would she have to talk about? He'd only given her a muddled version of the last few days, just enough so that she could see straight and acclimate herself into the real world again. Not enough for police to interrogate before setting off on a misinformed manhunt for abductors who didn't exist. On this plane, anyway.

Chiara had bought her a new outfit that, thanks to current trends, looked sufficiently broken in. Her hair was in a hasty ponytail that looked like a little kid did it.

Well, technically…but that was neither here nor there.

There was a fat wad of bills in her jacket pocket, all the money he'd squirrelled away over the years. Lean living, in more ways than one. It seemed a fortune to him now, only counted and realized the day Sarah came home.

Not that he needed to put a value on such things.

"Simon." She leaned around the Chiara's seat, waiting, watching the house. "I remember that house."

"See? Told you it would all come back to you. Can you picture the inside?"

She squinched her lips to one side and tilted her head. "A pink room."

"That's right, a pink room. Your bedroom, right?"

"Yeah!" She grinned. "I had a clown collection."

Simon groaned and laughed, suppressing a shudder. The clowns had always freaked him out a little. Creepy little things. No wonder he blocked the memory. "You did. They sat on your windowsill."

"My clowns. Can I see them?"

"In a moment. I want you to remember something else." He glanced out the window. "Can you picture who lives there? Who is inside?"

"Hmm." This time, her thinking face included pushed down eyebrows. "A man. And a lady."

"Yes?"

The seconds ticked by.

"Oh." Her voice became a breathy whisper. "Mom and Dad."

She leaned through the seats, grasping Simon's sleeve. Staring. Frozen. "Mom and Dad are in there."

"Yeah, they are." He shook her hand off playfully. "Well, go on, kid. Go home."

She had trouble getting the car door open—had to fumble with the automatic locks—but managed.

Sarah didn't look when crossing the street, so intent was she on the old house with the big bay windows and faded yellow curtains. Simon had to stall an oncoming Toyota just so she wouldn't get mowed down. Didn't even look like she noticed the car that had rolled to a stop a few yards from her.

She paused to brush her hands against the clematis blossoms hugging the fence post. Slowly, she walked up the sidewalk, testing each footstep, looking in every direction.

Knocking twice, she turned on the door step to look back at him and smiled, one last time, the same wide toothy smile she'd given him all those years ago. She was the same Sarah he'd lost. And she was finally found.

The pain that lanced through his heart was a different kind, sharp and fresh. He wanted to keep her just a moment longer, just enough to let it all sink in. Just one more moment of feeling like he had everything he'd thought was forever lost. That toothy grin, maybe another bout of laughter. Precious things that couldn't be tallied and couldn't be his again.

It was selfish, but he probably could have done it. Thrown up a cloaking spell and portaled the hell out of there to a fixed moment in time, where the sands in the hourglass paused mid-stream. But keeping her a moment longer would have been a greedy thing. It would have spoiled all the good that had finally been done.

Remembering his place, he swallowed hard and denied the impulse to clutch tight that bit of happiness. He had to let go. This time, he could let her go to a good place. That knowledge was the only thing he could allow himself to keep.

He waved his fingers and murmured, setting the final part of the spell. Sarah's smile faltered, confusion drifting in while she looked at him.
Do I know you?

He let his breath leak out. Only her manufactured memories remained. Good. Slowly they'll be replaced with ones of a happy reunion.

The door opened and her mother cried out at the sight of her, her father close behind. Crying and shouting, laughing and hugging, the family, reunited at long last, disappeared into the house, the door closing behind them, a new life before them. The sounds of happy tears drifted through the open windows.

Simon watched silently, knowing there would never be such a homecoming for him.

Chiara rubbed his arm. "You did it. You brought her back. It's over."

He shook his head, a quick negation, and blew out a breath. He wasn't looking at Sarah's house. He stared beyond it at the plain house next door. "Far from it."

Tugging out a chicory stick and his lighter, he opened the car door and got out.

Chiara leaned over her seat. "What are you going to do?"

"Clean up my mess." He swung the door shut. His jaw clenched, he walked slowly past Foster's to the house next door, a plain square of a two-story home Chiara had remarked how out of place it looked when they drove past it the morning before. He crossed the lawn, steps slowing as he got halfway to the porch, his hands raised. Coming to a standstill, he lit the chicory stem and exhaled into the smoke, blowing it forward.

A barrier glinted and sparkled briefly, revealed by the smoke. He rapped on the barrier, two taps with his knuckle, and stepped back to watch. The shimmer streaked outward in all directions, hinting at a great dome that covered the property. Nodding to himself, he shoved his fingers into his pocket, pulling out a fistful of charms. He flipped through the medals and amulets until he found a crystal, a long oblong with a chiseled point at one end.

He started to chant, words that had been taught to him by
Ngangkari
from Australia's Western desert. So many years ago, he'd cloaked the remains of his childhood home within the realms of the Dreaming. It would take a lot more than chicory to pass through this ward.

He palmed the crystal shard, rotating it until the pointed end protruded from his fist, and dragged the sharp tip across his palm. Blood streaked through the split in his skin. Cupping the crimson stain until a sufficient amount had pooled, he drew a wet vertical line down the shimmering barrier, slicing it open, creating a flap.

Stepping through, Simon saw the true, undisguised ruins of his childhood home. Windows shattered, roof caving in, paint long past peeled and quite nearly gone.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a smudge stick. A special one. This was no ordinary sage blend—in between the leaves were twigs of mallow, cedar shavings, lime zest and horseradish root. The smoke it would produce was sure to be a riot of smells that would most likely put him off eating for several hours, but the extra elements would boost the power of the cleansing.

Exorcism. Protection. Healing.

Love.

A weathered letter from the sheriff's office plastered the front door. If Simon looked hard, he might have been able to make out the date. He hadn't looked when he placed the property into this pocket of the Dreaming, and he had no plans to look now. Placing a hesitant hand on the wood, he pushed, just a little. The door cracked off its rotted hinges and fell open.

He ducked through the dismantled doorway into the dim shadows. A part of his spirit crumpled to see what was left. Debris covered the floors, dead leaves and ceiling tiles. The floors were splintered, shoved up in shards after the pipes had frozen and exploded. The walls were mottled with musty-smelling spots, the paint peeled. Everywhere was decay and destruction.

Nowhere was any sign of the home it once had been, so very long ago. Mom wasn't in the kitchen, following along with some cooking show chef. Sarah wasn't playing on her swing set in the backyard next door. No happy reunion here. Just the ghosts of regrets and immaturity and very, very poor judgement.

He tugged a feather out of his jacket. Time to banish those ghosts.

He vestured as deep into the parlor as he dared, kicking the trash and the rot out of the way, clearing a space. Opening a small amphora, he carefully poured the contents out in a circle around him. Salt with a kick. This circle needed to hold. He stooped and peered at the thick line. A quick inspection showed it was intact, no breaks or skips. So he hoped.

If he was wrong, at least it would be his last mistake.

He took a deep breath and held the smudge stick to the flame of his lighter, waving it to get the smolder going. The scents of sage and herb stung his nose as he turned to each of the four directions, wafting the smoke and chanting.

Creaking in the ceiling started first, groaning in the walls followed. Clatters beneath him sped his pulse. Simon closed his eyes and continued the cleansing, instinctively finding each direction, one after another. He didn't need to see the circle aglow at his feet to know it was working. He needed only to listen to the old ruins give up their grip on the past.

Boards crashed around him but he kept his eyes closed. He didn't want to see. Chanting louder, he counted the waves of the feather. One, two, three to the North. Turn on his heels. One, two, three to the East. Block out the sounds. Don't breathe in the scents. Don't watch the past come down on its knees.

Sudden sunlight danced over his eyelids, a warm ruddy glow. Count, turn, chant, sustain.

And then there was silence.

Simon finished the third wave toward the West, completing the ninth turn, and opened his eyes. He stood in the center of a square patch of soil. No rubble, no weeds, just clean scorched earth.

Almost done.

He stooped to scratch a hole between his feet and buried the remains of the sage stick, patting the soil back in place around it, before stepping out of the circle.

"Goodbye, Mom." The words came out tiny, so much smaller than the man he thought he'd become. "I have to leave. If you were here, I'd stay. But you're gone. And I have to let you go."

And then he simply walked back toward the car. The barrier let him pass without as much as a whisper across his skin.

Halfway across the street, he paused and looked over his shoulder. The ward was still in place, the plain white house that used to be a home. But the ward would fade now that he'd dissembled the power that kept it in place. The false image of the house would disappear in time for neighbors to finally remember that it had been knocked down years ago. They'd just forgotten in the excitement of Sarah Foster's return.

Memories were funny that way.

A sprinkling of tiny blue flowers popped out across the exposed lawn. Forget-me-nots. A ghost of a smile played on his lips and he glanced upwards. Whatever magic brought these bright little blossoms, it wasn't his.

He blinked, the sunlight bringing an unexpected sting to his eyes. Now. Now he could say it was done.