Monstrous: Book Three: Monstrous, #3

Chapter One

The fog swirled away as if it didn’t want to touch her. Spreading apart like curtains to her stage. She stepped through and was greeted by the applause of rain.

Someone told her not to venture into the mist, but she couldn’t remember who. An older man with hard eyes, a cane, and long gray hair. He kept popping into her mind, his worry creasing the lines on his skin even deeper. She felt his strong hands on her shoulders. His long beard tickling her cheek.

She reached under her dripping hair and pulled the edges of her collar forward. Hissed in pain, throwing her head back and covering the heat beneath her jaw with a bare hand, wrinkled and pale from the cold and wet. Her hand came back red with blood. 

Her face wrinkled in disgust and she wiped her hand on the front of a pant leg already smeared with crimson. It seemed to leave a glowing trail, sparkling with whatever light could reach it. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

She was looking for someone who’d been with her, but she couldn’t remember his name or what he looked like, or even what separated them.

She looked back into the fog. It was always so dark here.

Got to find the way home.

Home?

Where is home?

Her feet felt like wood inside her heavy boots, shuffling across the uneven cobbles. Buildings on either side loomed over her as if bending down to block out the meager view of a dark sky that had only the occasional flicker of a candle to light it. 

Eyes pierced her from every direction, glittering in the dirty orange glow behind hazy glass panes. Through the crooked frames of empty windows.

Dread crawled into her throat, keeping pace with the sun as it rose above the horizon, and her breath burned in her lungs as she forced herself to walk faster.

But she had no idea where she was going. Or where she had been. The fog had seemingly permeated her mind. She remembered a blue light dropping from her blood-slick hand. Her cry of despair as it shattered on the rocks. The old man shook his head in disapproval, and she cringed from him in shame.

Chittering laughter from behind!

She raised her head in alarm and turned. Slimy movement and splashing footsteps. She squinted into the depths of the roiling mist and saw roving shapes darting in and out of the shadows.

Moans of pleasure and growls of anticipation.

She kept herself in the middle of the lane, keeping space around her to swing her balled-up fists, but preparation became panic when her hand fell on the empty sheath at her waist. 

She forced herself to walk faster, her feet slapping echoes off the inky walls.

Her teeth chattered as a shiver racked her shoulders. Hot breath plumed in white jets, contrasted with the thick brown mist swirling about her knees and rising up to her waist. She knew if it closed in to surround her, if it rose to cover her face, she would die.

Scraping footsteps slapped in time with her advance, and she felt something graze her hair. The fever had finally weakened her, making her prey. An easier target with every drop of blood dripping from her throat. Heart pounding, temples throbbing, she threw herself into a shambling run.

A groaning cry rose from her throat, pulsing with her steps. She held her hands in front of her, swiping at the mist that curled around to slow her down. 

Filthy steam rose from a sewer grate, washing her with a reeking rot that clung to her soaking clothes.

A wall of white, and she skidded to a stop before smashing face-first into the side of a rusting delivery truck.

Her groan rose into a frustrated wail. She struck the metal with a fist, and the empty cargo box boomed like a drum. Rasping laughter rose all around, and her eyes rolled up in terror as she spread her fingers, feeling the truck’s length as she skirted its edge. 

Its loading doors pressed into the greasy wall of the building to her right. Not enough room to squeeze past. She dropped to her knees, the sudden change in elevation making her head pound. She saw nothing but shadow beneath, save for a pair of glowing eyes winking in and out of the rolling fog.

She jumped to her feet and slammed her back against the building, scraping her nails across the plaster and brick. A gray hand reached out from under the truck, and she kicked at it, just short of making contact. 

The laughter turned into wordless shouts. Hisses and growls. Eyes appearing like stars. Leering faces with their details obscured by mist. Baleful hate and slavering grins.

Her hand brushed over a stone molding that transitioned into a doorway. Flaking paint from a wooden door, and she pressed herself into the empty space while questing for the knob. 

She couldn’t remember how to pray.

A small overhang blocked the rain, and she could feel the tears streaming down her face. 

Her hunters pressed closer, and their shapes bloomed from the mist.

Her hand found the knob, cold and oily under her touch. She closed her eyes, giving it a frantic twist, and the door fell open, sending her tumbling into the darkness.

Her teeth clacked together as her ass planted on the rotting floor, and pain jolted up her spine. She scampered back, her hands sinking into sticky filth, and the eyes in the mist widened in surprise.

Her toe hooked behind the rebounding door and she kicked it shut, flopping to her back with the effort. 

The door slammed, shaking the wall and shuddering through the floor. 

She dug her fingers into the grit, bugs and worms writhing under her hands.

Then she lunged forward, running her hands up and down the jamb until she found the lock. A heavy bolt that squealed in the hasp. She strained against it, a scream hissing through her gritted teeth, and the bolt drove home.

Her body sagged in relief, then flung away when the door rocked from the impact. Again, something slammed against the door. She screamed, covering her mouth with filthy hands and opening her eyes to their limits. She pressed her back into a dark corner and slid down to sit with her knees drawn to her chest, staring up at the silence above her. 

Help me, she whispered. Please.

A window next to the door, black with grime, darkened further with crowded shapes.

The door creaked with every blow, pale light creeping around its edges. She covered her ears and waited for it to burst in with every dark beast from her imagination spilling through. The pounding stopped, and she slumped with a gasp as though a weight had been drawn from her shoulders.

A knock on the door, nice and polite. 

Shave and a Haircut.

The ceiling creaked as something skittered across the floor above. Dust sifted down like powdered sugar on a pancake. Hurried whispers from behind the door, and the shadows cleared from the window. 

Another knock, and from the floor upstairs, the response. 

Two Bits.

The darkness deepened, growing as if a shroud had been tossed onto the street. A darkness so impenetrable that her eyes bloomed with color under the strain of trying to see. A sense of gathering behind the door. Whispers and scraping that drove fear even deeper into her gut. 

Silence from upstairs. Nothing from outside. She leaned forward, straining to hear, and the seconds ticked, marked by her shuddering breath.

The door tore from the frame. The combined shriek of the creatures pierced through the shattering wood and into her ears. And then they were on her. Clawing and biting, fighting each other to reach her first. 

She screamed, her ragged voice lost among the howls, and the darkness was absolute.

Her wrists and ankles held in stabbing grips. She drew a breath for another scream, and their rotten stink coated the inside of her mouth. In her mind, the old man looked away, covering his face with shaking hands.

Light exploded into her eyes. Into her mind. Beaming through the hanging mist, illuminating her attackers in a blinding flare. Sagging gray skin and hollow cheeks. Sores and blisters. Greasy hands and filthy faces. Rotting clothes from every era of history.

They released her, jumping back to face the light, their faces slack with terror. The glare stabbed out of the shadows as if from an opening door, and a colossal red demon stepped out with a beacon on his shoulders.

The blinding light receded, and the beacon became a beautiful child. She caught her breath as the creatures scrambled back, and the child rose from the demon’s shoulders on pearl-white wings tipped with black. His eyes, one blue and the other gold, glittered with swirling light, and his hands ended at black claws curled around a shimmering sword longer than he was tall.

The demon spread his arms. His muscles bunched and rippled, veins roping from his wrist and bulging from his thick neck. Black claws sprang from his right hand, but his left wrist was capped with a dented coffee can. The demon grinned with gleaming fangs. 

Howdy, fuckers. The voice rumbled from his chest like a diesel truck powering up a hill.

The demon stepped forward with a roar, and the little angel bounded from his shoulders, the sword swelling with fiery light.

Her attackers charged across the room with voices joined in a screeching wail that sliced through the air like a tornado siren. Scarlet blood flew into her eyes. Into her mouth. She curled away, but their screams of pain and terror clawed at her sanity. The demon’s roar, and the angel’s cries of rage.

Bodies hitting the floor like wet sacks. Mewling cries severed by the whistling slash of claws. 

Her hands and feet were numb. Cold and leaden. Her face burned, and her chest bubbled as she cried. A gentle hand under her legs, her shoulder leaning against a warm chest. Her body rose into the air as her mind spiraled into the darkness of her fever. She passed out with the salty taste of blood still on her lips.

Hushed voices in conversation. The rocking rhythm as the demon’s strides made her sway in his arms. 

Where are you taking me?

She’s very pretty, isn’t she? The small voice said — the angel.

Yes, she is. The demon’s rumble. A little old for you, though, isn’t she?

"No, Henry. I meant for you."

The demon laughed. It sounded like a shovel digging through sand.

"Doesn’t matter. This one’s not for me, no."

Why not?

Yes. Why not?

The silence yawned for so long that she didn’t think he was going to answer. When he did, his voice was tight with pain. Because I still love Samantha, buddy. And I’m starting to finally learn what that really means.

She felt the sorrow in his voice as her own, and she turned away, settling back into troubled sleep.

She woke to angel’s face hanging above her. Her teeth chattered with every inhalation, and her pulse thundered behind her eyes. Heat rose from the neck wound. Cold radiated from her hands and feet. She didn’t know why she was dying, only that she didn’t want to. Tears welled in her eyes, and the angel blurred as he reached out to touch her forehead.

I don’t know if this is going to hurt or not, he said, his quiet voice sad and apologetic.

Pain shattered every forming thought, and her scream rose to fill the empty space in her brain. Her head was filled with fire. Burning into her neck and flowing into her lungs. The scream emptied her air, and she couldn’t catch another breath.

Her diaphragm seized, cramping under her ribs. Her heels drummed on the soft padding beneath her. The angel removed his hand, and her air returned in a whooping breath that flooded her with healing relief. Lost memories followed, and Aela sat up, pushing herself away from the little angel’s touch.

She massaged her neck where the Ravager had dug into her flesh with a dagger, and her hand came away clean. Smooth skin met her fingertips, and she looked up to ask the angel what he’d done, but he was already walking away.

She sat in an attic room. Yellow light flickered from an oil lantern in the corner. Bright and cheery, it danced behind its glass shield. Another lamp in the far corner banished the shadows, and Aela smiled. Evil rarely did business in the Forgotten by candlelight.

She sat on a plush couch with deep cushions and pillows. She was smearing it with her dirt, and she snatched her hand up, ready to apologize. She looked up into the demon’s eyes, and Sorry died on her lips.

He sat in a leather recliner. His black T-shirt stretched across his chest, barely holding his bulk. A white peace symbol distorted by his muscle to look more like a peace oval. Brown cargo shorts with ties dangling from the knees, his feet wrapped in fuzzy penguin slippers. Cute little beady-eyed smiles over his toes.

Dark hair hung across his forehead, and he swiped it aside with the gnarled stump at the end of his left wrist before snapping a newspaper back up to keep reading. Old and yellow, cracking where he held it. WALL STREET CRASH! in faded letters across the top.

The angel looked like an ordinary boy. But beautiful. White T-shirt and shorts. Silvery blond hair lying perfectly on his head. Pure skin. His eyes still hovered in her mind. Blue and gold, quietly commanding.

He passed by a wooden desk and grabbed a book on his way to the leather chair. He jumped up to perch on the demon’s shoulder, then opened the book and rested it against the demon’s horns like a music stand. Chin in his hands, he stared at the book with a furrowed brow.

Aela remembered everything from her trip into the Forgotten thanks to the boy’s healing hands. The other demon she’d been escorting to Solitude. The enchanted blade coming at her neck. Her narrow escape. 

But her memories couldn’t help to sort this madness. An angel sitting on a demon’s shoulders, his eyes inside a King James Bible. 

She cleared her throat, and they both looked up at her in the same motion. She was suddenly afraid to ask her question, but she cleared her throat again and shrugged.

Am I dead?

The demon looked at her in confusion, tipping his head like a dog listening for his master. Aren’t we all?

Chapter Two

Henry opened the old newspaper and folded it in on itself to read the inner pages. A pot roast recipe caught his eye. Adam’s warm breath washed into his face. Henry smelled peanut butter and the old bible’s musty pages.

"I’m not dead," Adam said.

The girl smoothed greasy black hair from her forehead and shrugged with a sigh. "I was born here, so I guess I’m not dead, either."

Henry raised his eyebrows and looked at her past the edge of the page. What, in my attic?

She stared at him, her face slack with mock boredom.

Not a girl like he first thought, but a young woman. Late twenties, if he had to guess. Blonde and pale and slim. A rung or two below Samantha, but under all the dirt and dried blood, she was probably pretty. For this place, anyway.

She continued to stare without comment. He shrugged and returned to his paper with a mutter, "I guess it’s just me who’s dead." 

The woman hugged herself and scooted to the front edge of the couch. I’m hungry.

Henry gave her the same treatment she’d given him, but Adam looked over the top of his book. His weight shifted across Henry’s shoulders as he pointed. We got lots of stuff in the cabinet over there. Mostly junk, but there are also some wrinkly apples we picked yesterday.

Henry jumped in from behind his paper. "Twinkies from World War One. Some Girl Scout sugar cookies from the 30s, I think. Fairly modern Slim Jims, which I highly recommend by the way. A couple of boxes of whole milk. I didn’t even know that shit came in a box, but it does, and you can just put it on a shelf for like, forever. The apples my young friend here mentioned, and two cans of New Coke from the eighties, but to be honest, I’ll never be thirsty enough for those."

"Do you have any real food?" the woman asked.

Henry tapped Adam’s calf and bucked his shoulders. Get off me, kid.

"Okay. I was done with Corinthians, anyways."

While the boy snapped his book closed and climbed down, Henry folded the newspaper into his lap, taking his time with the answer. 

Pretty or not, she’s irritating the shit out of me.

Henry took a calming breath. "As duly elected representatives of the after-life, we don’t really need to eat. Just water and sleep. Skittles and Pepsi. Henry cocked his thumb at Adam, who had moved to the desk with a box of Bri-Tone crayons. He doesn’t even get pimples. Or cavities. Fortunately for me, there’s always the shadow assholes running around."

The Lost, she said.

That what you call ’em?

She nodded, swallowing with an audible click in her throat.

"Yeah, well. Those fucking guys are everywhere. And I can feel ’em. Their twisted wanting. Their despair. Some of the folks down here are just that. People. Looking for a way out, psyching themselves up to follow the light, but these guys? I can feel it in ’em. Stubborn refusal. Terror. They turned away from the choice, and now it’s too late. They just take up space and try to remove the choice from everyone else."

That’s why you hunt them?

"Well, that. And they taste better."

She recoiled in disgust, and Henry felt smug satisfaction. He wasn’t sure why he was annoyed by the woman, but he was. He’d become increasingly agitated ever since he’d been in this damned place.

How long have you been here?

I don’t know, Henry said. More than two months, less than three? Can’t find a goddamn clock anywhere.

A smile flashed across her face then got lost in a grimace as if she were trying to hide it. But Henry was sure he’d seen it. She looked into the corners as if searching for something, her eyes tracking along the baseboards. Surely she’d been through some shit.

He wanted to give her a minute, but the back of his neck was getting warm. 

What? he shouted.

She started, her eyes connecting with his before sliding away. Why did you save me?

Why did I …? Henry drove his fist into the arm of his recliner, and the paper fluttered to the floor. "Why wouldn’t I? You’re the first person who wasn’t trying to eat us. Or kill us for our clothes. I was gonna say normal, but I don’t know if there is normal in this place. His voice rose to a shout, and Henry decided to let it. But you know what? I didn’t even want to. The real reason we saved you was because Adam heard your prayer."

Henry leaned over and snatched the newspaper off the floor, opening it in angry pantomime. "You were saved. You were healed. So, fuck off and take the New Coke with you. Leave the Slim Jims."

"Adam? The boy’s name is Adam?"

That’s right.

Is he an angel?

Henry lowered the paper and looked up at the ceiling — rough beams and oak planking, so much like his attic office back home. He wondered if Mike Stone liked it. Sitting up there and balancing his checkbook. "I’m literally done talking to you. You’re welcome, by the way."

Henry? Adam said.

Yeah, buddy?

You're not being very nice.

Henry looked over at Adam, sitting with his arms crossed in severe reproach. 

Amélie’s face sprung into his mind. The same pouting disapproval. Longing twisted his gut, and he had to bite back the sudden swell of tears. One week, when Samantha had been down with the flu, Henry made all of Amélie’s lunches. Every time he assembled the sandwiches, he put the cheese on the outside as a joke, and she put her fists on her hips. "That’s not how it goes, Daddy!" 

Fine. Henry turned back, and the woman’s face glistened with fresh tears. What, you’re crying now? Jesus, okay, you can have the Slim Jims, too.

Adam giggled, and Henry sat back, the warmth of pleasure replacing the heat of his anger. Making somebody laugh, anybody, was enough to make him relax.

The woman wiped at her tears with a grimy hand. Is there somewhere I can get cleaned up, please?

Sure. Henry pointed his nubbin at the same cabinet that held their food. There’s a can of wipes and a mirror. Go out the door right next to it, down the stairs, and there’s a running stream smells like piss. Help yourself.

Don’t worry, Adam said. The shadow people are afraid of us. Well, Henry mostly.

She nodded and walked across the attic like her boots were soaked in glue. She was dressed like a fantasy novel. Brown leather pants, creaking with her movement. A leather jacket belted at her waist, flaring out to cover most of her ass. Brass buttons shining out from a green flannel shirt. A battered messenger bag bouncing on her left hip, the strap crossing to hang from her right shoulder.

Henry could smell her under the dirt and sweat and blood. Not fruit and flowers, but a sweet earthiness, like baking spice.

She pried the lid off the plastic can and made a dirty pile of crumpled wipes at her feet. If she noticed Henry staring, she didn’t show it. Muscles in her thighs flexed and separated through the tight press of her pants. She slid her sleeves up, and her lean forearms rippled with the movements of her fingers.

Her softness was an illusion. His imagination. This woman was hard. Strong. She made him uncomfortable, and he wanted her gone. 

She kicked the dirty wipes into the corner, opened their pantry cabinet, and wrinkled her nose. She closed the door, turned around with crossed arms, and looked directly into Henry’s eyes. You’re not like any other demon I’ve ever met.

Oh, yeah? Out of how many?

She shrugged. Not that many, but I’ve been told about your kind.

Told what?

You’re liars. Cheats. Selfish and ugly. Spiritual forces of darkness that corrupt the flesh of this world.

That is … Henry shrugged, unkind.

It’s the truth.

Fatigue settled over Henry’s shoulders. Weeks of keeping his spirits up, for Adam, for his own sanity. Faking the smile every morning, or whatever passed for a morning in this place. Dodging every hint of any agents from Heaven or Hell. Always on the lookout for answers. And now it was hard to not feel like he was cracking.

I’m tired, lady. Let me tell you some truth. I love my daughter. More than anything else … I just don’t have words for how much. Samantha’s face hanging in his memory, looking over his shoulder in horror as Amélie came out of her bedroom to scream his name. The cramp in his guts when he had known he couldn’t save her. His life gone in a flash.

Now, I’m crying, too. 

Fucking perfect.

"I couldn’t save her when I was alive. And now she’s in Hell. Because of me. He pointed to Adam. But