Book and Blade: Book One of the Hand of Perdition (11 page)

He moved fast, avoiding the gunfire as best he could.

Two men and three women were in the garage. In a blur he saw that all of them had dark stains on their souls, but much less than those outside.

The power inside of him did not care. It drove him forward, fiery blade flashing out, power crackling down its length.

At first they tried to defend themselves. The two men ran forward, guns blazing. Christopher dove behind a car, using it as a shield.

One of the men ran around the trunk of the car and the Weapon flashed, slicing his head off and taking his soul.

Christopher leapt again, almost hitting the steel beams across the ceiling, but he managed to duck in time.

He crashed down on top of the other man, driving his fist into his face. He was unused to his own strength and the man's head was torn open by his fist, killing him.

Before he could stand the women charged at him, desperation in their eyes and auras.

The Weapon, angry at being denied the soul of the man at his feet, almost jumped in his hands at the women's approach.

Christopher knew that this might be wrong, knew it in some distant way, as though some part of his consciousness was watching what was happening on a TV somewhere.

But here and now Christopher wielded his Weapon like a harvest scythe, reaping this gang of thugs.

The last girl tried to escape. In one last desperate attempt, she tried to run for the back door.

Christopher could feel the Weapon twisting in his hand. It had become a javelin. He threw it without hesitation.

It streaked through the air, leaving a trail of ethereal fire and pierced the woman through the heart, then struck the door. The woman died instantly and hung there pinned.

Blood was everywhere. Bodies, mostly in severed pieces, lay strewn about the inside and outside of the garage. The smell of blood overwhelmed Christopher's senses.

The adrenaline was dissipating, the overwhelming power that had been there moments before retreated. He was left feeling hollow, empty.

He saw the broken garage door and the dead all around him as though for the first time.
Such power
, he thought. This was practice? Was it practice for the men and women who had just died? Maybe they were evil, maybe it was true what he smelled on them, but was he the one to judge? Was it even him doing the judging? Or was it the power inside him, the Weapon in his hand? He looked at the javelin embedded in the door and the body hanging off of it. He shivered.

This was not practice, this was slaughter.

The sound of sirens in the distance brought back his focus. He pulled the Weapon from the wall and instantly it transformed back into a pocket knife. He didn't want to touch it, but he had too, he couldn't leave it for the police.

Speaking of which
, he thought.

He went out onto the street, pulling the shadows tighter around him, making his hood darker. Whether out of protection or shame he did not know. Other people were out now, mostly looking through their windows, but one or two were coming out their front doors.

It was time to leave. He leapt to the top of the building he had arrived on. As quickly as he could, before the shock of what he had really done hit him, he ran home. But by the time he made it back to his neighborhood, he was shaking uncontrollably.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Christopher woke to the sound of his doorbell ringing repeatedly and rapid banging on the front door. He sat up slowly, his head was pounding. On the floor was an empty bottle of scotch, left over from his father. His stomach turned at the faint smell of spilled liquor.

The Book and Weapon were in the far corner of the room where he had thrown them last night after he got home. After that it got fuzzy. He could remember stumbling around the house, looking for something, anything to dull the pain. He found the scotch, he had hoped for weed, but beggars can’t be choosers.

He had wandered the house with no real purpose, just sipping on the bottle and trying not to think. He wanted his mind empty, because when it wasn't empty, it was filled with horror. It was filled with blood and severed body parts. It was filled with looks of terror on faces. It was filled with screams and running.

At first he tried to tell himself it hadn't been him. It was the seed of hell inside him that took over, but that wasn't the complete truth either. His own anger and frustration fueled it until it was out of his control.

To think he had been comparing himself to Spiderman when he was jumping from rooftop to rooftop. No, he was more the super villain than the hero.

The loud knocking brought him back from his memories. He threw on a robe and moaned as he made his way downstairs.

Why can't the power heal my hangover like it does my body
, he thought.

It was Hamlin at the door. One arm was in a sling and bandages were on his neck and forearm.

"Please tell me you aren't here to eat my brains," Christopher said.

"Was it you?" Hamlin asked. "Was it fucking you?"

Hamlin shoved past him and into the living room. Christopher closed the door and followed him in. He could guess what Hamlin was talking about.

"You found out? About the garage?"

"Garage? You mean the butcher shop where over a half dozen gang bangers were killed?"

Hamlin was pacing.

"I fucking knew it was you. The witnesses all said they saw a man with a huge sword lit up like it was the Fourth of July. They said you moved so fast it was a blur and then jumped from the street to the top of the building. I don't know what the fuck happened, but why the fuck did you kill those guys?"

"Calm down Hamlin, I'll try to explain what I can," Christopher said.

"Yes, you will kid, and you tell me everything. I should be arresting you right now, if I had any real evidence, I would. But if you don't tell me everything, and I mean fucking everything, I'll have a team over here with a search warrant and we’ll find your costume and sword."

Christopher fell into a chair nodding his head. Hamlin sat across from him.

"You look like shit kid."

"Drinking most of a bottle of scotch will do that to you,” Christopher said.

"Why the hell did you do that?"

"Contrary to what you might think, last night’s activities weren't exactly my idea. Not really my idea of a good time."

"Talk. And tell me everything, including what was going on with those zombies yesterday."

Christopher hesitated. What could he tell him? The truth was unbelievable. Maybe just some bits and pieces? But Hamlin was a trained interrogator. If Christopher tried to piece meal this story together the detective would see right through it, and he would lose what little trust he still had. Besides, his brain was in no condition to try and outthink the detective. In the end he went with this gut, he told Hamlin everything.

It was a little cathartic. He started off slowly, not really sure where to begin, but soon it was pouring out of him. Everything from the day he lost his girlfriend and met the Beast to last night when he killed nine people that didn't do shit to him.

Hamlin didn't say a single word the entire time. To his credit he sat and listened to every word Christopher said. By the time he was done, Christopher actually had some hope that Hamlin would believe him. He was a fool, a desperate fool.

Hamlin sat quietly for a moment before speaking.

"That's it? That’s what you’re going with?"

"It's the truth detective," Christopher said.

"That you're Satan here on earth, and it is your job to hunt down bad guys and send them back to Hell?"

"Well, I'm not Satan or Lucifer or any other name for him, but it was described to me as though I was a part of him on earth."

Hamlin stood up.

"Look, I know you have some sort of skill, you'd have to in order to do what you did. I don't know how you did it, but you can't expect me to believe all the magic power bullshit."

He started walking to the front door. All of a sudden Christopher didn't want to be alone. For all his reluctance, he needed Hamlin to believe.

Faster than any normal person could move Christopher was in front of Hamlin, blocking him from the door. He reached out and pulled shadows around him, forming his now-standard coat and hood. No Weapon though, he was not ready to touch that thing again. Not now and maybe not ever again. Besides, it was in his room.

Hamlin cried out and stumbled back, eyes wide with shock. Power crackled over Christopher's now shadowy form. He started walking towards Hamlin.

"Is this what I have to do? Is this what I have to show you to make you believe?"

Hamlin fell over a table and tried to scramble back up. He moved slowly, his injuries hindering him. Christopher felt bad, he did not want to hurt him.

He reached out and picked Hamlin up easily with one hand. He held him against a wall and leaned into him.

"I am hell on earth Hamlin, Taker of Souls, the Final Punishment," Christopher said, quite pleased with himself for coming up with such cool sounding titles. He let power into his words and the pure force of the seed of Hell inside of him washed over Hamlin so the detective could have no doubt. "And I don't want it."

He let all the power slip away. The shadows, the power, all left him in an instant and he was just Christopher again.

"And I don't want it," he repeated.

He stepped back from Hamlin, letting him recover.

"Did I hurt you Hamlin? I didn’t mean to. I just needed you to believe, and I thought this might do it."

Hamlin slowly tried to recover. He pulled himself up straight and took a moment to gather his wits. His eyes darted back and forth like he expected demons to pop out at any moment. Recalling how hard it had been for him to believe all this at first, Christopher understood what Hamlin was going through.

"Well it fucking worked kid, I sure as fuck believe you now. Or at least that something not normal is going on here. I guess I'll have to trust you with the details."

"Last night… I won't try to say I didn't have anything to do with it, but it wasn't just me," Christopher said as he returned to his chair. The hangover had been burned out of him when he embraced the power. "That desire to kill was part of the power inside me."

Hamlin shakily returned to his chair also. From his body language he could see the detective was trying to keep his distance.

Great. I got him to believe a little, but at the cost of trust
, Christopher thought.

"So you are saying this... power you inherited has a mind of its own? Some sort of blood lust?" Hamlin asked.

"More like a soul lust. It’s like its only instinct is to take dark souls, and if it can't get a dark soul that has escaped hell, it will settle for regular people that have done wrong."

"Well at least it only goes for bad guys," Hamlin offered.

"Yeah, but it doesn't see shades of gray. It overwhelmed me yesterday." At least Christopher hoped it had overwhelmed him. There was a part of him that was worried he had let it have its way. "Any mark of evil, even what you and I would consider fairly minor, is enough for it to give the ultimate sentence. No second chances for the power of hell."

"Is it a numbers game?" Hamlin asked. "Does the Devil win if there is a greater number of souls in hell than in heaven?"

"I don't think so, but I don't know much about afterlife politics," Christopher said.

"Probably not. If it was, I’m pretty sure hell would have won that game many times over by now."

"The question is, what do I do now? I mean, it has come in useful a few times, but I never know exactly what is going to happen."

"Can you quit?" Hamlin asked.

Christopher shook his head. "I asked that when I first got to the Library. I have no choice. I can feel the power in me grow, making me stronger. But also making me crave to take up the Weapon. The only time it relaxes is after the kill."

"Maybe you can control it? Learn to contain it and not let it run loose?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It kind of snuck up on me last night. It felt good though, like a drug, like an all-powerful drug."

Hamlin sat back in his chair. "Don't become an addict on me now kid. I don't want to, but if I have to stop you I will. We can't have another episode like last night," Hamlin said.

"You don't understand. It is my nature now, it is a need that is now a part of me. I might be able to control it, force it into a different direction, but I won't be able to stop it. It’s too strong."

"Well we’re at an impasse then. I can't let you run around killing random criminals, just because you thought they were bad guys."

They were quiet for a moment, both trying to figure out what to do. Hamlin was probably trying to figure out how to arrest him. Christopher just wanted help to control this raging power inside of him. Christopher decided logic and truth might be the only answer.

"Why not?" Christopher asked.

"What? What do you mean why not?"

"I get it. You're a cop, and there’s a process. Regular people can’t make those decisions, it has to go through the judicial system. But your own ideology is based on the idea that the judicial system is the right one."

"It's all we got, kid, to separate us from the animals."

"Not anymore," Christopher said. "I see the evil in people. I can judge them more truthfully than any. It is the very nature of the power I have been given. Everybody talks about the final judge being God or some otherworldly being that decides if you go to heaven or hell. I can't open the gates of heaven, but I do have the ability to drag souls to hell. I am the ultimate judge."

"Sounds like you are the ultimate arrogant bastard. What makes you this all powerful judge?"

"Because I can see. I see the truth inside every soul. And every time I use it I get better at reading it."

Christopher searched through Hamlin's aura. He knew he was invading personal space, but he had a point to prove.

"I can see that you killed that man."

"What man? What the fuck are you talking about?" Hamlin stood up.