Chapter 1
Part II
The tyres screeched in protest as the taxi stopped with a jerk. The driver had pulled up beside a derelict brownstone in a maze of side roads in a suburb of Chicago where the rats walk with pride and sewers swallow more than just waste.
Pyriel peered out the window as a homeless person staggered by in a once grey trench coat, pushing a dilapidated old shopping trolley filled with empty soda and beer cans. The driver turned to Pyriel. His eyes darted as his head twisted left and jerked right.
‘That’ll be thirty-five dollars,’ he snorted through his walrus moustache. He shifted with nervous tension, staring questioningly at Pyriel.
‘Huh?’ Pyriel stared back. ‘Sorry, what? Oh, sorry, money.’ She began to scratch in her wallet, found a small stack of low nomination notes and paid the man. She knew how money worked but was clueless about plastic, having never paid for anything.
She grabbed her shopping bag, a gift from the nurses, and got out of the car. The taxi shot off to the sound of squealing tyres and a roaring engine without waiting for her to close the door.
‘What was that all about?’ Pyriel muttered as she watched the taillights disappear around a corner to the sound of more high-pitched squeals.
She shrugged and decided not to give it further thought. There were more pressing matters at hand, like finding Home. ‘Hmm, so this is it,’ she whispered, gazing at the graffiti-covered wall.
She counted three abandoned cars in varying states of dismantlement. They stood propped up on concrete building blocks, doused in colourful paints, while four dark hooded figures sat on a stone wall, procrastinating. They were watching the comings and streams of homeless, like a parade of filth and misery staggering along, while loose bits of litter twirled, riding on gusts of wind along the cracking blacktop where a young boy slalomed around waterlogged potholes on a pimped-out bicycle trailing multicoloured streamers, ringing his bell. Ding. Ding Ding.
Hmm, I’m not sure whether I would feel safe walking around here at night. She thought. I think Asmodeus would be as happy as a pig in a puddle here. He’d probably say it reminded him of some neighbourhood he’d seen in hell. I wonder if this is what people refer to as a ghetto.
Still hopeful that the driver got it wrong, she climbed the three cracking concrete steps that led to the recessed archwayed entrance. Even the once majestic entrance door seemed to have given up all hope. Its former glamour faded with flaking paint, and its large doorknob glum and worn from years of use. A vintage brass plate mounted against the wall displayed the tenants’ names with their corresponding buzzers. 406 had “Thompson”, written next to it in a faded scrawl.
Pyriel sighed as she spotted her name, and the last piece of hope dissolved into the cool morning air. Home sweet home. Or will it be “Abandon all hope ye who enter here?” she wondered.
Her efforts to turn the doorknob failed. It was stuck, solid. She pushed hard with an open hand, but the door only creaked open by an inch. ‘Bloody hell,’ she cursed, throwing her shoulder against the old panels.
Wood grated on concrete as the door swung open enough for her to slip inside, where a stale, musty urine-tainted odour made her gag.
Charming. If I were a demon, I’d be in my element, she thought, breathing through her mouth.
The foyer formed part of a dimly lit passage. The inner part of the building was as neglected as the outside, with faded, mustard-coloured paint peeling everywhere and large patches of brickwork visible where the plaster had crumbled away. Slimy, bubbling, dark green fading to black mould stains covered half the wall. A double row of graffiti-covered metal post boxes hung on the left, some with missing doors where only the hinges remained. The one stamped 406 was closed, the slot above it boiling over with letters and coloured pamphlets.
With rising depression, Pyriel walked to her letterbox and waved her hand.
When nothing happened, she muttered, ‘Damn humans, no powers,’ and began to search for the keys she found earlier. A little grey key fitted, turned, and as she opened the door, letters and pamphlets fluttered through the air, littering the floor around her feet.
‘Seriously, haven’t I suffered enough?’
She bent down, grabbing fists of paper, when she noticed one which stood out among the sea of windowed envelopes. Her address was handwritten, with a cancelled stamp hastily attached in the top right and no return address.
She crumpled the lot into her bag and re-locked the letter box door. Further down the passage, a door creaked open, and an old woman wearing a rosy pink gown and fluffy slippers of the same pink and dangling fluffy white pompoms, came shuffling out.
She was short, about four feet and shrinking with a doubled-over back, holding onto a wooden walking cane as she shuffled forward. Thick silver locks touched her eyelids, making her blink as she glared at Pyriel with ice-glistening blue eyes from a face crisscrossed in wrinkles. A half-smoked cigarette smouldered between her bony old fingers. Its smoke licked and curled across her knuckles before seeping into her gown.
‘Where’ve you been missy?’ squawked the old bird. She took a drag of the cigarette. ‘Your rent’s late.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been in hospital after being shot,’ Pyriel replied. The old woman raised an eyebrow. Flumes of bluish smoke trickled out of her nose while her eyes brooded.
‘Well, you look fine now.’ The old oxygen thief huffed, exhaling a cloud of grey-blue smoke, and as she took another drag, an inch of ash fell to the floor. ‘I expect your rent this afternoon.’ She coughed, deep and throaty, took another drag, turned on the spot and shuffled back into the apartment, slamming the door behind her.
So much for compassion, Pyriel thought, walking toward the lift with hunched shoulders, the weight of the world bearing down on her.
A once majestic wooden staircase arched lazily upward from right to left. In its centre, an open ornate wrought iron cage elevator shaft towered with a faded “Out of order” sign hanging skew from its gate. Wondering how Asmodeus was getting on, Pyriel began to traipse up the stairs.
She was puffing like a steam train, her legs burning with lactic acid, as she made it to her door. The stencilled little plaque read 406.
I hate being human, she thought, looking for her keys. The door sprang open as the key touched the lock.
‘What the…?’ Her fingertips traced the frame, toughing where the wood was gauged, splintered and unpainted with signs of being forced open. The damage made it impossible to lock the door.
She stepped inside, gasping with each step.
‘Hello?’ Her voice echoed. ‘Hello, is there anybody here?’
A passage ending in a doorway to a bathroom stood empty before her. The white walls were grubby, the floor bare, floorboards littered with papers, and books were strewn about without care or respect. Further down the passage, under a built-in cupboard door, she saw some bare cables sticking out of the wall.
Wondering if the old Abigail had been a slob or if there had been a burglary, Pyriel stepped deeper into the apartment, with cautious steps
The turmoil continued in what could have been a living room. The content of a bookshelf lay scattered on the floor, and a dated sofa lay on its side. Someone had cut open the underside and pulled out the stuffing. A vintage TV lay sideways on the floor, looking sorry for itself, and one curtain hung half ripped from its rail before dirty windows looking onto a metal fire escape.
No, photographs or personal touches, Pyriel noted, again questioning the existence of siblings, parents, or any significant others in her new life. Surely, if there was someone out there, they would have come to see us, she had thought since only Cam came to visit, and all she knew about Abigail Thompson was what she overheard during Asmodeus’s conversations. Abigail Thompson, the loner, the slob, the spinster? She made a conscious decision not to dwell on it and stumbled to the bedroom.
More carnage. The mattress and pillows had been sliced and disembowelled, drawers emptied, and cupboards raided. Clothes and an empty suitcase covered most of the floor.
Somebody was looking for something, but what? Did they find it?
There wasn’t much clothing. Some suits, an array of blouses, most in ivory, and old-fashioned shoes. Not one to socialise, are we? she thought, recalling the lost property room. At least these clothes appeared clean-ish, without blood stains or bullet holes. Balancing on tiptoes, jumping from patch to open patch, she made it across the room and grabbed the suitcase.
I’m not staying in this shit hole waiting to see if somebody comes back. This body has barely survived one shooting and I’m not sticking around to see if it can handle another, she decided.
She threw the suitcase on the butchered mattress and began to pack.
Oh, look, underwear, Asmodeus will be so pleased. I’ll need to figure out how these boob-sling thingies work. Really? Abigail, you didn’t have much fashion sense, did you? Look at these shoes. BORING. No style, no panache. We’ll have to do something about that. I’m not walking around looking like a middle-aged spinster that got stuck in the dark ages. I, for one, do have some principles. Granted, low and far between, but I know a fashion abuse victim when I see one. These clothes WILL have to go. Ooh, what do have here? She unzipped the plastic garment protector. Oh, police uniform. Looks very snazzy. Better take that too.
Having completed her packing, she turned her attention to the mail.
Overdue, Late, Overdue, shit, did Abigail pay for anything? I know she didn’t spend her money on clothes or furniture, so where’s all her money? Oh, what do we have here?
She had forgotten about the handwritten letter when it caught her eye again. Addressed to A. Thompson, not Detecive, not Abigail, just A. Thompson in cursive writing. Reasonably neat, and clear enough to reach her. Postmarked a day before their shooting.
She dropped the other letters and began to tear at the envelope with butter fingers.
Huh? It’s empty. Oh, Hang on. There is something.
A triangular piece of paper winked at her from a fold. Just a piece of white scrap, probably torn with haste from a larger sheet with two jagged edges. She turned it over with her fingertips and discovered a single line in the same handwriting as the address.
18856 Domination Street
Very cryptic, she thought, pocketing the scrap in her bag.
C’mon, think like a detective. She chuckled. Yeah right, easier said than done. Yesterday I was an Angel, and today I’m a Detective. Maybe I should be thinking about this in terms of demon hunting. That I was good at. Hmm, so where do I start?
She placed the suitcase against the wall and began a systematic search of the apartment, starting in the bathroom, which she regretted instantly.
Hygiene and cleanliness were still foreign to her, but even she shuddered as she glanced about.
The white tiles had turned ivory with age, and the grout, which may have been white when built, now oozed with a decaying, unappealing amber speckled with mould. The toilet smelled musty, covered in stains of dubious origin. In the bathtub, a crusty black ring made her skin crawl. How can anybody live like this? she wondered.
‘Urgh,’ Pyriel grunted as she tiptoed forward, and ‘Yuk!’ as her liberated nurses shoes got stuck on the grubby, urine-smelling, stained linoleum and made a sucking noise as he lifted her foot.
Covered in toothpaste stains, with suspicious, curly hairs threatening to escape from the plug hole, the sink yielded nothing of interest, apart from a brown stained toothbrush balancing precariously on the side.
‘If only you could talk.’ Pyriel said to a menagerie of bottles labelled Shampoo - for dry hair, Body Lotion - for sensitive skin and Conditioner – for fuller body.
OK, she thought. I seem to have dry, plump hair and sensitive skin. She scoffed. I’m surprised the old Abigail didn’t contract some disease in this shit hole. I’m so out of here.
She turned to leave when she spotted a medicine cabinet lurking behind the door.
‘Hmm, and what secrets may you hold?’ she whispered, wondering if it was safe to open.
She reached out, surprised to see her hand trembling, half expecting to be attacked by something furry with sharp teeth as she pulled on the little knob.
The hinges squealed without resisting, and Pyriel felt a mix of relief and disappointment as she stared at an off-the-shelf container with painkillers, a bottle of luminous pink nail varnish, and an innocuous empty bottle of pills with no label. Not exactly a rare find, she thought, closing the door.
Feeling dirty and violated by the pong of ammonia tickling her nostrils, she returned to the bedroom.
Let’s see if they’ve missed anything.
Like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, minus the pipe, intellect, reasoning skills or deductive talents, she began her search. Re-checking every cabinet. Pulling drawers free one by one and laying them on the bed.
Shouting, ‘Bingo!’ she began to flap her hands and bounced on her toes as she found a padded yellow envelope taped to the underside of one of the drawers with masking tape. A quick check revealed official-looking papers and photographs of houses and people she did not recognise. She put them aside. The remaining drawers and bed revealed no further clues.
In the passage, the recessed linen cupboard caught her eye. It stood empty, its door ajar. She took a deep breath and felt around the ledges and recesses with her hand.
‘EEEEKK’, she shrieked and pulled her hand away. Her fingertips had touched something soft and furry.
What’s wrong with me? I used to hunt and slay demons. Now look at me. Screaming like a little girl who’s seen a spider. OK, bad example. Spiders are icky but still.
She took another deep breath, shook her head, hesitated, and finally reached back in as fast as her arm allowed, grabbed and threw IT, on the floor and danced backwards in one swift motion. Ready to spring into attack mode or report for spider stomping duty.
‘What the...?’
It was a woollen scarf. Light grey, tightly kitted and rolled up. She felt her body relax, and after a few deep breaths, her heart slipped back into place. She picked it up, surprised at how heavy it felt in her trembling hands.
‘Woo wee,’ she shouted as loose ten, twenty and fifty dollar bills spiled over into both hands, making her smile as she thought about her upcoming shopping spree. She rewrapped the money and only found copious amounts of dust on the remaining ledged. It filled the air and made her sneeze.
‘Gesundheit,’ a deep voice roared from her left.
She slammed the door shut and spun about. There had been no sound, yet there he was. Towering well over six foot, with eyes dark as coal, dark-skinned with a shaven head and an insidious smile that gave her the shivers.
He wore a loose denim shirt over a tight-fitting snow-white T-shirt, flexing pectoral muscles and muscular shoulders. His neck and hands were covered in crude bleeding monochrome tattoos, swallowed by his dark skin tone and the fingers of his right hand were curled loosely around a crowbar.
Pyriel staggered and reached out to the wall to steady herself, wondering how he had managed to enter with such deathly stealth despite wearing heavy work boots.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, surprised at how calm her voice sounded. The folds around his eyes winked and his lips exposed nicotine-stained teeth as he sneered, while his eyes betrayed his lust of anticipated violence and bloodshed.
‘Someone doesn’t want you sniffing around no more,’ he replied, sounding sinister with spine-chilling undertones.
‘Oh,’ Pyriel raised an eyebrow. ‘So what you going to do about it?’ she challenged.
This time she heard the hollow thumb of his boot and the floorboard creaked as he stepped forward with an insidious smile plastered on his face, his body relaxed, like a man on a mission, looking forward to a day’s work with sparkling eyes and a spring in his step.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said in a factual tone with hints of “Stop asking stupid questions”.
Pyriel heard enough. She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers.
‘Oh shit,’ she whispered as he took another step. Unhurried. Relaxed. Swinging the crowbar loosely by his side. And, ‘I’m in big doo-doo...’, as she felt the blood drain from her face. And finally, ‘What the hell am I going to do now?’ as the full extent of her predicament became clear to her.
How am I going to fight this behemoth without my sword or powers? Cold chills rushed over her as her mind raced. I need a weapon, the voice in her head screamed, seeing only faded towels, washed out linnen and abused books.
Books, she thought, and picked up a heavy looking one. Something about how to con yourself rich, by someone Trump. She threw with all her might, but his smile widened as he swatted pages flying.
She shuffled back, arms extended, fingers groping at the walls. Her eyes darted, trying to recall a time she felt more vulnerable, while he continued to approach, an inexorable Juggernaut crowbar-wielding assassin with heavy boot steps that reverberated through the wooden floorboards, causing them to creak.
Her fingertips bumped against the door frame. A weapon. I need a weapon, blazed bright neon in her mind.
The air came alive, alight with bright crimson and gold-streaming hair, as she turned and stumbled into the bedroom. Her hands groped and fumbled through the junk, finding only empty drawers, loose fabric and a broken bedside lamp with a torn cord, while behind her, the menacing creaks of groaning floorboards became louder.
She found a length of pine. Light and flimsy that may have been part of the bed frame or cabinet. It didn’t matter. She grabbed the plank double-handed, one white-knuckled fist on top of the other, positioned herself by the door and turned sideways to maximise her swing.
He came in striding, smiling as Pyriel let out an Amazonian-like war cry and swung the strip in a lazy arch from low to high, aimed at his face. Without her powers, the strike felt feeble and weak as the plank stirred the air without hiss or strength.
His shoulder came into view first, then his head. The plank continued its ascent.
His face appeared, darkened by shadows, and his eyes sparkled and smiled with his lips contorted into a sneer until he saw Pyriel, her eyes wild, her mouth twisted, exposing teeth with streaks of gold flashing in her swishing hair, her scream and hastened prayers left unanswered.
Her vision blurred as she stared, helpless as a young baby, as his arm shot up, fast and agile for such a big man, and caught the plank in a gargantuan calloused hand and sausage-think fingers without breaking stride.
Overbalanced, Pyriel felt herself slip. She fell sideways, bashed the side of her head against an upturned drawer and bounced off the mattress, deeper into the room where her fingers curled around anything and everything, throwing shoes, plastic powder containers and even undergarments at him. He giggled, a savage, sadistic sound of a man who enjoys his “wett” work.
For no will of her own, her eyes filled with tears, thinking, Is this it? The end? Not much of a beginning, was it? and Is this the way Asmodeus felt knowing he was about to die?
She twisted about and push-kicked herself deeper into the room, where she forced herself to stare up at him with pleading eyes, mortal, helpless, alone, and scared.
She winced as his arm rose and his eyes filled with blood lust. The crowbar looked too comfortable in his curled fingers, having become a deadly extension of his hand. His arm began its descent. A savage downward plunge from high above, and as their eyes met again, she screamed, ‘PLEASE, STOP!’ and raised her arm to fend off the inevitable bone-shattering blow that would bring about the beginning of the end for her.
