The Bound Angel (Sacrilege Rising: Book 1)

Chapter Twelve

Long shadows fell over the street like reaching hands. In the distance, a cat turned the corner and slunk out of sight. The warehouse’s few remaining unbroken windows were dark, and graffiti on the walls indicated it was abandoned. Mike and Lana were well and truly alone.

Their footsteps echoed off concrete walls as a breeze sighed through the corridor between buildings. There was a voice in the wind, whispering. What was it saying? Mike strained to pick out the sound. It was getting closer, louder, whispering turning into something else until it was right behind him and he snapped his head around.

Nobody was there.

“Stay close,” Lana warned.

Before he could take another step, her outstretched arm stopped him. She cocked her head and her eyes became unfocused. Maybe she was hearing voices too.

“This way.” They went around the side to another door, this one blanketed by shadow, so hidden he didn’t know how she found it. When it opened, the bottom edge scraped along the concrete like nails on a chalkboard. Its screeching echo sent chills up Mike’s arms and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

A narrow hallway waited just inside the door. The walls were pocked cinderblocks painted prison white. The lone ceiling light was flickering, casting the hallway in dim, stuttering illumination. The sound of running water whispered through the pipes overhead. Someone was using this place after all.

A light at the end of the hall lit a solitary door. It was once dark green but had long since faded to sickly brown, the memory of its original color showing in splotches around the edges. The handle caught the dim light. It was shaking, rattling the door in its frame. Mike held his breath as it slowly began to turn. But the door didn’t open, because it was still, and had always been still. Mike rubbed his eyes.

The sound of footsteps told him they were moving, but he didn’t feel it, couldn’t sense the motion, for the door was calling him, whispering his name. His vision tunneled. The walls on either side seemed to stretch as they walked, each cinderblock growing thinner, longer, until the door simultaneously looked like it was right in front of them and also miles away. Then the hallway was gone.

“Hush now,” Mom said, her voice comforting. “Don’t cry. We’ll be okay. We’re better off without him. It’ll make us stronger. Remember that, Mikey.”

He could still hear the echoing thud of the door closing, a memory of the last time he ever saw his dad.

Mom usually smelled like flowers. She liked to keep some around the house, one of the few things she did for herself. Their bright colors cheered her up. But now all he smelled was vodka.

A shadow fell over her face.

“I said stop it,” she snapped. “No more crying.”

When she looked at him, inky black pools settled where her eyes had been. He couldn’t hold back the sobs.

“I said shut up! If you would just stop all that god damn noise maybe he’d still be here!”

Mom stood, fists balled, arms shaking along with her voice. She pointed to the door and opened her mouth to scream…

The tainted memory faded. Mike was in the hallway again, but the chills on his arms and sweat on the back of his neck remained. What the hell was that? That wasn’t how that night had ended. The night his dad left, he and Mom sipped hot chocolate and watched cartoons until they both fell asleep on the couch.

The hallway looked different now. The door was closer, but only by a few feet. Mere steps. That couldn’t be right. They’d been walking for a while, how could they only be a few steps closer?

The sound of dripping water came from behind, but he didn’t want to look away from the door. He didn’t know what would happen if he took his eyes off it. When he took a deep breath to clear his head he tasted vodka.

“Of course he will. Here at UBalt, as long as they put in the effort we try not to make a habit of failing students.” The counselor sitting across from them was flipping through pages in a binder. His voice was light and friendly; his smile warm.

Thank god. Mike’s grades were falling. The prospect of graduating was touch and go there for a while, but hearing the counselor commit to it was reassuring.

“Thank you, sir,” Mom said with a smile. She was in the chair next to him. He was only here for her, really. School had never been Mike’s thing, but it was important to Mom, so he’d tried. And, thankfully, it now looked like he would pass. The diploma was right around the corner, and a real job with real money would come soon after.

The counselor stopped on a page, and his forehead creased. “Oh,” he said, his voice suddenly less friendly. “That’s different.”

Mike held his breath. A last-minute surprise couldn’t be good.

“You failed Economics? What happened there? In all my years I’ve never seen Anders fail a student.”

Shit. He’d found out. Of course he’d found out. He worked for the school and would have access to his records.

Then the counselor’s face softened, and Mike let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Ah, I see. You’re one of them. One of the stupid ones.”

What? What did that mean? He couldn’t talk that way.

“He’s always been like that,” Mom agreed. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. Just like his dad.” She looked up at the ceiling like she was asking the universe why she’d been cursed twice over, then turned on him. “How could you do this to me? All the money it cost to put you here and you couldn’t even pass the basic classes?”

“Well, Miss Davis,” the counselor interrupted, “in his defense, he shouldn’t have been accepted to UBalt in the first place. His high school grades…”

Mike felt nauseas, like he’d drunk sour milk, and began to fall while the counselor’s insults chased him into the dark.

The light went out. The hallway was pitch black. When it came back on, the door was somehow further away. That was impossible. Mike was breathing hard. Sweat stung his eyes but he couldn’t blink, couldn’t look away. His strides became longer. His pace quickened. Why couldn’t he look away?

Mike woke to the sound of quiet sobbing. It was still dark outside, and the moon cast his room in soft, pale light. A shape was crouched in the corner.

“Who’s there?”

His voice shook when he spoke, and the only answer he received was quiet weeping.

He crept closer. The figure sharpened into the outline of a woman.

“Are you alright?” he asked the figure.

“Go away,” the woman sniffled.

He recognized her voice and moved closer still. “Allie? Is that you?”

“I said get out!” She screamed, her face twisted with fury. “Get the fuck away from me!”

Her words hit him like a sledgehammer. He’d never seen her like this before, like a family pet that had been abused until it became a snarling, snapping beast. But he couldn’t leave her like this.

“It’s alright,” he tried to be comforting but she recoiled at his approach. “Are you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Don’t come any closer!” Allie’s voice shook and she held out her hand to keep him back. “How could you?” She sounded small. “How could you do this to me? After everything you knew, how could you? How could you? How could you?”

She repeated it over and over, each repetition spiking the nausea in his stomach until he was about to throw up, and he stumbled back.

The door rattled on its hinges. Mike reached out a trembling hand, desperate to feel something tangible. He was sweating and his skin was clammy, chills and fever coursing through him as the visions faded. The taste of sour milk lingered in the back of his throat.

Someone hammered on the other side of the door, showering the concrete floor with dust. He was almost there but still somehow so far away. He began to jog. Then run. He…

He stumbled. The door was right in front of him.

“Are you alright?” Lana asked.

Mike’s heart was pounding in his chest. He looked around and the hallway was just that. The cinderblock walls were normal. The faded paint was normal. It was all normal.

Lana turned to face him, and their eyes met. Hers were full of concern. She took his hands in both of hers and said quietly, “You saw something.” It wasn’t a question. When he nodded, she continued. “Whatever you saw was not real. Visions. Illusions. The Abyss plays tricks on the mind, but do not waver. Be courageous. For He walks by your side. As do I.”

She held his gaze, her bright blue eyes becoming an anchor, and after a few minutes Mike’s heart slowed. His breathing returned to normal.

A moan broke the silence. It was muffled, like it came from several rooms away, and Mike couldn’t tell if it was real or imaginary. Or if it was from pain or pleasure.

Lana pressed a finger to her lips and whispered, “I will mask our presence, but we should not test their strength. Be silent.”

He nodded, and she opened the door.

As soon as she turned the handle, something started vibrating in his chest, like the thrum of high voltage electricity. The warehouse was wide and open, with crates, boxes, and palettes scattered throughout.

The vibration was coming from a loose circle of figures standing in the center of the room. They wore dark robes with hoods covering their faces, and they were humming. Or maybe chanting. Mike couldn’t make out the words, but their voices sounded both thin and loud, and resonated with uncomfortable harmonies. Some voices rose in pitch while others dropped, creating a dissonance that made his teeth ache.

On the floor, in the center of the robed figures, was a wide circle. Its perimeter burned with dirty, smoking flames that licked high into the air. They reminded him of Lana’s grease fire in the kitchen. Another moan made him look away in search of the source.

Just beside the chanting circle, a man was lying on a bare mattress. It was dirty and worn, splotches of faded color staining the old cushion. His arms and legs were stretched to the corners and tied down so he was spread-eagle on his back. His shirt was ripped open, laying his chest bare. A man in black robes crouched at his side.

The robed figure touched his hand to the man’s forehead and spoke words too soft for Mike to her. In his other hand was a knife with a curved, wavy edge. Something dark dripped from its tip. The man on the mattress nodded at his words, and tensed. Then the knife touched the skin on his chest and began to carve. The man screamed.

More mattresses were scattered throughout the warehouse, like a gang at war. They laid directly on the concrete, and each looked like they had seen several owners before their current occupant. Lit candles provided ambient light.

A person lay on each mattress, their arms and legs stretched to the corners. Men and women, old and young, though thankfully no children. They were all in various states of undress.

One mattress was occupied by a woman with a bun of dark hair who looked to be in her forties. Her clothes were rags and her skin was dirty. Instead of crouching at her side, her robed companion was laying on top of her, thrusting between her open legs. His hands were bunched into fists and dug into the mattress on either side of her naked breasts. The woman’s eyes were closed and she mumbled in time with the chanting circle.

Similar scenes played out all over the warehouse. A man with a candle resting on his chest, hot wax dripping onto bare skin. A woman groaned with swollen red welts all over her body while the aide at her side held a glowing branding iron. They were mostly silent, save for the occasional wail or moan, but their lips never stopped moving. It smelled of sweat and sewage and sex.

The chanting grew louder, drawing Mike’s attention back to the burning circle. Discordant voices rose again, and now he could make out individual words. It was a language from a different time and place. Guttural, throaty grunts mingled with the rise and fall of elegant phrases. They became louder, and the people on the mattresses joined in the chorus until the entire warehouse was chanting in the same gruff rhythm.

Wind rushed past Mike’s ears and whipped the candles. Some of the voices broke off into unintelligible babbling. The sour milk taste returned, and he wanted to gag. Robed figures fell to their knees. The chanting reached a crescendo, the weird dissonance grinding a headache into Mike’s brain until he couldn’t hear himself think.

“What is this?” Mike asked Lana as quietly as he could.

“The Abyss is bold indeed. Watch.”

Suddenly, a hand reached up from the flames. It seemed to come up through the floor, out of the burning circle. It was followed by an arm, with the bent elbow resting on cold concrete. Its dark skin glistened in the firelight. A second arm followed. The hands pulled, and a head appeared, followed by a body. Something dripped and sizzled when it hit the floor.

A scream nearby drew Mike’s attention. It was the old man. The symbols carved into his chest glowed a dirty red, like an iron left too long in the fire. The howl that came from his throat sounded like an animal caught in a trap, and he screamed and screamed until he had no breath left and then screamed some more. His mouth yawned open, so wide it looked like his jaw would unhinge, silently shouting into the void.

As the figure pulled itself from the portal, the man collapsed. Where the blood pooled on his chest, wisps of smoke rose lazily into the air. The skin around the symbols was black and charred. When the man finally fell limp, the attendant kneeling at his side rose and walked away without looking back.

The chanting grew louder still. The people on the mattresses were moaning and crying and babbling. Muscles clenched and backs arched as they pulled at their bindings. Their eyes squeezed shut like something was searing their vision while their heads whipped from side to side to look away.

It was too much. Mike couldn’t think straight. He was going to vomit.

Two more hands reached out of the burning circle. Another body pulled itself up. As this second figure appeared, a high-pitched wail cut through the guttural chanting. This one came from the woman Mike noticed earlier. The man thrusting into her picked up his pace as her body clenched. Her arms and legs were tight with strain while the second figure rose from the fire.

As the figure stood, she too fell back. The man on top of her gave a final thrust, then stood and staggered away. Her last gasp of dying breath was soft and satisfied.

More voices fell away, one by one until the chanting unraveled and a collective exhale breathed through the warehouse. Everyone looked dizzy, stumbling and falling like they were drunk, while the people on the mattresses gasped and groaned.

The two new figures stood at the edge of the circle. One was hunched over. Dark, glossy skin was stretched tight over bulging muscles. It looked mostly like a person, but the proportions were all wrong. Its knuckles dragged on the floor, hanging from too-long arms while its chest and shoulders were far too broad for its waist. Its head was tilted to one side and its lower jaw was pushed too far forward. It moved with a stooped, limping gate.

The second one was smaller. More graceful. Thin bones protruded from its back, with a filmy, pocked membrane stretching over them like bat’s wings. A tail whipped in agitation and small horns sprouted from its forehead. It moved with an elegant fluidity, and its features were somehow feminine.

Mike’s eyes were fixed on this one when a hand touched his shoulder.

Lana’s face was pulled back in a sneer. “This must not be permitted.” Her other hand was clenched in a fist. Though she was slim, Mike was reminded of how she crashed through the barred church doors without a scratch. “They move openly in the heart of one of man’s great cities. It is unthinkable. It must not be allowed to continue.”

But what could they do? There were so many of them. Hundreds of people were packed into the warehouse. Mike took a breath and tried to focus on the air moving through his chest. Then he looked for the demons again. But they were gone, replaced by two new figures. They stood apart from the circle of monks. The robed men seemed like they wanted to approach the pair, but the figures didn’t even glance their way.

One was tall and broad-shouldered and handsome. He wore a dark, pinstriped suit and his black hair was slicked back and touched at the temples with gray. Heavy gold rings circled each finger, some set with gemstones, and a gold chain hung where the top several buttons of his shirt were undone.

The other was slender and very much female. An oversized tee shirt hanging off one shoulder made it clear she wasn’t wearing a bra. It was cut short, revealing soft midriff. Tight shorts rode low on her hips and hugged her ass, only a few inches of material altogether, while long, toned legs stretched to the floor.

“Is that,” Mike started. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed. “Is she like the demon lady from the church?”

“No,” Lana snorted. “That is a simple temptress. A boot-licker. A hanger-on to those with real power. The demon at the church was… more.”

“And the other?”

“That one is even more pathetic. A charmer of the weak-willed.”

That was a surprise. His broad shoulders and heavy muscles were obvious even beneath the suit.

“So you can take them?”

She looked disgusted at his question. “They would fall like wheat to the harvest.”

Mike couldn’t take his eyes off the woman. She was his age. In her prime. The perfect combination of youthful beauty and a look in her eye that said she was no child; that she knew exactly what she was doing. Her breasts moved beneath the thin shirt and her lips looked soft and inviting.

How strong was she? Could he overpower her, if it came to it? Maybe he should suggest to Lana that they split up. She could take the big guy. Mike was resourceful, and there were plenty of restraints lying around the mattresses.

Instead, he asked. “What do we do?”

Lana smiled. “You will watch. I will smite.”

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