Hope's Light

Chapter 7

by Erisian

Book 6

 

If you have yet to read the saga - the tale starts here:

Into The Light

Hope you enjoy!

 

Chapter Seven - Coffee

 

The ride through the paved cavern tunnels was short but bumpy as the transport’s suspension had clearly died a squealing death at least ten to twenty firestorms ago. I’d been locked into position in the middle of a squad again, though this time opposite me wasn’t a cranky diminutive devil blowing smoke but rather a sullen swamp-green demon similarly shackled into place whose inner rage boiled and simmered.

As evident by the constant glares of resentment and brewing rebellion he kept shooting across the aisle whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention. My sympathy meter didn’t move much in response, I was too busy being happy that they’d given me a bright orange prison jumpsuit.

Hey, it would never have won any fashion shows but it certainly beat being naked.

Branching off from a wider tunnel we eventually arrived at their local holding facility, complete with defense in depth security including concrete bollards and staggered guard stations.

As Blorph and I marched inside side-by-side, I leaned closer to him and asked, “What’s with the heavy security? Are new arrivals typically that dangerous?”

I swear teeth squeaked as the jutting jaw unclenched to answer. “Unclaimed souls are housed until auction. There’s been raids.”

Sergeant pinup approached a lobby’s desk complete with protective glass and computer station. She gestured with her tablet, first at me and then at Blorph, and proceeded to explain to the taller mountain of a scowling demon - himself perched precariously on an entirely inadequate swivel chair - how exactly to enter the unusual circumstances into the system.

This gave me the chance to probe Blorph for more information. “Tell me about this ‘Harrowing’.”

More toothy scraping commenced. “Groups of souls with high survival potential get dropped in the outskirts. Any that make it to the assigned destination, their bidding value is higher. Run, hide, fight - what matters is making it.”

I frowned. “Isn’t that risky with the merchandise? You just said there were raids.”

“The area is secured.”

“So it’s more of a controlled hunt by you guards to test their mettle.”

Sharp teeth in desperate need of brushing sneered. “Yeah. And there are those on the team who owe me debts, ‘mistress.’”

Unable to contain it, I chuckled. “Is that a threat?”

The sneer widened as he exhaled. “A warning to she whom I now serve.” Ugh, he badly needed mouthwash too. Whatever dental plan was offered, this guy hadn’t taken advantage. Ew.

I was about to verbalize a snarky retort to that effect, but the sergeant turned to yell at us again.

“You!” she shouted, waving the tablet at two of the four squad members she’d assigned as our escort. “Take Blorph to cell block eight.”

They pushed Blorph forward which caused the knee to go out again, so they grabbed him by the armpits and pretty much dragged him out.

Which left just little ol’ me.

Without so much as an adieu, I was force-marched past steel-reinforced doors and into an interrogation room. You know the type: metal chairs facing each other across a table with convenient ringlets to chain the handcuffs, surrounded by one-way glass and several cameras with blinking red lights, plus an impatient demon with lengthy brown skirt, lighter blouse, thick glasses for two yellow eyes and, I kid you not, a black beehive hairdo.

Fortunately one without actual bees.

Even as the flanking guards shoved me into the chair she started speaking, dark purple and sharp fingernails clasping one of those stylus things allowing the user to scribble directly onto electronic tablets - one which had been beeping loudly when we walked in until she swiped right to shut it up. “Before we start, know that we got spells to tell when you’re lyin’. Name?”

“They called me Jane.” I was good and didn’t laugh. There weren’t any truth spells in here, that was a total bluff. Still - the best lies get served within folds of truth. Plus this demon herself might have been especially perceptive - after all, seven souls pinged the senses from inside her gut, more than any other demon here had managed. Which meant she was probably in charge and that she’d have the strength to punch through these reinforced walls if she felt like it.

“Last or patronymic?”

“Baghdadi.”

Magnified mustard looked dubiously at my pale skin and scarlet-red hair.

I shrugged. “The family tree is complex.”

“Country of origin?”

“United States,” I said before adding, “Earth.”

A bony eyebrow raised with a scowl. “Don’t be cute.”

I kept my mouth shut. Not that I was feigning innocence or anything, the mark across my palm indicated that ship had already sailed across its own foul waters.

“Age?”

“Best guess by authorities was eighteen. Like I said, complicated.”

She grunted with annoyance while marking another box on her form. “Great. Another kid. Got any useful skills?”

“Useful?”

“This ain’t an application for college. You know anything practical? And if you say you excelled at leading a diverse squad of cheerleaders I’m a gonna break those long legs of yours.”

Time to pad the resume to attract the interest of the hackers working for this Apostle guy. Unless they somehow had agents already in place, it’d be through the computers that they’d learn who best to acquire. Though hopefully the whole marking of a demon thing had already done enough to stand out and get their attention. “Software databases. Combat field tactics, fighting with weapons and hand-to-hand. Magic theory and practice.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. And if you try for my legs, as I’m cuffed to this stupid table I’ll have to demonstrate the last one. Though I’d rather not; keeping things from exploding proved tricky.”

“Has it.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

She snorted, smoke billowing from wide nostrils lurking under the glasses. She was laughing. “Funny. Where’d you get your training?”

“School of hard knocks.”

“For magic? That ain’t learned on the streets.”

I shrugged. “Dad was a guitarist.”

“Heavy metal?”

“Nah, flamenco. The Romani know their shit.”

The stylus tapped against the tablet. “That where you learned how to bind one of us into service?”

“Lucky guess in the moment.”

The scribbling stopped and she gave a hard yellow stare. “Now that is some grade-A graxhshit. I like you, girl, even though you stink of trouble. Rare it is for a female to arrive spittin’ attitude and then backin’ it up. But I ain’t got time to chat further about these claims of yours - I’ve got a high-tower jackass demanding a call back pronto-like. ‘Sides, you’ve already been designated for the Harrowing due to your little stunt - survive and we’ll have a more meaningful talk. We’ll dig into why a girl your age ain’t freaking out about being surrounded by demons.”

I matched her glare with one of my own. “Freaking out doesn’t solve problems. Breaking kneecaps does.”

She grinned. “Ain’t that the truth.” Standing, she pointed the stylus towards the door and addressed the thugs - sorry, guards - that had been standing silently just inside the room. “Current potentials are loading up with Sergeant Yurglith. Get her outfitted and over there.”

As they unshackled wrists from the table, my stomach growled. “Any chance for a snack first?”

More smoke blew out her nose. “Hunger sharpens the senses. Now git. And if you try any more funny business, you’ll be cut down where you stand. Your soulstone should still fetch a good price even with the unknowns; some high rollers enjoy a little spice in their meals.”

We got.

More specifically, I was escorted to a clothes room packed with shelves full of not-entirely-clean items likely dredged from some flawed battlestation’s garbage compaction pit. Told to find something ‘suitable’, I rummaged through the contents, letting loose a few choice curses about being too tall for the female offerings, and too skinny for the menswear.

Given that combat was on the immediate menu, this required finding something to give proper chest support for calisthenic activities. Unfortunately, no tools such as needle and thread or even scissors were provided no matter how much I scowled at the guards. Therefore a super long shirt hastily had sleeves ripped off (using teeth to start the tear) before folding it about so the ends could be tightly tucked into place. It wasn’t the best and certainly didn’t hide the still-bouncing assets, but it’d do - even if I’d likely have to re-tuck after any physical engagement.

That issue addressed, and with a pair of only slightly musty granny panties reluctantly deployed, another long black shirt was then donned to fall over decently flexible graxh-hide pants (identifiable by the off-green coloring and lingering odor) - with a thicker leather belt cinched around the waist. And I do mean cinched, as without a hole-punch I’d had to improvise a knot. A vest of material thicker than the pants was tossed on for good measure - it hung loose due to its size, but would provide at least some protection for my back if I got tossed around.

As, you know, one does.

I even found some sturdy boots that would work, though they required donning four pairs of socks before long and slender feet stopped sliding around even with laces pulled as tight as possible. Scrounging further resulted in two mismatched gloves - one brown and missing two fingers entirely, and the other black.

All I needed was to be wrapped in silver chains (not the literal shackle kind, but ones with grinning skull motifs) and I’d have made a decent extra for a post-apocalyptic film, especially with the current spiky and nuclear-fire hairdo. And it sure as heck beat the orange prisoner’s duds, which if worn outdoors would have lost anti-stealth competitions only to an outfit painted with large concentric circles and flashing arrows proclaiming ‘shoot here!’ to anyone with any kind of visual acuity.

Which I suppose was the entire bright neon point.

To solve the problem of the hair making an equally obvious target (as the guards also rudely refused to lend a razor), another dark shirt transformed into a head wrap. After that I grabbed two canteens: one for the belt, and one with a shoulder strap. With any luck we’d be allowed to fill them - or else why have them available? Finally after some consideration I grabbed a bluish shirt made for a giant and tied its long sleeves around the waist as well. The fabric seemed cleaner than the rest, and while I doubted we’d get cold with all the heat outside, extra fabric for makeshift bandages would probably be useful. This done, I was as ready as I was going to be.

Or so I told myself.

Another march down brightly-lit metal-lined hallways - with a gracious allowance for a stop at a water fountain to fill those canteens - and we were back to the loading dock where another truckbed full of shabbily-dressed men immediately whistled and stared in my direction with obvious hate-filled lust.

Except they weren’t demons.

Despite not being chained at the ankles, I paused as the wave of their disgusting desires swept past. These were hard souls - and with the surge of their response to the presence of a still obviously attractive female came flickered glimpses into their personal histories. Killers, rapists, thieves - images of their ill and bloody deeds smoldered within.

It wasn’t the quantity that got to me, but the condensed impurity of it. I’d been used to demons broadcasting bathtubs full of instant coffee, but here were mugs of quadruple shots of espresso.

As the gut twisted in revulsion, I was immediately thankful I hadn’t been granted any food.

They had come from all over the Earth. Asians, black Africans, Middle-Easterns, Caucasians, from everywhere. Nineteen men with skin and features as diverse as their inner selves were the same: filled with rage and empty need.

Plus fear.

Most of all they stank of fear.

Except for one. A middle-aged man of average stature with short dark locks and no facial hair sat chained at the end of the row, right next to the empty seat the guards then locked me into after forcibly encouraging a climb onto the truck. The guy simply watched with blank and empty brown eyes, appraising yet emotionless. The age behind that gaze was a mismatch to his face, but some souls manifest as much younger than they’d been when they died so that wasn’t a surprise.

Except I’d seen eyes like those before.

In the resigned hollow orbs of my beloved Tsáyidiel, before the Light had set him free.

Sergeant Yurglith, a four-armed weightlifter who seemed to like keeping pistols in two of those hands at all times, stood before the pair of trucks. The other vehicle had the demonic squad of prisoner escorts aboard and ready, but he was attempting to talk into a radio - which the catcalls and sexist commentary lofted in my direction from the souls aboard my assigned truck kept interrupting.

“SHUT IT!” With that shout he also took aim at two of us at random, and the noise instantly died down. He then returned attention to whoever was on the other end of the handheld device, switching back to the demonic tongue. “Whaddya mean wait? We’re loaded, even got that newly arrived solo bitch on board.”

As tempting as it was to try and tap into the transmission, that would have required lowering the empathic shields I’d just put up. Not that there was much more to the conversation.

“Fine, I’m heading there now.” Slipping the radio back onto the uniform’s belt, he turned to address his squad. “Stay put! Mother needs a word.” Facing us prisoners, he growled again in soul-speak. “And keep the din to a minimum!” With that he marched inside.

A few of the souls sported fresh bruises to faces and arms, though I wasn’t sure if they’d gotten those from the guards or each other. Either way, they stayed quiet - and with my only reactions being cool stares which emphasized absolute utter lack of regard or interest, they mostly returned to inward sullen wariness.

The man next to me leaned slightly closer and spoke quietly, intended for only me to hear. He had a rather aristocratic Spanish cadence and the accent still bled through.

“Do not let these animals get to you.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Excellent. Most here will run instead of fight.” He said it calmly, yet the words were still laced with disgust.

“Hard to fight when we’re chained down.”

“We shall be set loose upon arrival.”

Playing dumb, I said, “Guess I missed the briefing. Where we goin’?”

“This has not been made clear, only that those of us who make it through what comes will be appraised at greater value.”

“You sure we want to be rated higher?”

“If someone is worth more, there are always expanded possibilities. Is this not true?”

“Dunno about that. Prime rib gets eaten sooner than chuck.”

He paused. “Say more.”

“Demons eat souls, it’s how they get their power. Supply and demand rules apply: the stronger the soul, the higher the demand.”

“And you know this…how?”

“Been studying ‘em for awhile.”

“Then you also are one who knew wherein lay your eternity. You have prepared for this eventuality?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

He sat back and reconsidered his thinking. After a minute he leaned back over.

“And you are an expert?”

“More like someone who’s picked up a few things here and there.”

“Do they have particular weaknesses?” The guy was direct and to the point. And he’d asked without emotion, only sheer clinical evaluation.

“Other than magic against their true names, it’s the same as humans for the most part. Overconfidence, overestimation of their superiority and intelligence, that sort of thing. A kick to their happy-fun-time spots still works wonders - if you can figure out where those are.”

“Yet they are clearly stronger.”

“A one-soul demon is about equal or at least within the potential brackets. But as they munch more - provided they can keep ‘em down - they grow in power. Not sure what the scale is, but it’s kinda exponential at the low end before becoming more linear at the higher amounts.”

“Higher amounts?”

“Some dukes have swallowed thousands.”

He didn’t flinch at that, merely accepted it. “And are these dukes vulnerable to the guns our jailers carry?”

“Not likely. You’re talking demonic sorcery at that power level, not sure if they’d reach nuclear bomb equivalents but it doesn’t require a nuke to take out a city. Enough lower-yield bombs will do the trick just fine.”

“So us mere souls have no direct chance against them.”

“Against the high bosses and their best warriors one-on-one? No way. But even in human history have giants been brought to heel enough to leave the little guys alone.”

“And these true names you mentioned? What of them?”

“They jealously guard ‘em. Usually only their mothers know since she gave it - which make for some messed up mommy issues. And it’d take a trained practitioner to utilize their name even if you knew it.”

“Interesting. But still, we are caught in quite a conundrum.”

“Yeah. Fight too well and a more powerful jerkface will use us as a lollipop to get at our juicy centers. Fight poorly and, well…”

He finished the thought. “And we shall end up the same as those we offered up so as to board the boat and enter our damnation.”

“Pretty much.”

“A tricky needle to thread.” He stretched shoulders as best he could, what with hands being cuffed and chained to the seat. “You move like a fighter, and observe like a warrior. Is this from training or direct experience?”

The gut went hard. Difficult not to be paranoid when surrounded by multiple potential rapists. “Why do you want to know?”

He didn’t even try to offer a reassuring smile. “In order to determine how difficult it will be to preserve your presence. You know much that I do not.”

“You’d protect me?”

“It appears to be to my advantage to do so.”

“Wow. Most guys would at least pretend to be a white knight to get into a girl’s pants.”

Now he grinned, but it was an expression formed of ice. “I know precisely what I am, and well have I earned the condemnation of God. I am no knight.”

“You seem strangely at peace with that.”

“Why should I not? My wife and children all live, and they are well provided for.”

“But you’re now in Hell, and will never see them again. Not unless they someday fall here too.”

“There are many devils with whom one may make bargains. I am content with mine. For what is a hunter but he who provides meat for table and family?”

I thought of Tsáyidiel - lurking quietly in the nearby shadows - and replied without thinking. “A true hunter returns to the table to rejoice and eat the provided bounty alongside their family.”

The smile faded. “Alas, in my case this became impossible.”

A long pause settled between us. Eventually I broke the silence and gave answer to his original question. “Direct experience. Including open war. My hands are likely bloodier than yours.”

“Thank you.” He offered a polite nod. “This is good to know. Though I do suspect from this brief conversation that the stains running across my fingers flowed much colder.” The doors to the prison opened again, and he turned to look. “Ah, here comes the sergeant. Now we shall see what comes next.”

Gallons of instant versus hardpacked espresso. Maybe there really wasn’t a comparison between the two.

 

 

 

Thanks for reading...and for commenting!

- Erisian