Chapter 12

Abraham Black

January

Where…?

What…?

No. It did not matter. His questions were irrelevant. The facts mattered, and the facts were these: he had been betrayed. He had been used, abused, exploited. Worst of all, he had been deprived of vengeance at the very moment of its realization.

The facts were these: he would find the demons. He would kill them all. It didn’t matter where they sent him with their accursed magic. They could fling him through the farthest door into the darkest void. But if they didn’t kill him, he would find his way back. He understood now; there was always a door. There was always a way to get where you wanted to go. You just had to be willing to pay the price. You just had to find the key.

It was a strange thing that he had not understood this until now. A very strange thing. It was all so clear.

Abraham Black stood in the midst of smoke and fire and considered these things. Men around him screamed, cursed, cried out in pain, pled for mercy. The halls were blood-stained, the bodies drained, and water rained in uneven sprays from spigots in the ceiling, soaking everything, soaking Black’s hat, running off in rivulets that stirred pools of blood and carried them off to dark drains. Fire glistened in reflection on the wet ceramic walls; corpses sprawled in procession down the dark deserted halls; the light was red and sirens spread their sharp and panicked calls.

He stood still in the false rain, his dark leather coat glossy wet and gleaming in the fire and flickering lights. He gazed down at the tiled floor, watching a man’s blood mingle with the water in swirls and spirals. Strange. He felt strange.

An armed man charged blindly around the corner ahead. Black raised a revolver and shot him through the heart without looking up. Thunder boomed through the corridors. The man’s radio squawked in panic as he hit the floor: …repeat, do not engage! Evacuation plan C! Code —the radio exploded in tandem with another thunderous peal of the revolver.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The right key. Yes. He understood. He just had to find one of them. One of the monsters that was now inside of him. A fresh one. An angel for the demons.

He smiled, and blood dripped from his lips, off his chin and onto the floor.

Yes.

He began walking through the now deserted corridors, seeking an exit. He walked through fire and haze, through screams and shouts, stepping over bodies and through rubble. He stalked like Death through an underground town, muttered through his breath with hardly a sound, smiling wide like a flame-charred clown, trailing blood like a funeral gown. The living men who crossed his path heard thunder, then heard nothing more, no lightning here but a thunderclap resounding through the slippery floor, and blackened bullets sundered locks on every bolted door.

He glided out at last into a dark and humid night. He heard noises in the distance: sirens, people taking flight. A city sprawled before him, spread with multicolored light.

The sounds of machines. The sounds of humans. Humans like him? Yes. And, of course, not. So different now. It was a strange thing. He had been in a paper world minutes before, and now he was…here.

A warm and humid breeze blew around him, stirring the vegetation, stirring the column of smoke which rose from the empty structure behind him.

Night had fallen, and Abraham Black faded into the night. Only Nikola Raschez watched him go.