Prologue: The Wrong Person
It feels like having your soul ripped out from the inside without it having the good graces to leave the rest of your body behind. Inside out, upside down, falling and swirling and I shouldn’t have to take this crap; fucking voidborn prophecy child bullshit and I can’t even stop myself falling this very small distance.
When I hit, it feels like slamming into a ceiling from the downside, and it takes me a few moments to realize it’s actually grass tickling my nose, and not fragments of smashed cartilage. It feels like it should be, like I’ve been through the wash on the heavy duty cycle then handed over to the drier for some more goodtime fun.
I’m used to pain. I don’t like being disorientated, it makes me angry.
I’m currently very, very angry, and if I could remember where I put my feet, someone might be in a lot of trouble.
“Hey… are you alright?”
As usual, Sigmund’s voice is the ice pack and handful of aspirin my poor abused little soul needs.
“No.” It’s meant to be a manly, pissed off growl… in reality it just sounds kind of shaky. I think I’m going to vomit.
My feet are thankfully where I left them, but I don’t think my legs are. I manage to sit anyway; it’s awkward, but my legs aren’t really designed for it, and it’s nothing new. Nothing seems broken, or damaged at all really; sort of like the feeling after waking from a dream cut short by a long fall. An awful lot like that, actually. Except that I didn’t go to sleep in a park, and one I don’t recognize to boot.
Sigmund is silhouetted against a streetlamp, he reaches hesitantly forward before pulling back somewhat. “Do… you want me to call someone?”
I shake my head, stand, stretch and open my mouth to say, ‘Where the hell are we?’ when I get interrupted by a gasp.
“Holy fuck.”
Now, I’m a modern kind of ancient god; I watch TV, go to the movies, hell, I’ve even been known to pick up the occasional comic. As such, I know that when the person you go to bed next to every night – and have done so for quite some time – who knows all your secrets and keeps coming back regardless, when that person meets you in a park you don’t recognize, treats you like a stranger, then says ‘holy fuck’ when you turn out to not, in fact, be a bum, but a seven foot tall demon thing… when all that happens, you’ve probably fallen into an alternate dimension. Again.
I love cutting the angst.
This realization on my behalf, however, does not change the fact that Sigmund looks like he’s about to either scream or faint or both, and I’m halfway through a stretch and am sure I’ve got the kind of expression on my face usually reserved for teenagers caught masturbating. Luckily I have very, very fast reflexes when I want to.
I’m behind Sigmund before he can breathe – one hand over his mouth and the other around his waist, and tail wrapped hard around his legs for good measure – and pull him back into the shadows slightly. He stumbles a little, but I won’t let him fall. His mind feels like it’s about to blank out on me, so I grab hold of that, too, make sure to press on all the right places to take the fight and the fear right out of him. It’s too easy – dead though she may be, my Sigmund still has the heart of a goddess and a mind like iron to go with it – but this Sigmund is all human boy. I decide that I’ll think about what to do with this information at a later date.
“Your name is Sigmund Gregor Sussman, you’re 19, you like computers and hate your middle name. You’re afraid of bats and won’t walk under a ladder for fear of getting bad luck. You also have a scar on your inner thigh from an accident when you were a kid.” – I really hope this is right or I’m going to look a bit silly – “I know this because you’re the reincarnation of my dead wife and I spend a lot of time obsessing over you and you spend a lot of time letting me. I also think I’ve somehow fallen into an alternate dimension so I know who you are, but you don’t recognize me. I just want to go home, and I’m not going to hurt you. Okay?”
I can feel Sigmund’s mind turning over; I release it, pull back feeling a little uncomfortable at being in there in the first place. Eventually he nods – he’s seen the same movies I have, I guess – and I let him go. He stumbles forward a little but doesn’t run, instead turns to look at me. He’s still afraid, but I recognize his expression as more curious now, and I sidestep slightly so I’m in better light.
Eventually, he says; “Actually my middle name’s Ivan and the scar is on my stomach.”
“… oh. I was close.” I shrug; I’m not a guy for subtle movements, and when you’re a seven foot tall demon thing, an exaggerated shrug can look pretty threatening in bad lighting to the wrong person.
“What the shit is going on here?” It’s a woman’s voice, and I don’t recognize it. This doesn’t bother me overmuch. The sound of the safety being clicked on a gun, however, does.
Why does the wrong person always happen to me?
Prologue: London Calling
London, England, was a city Joseph was not unfamiliar with. He had spent a great many years of his long life in this part of the world, and rather enjoyed it. He stopped in every now and then to relax, and remember the way things were long ago. However, this time, he was here on more serious business. The Coven, a group of witches who had made this city their home for a great many years – centuries, even – had summoned him. In their previous incarnations, Joseph had had few dealings with the group, but over the last fifty or so years he had become a close ally of their circle, and their leader in particular. She was the oldest of the group, nearly one hundred and fifty years of age, though she only appeared to be sixty at most. She was very powerful and knowledgeable, and when she sounded as serious as she had Joseph knew that the matter was dire.
He had been on the trail of a Fallen in Madrid when he received the vision – as that was mostly how the coven communicated with him – and had been forced to give up the search to answer this call. So now, he was waiting in Piccadilly Circus, hiding in plain site as a transient. His blackened eyes were covered by thick sunglasses; his jagged, bony claws were hidden beneath old mittens. A toque and a large sweater concealed the rest. He sat underneath the statue of Eros, watching the people go about their day. Several people had offered him money, but he had refused. He wasn’t going to take what he didn’t need. He would have gone straight to The Coven, but they had an irritating little habit of moving around the city.
I guess when you dabble in as much magic as they do, it’s best to not stay in one place, Joseph thought. Who knows whom they’ve crossed in the past.
From the crowd, Joseph saw a younger woman walk towards him. She was cloaked; blond hair spilled out from under her hood, which shadowed her face. Joseph could feel her coming before he had seen her. The cloak itself was stylish, and not too out of place among the other people, in a new-age mystic sort of way. She stood next to him, and he looked up.
“Iosefiel,” she said, and he winced.
“Please don’t call me that. It’s an old title I never earned nor cared for. It’s just Joseph.”
“So you are Joseph of God.”
“That’s me,” he said, after sighing.
“Please, follow me,” she said, and turned away. He stood, stretched, and made his way along behind her.
The house was old, and decorated with quite a few antiques and artefacts. Joseph could feel the power of the place surround him; it was like walking through a field of static electricity. Heavy curtains hung over the windows, and low wattage bulbs lit the room – the modern equivalent to candlelight. Once he had gotten inside, he had discarded his disguise; it was uncomfortable, moving about like that, and he didn’t like it one whit. The woman, whose name was Bethany, had led him from Piccadilly to this house, and now he waited for the leader of the Coven, Catharine, to speak to him. He lounged comfortably in a couch that must have been over seventy years old; one of the women brought him a cup of tea, which he accepted with thanks. Finally, the old woman made her way down the stairs, and Joseph stood when she entered the room. Two more women followed her. They were not old, but not young either. The ages of the women in The Coven varied widely; such things were unimportant. It was the responsible use of their power and dedication to their craft that mattered to them. Catharine smiled when she saw Joseph, who opened his arms and bowed slightly.
“It is a pleasure, Catharine, to see you again and be in your lovely home,” he said, as he did every time he stopped in to see the group. She sat in a chair opposite a small table that was next to the couch. He followed suit.
“It is good to see you too, Joseph, especially so soon after having called you; it is good to see your recent return and ordeals have not slowed you.”
“It sounded like quite the urgent matter,” he said, cutting to the chase. She nodded.
“It’s definitely serious. We… we found something, Joseph. Something not of this world.”
“A Fallen?”
“If it were a Fallen, Joseph, I would not be this concerned. Even Usiel would be nothing compared to this. When I say it’s not of this world… it’s probably more accurate to say it may not even be of this reality,” she replied, and Joseph became concerned.
“What is it?”
“We don’t know. It feels so different from anything we’ve even read about.”
“Tell me what you do know. Everything,” he said gravely.
It was nightfall when Joseph left the small house, which suited him just fine as it would be easier to move around. His mind was on overdrive, running everything the Coven had told him through his thoughts. Whatever it was, they had felt it suddenly appear here, in this plane, and it was powerful. They knew it had entered in Underwood Bay, and worked as a group to sense deeper, reach farther, and discover more.
In doing so, they had alerted the thing to their presence, and it had made a direct trip to London. When they felt that the creature was in London, they had erected a powerful cloaking spell, the strongest they could do, but Catharine had been wary. She wasn’t sure it would work, and had summoned Joseph. They had only been able to glean a few things from their brief contact with the creature; age, violence, pain, and old power. Whether it still had that power or not they couldn’t tell, it was too hard to read. Joseph wasn’t going to take any chances, however, and promptly began to hunt. But first… first, he wanted to hit the pub.
The Black Boar was exactly the same as Joseph remembered it. Same lighting, same dark wood throughout, and the same clientele and barmaid. Joseph let the heavy oak door to the demon pub close loudly behind him, and his boots heavy on the wooden steps leading down to the main floor. The pub was relatively empty, with just a few demons in the back playing darts, the pretty woman serving the drinks, and the lean man drinking them. Joseph made his way over to them – Risika and Damien, respectively – and leant against the bar when he got there. They regarded him with a sense of respect and fear. Risika put down the mug she had been cleaning and smiled welcomingly. She was half elf, and it showed, though what the other half was she would never say. Her skin was a light brown, and her fine Indian features made her the most attractive part of this place. Which is why, of course, Damien always sat where he did. He ran a hand through his scruffy black hair, and looked at Joseph with eyes as dark as the hunter’s.
“Aye, now look who it is,” Damien said, his Scottish accent thick.
“Hello Damien. Risika,” Joseph said, nodding his head.
“What are you doing here? Word was you were in Spain,” asked Risika. Joseph folded his arms over his chest.
“That’s actually why I’ve come,” he said, looking to one of the pub’s booths. “Come with me, I need to ask you some things.”
The trio made their way over to the booth, Risika removing her apron before she came out from behind the bar. Once they were seated, Joseph leaned in closer to them. He sat lengthwise along one side of the booth; Damien and Risika sat side by side on the other.
“I’ve just been to the Coven’s, and they tell me some very disconcerting news. I know a lot of information passes through here; I need to know if anything unusual has been happening.”
Damien and Risika looked at each other, and she spoke first.
“Well, there was a fellow who passed in here not long ago. Maybe a matter of a few days. Odd accent, couldn’t place it. He sounded American, but…”
“But also much older,” Damien finished.
“Yes, definitely,” she agreed, “I didn’t like the feel of him when he came in, but a patron’s a patron, and I served him like any other. He drank whisky; only that, and a great deal of it. But he didn’t even come close to being drunk.”
“What did he look like?”
“Orange hair, big time bright. The rest was kinda flashy. You know the stuff these kids wear to the underground clubs,” said Damien. Joseph nodded.
“And you said you could feel him?”
“Aye, same as I can feel you, mate. Looked off, and had some power in ‘im. You’ll know it when you find him.”
“And why was he here?”
“He was looking for the Coven,” Risika said darkly.
“Do you know where he is?” Joseph asked.
Risika and Damien shared another look.
Thunder cracked overhead as Joseph made his way along the rooftops of the city. It had begun pouring rain shortly after he had left the pub, and he sloughed through it as best he could. He had made his way to where Risika and Damien had said their odd person could be found – apparently there was a certain part of the city he was often sighted in, but Joseph’s search had pulled up nothing. He leapt across another gap, and stopped, sniffing the air. The rain had cloaked the scent, but it was there; old, and smelling of earth. He was being followed. Not wanting to give away the fact that he knew this, he quickly continued on his way. It was easy to feel, now, easy to track the scent that was following him. Joseph smirked and made his way back down to solid ground. The sound of rain splashing off of water was quite loud, and the thunder didn’t help. Joseph stood on Westminster Bridge and waited for his new friend to present himself. Joseph watched warily as whomever this person was made their appearance – rather dramatically, really, as he was only visible in the flash of some lightning, and was then hidden once more. Joseph shouted into the wind and water.
“Who are you?” he bellowed, and was shocked when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He spun around and looked into bright green eyes.
“Ganking my line, huh?” said the young man, before grabbing Joseph by the shoulders, holding him steady. Joseph immediately shrugged him off.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Oh gee, I’m so sorry. I’ll play nice.”
“I think you really should tell me who you are and what you’re doing here,” Joseph growled, and the young man looked at him warily. Joseph thought he saw him twitch; it was enough to set him in motion.
“Why are you following me?”
Joseph didn’t respond, instead bringing up his legs and kicking the young man away. Joseph hit the ground and rolled away; the man did the same. Joseph watched as he crouched on all fours, and laughed. Joseph could sense some power about him, something – as the Coven had told him – otherworldly. Joseph hopped to his feet and resumed a fighting stance; still laughing, he watched as the man’s body seemed to elongate, and change. Joseph watched as legs went digitigrade and clawed, as hair got wilder, as a tail stretched outwards, as wings spread from his back. When the man stood again, he was at least seven feet tall. His eyes glowed a toxic green in the darkness, and lightning flashed. He’d grown charcoal grey fur in several places on his body, and his wingspan was massive; the wings themselves were tattered like Joseph’s. Joseph shrugged it off.
“Shapeshifter, huh?” Joseph said, throwing himself at his opponent. Joseph slashed with his claws and the creature dodged every blow; Joseph flipped and bent his way out of the path of each counter-attack. The fight itself looked more like a dance, with each participant moving so gracefully it looked rehearsed. Finally the pair broke off, putting some distance between each other.
“What do you want with The Coven?” Joseph yelled, his long hair slicked and sticking to his face.
“What do they want with me?” came the reply, “Look kid, you’ll have to find some other member of your freak club to get sweaty with, because… I gotta fly.” Joseph watched as the creature took to the sky, flapping its great ruined wings. The lightning helped to make this an even more impressive sight. Growling, Joseph ran full speed towards it, and jumped as the thing turned to go. He managed to grab the tail, and held on as best he could. The creature yelled when one of Joseph’s claws lodged itself into the thick meaty base of the appendage, and it looked over its shoulder.
“What the fuck is your damage, man?” it growled, and Joseph gripped harder as it tried to shake him off. They were higher up over the bridge now, and Joseph didn’t much feel like falling the distance over the solid concrete. He slid himself up further along the tail, and then wrapped an arm around the thing’s neck and shoulder. Joseph thought he saw the thing wince at this contact.
“What are you?” Joseph screamed again, and the thing bared its teeth. Joseph noticed that it had stitches over its lips that stretched as it did so.
“Very, very fucking pissed,” it said, and slashed Joseph across the side. Joseph grimaced and slammed his belted forearm against the side of the creature’s face. The two began to fall, scratching and striking at each other as the thing tried to stay aloft, lightning and thunder and rain getting their blows in as well. Finally, the creature got a handful of Joseph’s tattered wings, and he screamed; pain shot up from the sensitive membranes and throughout his back. His grip went slack and he released his hold on the creature, which in turn released his ruined wing. As Joseph fell, he felt a powerful hand grip him by the ankle and fling him into the air; before he could react, he felt a flurry of damaging blows pummel his sides, his back, his neck, before a clawed foot slammed down between his shoulder blades hard. Wracked with pain, he could only mutter a futile protest as he fell through the air and struck the cold water of the Thames. Willing himself through the agony, he clawed his way back towards the surface of the water. He gasped loudly and thrashed in the rough tide, coughing water out of his lungs and looking for the thing.
Another flash of lightning showed it standing on the bridge, leaning with his hands on the guardrail and looking perplexed as he watched Joseph. Looking like he was trying to recall some old, small memory. And then it was gone, and Joseph was left to bob in the water.
1. All Trespassers…
Joseph stepped forward first, gently drawing back the dark velvet curtain and moving into the small room. Miriah cautiously stepped in after him, watching the way they had come; she had drawn neither of her pistols, but she kept a tight grip on them should the need for their use arise. Music from the club, whose name Miriah could not recall even though she had thought it sounded cool – something French – pulsed steadily towards them. They had to pass through the club to get here, and they had been largely avoided and quietly regarded by the crowd inside, mostly teens and young adults; the usual clientele for these places. They were pretty unique-looking in their own right, so Miriah chalked their easy passage up to the fact that none of them wanted to get anywhere near the pair.
After all, it was either that, or somehow the sight of a topless, belt-strapped, clawed, blue-haired man-demon leading a Chinese girl wearing a smile-emblazoned long cap and a gun belt was more common that she wanted to believe; she prided herself on her unique style.
“Well, Joseph, it’s not nice to keep secrets. What are we looking at here?” Miriah asked, casting a quick glance about the room. Joseph stood in the center, inspecting what they had found. He tapped his claws lightly on the iron shelves that jutted from the walls, peering curiously at the rather large amount of rather ordinary items that lined them. To his left, at the end of the room, was an industrial incinerator. Neither of them liked the fact that it was there, as neither had a definite idea of what its ultimate purpose may be. Joseph picked up a small teddy bear, turned it over a few times in his hands (if you could call the sets of three curved claws that poked through the belts over his forearms and wrists ‘hands’), and set it back where he had found it. Miriah examined another set of these shelves, taking notice of a plain white bra. The cup size wasn’t very large; she pushed it aside, unsure of why it was there in the first place. Her back was to Joseph as he mused aloud.
“Well… I know what it looks like, though if these are offerings they aren’t very distinct ones,” he said, continuing his investigation, “Looks like some kind of altar, really. Though I haven’t seen one like it in a very long time.”
“Bearing in mind that my idea of ‘a very long time’ is rather different from yours…?” Miriah said, prompting Joseph to be more concise.
“This is stuff that I thought died out when they would burn you for it, really. I remember a day when people were smote for this kind of worship.”
“So it is worship, then. Joe, I’m not too keen on fighting a god if we happen to come across one. Tell me better news,” she said, tapping her fingers along her pistol grips.
“I don’t think this is really any particular god.”
“That’s a nice start.”
“Nah, it doesn’t smell like one. Power, yeah. But it smells like something that’s faded over time. May have been a god once,” he raised a brow when he sniffed at the air again, considering something which he hadn’t noticed and was ashamed of missing. “It smells… familiar.” He looked over the incinerator as he considered this; it was still warm; something had been burned not long ago. Miriah looked at him incredulously.
“Doesn’t… smell? You’ve got a scent?” she asked.
“Yeah. Relatively strong, too. You probably smell it and don’t realize it. We may have just missed it.”
“As long as we’ve missed it, fine by me,” Miriah mumbled. Joseph turned to her.
“Haven’t you been doing this for a while now? What are you so damn skittish for now?” he said, impatiently. Miriah turned from the door, craning her neck to look up at him.
“Why am I skittish? I know you’ve been through a lot recently, but I didn’t think it left you terminally thick! You call on me at 2 a.m. back in Underwood, tell me it’s an urgent matter but you don’t bother to tell me what that matter is, you drag me around the world – where, thanks to you, I had to spend sixteen hours surrounded by small children who decided to see if they could wail continuously for hours on end while you chilled with cargo – and now we’re here, standing in a room full of trinkets and a large incinerator, discussing the possibility of coming face-to-face with a god. Now, I know you’re special, but I haven’t exactly got superpowers going for me. If I had known this was what I was here for, I would have told you to grab your coven friends! Seriously man, what the shit am I here for?” she bellowed, frantically waving her hands in emphasis; it was as she emphasized ‘shit’ that one hand flew too far and fast, and sent a small crystal ball flying from its perch on a shelf. The pair watched it float for a microsecond or two, and then plummet toward the ground… only to be snatched out of the air by a clawed, mauve hand before it could shatter on the floor.
Attached to this hand was an arm, also mauve, with fur in places; the arm, of course, attached to a body that ended up being around seven feet high, dressed in leather and scars. Joseph and Miriah stared at the creature as it rather gracefully rolled the ball along its fingers before replacing it on its stand on the shelf. Dead-looking eyes regarded them coldly; a rather good-sized tail flickered behind it.
“I know you!” It came as if on cue. Joseph and Miriah looked at each other amazed.
“You… how?” Joseph asked.
“Midland Greens, about three weeks ago. Saw him going after some boy! How…?” she replied.
“London, a week ago. This is my urgent business,” he said.
“Wonderful. I find the one tether to my own fucking dimension and look who I run into; Hat-girl and the walking Geek-show,” it grumbled from between stitched lips. They stretched to fit the words; the effect was as off-putting to Miriah now as it was weeks before. She grimaced. “Always the wrong people.”