Page 33 of Heart, Haunt, Havoc
Pointed ears, blocky muzzle, crimson eyes, leathery wings.
“Priest,” Marchosias snarled. His voice was Lincoln, and Isabelle, and the echo of a thousand long-gone screams. He became great and terrible, swathed in midnight, baring his teeth in a wolfish grin. “You have been found wanting.”
Chapter eleven
ColinHarthadstudieddemonology for many years, but he had never witnessed a possessor exit the possessed in the middle of an exorcism. He’d plunged into people like a train through a tunnel, seeking light where darkness reigned. Reached between loose ribs and seized unsteady hearts. Shackled reckless spirits and removed the unwanted. But Marchosias, Marquis of Hell, would not go quietly. The demon prince kept hold of Lincoln, leaving his body half-empty and gasping. The corpse appeared suddenly drawn, hollow-eyed and sunken, more dead than it had been when they’d pulled it from the grave.
“I want for nothing,” Colin said, attempting to cool the heat in his voice. Power hummed in his runic tattoos, pressed on his sternum, and held fast to his bones.
“You’re a liar, then,” Marchosias said. His wings sprayed soot and ash, sending orange cinders bouncing too close to Colin’s shoe. He stood on pawed feet, spine bent awkwardly at his mid-back, face harshly arranged. This close, he was difficult to see. Unearthly and inhuman. Completely and utterly unfathomable.
But Colin looked. He set his teeth and pushed his heels into the floor, forcing his body to balance against the churning in his stomach and the sulfur-tinged air. Even with an abomination before him, he would lift his chin and be brave. At that point, he had no other choice.
“I adjure thee, demon,” Colin said, throwing the words like a fist. “Resume your place in the depths of Hell and let this home be free of you.”
Laughter rumbled in Marchosias’s throat, shaking the house. “You would be wise not to test me, Colin Hart. I was once an angel of Domination myself—I know the law, I know the book—and you know, as well as I do, that I was called upon.” A forked tongue licked over his black maw, and he tipped his head toward Lincoln. “Or are you willing to compromise a perfectly good soul in exchange for another notch on your belt?”
“Judgement isn’t my job. Extraction is. Whatever the High Court has in store for Lincoln, they’ll see it through,” Colin said. He resisted the urge to take a step back. “There’s nothing here for you, Marchosias.”
Marchosias dragged his blood-colored eyes down Colin’s body, then rested his gaze on Bishop. “Isn’t there, though? Or is your power a lie?”
Colin channeled the searing light flooding through his veins. He felt Bishop inch closer, their hand brushing his palm, and stepped forward, flinging Holy Water at Marchosias. Flesh peeled and crackled on the demon’s wolfish face, dotted open and sizzled on his concave chest.
Marchosias opened his mouth and sound cascaded out—thunder cracking, wolves howling, people wailing, eagles screeching. Smoke did, too. Noxious black clouds swirled in the basement, causing Bishop to cough and choke. Colin squeezed his eyes shut, reached blindly and prayed.Find purchase in me, he begged, gagging on toxic fumes. He found Bishop’s elbow and grabbed them, stumbling backward.Give me a weapon.
“Resume my place in Hell?” Marchosias screamed, rising to stretch his wings toward the walls and swipe his claw through the air, catching Colin on the cheek. “There is no Hell, priest. No Heaven, no after, no cometh from. There is only here, the place we’ve been given, populated with your tiny, abandoned selves searching aimlessly for recognition, for sustenance, for our father’s long-gone purpose. You were created out of nothing, destined to becomenothing, and we—the fallen, the true heirs—are here to govern that nothingness—”
“Michael, protector, Saint in the Armory, deliver this soul as you see fit. Chain this terror and deliver us," Colin shouted. Pale light beamed from his palm and sliced through the smoke, sending plumes billowing upward and outward, reminiscent of the Red Sea. Colin sucked in a desperate breath. “Please,” he said. A second time, weaker, “please.”
Don’t abandon me again.
“Oh, to beg,” Marchosias bellowed. “Do you taste riches, Colin Hart? Did you strike gold between your pretty nun’s legs? Did your brujo drip like a peach when you suckled at the center of their universe? You cannot lie to me. Beg to whoever you think will listen, but know you are alone, know that Iwitnessyou. Steeped in sin. Left to rot, same as me.”
Bishop clung to him. “Tell me what to do,” they gasped out, pawing at Colin’s chest, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t calm his panicked heart. The light shooting from his palm died. “Colin!”
Colin tried to gather a clean breath and choked. “Use your magic—shackle him if you can.”
They reached for his face, shielding his eyes. Their hand slipped across his bloodied cheek, carved by Marchosias’s black talon, and they stopped short. “Colin, you’re—”
“Do it, Bishop!Now!”
Bishop flung their arm out. Gold spilled across the floor and latched around Marchosias’s pawed feet. The wolf demon let out a horrifying howl, but Bishop’s magic kept him in place for long enough to allow Colin time to breathe. To close his eyes and focus.
Do not leave me, he prayed.Use me. Apprehend me. Allow me to be your vessel.He called out to Michael, to Saint Benedict and Saint Christopher, to Raphael the healer, and Gabriel the honorable.Be with me. Help me.
Fire lit the basement. Orange flames seeded with black pits glowed on Marchosias’s clawed fingertips.
Power came upon Colin in fistfuls. It almost knocked the wind from him. Almost buckled his knees, brought tears to his stinging eyes, caused the pain in his cheek to disappear. His body felt too big for him, suddenly. Too crowded with energy, skin bursting at the seams withwar. He knew the cool sting of Michael’s sword, heard the whisper of sainthood echo in his marrow, recognized the beat of Gabriel’s wings against his heart, felt the stirring of Raphael on the soles of his feet, in the lines on his palms.
“Colin…” Bishop’s hand loosened around his elbow.
“Don’t be afraid,” Colin said, but it was not him. Several voices lapped at each other, humming in the smoky air. He released his hold on his own bones, let go of his body and allowed himself to become a tool.
And so, his world drowned.
Colin felt four-fingered hands, pressing on his shoulders, brushing across his forehead, tugging at his skin. Heard a litany of angel-speak in the sunken place inside himself where his soul took shelter. Felt his limbs move, legs propelling his body forward, mouth forming words in a language he did not know. From behind his eyes, he saw the Marquis of Hell aim another blow at his face, but Colin caught the creature’s hand.
I have you.
