Devil Without a Cause (21 page)

Larry and Trina were still in the room, but they might as well have been on the moon for all he cared.

“Nate’s not going anywhere,” he told her fiercely. “We’re going to get help for him.” He didn’t even notice his use of the word “we.” “He’s going to be all right.”

John came back into the room and dropped a bomb into the emotionally charged silence. “The coast guard says all flights are grounded—it’s not just an afternoon thunderstorm, it’s a tropical depression. They’re clocking wind bursts of sixty miles per hour on the mainland. Another fifteen, and we’ll be looking at a category one hurricane.”

Chapter Twenty-­six

A
storm was brewing in the underground skies above Sheol, and the time had come to unleash its fury.

“Thamuz!” the Prince of Darkness thundered, “Come forth!”

For this audience, Samael had chosen the Throne of Tears, high above the Chasm of Lamentation. The weeping and wailing of the damned, far below, were the perfect backdrop for the screams that came from the throat of the blackened imp being dragged toward him by four of his own kind. Thamuz’s own private guards, all laughing and cackling with unholy glee at their former ruler’s plight.

Secretly he’d always despised the imps, having created them only out of necessity.
So many souls to torture, so little time.
They’d been born of the fears of the humans they now tormented, plucked from the nightmares of the evil and the damned, long before they died. Serial killers, child molesters—the Great Shaitan had no real need to seek his victims among the innocent, for there were so many humans who weren’t.

“You have failed in your duty, Thamuz.” Despite the din, the Wicked One’s voice was heard by all, for the Throne of Tears amplified both sound and fury. Carved of black onyx and cushioned with spiderwebs, the back of it rose several feet above his head, depicting the giant horned head of a ram, eyes glittering with rubies the size of baseballs. The armrests were capped with human skulls, their empty eye sockets regarding both the gathered demons and the restless dead with an utter lack of mercy. “Your laxity put the life of my son at risk . . . If you cannot manage your own people, you are not fit to rule them. For your weakness, you shall be made an example of what befalls those who fail in their assigned tasks.”

There was a collective gasp of surprise from the imps, followed by much muttering, for this was the first time Samael the Fallen had publicly acknowledged Cain’s existence. He’d briefly considered having the boy beside him during this audience, but had decided against it; what was about to happen was not fit for the eyes of a child, no matter how precocious said child might be.

“You said he wasn’t your son,” the imp shrieked, struggling and flailing against those who held him. “You said Selene lied, and that it didn’t matter that the boy escaped!”

Samael was not about to admit that he’d known nothing of the boy’s existence, for lack of knowledge over something so important would most assuredly be seen as a weakness.

“It was a test of your cleverness, Thamuz,” he lied. “A test which you unfortunately failed. You seem unable to tell truth from fiction. The fact remains that you lost a child you believed to be my son and heir. Worse, you took orders from Selene without checking with me first, nor notifying me after.”

He steepled his fingers, looking coldly down from his throne. “Finally—as if I needed any further reason to kill you, which I do not—you allowed foul rumors to be spread about me—rumors that I no longer had a care for the good of my people.”

“Punish Ashtaroth! Ashtaroth is the one who spread these rumors, not I!”

The Mighty Mephistopheles smiled, but it was a bitter smile. “Ashtaroth is made of grief and despair, while you are of flesh and bone. Which do you think burns better?” His laughter was cold, uncaring. “Snap, crackle, pop,” he said lightly. “The breakfast of champions, as the humans say.”

“No!” Thamuz squealed, snapping with razor-sharp teeth at the taloned hands that held him. “Please, Master! Give me another chance, I beg you!”

“Beg away,” Samael answered, “by all means. And do so loudly, so that all my subjects may hear you.”

Frenzied, gibbering, bulbous eyes rolling, Thamuz fought like a mad thing, but it did him no good.

“I hereby sentence you to be torn apart, limb by limb, then gutted, gelded, and spitted like the worthless piece of meat you are, roasted in the flames you were created to tend.”

Demented laughter rose from the chasm, quickly replaced by screams of agony as the imps within the pit quelled it with their whips and pitchforks.

“All this shall be done while you still live,” Samael added, giving specific instructions to Thamuz’s guards. “Be sure to leave the head intact. It will be no fun otherwise.” A quick flick of his finger, and dozens of imps scurried forth to do his bidding, swarming over themselves in an attempt to rend Thamuz into bits.

Another group rushed toward the largest of the already burning bonfires, thrusting their pitchforks into the flames, heating them until they were red-hot and glowing. Their cackles and squeals of glee grew louder and louder, drowning their former leader’s shrieks of agony.

Watching, Sammy gave a bored sigh, knowing how important the spectacle was to his subjects, but also knowing he would be forced to do it again sometime in the near future.
And again, and again, and again . . .

When the low rumble of thunder sounded, heralding the arrival of Ashtaroth, the Dread Demon of Darkness, it was almost a relief. Here, at least, was a challenge worth facing.

“Infernal Majesssty,” came the rasp of a thousand voices, “we sssee you are dissspleasssed.”

The gleeful shrieks of the imps turned to shrieks of terror as they cowered beneath the gathering darkness above their heads.

“I am,” stated the Great Shaitan, “and well you know why.”

“We are dissspleasssed alssso,” spoke the Darkness, “for we are denied what is oursss by right.”

“By right?” Samael remained seated, hands gripping the skulls that made up his armrests. “You have no rights but those I give you; I believe I made that clear the last time we spoke.”

“Not ssso,” came the voices, “for you promisssed usss the boy, a blood sssacrifice.”

“Oh dear,” Sammy said lightly. “I do hope you’re not taking me to task for lying, since it is—after all—what I do best.”

A rumble of thunder set the walls of the Underworld shaking. “Beware, SSSamael, SSSon of Morning, for asss we grow in numbersss, we grow in power.” Several imps near the edge of the chasm lost their footing and fell in, shrieking.

“Staging a coup, are we?” Samael the Fallen smiled thinly, drumming the fingers of his right hand atop an empty skull. “I think not.”

The bonfires surrounding the Throne of Tears blazed up, as if on cue, sending showers of sparks into the air to dance upon currents of heat, rising and twisting. Within the orange-red sparks, shapes began to form. Sinuous, writhing, growing and lengthening, reaching higher and higher, until each bonfire became a creature unto itself; towering serpents of flame that stretched toward the Darkness, illuminating the billowy, smokelike entity.

“Ssstop,” commanded Ashtaroth, but the serpents did not heed him. They grew taller, thicker, casting their light over the quivering, abject imps, who moaned and whimpered their fear, covering their eyes. More sparks fell to the stony ground, and from them sprang more serpents, needing no fuel save that of Samael’s anger, which grew apace with the flames.

A hissing began, growing louder and louder, though whether it came from the hellfires below or the Darkness above wasn’t clear. Twisting, twining, burning, the flaming serpents rose higher and higher, their tongues licking and flicking at the clouds of darkness. They began to strike, mouths open wide, fiery furnaces feeding on the soul-filled mass of doom and gloom that was Ashtaroth.

“Noooo,” came the legion of voices, “ssstop!”

But the serpents didn’t stop, maddened into a feeding frenzy that lit the Underworld with hellish flame, driving back the Darkness, pushing it farther and farther away from the Throne of Tears, and the man who sat upon it.

Samael the Seducer, Ruler of the Abyss, watched, smiling grimly, as Darkness was consumed by fire.

“Infernal Majesssty . . .” The voices were weaker now, far fewer of them than there’d been before. “Have mercccy on usss . . .”

“Mercy?” He laughed. “You seek mercy? You, who prey upon weakness and despair?” He stood, unaffected by the heat of the flames surrounding him, or by the shrieks and screams of the panicky, cowering imps, who were blinded by the unholy light that now lit the Underworld. Their bulbous eyes were used to bonfires, not conflagrations, and their charred, leathery skin was used to heat, not infernos. “Will the Lightbringers show you mercy, I wonder, if I step aside and allow them sway over humankind? World peace, the milk of human kindness, brotherly love and selfless sacrifice—
these
are your enemies, Ashtaroth, not I.” He sneered at the shrinking, fragmented Darkness, torn asunder by the voracious, greedy flames. “How quickly you forget where true power lies.”

“Forgive usss,” rasped the voices. “Forgive usss.”

Samael’s face was hard, the line of his mouth bitter. “Forgiveness,” he said, low beneath his breath, “has always been denied me. Why should I give it to you?”

“We have ssserved you well, Massster, and will do ssso again,” pleaded the voices. “Pleassse do not dessstroy usss.”

“So you acknowledge that I can?” he asked sharply.

“Yesss,” rasped the Darkness. “We were foolisssh to think otherwissse.”

A quick wave of his hand, and the flames burst into a shower of a million sparks, to fall on the hard ground surrounding the Throne of Tears, igniting the imps, who squealed and thrashed in agony before bursting into flames themselves.

“Little bastards,” he muttered. “There were too many of you, anyway.”

Turning, he resumed his seat upon the throne. The smell of charred meat offended his nostrils, causing them to flare.

“Abase yourself before me,” he commanded Ashtaroth, “and hide these abominations from my sight.”

The Darkness, or what was left of it, pooled itself around Samael’s feet, eddies of billowy black ooze that covered the blackened corpses of the imps. “I will have no more insolence from you,” he stated, “or you will be cast into the Void, forever hungry, forever denied the souls you would feed upon. Is that clear?”

“It isss, Infernal Majesssty,” rasped the Darkness.

“Good.” Samael the Fallen placed his hands once again upon the empty, eyeless skulls of his enemies. “And fear not, for you shall have your blood sacrifice. I have a very special tidbit in mind for you.”

W
hen he returned to his chamber, Cain was sound asleep in his bed, Nyx keeping watch over him like the angel of death—dark, somber, and silent. Now scrubbed clean, Cain’s small form looked even smaller beneath the down comforter on the great four-poster bed.

With a flick of his wrist, Sammy sent Nyx back into the shadows from whence he came, wanting time alone with the child who’d turned his world upside down, and needing no witnesses.

Once Nyx was gone, he stepped closer, staring down at the boy whose head rested so trustingly on his pillow.

Awake, Cain was astounding in his impudence; asleep, he was breathtaking in his perfection. His hair was so white a blond as to rival the milky sheen of the sheets, his mouth a tender pink rosebud instead of a blackened slash, spewing profanities.

Without thinking, Sammy raised a hand to rub his chest, which seemed to ache in a way he’d never felt before. Realizing what he was doing, he snatched it away, but was unable to tear his eyes from the boy’s face quite as easily.

What was he to do with this true child of perdition? He had no skills as a parent, and had never desired to be one. He’d seen the rise and fall of many human monarchies, and always—always—the worst betrayals came from within. Sons of an unpopular ruler were the first choice of a disgruntled people, and the first person to look toward when an assassin’s blade or a poisoner’s dart found a home within a monarch’s breast.

It was then that Cain’s eyes opened and looked sleepily into his.

“Are you truly my father?” he whispered, unmoving.

Sammy nodded, not speaking. He sat down on the bed, which had seen so much raucous iniquity, and thought only of lost innocence, and how, once lost, it could never be regained.

“I miss my mother,” Cain said dreamily, his eyes glazed with sleep. “Will I ever see her again?”

Strangely unwilling to ruin the quiet peacefulness of the moment, Sammy replied only, “Perhaps.”

“I’ll bet she’s mad at me,” Cain murmured, his eyes already drifting closed. “But that’s okay. I know she still loves me.”

The poignant certainty of the statement was enough to make the angels weep.

Sammy sat there, unmoving, until the evenness of the boy’s breathing revealed that he was once again asleep.

Then he lowered his head, hearing only the crackle of the fire in the grate, and wondered whether there was anything left of the angel in him.

Chapter Twenty-­seven

T
he storm didn’t let up, raging and howling around the house all afternoon. Nate slept through it, while Faith sat pale and red-eyed by his bed. She wouldn’t eat, and just shook her head when he tried to talk to her, though Trina managed to get her into some dry clothes.

Finn eventually did the same, then returned to the living room where John and Larry were glued to the Weather Channel, watching and listening for any break in the storm. He sat with them as long as he could, then, to keep himself from checking on Faith and Nate for the umpteenth time, he prowled into the kitchen, where Trina had been baking cookies to keep herself busy. He could tell she was angry by the way she slammed the oven door as she took them out.

“Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?” she asked, without preamble. “What’s this about a tumor? What’s wrong with that little boy?”

Finn stared at her, and some of his misery must’ve shown in his eyes, because despite her anger, she enfolded him in a hug. For a moment he let her; Trina was the only woman who ever showed him unconditional affection, whether it was scolding or crabbing or happiness to see him when he returned from the road.

“Her name is Faith McFarland, and Nathan has brain cancer,” he told her bluntly, as soon as she let him go. It was the first time he’d said the words aloud, and didn’t like how they sounded.

The blood seemed to drain from Trina’s face, and before he knew what hit him, she’d drawn back her arm and slapped him, hard.

He stumbled back against the kitchen counter, hand to his cheek, taken completely off guard.

“Brain cancer?” She was absolutely furious. “You brought them all the way out here against her will, to the middle of nowhere, when he has brain cancer?” She advanced on him, and he held up a hand, unwilling to be slapped again. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He had no answer for her. None that she’d understand, anyway.

Trina glared at him, hands on hips, waiting for an explanation. She looked like an avenging harpy, gray-haired and sharp-eyed, ready to rip out his liver and serve it for breakfast.

“What’s going on?” John and Larry both stood in the doorway. “Who has brain cancer?”

“Nathan,” Trina hissed angrily, keeping her voice down so Faith wouldn’t overhear. “The little boy you helped Finn kidnap.”

“Now wait a minute,” John said, shaking his head. “You never said anything about the kid having brain cancer. I would never have—”

“Yeah,” Larry broke in before John could say any more. “No wonder his mom is so pissed at us—she wouldn’t even speak to me earlier when I asked how he was doing. I’ve got kids of my own, you know. If one of them was that sick, I’d kill anybody who pulled a stunt like we did.”

Like
I
did
, Finn thought, knowing they’d just done as they were told.

They were all glaring at him now. Unable to meet their eyes, he looked away. How was he supposed to explain why he’d gone to such drastic lengths? Any way you looked at it, he was an asshole—an irresponsible, selfish asshole.

“That’s it, Mr. High and Mighty Rock Star,” Trina spat, turning on her heel. “I quit. I’ve cleaned your floors and done your laundry and cleaned up your messes long enough. I’ve been here for you when nobody else has, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be party to something like this.” She cast a final parting shot over her shoulder. “I hope you choke on those cookies.”

John and Larry said nothing, but turned around and followed her.

Finn stared at their retreating backs, understanding completely. “Damned is right,” he murmured. “More than you’ll ever know.”

I
t wasn’t night outside, but the sky was dark with storm clouds. It was dark enough, and his studio would do, just as that smelly, dank basement had done when he was sixteen.

Finn stepped into the recording studio on the second floor and closed the door behind him. Nobody ever bothered him while he was working on his music, and nobody would bother him now, particularly under these circumstances. He was carrying a grocery bag—the one Faith had been carrying when John snatched her from her own backyard, on his instructions—and he put it down on the chair behind the mixing console. From it he drew everything he needed: flour, candles, incense, matches. He didn’t bother with the bread or salt; there’d been enough sacrifice going on that weekend without it. His integrity, the respect of his friends, a woman’s heart, maybe even a little boy’s life. There was a small black book inside the bag, but he ignored it, having brought his own. All these years and he still had it, hidden behind a false panel in his closet. He’d never wanted anyone else to find it, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to destroy it.

Now he needed it again, because he didn’t want to wait until the Devil decided to show up on his own. Last night he’d chided Faith about letting Nathan be used as a pawn, and he was tired of being one himself—it was time to take charge of his own destiny, and do what needed to be done.

Taking the flour, he dribbled it on the floor in four straight yet intersecting lines in the partial shape of a star, leaving the fifth line unfinished. Putting the five candles at the five points of the pentagram, he lit them, and put the stick of incense in the center, along with the remaining flour. Then he went to the window and stood for a moment, watching the storm, listening to the rain lash against the glass. Slowly he drew the blinds and waited a moment longer for his eyes to adjust to the resulting gloom before turning around.

As he well knew, candlelight changed everything. His familiar studio was no longer familiar, the mixing console in shadow, the glass of the soundproof booth now a hazy mirror reflecting the flicker of flames. His favorite guitar was just a vague shape in the darkness, the drum set a series of black holes, the microphones spiked arrows pointing to nowhere.

Stepping to the center of the pentagram, he picked up the bag of remaining flour and drew a circle around all five points of the star, then drew the fifth and final line, sealing himself within the very center. The incense was next, which he lit from one of the candles. Its sweetish-sour scent made his nose sting, but he waved the fragrant smoke into all five corners of the pentagram until he was surrounded by a smoky haze, then stuck it into the melted wax of the candle.

Reluctantly he pulled the grimoire from the back pocket of his jeans, and began to read aloud.

“This place is protected, prepared, and sanctified for the presence of the One Most High, the Lord of Night, Son of Perdition.” He paused, hating what he was about to do. “Samael the Serpent, Samael the Black, Belial the Accuser. I invoke thee, O Wicked One, O Dragon of Darkness, Lucifer, Father of Lies.”

Lightning flashed outside the windows, followed by a
boom
of thunder that shook the entire house.

“I invoke thee, Ruler of the Abyss, by this seal of sun and stars, by the power of moon and sky, to come forth.”

He waited, unwilling to take the final step, even though he’d taken it before:
Open yourself to the Darkness, and embrace it within the very depths of your soul. Acknowledge Satan’s power, and only then will his glory surround you.

Closing his eyes, he steeled himself, but instead of Darkness, he saw chocolate brown eyes and windswept curls. Instead of lightning and thunder, he heard a little boy’s laugh and a woman’s sighs of ecstasy. He wanted to weep at what he was giving up, but grief would do him no good. All he would have left would be memories, the wishes and dreams of what might have been.

“Dear me,” came a voice, laced with dry humor. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

Finn’s eyes snapped open, and there was the Devil, leaning against the wall, arms and ankles crossed.

“Love,” said Satan, “is such a cruel thing. Far crueler than any torments I could devise, wouldn’t you agree?”

He said nothing, his mouth gone suddenly dry.

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if such a thing as happily-ever-after actually existed? If promises made under the white-hot influence of passion were actually kept, and desire never died?”

Beelzebub chuckled, pushing himself away from the wall to stroll the room as he talked. “Unfortunately there’s always something in the way, isn’t there? Greed, lust, secrets . . . always secrets. Does anyone ever truly know anyone, after all?” He touched the guitar, plucking a single note from the air. “Nothing to say, Finn? What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

“I have the ring,” Finn stated baldly, refusing to be toyed with.

Satan cocked a blond brow. “Do you, now? I must say, I’m surprised. I really didn’t think Faith would let herself be seduced into choosing a sweet-talking pretty boy like you over the life of her son. Such an adorable little innocent—those brown curls, that smile, just like one of Botticelli’s cherubs. Perhaps one of them will become his ‘special’ friend after he dies.”

“She didn’t choose me over him,” he ground out, wishing he could plant his fist into that perfectly sculpted face, but not daring to leave the circle until he had what he wanted. “She chose
him
over
me
.”

“Aw,” the Devil mocked, “how that must’ve hurt. Still, you got your true heart’s desire after all—your life of selfishness, stardom, and rock-and-roll debauchery will continue. That’s all that matters in the end, isn’t it?”

The candles flickered, casting shadows high on the wall. Finn knew then that Hell itself couldn’t be any worse than what he was feeling right now, right this moment. Nate lay downstairs, maybe dying as they spoke; Faith hated him and always would. Without them, the future lay before him as empty and meaningless as the past.

“I want to make another bargain,” he said, and held out the ring.

“Tut, tut,” the Wicked One said, shaking his head. “No take-backs. A bargain is a bargain.”

“I want to make a new one,” he repeated. “The ring, and my soul—here and now—in return for Nathan’s life.”

A sneer lifted one corner of the Devil’s lips. “How noble of you. Are you really prepared to give up
everything
for one little boy . . . a boy, I might add, whom you barely know?”

“I know all I need to,” Finn said. “He has his whole life ahead of him, and doesn’t deserve to be used as a pawn in any of your twisted games. Neither does his mom. Take the ring, take my soul, and leave them both alone.”

Satan smiled. Shifting his gaze to a point behind Finn, he asked, “What do you think, Faith? Should I do it?”

Finn whirled and saw her, standing in the doorway; he hadn’t heard the door open, though the flicker of candles should’ve warned him. Her face was pale in the gloom, her eyes dark pits of shock and despair. As he watched, her chin went up in a gesture he recognized—her fighting spirit was back, and it made him fiercely, incredibly glad. She was going to need it to keep Nathan going.

“No,” she said to the Devil, stunning him to his core. “I think you should take me instead.”

She moved forward, and Finn put out a hand to stop her. “Get out of here, Faith. Don’t interfere.”

She ignored him, stepping over the flour and past the candles, to take his hand in both of hers. He could see her clearly now, could see the tears glittering on her lashes and the way her lower lip trembled. Holding tight to his hand, she turned her head and addressed Samael the Serpent, Father of Lies. “I’m the one who failed to live up to my end of the bargain. Take me, and leave Nathan and Finn alone.”

“No,” Finn said firmly. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her a little shake. “Go back downstairs, right now—Nate needs you.”

She looked up at him, her heart in her eyes, and he felt his own swell in response. “Promise me you’ll do what you said,” she whispered, “and get him the treatment he needs.”

Finn found he couldn’t speak past the lump in his throat. She was so beautiful, so selfless, when all around him was ugly and painful and useless.

“Promise me,” she repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Hardening his heart against her plea, he shook his head. “No. You’re going to do it yourself. I’ve already left specific instructions for my accountant to set up a trust fund for Nate’s medical expenses, and named you as executor. Take him to Switzerland, and get his treatment under way.”

He would do this for her whether she liked it or not. He would do it for Nate, and for the future the three of them might’ve had together if he hadn’t been such a reckless, selfish fool.

She shook her head, choking back a sob. Her fingers were clutching at his shirt, and she buried her face against his chest.

The scent of her hair filled his nose; so fresh and sweet, like all the flowers he’d never taken the time to stop and smell.

“I’ve been a coward,” he told her softly. “I’ve spent my whole life running away from responsibility, looking for something I was never going to find. Let me, for once, be the man I should have been, the man I want to be when I look into your eyes.”

She lifted her head, opening her mouth to speak, but he laid a finger on her lips.

“Let me do this, for you and for Nate. I love you, Faith McFarland. If you believe nothing else about me, believe that.”

She stared up at him, and he looked into those chocolate brown eyes for the last time, seeing a future there that would never be.

Her hand came up to cover his, pulling his finger from her lips. “I love you, too,” she said urgently, “and I’m not going to let you do this! Keep the ring. Stay with us . . . we’ll find a way to make this all work.”

“Oh dear,” said the Devil, from the shadows, “I do believe you two dreamers are made for each other.”

Finn turned his head to glare in the Devil’s direction, and saw him coming closer.

“Give me the ring.”

Before Faith could stop him, he tossed it, and she saw Satan catch it, snagging it easily from the air.

“No!” Faith screamed, struggling to tear herself free from his embrace, but he wouldn’t let her.

“It’s done,” he murmured softly. “Don’t forget about me, okay?” He bent his lips to her stricken face, and stole one last, bittersweet kiss.