Blind and Dangerous - Act 4
Oz launched himself at the tank of a demon, catching a muscular forearm in his jaws. He tore and growled, slashing with claws and gnashing with teeth, but the robed guardian of the timeline didn’t seem to budge. He took the werewolf by the scruff of the neck and threw him across the bedroom.
Logan dragged himself to his feet and willed with all his might that his feet freeze and his hands burn. Nothing. He delivered a shockingly powerful punch nonetheless, succeeding only in bruising his knuckles. With a shout of forced anger, he grabbed the wrist that held the branch and twisted it, trying to force the demon to drop it.
The muscular face melted away as it turned to look at him; the eyes sinking back into the eye sockets and the flesh shriveling against the skull. It let out an angry and high pitched scream, opening its bony jaw wide for Logan to see the nothingness inside its mouth.
Logan gritted his teeth and twisted hard, succeeding in making the skeleton drop the branch. The leaves, quickly browning and dying away, brushed across the man’s wrist as it fell and Logan cried out in pain, sinking to his knees as the nausea took him again.
Images flashed before his brain and his eyes widened. They weren’t coherent images. Like impressions of memories... And he couldn’t stop them. Mixed in with them were real memories: memories of things he had done, things which had happened.
I wish you knew what it was like to lose everyone you ever loved! Matt looked up from the smoking pit. Logan watched as he himself led Hanna away from the battle scarred house. But the memory continued. He remembered how Matt had reached for the amulet sitting in the center of the circle of blackened earth. Halfrek wasn’t dead. A vengeance demon couldn’t be killed by a mortal. These were things that Matt knew as he carried the amulet inside and stared at the ruins of his house.
Logan twisted on the floor of Hanna’s bedroom, gut twisting nausea torturing his body as memories of things which hadn’t happened tortured his mind.
Oz throttled the branch-less demon, slashing and mauling the wizened old thing, shoving him through ages and stages of life, always taking advantage of the weaker periods: crafting his attack to match the weakness of his enemy, as Loki had taught him.
Logan’s eyes fluttered open and he saw the branch lying on the carpet, the carpet rotting beneath it. A foul smell was coming from the piece of wood. With a sinister resolve, Logan got up onto his knees and reached for the source of the memories.
Michael stood next to the curtain, gazing down at the sleeping patient. He wouldn’t make it through the night, Michael knew. That wasn’t the reason the man from Baltimore was here, though. He had been given the gift of controlling the mechanism of life and death, but only for his own convenience. It would do no good to get a time mixed up and wind up visiting someone who was already dead. His job was too important for that. If necessary he would pull people back from the edge to do what he did. Once he was done, if it was their time, he would let them go.
The tradition of Michael the Archangel was something Mike from Baltimore hadn’t really paid much attention to as a child. He had gotten the crash course, naturally, when some Power somewhere had sent a being known as Clifford to call Mike to his destiny.
The ridiculous shirt and tie had come with the job, as well as a mission statement which put in simple terms what was to be a long eternity of thankless service to mankind: Defend the souls of the faithful, now and at the hour of their death.
There were many manifestations of Michael around the world, Mike was told — not as though every person was visited before they died: only those who’s souls were in jeopardy from the evil which plagued the world. It was a service: one for which Mike had been drafted and told he would do until he himself found his replacement.
Defender of the innocent, warrior to stand before the children in the face of the darkness. It had all sounded very noble back in nineteen forty one. He hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to simply get close to the dying. He had volunteered as a medic in the second world was and had been to Vietnam. But he had had his fill of war. There was plenty of soul-threatening evil here in New York City.
Given a lifetime of watching death and hearing the cries of souls, Michael had come to an understanding with his destiny and with whatever Power demanded the lives that he watched end. Michael had taken to helping others come to terms with their loved ones’ deaths, most recently as the grief counselor of Dodd Junior Highschool, Freeport. And for the second time in a lifetime of thankless service, he had discovered the Powers’ cruel sense of humor.
If Cliff were here now, he would strangle the very life from him.
Anyway, he had directives to perform. Just a few more things to do here, he felt it in his bones. He glanced over at Rachel who looked like she would fall asleep on her feet.
“You’ve been here all night?” he asked with concern.
She nodded groggily, looking down at the chart and squinting. “I had some reading to do,” she admitted absently. With a frown, she looked over to the man in the silk shirt. “You’re here early.”
Michael shrugged. “I came in when I heard there was a boy from Dodd who had died. I’m probably going to be getting some calls from parents.” He watched as her eyes widened. “You didn’t know?” Of course she didn’t. Matt had never seen the inside of an ambulance.
She shook her head. “I– I should get home...” she quickly looked around, finally dumping the chart at the feet of the unconscious patient. “I... I need to be home.”
She hurried out of the ICU blinking rapidly. She got to her coat and pulled it on, hearing the thump of the open manilla envelope as it fell to the floor from within the coat. She stared down at it, the white of several of the pages showing from the open end. Blink. Oh, yeah. She shook her head again to clear the confusing events which had placed her here now.
She had spent the night scanning the document given to her by Marcus Hamilton. There really was nothing incriminating about Logan’s actions since the trial, at least, not that the investigator had picked up on. He had stayed out late a couple of times and there were several dates during which the P.I. Hadn’t been able to locate her husband, but his conclusions had been fairly decisive. If there had been anything between Niki Valtaine and Logan Kilpatrick, it had ended two years ago, like Logan had said.
The thickness and weight of the document was like a burden of guilt now as Rachel carried it with her to the door. She stopped, looking down at the paper in her hand. After a long pause, she reached out and dropped the entire envelope of pages into the trash can near the door. Without another thought, she pushed the door open and marched out into the main hallway, pushing past the inpatients and starting out into the grey of the early morning.
Logan took hold of the stick with a shaking hand. It burned as if he had taken hold of fire itself. He resisted the reflex to drop it and closed his eyes, cutting through the onslaught of memories the stick forced on him. With every word Oz had used during meditation guiding him, Logan separated from inside himself the hot and the cold. The natural differentiation caused by his rage or terror; Logan forced its reversal. He could now feel his sock feet smoldering, his face numb with cold and his breath coming as fog. His hands, too, were ice-cold, the fire of the stick diminishing.
When he stood completely again to face the duel which was still raging, he had a quiet confidence in himself again. Master, perhaps, of his power at last? He raised the stick which he now held easily and shook it at the demon locked in battle with the wolf which was Oz.
Oz was thrown back and the demon shrieked, its muscles slithering and bunching beneath its skin. The burlap robe finally fell away as the demon’s body grew to unnatural proportions.
Logan glanced back over his shoulder and saw Oz, shirtless and in human form, getting up off the floor with a grunt. “Break the stick,” he said forcefully, holding one arm which appeared to be broken.
Logan looked back at the frozen branch, the leaves dusted with frost and icy crystals snaking across the bark. He squeezed the thing tight, feeling it bend in his palm. But a massive hand caught him in the throat and he was lifted from the floor.
Oz’s eyes widened as he watched the hulk of a demon tear the stick from Logan’s frosty hand. It opened its huge mouth wide and roared, tightening its grip on the conjurer’s throat.
With a twist of light and the sound of great beating wings, two figures stood on either side of the massive creature, both wearing white silk shirts. The blond haired one drove a massive burst of electricity into the demonic arm holding the stick and the black haired one caught Logan in his arms as the demon dropped him.
Loki slashed lightning across the demonic face, catching the thick arm in the irresistible grip of an invisible hand. With a shout, he snapped the arm free of the body, watching as the muscles dissolved beneath the skin and a thin, skeletal, naked figure clutched at its shoulder where the arm had been severed.
Loki tugged the branch free of the bony hand and snapped it over his knee, the demon screaming in agony. Before their eyes, the skeletal figure melted into a true skeleton, its bones eventually collapsing as sand to the already ruined carpet.
Oz came to Loki’s side and was handed half of the stick. “Souvenir,” the conjurer said dryly. “Good work.” They both turned and found Michael holding the unmoving body of Logan on the floor.
“He okay?” Oz asked, his face showing his confusion. “Uh, I mean, he has to be, right? Cause... you know... you’re still here.” He turned to Loki who merely shrugged.
“He’ll be fine,” Michael said, running his hand down the side of Logan’s face. “It’s quite obviously not his time yet.” Logan coughed as he sat up, massaging his throat where the demon’s hand had crushed it.
“Michael?” he said weakly. “Am I dead?”
Loki laughed. “We’ll be fine,” he said dismissively. He took Michael by the elbow and stood him up to face the conjurer. “He’s too choked up right now, so I’ll say it: I appreciate everything you’ve done for me — everything you will do.”
Michael nodded once at the gratitude. He took Oz’s arm and touched the spot where the break was, setting and healing the bone. Looking from Oz to the wizard, he swallowed hard. “I have one more thing to give you,” he said with no trace of a smile on his face.
Loki gestured to his past self who lay on the floor, sucking in painful breaths. “Give away.”
Michael shook his head. “No, something to give you.” To Loki’s frown, Michael slowly lowered his head, as if bowing. He took hold of the silk collar of his shirt and slipped the blue silk tie from around his neck, pulling it over his head and draping it in Loki’s hands.
The cynicism and coarse amusement faded as the angel laid the gift in his arms. Loki’s mouth hung open for a minute or two, uncertain of what to say. “Seriously?” he said with awe. Michael nodded. With infinite reverence and care, Loki pulled the tie over his head and adjusted it around his neck. It was a perfect fit. He swallowed and turned to Oz who was watching with a look of reserved judgement. “How do I look?” The conjurer asked, turning a little from side to side. Oz shrugged a little.
“Now, don’t fuck it up.” They turned at the beating of wings and Michael was gone. Loki blinked, amazed at the volumes of unspoken authority and responsibility the blue silk tie represented. A demon had given him the shirt, an archangel the matching tie... and he had picked out the pants himself. That summed up his existence completely.
Loki looked down at Logan who was slowly getting to his feet, trying not to swallow as it might be painful. “Here,” the man in the new tie said sympathetically. He ran his hand down the man’s throat, the bruising vanishing.
“So, I do get the hang of that...” Logan noted, a little smile crossing his face. Loki answered it with a troubled look. Logan blinked. “What?”
The conjurer from the future looked from Oz, in many ways his chaperone, back to the self he had sworn not to change. “It doesn’t have to be the way I remember it,” Loki said carefully. He was breaking every rule he had ever read about. But the Timekeeper was dead, so who was going to stop him? “You still have time to put things right...”
Oz took the conjurer by the sleeve of his silk shirt. “It’s time. We have to go.” Loki nodded and turned to leave, but the hand of his former self stopped him.
“Hold on,” Logan said insistently. “There’s one little thing you’ve left out. You said we were protecting an innocent. Who’s this Wilson guy I nearly died for?”
The barest hint of a grin caught Loki’s eyes and a blue light glinted in them as a bright blue portal sputtered open before the conjurer and the werewolf. Loki turned back to face the young lawyer, pulling his hands apart and summoning what had started all this, but for safety's sake couldn’t be seen. A glowing red ball fell into his palm, its surface smokey and swirling. It was about the size of a volley ball and was the source of Loki’s ability to sojourn in other time periods.
“Meet Wilson,” Loki said with a little nod.
Logan’s eyes widened, his jaw dropping. I almost died for...? “You... son of a bitch!” He decked Loki hard in the jaw, sending him sprawling back into the portal. Oz laughed out loud and stepped through after him.
“Never fails,” the young man called out as the portal snapped closed behind them.
Logan looked around the ruined bedroom with amazement. His future self was a complete asshole. He touched his throat absently. Moving to the window he saw the sun rising over the tops of the houses across the street. He stepped over the small pile of sand and peered down into the driveway.
Hanna stood near the front door as the little brown car pulled out onto the street with a screeching of tires. Logan frowned: Rachel was at the wheel. He watched her take off back down the street, following the bus she had ridden to get here from wherever she had been all night.
Logan squinted as the rays of sunlight caught him in the eyes. Where the hell was she going? He tried but couldn’t suppress a yawn. He looked down at the clock radio on Hanna’s night stand and groaned. He had to be at work in a few hours.
Rachel burst through the doors of the office of Marcus Hamilton, Liaison to the Senior Partners of Wolfram and Hart. She strode past the man who was standing inside the door and planted her hands on Hamilton’s desk.
“I want you to stop investigating my husband,” she said with a tone she hoped conveyed exactly how much she was not going to take no for an answer.
Hamilton looked up from the folders he was reading and looked for a moment from the man Rachel had passed to Rachel herself. “Oh?”
The woman nodded sharply. “I was told your investigator would be discreet.” She glared down at Hamilton as the man by the door slowly approached. “I just talked to my daughter and she’s terrified because strangers are showing up in her bedroom.”
“I assure you it wasn’t me.” Rachel turned on the man speaking, cocking her head as if daring him to speak again. He was a daring man, though he didn’t look it. “I’ve been discussing the changes in the investigation with Mr. Hamilton here all night.”
“Rachel Kilpatrick,” Marcus stood from his desk and gestured to the slight young man dressed in a sharp Armani suit, “I’d like you to meet Aaron Shields, your private investigator.”
“Before you terminate our arrangement,” Shields said, striding around to Hamilton’s desk and picking up yet another manilla envelope, “I’ve just discovered something you might want to see...” He slid the contents of the envelope across the desk for all to see.
Though the control of time and movement across history has remained a function of mystical powers, the perception of time is a power that everyone holds. In moments of perfect vengeance or when death is near, time can slow. When the marriage between reality and continuity is questioned, time is the first casualty.
Time slowed now as Rachel stared down at the evidence the investigator had collected. These six photos did what the two hundred pages she had already read could not do: With a trembling hand which seemed to travel in slow motion, she took hold of her wedding band, her eyes stinging from the tears which wouldn’t come.
Feeling numb from head to toe, she tugged the wedding band from her finger, letting the enchanted charm fall to the desk with a ringing like a small bell. Her eyes never moved from the pictures on the desk.
“Will you be wanting these?” Hamilton asked bluntly, sliding a new set of documents over the lewd images spread across the desk.
Rachel slowly brought her vision to focus on the new documents. She scanned the words at the top and her eyes rested on the single word of interest. Divorce. Her hands still trembling, she slowly nodded, taking Hamilton’s hand and allowing him to shake it. He had never shaken her hand before, but she was too numb to realize why.
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you,” Hamilton smiled as she stared blankly at the various ruins of her marriage scattered over the lawyer’s desk. Marcus nodded to Aaron who also shared the smile. Hamilton gave Rachel’s hand another good shake. “We’ll be sending you our bill.”
Niki Valtaine stepped into the darkness of the warehouse, her head high. She stopped just inside the door and took a short breath, readying herself for whatever she found. She clenched and unclenched her fists, testing how weary all of last night’s activities had left her.
With one final breath of courage, she started forward, psychologically prepared to meet her destiny — whatever that meant. Each step forward was a testament to her faith in Whistler as a man of honor. Each second she didn’t turn and run was a shout to destiny about how much she had changed in the last two years.
Her footsteps slowed and stopped as she came to the rear wall and the doorway there, which led into another section of the warehouse. In her memory, she had gone no further than this. She stood patiently, her head held high, waiting for whatever would come for her.
With the reechoing sound of cruel laughter, two figures stepped out of the doorway, still obscured in the darkness which cloaked most of the cavernous building.
“Niki,” said a familiar voice, sounding as though it were spoken from smiling lips. “You have been deceived.”
To Be Continued...
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