Darius — the demon — the Soul Eater — roared.
Curran opened his eyes. His hands were free. He scrambled to his feet. He could see Lauren sitting up in the sarcophagus. She seemed to be regarding the demon standing before her with the vat in his arms.
Lauren’s voice rang out loud and clear. “Stop this now, Darius. Your mission will never succeed.”
Darius’ voice challenged her. “It is too late mortals. Too late! The time is now at hand.”
He lifted the vat high and moved closer to the sarcophagus.
Curran scrambled to his knees and fumbled with the cuff of his khaki pants. He ripped the right cuff up.
Darius lifted the vat up high — his arms fully extended.
Lauren simply looked at him and smiled.
“Don’t do this.”
Darius paused.
Lauren kept smiling.
What the hell was she doing?
“Put that down, Darius.”
Her eyes seemed glassy. Her voice changed now and she began speaking something that sounded like what Darius had spoken.
Curran thought he saw the demon’s arms slack a little.
Was she getting through to him?
And then a cold wind swept into the cellar. Followed by a voice that made the hair on Curran’s neck stand straight up.
“Do it now! I command you! Do it now!”
Darius roared again.
Curran saw the strength flood back into him. Back into his arms. He lifted the vat again. He stood close by the sarcophagus.
Curran ripped his gun out of the holster.
And shouted.
“Darius!”
The demon turned.
Curran flicked the safety off.
He could see the vat beginning to turn — almost ready to empty into the sarcophagus.
He fired.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The bullets slammed into the demon’s chest, ripping small holes of crimson open. Darius grunted as each round impacted. More blood spilled out of him.
And he laughed.
Curran frowned.
“You see? Your pathetic toy cannot harm me. Watch.” And as Curran watched, the bullet holes closed up one after the other. The blood dried quickly and faded back into the demon’s skin.
Darius moved his head slightly and Curran found himself flung back against the earthen wall of the cellar. Wind jumped out of him as he made contact and he grunted. His pistol clattered away. He slumped to the ground.
Almost unconscious.
“No!”
Lauren’s voice.
Blackness oozed up in Curran’s mind. Reaching for him. It would be so easy, he thought. So easy to give in and let the blackness take the pain away. He could sleep now. Sleep for years and years.
Give in, Steve. Give in and be reborn a new man. Give in.
The darkness clouded his vision. He could see it seeping into his eyesight. He closed his eyes and more darkness rushed for him.
Give in.
“Steve!”
No.
Lauren.
Still in danger — must -
Curran’s eyes shot open. His left hand brushed against the small pistol and clutched it.
Brought it up.
“Soul Eater!”
Darius roared again and turned.
Curran aimed.
Fired another shot.
But not at Darius.
He shot the vat.
The first round struck the ancient pottery dead center.
Flecks of the ceramic exploded.
Darius roared and gripped the vat tighter.
But even as he did so, Curran fired his gun once more.
The vat exploded.
And a wave of the boiling vomitus poured down over Darius’ head.
The Soul Eater shrieked.
Bits of the ancient pottery bit into his scaly skin, tearing it open. Blood rushed out, and the vomit rushed into his wounds. It looked like acid — eating him whole. Curran watched as it ate through his coarse black hair. It smelled like it was burning. He retched as the stench of it all filled the air.
The demon waved his arms, trying to wipe the gunk out of his eyes. His fingers came away holding his own eyeballs. His mouth spewed more vomit.
His knees buckled.
Curran got to his feet and ran to the sarcophagus — careful to avoid the ever expanding puddle of vomit on the floor.
Lauren!
He heaved her out of the coffin and propped her over one shoulder.
Darius kept trying to wipe the vomit out of his hair, not realizing it was eating through his entire body. As he wiped away, bits of his own flesh came out in chunks, falling to the ground around him.
Blood gushed everywhere.
Curran almost slipped into a pile of the vomit, but managed to keep his footing.
Another gale storm of cold blew into the room. Bits of vomit — the souls of all the evil he’d managed to collect — flew about the room, splattering the stone walls. Some of it landed on the wallboard and began eating its way through to the other side of the room.
Curran gagged.
And kept moving toward the door.
Darius screamed again, his wails echoing off the stone walls filling the cellar with dread and despair. He tried to get to his feet, but his knees had been eaten away by the torrent of acidic evil. He wobbled and fell forward face first into the sea of his own filth.
Curran paused at the entrance to the secret room.
He looked down at his gun.
One round left.
Brought it up.
Sighted down the barrel.
What good would it do?
Did he deserve a quick release?
After all the evil he’d committed?
Don’t do it!
Curran frowned. The voice again. That voice. Inside his head? He shivered.
Don’t do it. Make him suffer. Make him feel the pain he’s caused you all these years. This is your chance for revenge. Embrace it!
Curran shook his head. “No!”
Leave him. Let him suffer.
“Get out of my head!”
Lauren’s voice was soft in his ear. “Steve.”
His mind cleared.
Curran steadied his aim.
And fired his final round.
It smacked into the back of Darius’ skull making a wet squishing sound. Darius flailed once, his arm catching a candle, and then lay still.
The candle fell to the remnants of his tattered black robe at the edge of the pentagram. The flames found the fabric of his black robes and raced along it toward Darius.
Toward the vomit.
It caught like a fuse, zipping all over the room. Flames jumped from one splatter to the next. They roared all over Darius’ body, consuming it whole.
Curran shielded his eyes. The place was an inferno.
A splash of vomit on the fake wall closest to him suddenly erupted in flames.
Thick viscous smoke cloyed at him.
A horrendous wind kicked up, roaring into the cellar. The screams of all the evil souls the Soul Eater had harvested were released by the all-consuming firestorm. They rushed around bouncing off the walls. Curran could see the disembodied faces, the spirits, the swirling masses of energy rushing all around, trying desperately to get out.
Curran’s eye stung and he closed them.
Screams filled his ears, invaded his head.
He felt the fire getting closer.
Heard more screeches.
And then in the midst of all the chaos, he heard Lauren’s voice again. “Run, Steve.”
Curran turned.
Fire flew out of the room, finding the cardboard boxes and quickly eating through them.
The stairs.
Curran raced up as smoke began engulfing the cellar. He coughed and gagged. He reached the kitchen and then the living room.
The front door!
Fire caught in the kitchen. It was spreading too quickly to be natural.
Another gust of wind — this time warm — fanned the flames even higher in the house. Curtains caught in other rooms. The crackling sounds of flames eating everything in their path clogged Curran’s ears.
He heaved the font door open.
And felt the cool air outside greet him.
Down the front steps.
Out onto the street.
The first neighbors came running out of their homes.
Curran laid Lauren down against his car.
And turned.
He could hear small explosions erupting from inside the house.
In the distance he could hear the sirens coming.
Flames licked the corners of the windows on the second floor already. Paint bubbled and boiled off the eaves. Shingles blew off the roof.
A huge crack sounded and half the roof sank suddenly. Another crack a few seconds later as the flames ate their way through everything like old newspaper. The roof shuddered once and sank in toward the center of the house.
And then the lower floor exploded, blowing out plaster and wood into the yard. Everyone ducked as bits of debris blew out into the cold November night.
Curran sat down and leaned against the car next to Lauren.
Sighed.
Beside him, Lauren stirred.
Opened her eyes.
She looked at Curran.
Smiled.
“Where am I?”
Curran felt his eyes grow hot and wet. His vision clouded. His voice cracked. He hugged Lauren close to him.
“You’re safe,” he said finally.
And then as an afterthought, “Thank God.”