Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2) (45 page)

I began to examine my enlightened spiritual state more in depth. Who was I? What had been the purpose of my life? Was it all to end in this? Nothingness? Then I blinked, noticing something. No, that wasn’t entirely true. I wasn’t
nothingness
.

I was, in fact, sitting at the front of a small, rickety, one-man boat on a river of inky black water, floating through the darkest of nights
towards
nothingness.

Okay, this probably didn’t bode well.

Crack!
The sound seemed to be swallowed by the darkness, but I still jumped like a little girl, rocking the boat slightly. It almost sounded like someone had opened a Budweiser behind me. Here I was, being all one with the universe-y, and someone was cracking open a cold one? Did they have no respect?

I turned in my boat, and flinched as I realized I wasn’t alone. Charon sat behind me.

The Boatman.

He was… extremely
creepy
up close, making me wonder how wise it was to have been friendly to him in my past life. A darkly stained, burlap robe covered his frame and continued in a shadowy hood over his head. He pulled the hood back and I instinctively leaned further away in alarm. His skin was the color of pure ivory, and parched like aged leather. His lips were sewn shut with a decidedly unhygienic, thick, knotted leather cord, and his eyes were glittering ebony gems. His hands were entirely skeleton, and they were rising towards me slowly…

To offer me a fresh can of beer.

Not knowing what else to do, I accepted it hesitantly. He nodded, and opened one for himself. He wasn’t rowing. Apparently he wanted to take a booze break between jobs of carting souls to the after-life. He lifted his can to me in salute then dumped it over his sewn-up mouth, maybe succeeding in drinking ten percent of the beer. It was… messy, liberally coating his chest in the frothy ‘Merican drink of choice.

“Good run.” He hissed in a rattlesnake on sandpaper voice, almost making me release control of my bowels in pure terror. His lips, after all, were sewn up tight. Then I realized that he had spoken entirely in my mind.

Once I had composed my fright, I chose to reply out loud, not sure how good I was at the whole telepathy thing. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” I looked around. “So, this is it? Kind of dreary for Elysium.” He didn’t say anything. So I elaborated. “Because I’m 99% sure that’s where you’re supposed to be taking me. Not the other place. I hear it’s hot down there, and I’m not a huge fan of anything above 110 degrees.” I was babbling. He continued to watch me in silence.

“Should you be drinking on the job? Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” I asked.

“Just satisfying my appetite.” A sound like a dusty bag of leather being beaten with a stick emanated from his sewn up lips, and I realized he was chuckling. Even his laughter was frightening. I managed not to jump out of the boat and fend for myself in the pits of neverending woe that was known as the River Styx, the River of Souls.

This was the guy I had been so friendly to? He was downright
terrifying
. “Who’s going to tell me not to drink on the job? It’s not like anyone else wants to do this. It… what’s the word? Ah, yes. Sucks. But I have job security.” His voice of crumbling ashes pierced my mind. I wasn’t sure how long my sanity would be able to take the sound of Charon’s voice if he decided that he preferred to have a long, drawn out conversation with the wizard who had been so friendly with him in the past.

“I guess so. You
are
taking me to Elysium, or whatever you guys call it these days, right?” He shook his head. “I think I was pretty clear. I don’t think I’m supposed to go to the other place.”

Instead of answering, he poured the rest of his beer over his sewn-up mouth, and then picked up his paddle. Glowing green runes flared to life as soon as his skeletal hands touched it.

“Charon. Really. Listen to me. I’m not supposed to go there.”

He hesitated as if debating only thoughts that the Boatman to the World of the Dead could fathom, and then turned his nightmare gaze back to me. His ebony eyes glittered in the green glow of the runes on his paddle. Then he spoke, face screwed up as if trying to remember something. “I had twelve fucks as of this morning. Now I have a dozen fucks. How many fucks did I give today?”

I… blinked.

The Boatman was… making a joke? He was staring at me with what I thought was supposed to be eagerness, but merely looked predatory. So, I answered, understanding that he probably didn’t get many chances to exercise his humor. “You gave zero fucks today, Charon.”

He slapped his knees with excitement and his face tightened in what I guessed was a smile, the knotted cords over his mouth pulling tight, which made me wince with imagined pain. His smile would have made little girls and grown men alike run screaming in horror. “And I’m not about to start giving fucks now.” He added. Then he appraised me. “That was funny, was it not?” he asked me curiously. I was kind of getting used to his voice. The way someone gets used to nails on a chalkboard.

“Sure. Hilarious, Charon.” I answered in resignation to my apparent fate.

Then he began rowing the boat, aiming for a sudden vertical split in the river before us, a beam of glowing green light.

“It’s not up to you. Or me.” He hissed compassionately.

I groaned. “You’ve got to be
kidding
me. You know how many enemies I have down there?” I grumbled more to myself.

He shrugged and continued to paddle towards the light.

So I drank my beer. It tasted good. Really good. Perhaps it was because I knew it would be my last.

We didn’t move very fast. I guessed Charon wasn’t really in much of a hurry. After all, it wasn’t like he cared about anyone else’s time schedule. His fares were dead. They weren’t necessarily in a hurry to get anywhere anymore. Most were likely
not
in a hurry to get to their final destination.

I finished the beer as we entered the light with a faint tingling sensation coursing down my arms, and I mentally prepared myself for the worst thing imaginable. What would Hell be like? Was it individually tailored to each person? What was my worst nightmare? I had experienced a plethora of them over the past few months. What could be worse than those? But as the light washed over me, a familiar scene surrounded us.

The salvage yard.

I turned to look at Charon with a scowl. Was this my hell? To relive my death over and over again? Then I noticed something odd. My body was lying on the ground, dead.

Othello still kneeled where she had been. But Gavin was nowhere to be seen. Charon waved a hand and a metaphysical window appeared, showing me the entrance to the Armory at Temple Industries, where Gavin was liberally, and furiously, throwing a dark, viscous liquid against the door. My blood. Nothing happened. His scream of frustration was most satisfying. Then, totally unexpectedly, the freaking door exploded. Gavin barely escaped in time as I watched my company implode like a nuke had went off in the lab. Huh. I hadn’t seen
that
in the blueprints.

Gavin reappeared before Othello in the Salvage yard. He was not entirely unscathed, much to my satisfaction. His face was cut up in two places, bleeding freely, and his hands were covered in my blood. His clothes were singed from the explosion, and he faintly smoked in places from the embers that had nearly burned him alive. His hair also looked silly, like a toupee on a particularly windy day. No, not
like
a toupee, it
was
a toupee! Oh, that was rich.

Apparently my Hell was not being able to make fun of him for it, which was abhorrently cruel in my opinion. Not even a chance for one wise crack. I sighed.

Gavin struck my friend across the face, screaming in a spittled rage. “The place was rigged to blow!” Then he began to torture her in earnest. Like a child plucking the wings off of a fly, and I suddenly knew that he was much worse than the Academy. He was of the school of thought that
Might was Right
. Just like Peter had been.

I was forced to watch Othello be beaten to death.

I slowly turned to Charon, sickened. “So, this is it, huh?” I accused in a low voice. “You will leave me here to watch her die? As punishment for my sins? What sins have I committed to deserve this?” I finally roared helplessly.

Charon stared back calmly for a long second. He must be used to it by now. Then he spoke in my mind again. “It was nice meeting you, Master Temple. Do better next time.”

Without further ado, he flung a hand at my face, and reality…
collapsed
.

I came to, panting hoarsely, my fingers clutching gravel in tight fists. I squeezed the gravel tighter and a blue haze filled my vision as the gravel silently imploded into dust. Then nothingness.

What the…

I slowly looked up as I heard a sickening thud of fists striking flesh, and a resulting delirious groan of pain that was on the verge of final silence. Gavin was towering over Othello. “You lied to me! I will tear the skin from your nephew for this…” The rest was incoherent babble as I realized a very important thing.

I was back.

I began to hum to myself as I climbed to my feet, once again in perfect key.

Back in the saddle agaaaiiiin….

Chapter 38

I
climbed to my feet and called out Gavin’s name. Softly. Gavin flinched, practically jumping in his skin as he turned to face me, a look of utter disbelief painting his features. It made me smile, but I realized I still wore Death’s Mask, and wasn’t sure if Gavin could see my pleasure or not. “You… You can’t be here. You’re dead. I killed you. I used your blood on the door. The Armory is mine now. You wouldn’t dare attack me.”

“You didn’t get into the Armory. I saw you fail.”

He spluttered defensively, spittle flying out his mouth. His knuckles were covered in Othello’s blood. He went with his original threat, seeing that I had called his bluff about the Armory. “It’s death to impersonate a Horseman! I’ll call them and tell them what you’ve done! Nothing points to me. I made sure of it. It all points to you!”

I watched him squirm like a worm. It was immensely satisfying after thinking I had died and was going to hell. This was almost like
heaven
to me. Then that sunk in.

This wasn’t Heaven,
was it?

I hoped this wasn’t heaven giving me hallucinations of victory for eternity. Oh well. If it was, so be it. I was going to make the most of it. I spoke softly, with all the authority I could muster. “Who said anything about impersonating? I’m here to condemn you for your lack of proper toupee etiquette. It’s downright embarrassing, like a hungover zombie squirrel took a nap on your dome.”

Gavin’s hands jumped to his hairpiece, straightening it instinctively before a scowl crossed his features. I smiled.
Yes! Toupee joke accomplished
. This really
was
heaven. I continued more seriously. “You saw what I did to the Greater Demon. I think you’ve had this coming for quite a while, Gavin. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s slow enough for you to experience every moment of it. I want you to see the twinkle in my eyes that signifies my sublime satisfaction at every millisecond of your agony. But first, tell me why?”

He quivered with frustration. “The Academy is broken. They’ve forgotten their true purpose. It’s all politics now. Favors exchanged for more favors. Not true Justice.” He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “I was going to reset the rulebook. Establish a new Academy with the power of the Armory at my back. Start fresh. Salt the earth. A New World Order of Wizards.”

I let him finish, not entirely disagreeing with his cause, but utterly disagreeing with the means he had used to accomplish the Academy’s downfall. I nodded once in both appreciation of his answer and signifying his impending death. And, because I would literally never have another legitimate chance to say it, I quoted
The Princess Bride
as his farewell conveyance.

“My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father. Prepare to die.” I had always wanted to say that, and…
damn
did it feel good. Especially with the accent.

Gavin jerked his head around in a panic, searching for any way out.

And his gaze settled on Othello/

He smiled. “Well, if I’m going to die, I’ll do it with finesse. You killed my Demon, now I’ll kill your concubine.” Before I could even blink, he slit Othello’s throat with a whisper of magic, too fast for me to even consider stopping him, being completely unused to my new powers. She hadn’t even raised her head to look at me before she died.

Othello’s soul slowly rose from her broken body. She stared down at it in pity, crying. Then her soul looked up and saw me. Her form quivered in fear as she realized she was about to meet Death in his official capacity.

I had seen my reflection. I didn’t blame her.

I smiled compassionately, hoping she could see through my mask to the human emotion beneath. “It’s me, Othello. It’s okay. I forgive you. Come to me.” I encouraged softly in my mind. She apparently heard me, her eyes widening. A tear fell to my cheek beneath the cold bone mask. She hadn’t deserved to go through this. But she had done it all to save her nephew’s life.