The Forsaken (38 page)

Just then, a voice came through.

“Mike,” she began. “Thank God! Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the last ten minutes!”

“Catch your breath, Rachel. I was in the other room checking on some reports. Thought I had my phone with me.”

“We’ve got a problem. We’ve got a huge problem.”

“Bigger than a serial killer who’s on schedule to deliver two more bodies before the stroke of midnight?”

“Whitney was right. Jude killed Chase Vallace.” She’d never heard herself so clearly before, like every tone and syllable were made of glass that shattered as it came out of her mouth.

“Hate to say I told you so,” Whitney added quietly.

“I’ll be…Why would he do that?” Mike asked.

Rachel felt the tremor in his voice. “I don’t know. But he’s different. We’ve all felt it. Look, Mike, I’m sorry I defended him. There’s no mistaking it. Jude’s off the reservation.”

“That pit bull should be caged like the animal he is,” Whitney scoffed, wiping some dry snot off his nose.

“Where are you?” Mike asked.

“I’m on my way,” she replied. Her thumb fell on END. Rachel slid over a puddle and U-turned.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Whitney asked, puzzled. “I don’t like lying to the chief. We have evidence to report.” He held up the plastic bag containing Vallace’s recorder and his cell phone, which carried images of the reporter’s corpse. “You heard those sounds on the recorder, Rachel. They weren’t human.”

She swallowed hard. “I heard it. Same as you.”

“And still you’re not listening to reason here. He could kill you. Do you hear it now? Your partner could
kill
you!”

“I have to try and stop him.”
He told me he loved me, and I turned him away. Did I help pull the trigger?
“Maybe I can help him. He’s one of us.”

“No. He’s not one of us. He’s somethin’ else. And I’m not gonna let you pull a suicide stunt just to give this whack job a chance to suck you dry too. Stop trying to prove yourself!”

Rachel eased up off the gas as if she were going to brake for the red light. After quickly checking the perpendicular street, she dropped her foot on the pedal again and sped through it.

“I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. Not to you, not to Jude, not the chief.”

“So what are you thinking? Why are you doing this?”

“Because there’s a part of me…that believes…”

“What?”

Rachel turned toward Whitney for a split second. Rain flooded the windshield. She was looking at him in slow motion, waiting for the moment when her mind would provide her with an answer. She was still part of it; they all were. There was no cure left to reverse it. The struggle. The war. The reality of being alive.
Jude Foster murdered a reporter.
What good could there be left?

Her mouth was barely open when the cruiser hydroplaned and collided with a telephone pole at fifty miles an hour.

* * *

“I should be dead. Dad. Dead. Wh—”

It was a miracle that she could still move her arms and legs. She knew that. The facts that one of her eyes seemed blistered shut and her fractured rib made it hard to breathe were not the focus. “Jude. I have to get to him. I have to try.”

The vibrations in her thigh didn’t want to stop. How much longer before her body registered that she was still alive? Gasp. Full breath. Gasp. She blinked, and it hurt. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she understood that it was some of her blood that blanketed the dashboard. She blinked again, and the scene blended more clearly.

Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt. Her eyes scanned Whitney. His cheeks were stained with blood, some glass sticking out. The passenger side window had cracked and shattered upon impact. Rain poured in, smacking him in the face. But he wasn’t moving. His neck was twisted.

How had she not seen the telephone pole?

Because you lost focus. You took your eyes off…the road…for a second. You. Lost. Focus.

“I can get it back!” She bit down hard, making sure her jaw wasn’t broken. It ached. “Get it back, Rachel!”

Leaning closer to Whitney, she checked his pulse. Maybe his ribs were fractured too. Maybe it was a chore for his lungs to take in oxygen.

“Come on, wake up. Wake up, you creep!” She slugged him hard, hoping her force would call him out of the unconscious daze. It didn’t work. All it did was send sharp needles of pain through her wrist.

A fear slipped inside her then as she watched Whitney twitch but not breathe, as the rain pushed into his cheeks like bullets. It was a real, terrible fear, one she felt herself inhale. It didn’t come with shivers or with a skipping heartbeat; it came with a memory.

Dad.

The fear that welcomed her upon her arrival. The fear that said she would not survive.

“Ignore it, Rachel. You’re not dead. You’re. Not. Dead!”

She once again checked for Whitney’s pulse. Relief came with shut eyes and an almost breathless sigh when her fingers moved. It wasn’t much, but he was alive.

Rachel made a phone call. It was surprising to discover the storm hadn’t cut off service. She dialed dispatch and gave them her location. Whitney would be taken care of. She couldn’t take the risk of the chief ordering her to return to the department. The case wasn’t finished. She had to find Jude.

Rachel reached for the plastic bag on the floor mat and pulled out the recorder, pressing the play button. A horrifying voice statically came to life. It was Jude’s voice but with another’s overlapping it. Something not of this world. She’d heard it before in the motel room. What terrified her most was when it spoke its name: Azrael. “Let us in. You…let the dark…in.” Those words repeated, even after she stopped playback.

“Jesus,” she gasped. She wasn’t sure if that name was formed by shock or as a desperate plea or both, but for the first time she found herself thinking, really wondering if heaven could hear her cries.

It was clear what she had to do. Rachel eyed her gun, unsure if she’d have the guts to see this thing through. Unsure if she’d survive.

52

“HAVE YOU SAID YOUR
prayers lately, Detective?”

It was a chilling shape the words possessed. Shrill. The voice came from behind Jude.

“Morgan,” Jude said in a full, breathy tone.

“It’s so good to see you, my dear, dear friend. At last. We are face…to face.”

The large church doors remained cracked open, but the wind and rain whipped them back and forth as Morgan eased ever closer.

“Did you get any of my letters? I personalized them, just for you.”

“Kiddo,” Eliam coughed, the blood filling up his lungs. “End this. Open your…eyes. Let…truth in.”

“Shut up!” Jude felt a clawing between his ears. He was bound by its fury. “Something…eating me…from the inside.”

“Those are the spirits’ voices,” Morgan said. “They become a part of us, a part of Azrael.”

Jude fell back, smacking his head against the floor. His cheekbones shifted, his jaw ached, his bones burned. He noticed his fingers buckle and then a tremendous pounding against the inner wall of his forehead. “Make it stop.”

“I got used to it. When the demon has been a part of you long enough, you have no choice but to get used to it.” Morgan knelt and took pleasure in the ailing spectacle. “You didn’t think it was going to be all fun, did you?”

Jude tried aimlessly to rub the pressure out.

“You took them. Every soul you reaped is now swimming through your veins. Eating your humanity in order to stay alive. Life’s a pretty circle, isn’t it, baby?”

Morgan clenched his fist and swung upward, the scabbing skin on his knuckles sliding Jude’s insides around. His knee came up and caught him in the ribs, and before the next blink, Jude’s jaw nearly shattered as Morgan carried his fist around again.

Every stiff knuckle felt. Every joint displaced. Every muscle flexed and weak.

Jude jerked, spit flying from his lips and staining his enemy’s black jacket. Blow by blow, he warred with the noise in his head. But the strikes came quicker. The roundhouse then the head-to-head impact, and finally a series of punches that seemed to race across his hunched chest. He was losing steam.

Knuckles cracking and soaked with demon blood, Morgan dragged his fist through Jude’s ribcage, where his knife had caught the detective on the night they last saw each other.

Jude cried out a curse and pushed away the strong hands that gripped him. He attempted a defense, but Morgan advanced so rapidly, he instead was sent spiraling into a row of pews. Wooden teeth showered the floor. His spine unhinged and snapped in different spots, but he managed slight movements nonetheless. The energy and power surging through him in spite of the battle was remarkable.

Morgan approached, smiling like an unfettered inmate, ready to unleash torment. He clutched Jude by the ankle with two hands and threw him toward the altar. Jude landed on his chest; the crunch of his shoulder blades reverberated throughout his entire being.

You’ll be okay, sonny.
Azrael’s slow whisper was a false melody.

“If you were a god, would
you
forgive me, Jude?” Morgan asked. “Could you forgive me for everything I’ve ever done, everything I’ve ever said or thought? The times I felt the pull of lust? Each time I cursed when I should have blessed? Every time I…let the darkness out? Can mankind truly forgive his brother? Could you, in a world where nothing is sacred but the colors of our sins?”

A tattered piece of paper floated to the ground beside Eliam’s face. The D oozed red.

“Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins,” he said, lighting one of the carved wooden statues with a candle. A grin unwound the creepy lips that ushered in the hopeless prayer. Morgan then made the sign of the cross and kissed the pendant image hanging from his neck.

“Don’t play nice, Jude. Tell me the truth. You couldn’t, could you?” Morgan eerily stepped near Eliam’s body. The priest tried to gasp, but stuttering prayers spilled into the smoky dark of the sanctuary. His hands were smudged and filthy. His face was bruised, collar torn. The cold sting of winter air swallowed every trepid breath. Eliam attempted to clutch the heel of the villain, but the snake had already slithered by.

When Morgan’s eyes descended upon his prey, he reveled. “Fight back! With Azrael’s essence in you, this should be a challenge for me. But you’re weak. You’ve always been inferior to my strengths. You were dark, Azrael was right of that. But weak and pitiful nevertheless!”

As he blinked, Jude was standing again, with hatred spreading behind red pools. His hands lunged for Morgan’s throat, nails burying beneath the fleshy surface. Dust and blood sprayed their jaws.

“It’s his blood now in you,” Morgan wheezed, clutching Jude’s as well. “You’ve…become more and more like the demon. More and more…like…us.”

Struggling to speak, Jude said, “I…
will
end you tonight, Morgan!”

Morgan tightened his grip. “You can try.”

Jude seethed. It was Azrael’s voice morphing his.

“My, my, you
have
changed, Jude. Much…quicker than I expected. Tell me, how does it feel?”

The pain revisited Jude once more, ushered in by memories. The image of that Haitian village where he’d found Victor. The red sand. The unprotected homes he invaded like a hound. Children covering their eyes and mouths, as they were undoubtedly taught to do. But nothing could keep him out.

Remember us
, the spirits chanted. It was the dead inside of them.
Remember us.

Aware that his grip was weakening, Morgan recklessly thrust his foot into Jude’s gut. “This will make you stronger. And maybe I’ll be forced to let you live a little while longer. Maybe.”

“Enough!” Jude’s cries ran across the statues. He grabbed his head so tightly he tore out some of his hair.

Morgan held out his right palm and, focusing on Jude’s body, raised him off the floor. From a distance, Jude hovered above the chaos and the violence. “But I don’t think you’re strong enough to endure it. To endure me. Perhaps Azrael selected you because you are the weaker brother. Easy. Vulnerable. And ill.”

“Coward! You’re not a man, Morgan. You’re still that pathetic, puny child in the cold basement, fulfilling Daddy’s filthy requests.”

“Silence!”

“Mommy did nothing to stop it,” Jude continued, with Azrael’s knowledge passing through. “The doctor couldn’t help you either. You were empty. Poor, poor child, all alone. You’re still alone.”

“Why, Azrael? Why are you showing him…my past? Why show him this? Leave those pictures in my mind! No!” With a fury, Morgan twisted his wrist, and Jude’s spine began to buckle. The more Morgan wished it, the more pressure was inflicted.

“Admit it, Morgan. You can’t stand the thought that you might die…again. And we won’t protect you this time.”

“Azrael, you promised. You completed…me. Made me better.” Morgan grinded his teeth.

“You killed my brother!” Jude yelled, returning. It was his voice devouring the demon’s. He fought to turn his body the other way, but Morgan’s invisible strength was nearly crushing.