Dark Exodus Read online

“You look a little green,” Griffin said, holding his gun in such a way that it looked as though he could easily aim and fire it.

  Theo looked at the weapon. “What would that do to me, I wonder?”

  “Probably not much,” Griffin answered, looking at the weapon. “Minor demonic possessions only, nothing too complicated. You’re another story altogether.”

  She couldn’t help but chuckle. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Griffin said. He looked over at the hanging bodies, as well as the scarlet pool bubbling there. “What the hell is that all about?”

  “Demon magick,” Theo said. “If they were to finish the ritual, they would have owned these children’s bodies permanently.”

  Brenna walked closer to the red pool. “Permanently?” she questioned. “Why would these creatures . . . these demons . . .” She turned to face them. “Why would they want to exist in the bodies of eight-year-olds?”

  Griffin shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows what these demonic pricks are going to do next.”

  Theo felt the demons that she’d just interred stir. It was getting to be quite crowded inside her body.

  “Brenna’s right,” Theo said. “Why permanently? Doesn’t make sense if they can jump from body to body. They wouldn’t ever be able to return home.”

  The air was suddenly filled with multiple cries, and they turned to see that the eight-year-olds shot down by the Coalition’s special weapon had all regained consciousness, most crying hysterically, while others looked to be in shock.

  Griffin looked immediately uncomfortable with children not his own, and Theo was having a difficult time keeping the monstrous entities within under control.

  It was Brenna who went to them, whispering words of consolation.

  Comforting them as only a real mother could.

  8

  “How’s the sandwich?” Stephen asked the child.

  “Good,” Cassie replied, chewing noisily. She held the peanut butter and jelly sandwich delicately, to keep as little jelly as possible from oozing onto her hands.

  He’d decided to go with a salad, stabbing the romaine with his fork and bringing it up to his mouth.

  “My daddy makes good PB & J’s,” Cassie told him.

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded again. “He doesn’t know how to cook that good, though. He says that Mommy was the cook in the family, not him.”

  She grew quiet then and set her sandwich back on the plate.

  “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Stephen gently asked.

  “Nothin’,” she said. “I just get kinda sad when I think about my mommy.”

  She looked at him with her enormous blue eyes, and he felt his heart just about melt. He reached across the table and put his hand atop hers. “It’s okay to be sad,” he told her. “It’s not good to keep that stuff locked away inside.”

  “It’s not?”

  Stephen shook his head. “It can make you sick. You’ve got to let it out once in a while.” He had some more salad but could feel her watching him. “Are you going to finish your sandwich?” he asked her.

  She picked it up, ready to begin eating again. “Do you have sad stuff inside you?” she asked him.

  He stopped, fork of tomato and cucumber halfway to his mouth.

  “I get sad because my mom and dad didn’t like me very much after I told them who I really was.”

  Cassie looked at him funny, head cocked to one side. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Stephen,” he said with a laugh. “But I’m not the Stephen they wanted me to be.”

  “What Stephen did they want?” Cassie asked with great curiosity.

  He thought for a moment about how he would answer. “They wanted a Stephen that lived the kind of life they lived and liked all the same things.”

  “Like broccoli?” Cassie asked, shaking her head and making a face. “I don’t like broccoli, but my daddy does.”

  “I like broccoli,” Stephen said. “But my parents didn’t . . . and they kept telling me I was wrong, that I really didn’t like broccoli at all.”

  “Did you tell them that you like broccoli?” Cassie asked.

  Stephen nodded. “I told them, Mom . . . Dad . . . I love you both very much, but I like broccoli, too, and there’s really nothing that you can do to change that.”

  Cassie was listening with rapt attention, peanut butter and jelly now all over her hands as she was no longer being quite so careful. “Were they mad?”

  Stephen felt that sudden surge of emotion that always seemed to be there, no matter how much time had passed. The memory of rejection was not something easily forgotten. It left scars, very, very deep scars.

  “Yeah, they were,” he said, looking into his dwindling salad.

  “That’s too bad,” Cassie said, genuine compassion in big blue eyes.

  “Yeah, it is,” he agreed.

  “Do you still like broccoli?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said with a smile. “And as a matter of fact, I married someone who loves broccoli just as much as me.”

  “Yaaayyyy!” she said happily, wearing a smile that most definitely touched his soul.

  “High five,” Stephen said, holding his hand up. Cassie leaned across the table to smack the palm of her hand into his.

  His hand came away sticky. “Eww,” he said, making a face, and the little girl began to laugh and laugh.

  There was noise from the entryway.

  “Who’s that?” Cassie asked, spinning in her chair.

  “I don’t know,” Stephen replied.

  The little girl slid from the chair, running as fast as she could from the kitchen toward the foyer. “I’ll see,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  “Don’t let anybody in carrying a pamphlet!” he called after her, clearing away their lunch plates, imagining an entryway suddenly filled with Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  • • •

  Cassie got to the door, listening to the sound of a key going into the lock, just before the door swung open and a man she didn’t know came in. He was carrying multiple suitcases, and must’ve just gotten back from a trip, she thought, as he set the bags down, noticing her.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hi,” she said. “Who are you?”

  “I’m John,” he answered her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Cassie,” she said. “And who are you?” she asked, pointing to the girl with really cool white-blond hair who entered the foyer behind John.

  “I’m Nicole,” the girl said. “Nice to meet you, Cassie.”

  “And what exactly are you doing here, Cassie?” John asked.

  The little girl danced from foot to foot, smiling at Nicole. She was so cool. “I live here with my daddy.” She pointed at Nicole again. “Do you live here, too?” Cassie asked, hoping the girl did.

  Nicole smiled. “Do you want me to?”

  “Yes!” Cassie screamed at the top of her lungs. “Then we could be the bestest friends ever!”

  John looked at Nicole with a funny expression on his face.

  “Come on,” Nicole said. “Bestest friends ever!”

  John shook his head and turned back to Cassie.

  “Is Stephen here?”

  “Yeah!” Cassie answered. “We just had lunch and talked about broccoli.”

  Nicole thought that was funny for some reason, but John just stared.

  “You think you could go get him for me?”

  Cassie thought she could handle that, especially since she was his assistant today.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told them. “Don’t go nowhere!”

  It was then that she realized it, and a smile formed across her face.

  She hadn’t been sure at all, but now she knew. She was gonna really like living here.

 
“Stephen!” she called out. “Some guy named John wants to talk to you!”

  • • •

  “Who’s that?” John asked Stephen, pointing to Cassie, who was now holding hands with Nicole.

  “That’s Cassie.”

  “I know it’s Cassie. Who is she?”

  “Cassie Royce.”

  “Griffin Royce’s daughter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She says she lives here.”

  “Have you talked to Theo?” Stephen asked.

  “Not yet today,” John answered. “I left her a message, but . . .”

  Stephen then seemed to notice Nicole. “Who’s that?” he interrupted.

  “This is Nicole,” Cassie answered happily. “We’re bestest friends, right, Nicole?”

  “We certainly are,” Nicole said, giving Stephen a sly smile and a wink.

  “Yes, that’s Nicole,” John said. “Where is Theo?” he asked, looking around.

  Stephen was just about to start explaining when they all seemed to feel it, a chill as if the temperature had dropped thirty degrees inside the room in a matter of seconds.

  John wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but immediately went on the defensive, bringing to mind an ancient spell of protection that could temporarily ward off a demonic attack, hopefully giving him enough time to get to their armory before . . .

  A miniscule circle of black appeared in the air before them, a sound very much akin to a vacuum cleaner having a particularly difficult time intensified in the air, growing louder, and louder still as the circle of black grew and became more defined.

  Within seconds he realized who it was and lowered his defenses, watching in awe as his wife, and who he guessed to be Griffin Royce, appeared in the foyer.

  What’s up with the hair? he wondered, watching both fascinated and a little disturbed as the multiple tendrils of hair enwrapping them both slowly unfurled, allowing Griffin to drop to the floor on all fours, gasping for breath.

  “Theo,” John said, quickly approaching.

  “Wait!” Griffin said, holding out a hand as he attempted to catch his breath. “Something’s not right.”

  John reached out, moving the waving tentacles of hair aside to gently touch his wife’s delicate features. “Honey, what’s . . . ?”

  A tendril of hair wrapped tightly about his wrist and yanked his hand away from Theo’s face.

  “Something’s wrong, John,” Theo said, lifting her pale features to him. “Something’s very, very wrong!”

  And before he could respond, he found himself hurtling backward through the air, bouncing off the wall behind him before dropping to the ground.

  Through bleary eyes, he watched her, his wife, gliding through the air, her feet not touching the ground.

  Hair as black as night reaching for him.

  Reaching.

  • • •

  Griffin had a gun and was aiming it at John’s wife.

  “What the hell are you doing?” John screamed, scrambling to get up from the floor, feeling the pain of his wounds from the day before but not caring.

  Griffin fired twice, soft explosions of air followed by Theo’s tortured screams. She turned toward the man, her hair lashing out like a whip and swatting the gun from his hand. He tried to get away, to dive to one side, but the hair was too fast, wrapping around his struggling form and lifting him from the ground.

  “John!” he heard Theo’s pleading voice cry out. “You’ve got to stop it,” she said. “I’m going to hurt him!”

  “What is it,” he screamed, attempting to get closer, but the hair was there as well to ensnare him.

  He noticed that Nicole was moving, the air around her growing foggy as things became aroused. John quickly turned toward her.

  “No,” he commanded. “I’ve got this.” He then pointed to Cassie. “Get her out of here!”

  There seemed to be a moment of hesitation, about to become an argument, then she listened, taking the child’s hand, Stephen waiting to take them both into the house and away from the impending conflict.

  “Theo, what is it?” he called again.

  Griffin was still struggling, but he wasn’t dead yet. John guessed that it was only a matter of time before . . .

  “Demon of the air,” she struggled with every single word.

  Demon of the air, he thought, already digging through his encyclopedic memory of rites of exorcism from a multitude of cultures, searching for the one that would pertain in binding this particular infernal creature.

  There was a ritual in Aramaic, used to calm the Dust Devils that plagued the desert nomads during the reign of Balterus the Savage that would likely do the trick, but in order to perform it properly . . .

  John rushed toward his wife, her lithe and muscular body held aloft by powerful currents of air that seemed to have formed beneath her. He grabbed a handful of hair and wound it tightly around his arm, then, planting his feet firmly in place, he pulled the hair, dragging his wife down.

  The demon in control of his wife screamed and dropped Griffin to focus on this new threat.

  This was a difficult ritual because it required physical contact with the demon. Many who attempted it had been slain before reciting the full ritual, but John Fogg wasn’t like many.

  He held tightly to the hair, drawing the demon closer as he recited the ancient Aramaic words, watching his wife battle the demon for control. He was suddenly face-to-face with her, her features so distorted by the demon that he barely recognized her. But as he looked deep into the monster’s protruding, black orbs, he found a glimmer of the woman he loved.

  John continued to shout the words at the top of his lungs, each one like a physical blow to the demon. Its jaws had distended, creating almost a wolflike snout, and it snapped at his face, razor-sharp teeth grazing the tip of his nose. In return, John yanked on its hair, twisting the floating abomination and slamming it savagely to the floor.

  “So sorry, my dear,” he apologized to Theo.

  The demon continued to struggle, arms flailing, claws attempting to rip the flesh from John’s body, but he managed to avoid the worst of it, leaning in closer as he pressed his forearm, wrapped in writhing black hair, down into the demon’s throat.

  He spoke the final words and held his breath.

  “Thank you, my love,” Theo gasped.

  Before he removed his arm from her throat, he gazed into the monster’s eyes and saw his wife gazing back. But she was angry, and he pitied anything, be it human or demonic, that had to deal with her wrath.

  John quickly lifted his arm as the demon’s long, spidery tresses began to unravel and recede. He stood, then helped Theo stiffly to her feet. “Babe?”

  She held up her hand, the hooked talons protruding from the ends of her fingers also receding. “Just give me a moment to get this bitch back in her box.”

  A moan from across the room showed that Griffin was recovering, and John walked over, extending his hand. The man looked up at him. There had been some friction between the two. Griffin had believed that John was nothing more than a pretty-boy television star, more likely to end up dead rather than saving the world from a demon apocalypse.

  But John had proven him wrong.

  “Thanks,” Griffin said, taking his hand and allowing himself to be hauled up from the floor. “She all right?”

  They were both looking over at Theo now. The woman appeared normal again, human, but deep in concentration.

  “Okay?” John asked, holding his arms out to her.

  “Okay,” she said, getting up on wobbly legs, collapsing into his embrace.

  He kissed the top of her head and held her tightly.

  “What the hell happened?” he asked her.

  “Felt it as soon as we left Waukegan,” Griffin said. “Like she was losing control.”

&nb
sp; “It was the demons I took from the school,” Theo said.

  “Excuse me?” John asked.

  “We’ll fill you in later,” Theo said. “But those demons, they were somehow able to influence the others . . . to entice them to override my control.”

  Nicole came down the hall with Cassie and Stephen.

  “Coast clear?” the girl asked. “Anybody dead?”

  “It’s good,” John told her, giving his wife an extra squeeze.

  “I’m going to need to find out what happened to me,” Theo said. “If you hadn’t been here, and I hadn’t been able to regain control . . .”

  “I know,” he said, holding her tighter. “We’ll give Elijah a call. Maybe there’s something more he can do to beef up your defenses.”

  Theo could barely walk, and John helped her.

  Nicole smiled at her.

  “So, who’s hungry?” Nicole asked.

  Theo looked at her, then back to him.

  “John?” she asked.

  “Yeah, love?”

  “Who the hell is she?”

  9

  The Sisters of the Blessed Virgin had felt indebted to Elijah since his attempt at exorcising a demonic entity from one of their own in a Fall River, Massachusetts, convent so many years ago—even though he’d failed, resulting in the deaths of several sisters and his own disfigurement.

  He drove beneath a stone archway, on top of which sat a statue of the Blessed Virgin staring down at him as he passed. The convent itself was in the middle of nowhere, an old, stucco-and-brick structure that seemed to grow from a particularly barren and cruel patch of Arizona desert. He stopped in front of its large, wood-and-metal door and climbed from the car.

  Two sisters stood on either side of the door, dressed in full black-and-white habit, pointing automatic rifles at him.

  “Good evening, Sisters,” he said, holding his hands out to his sides. “My name is Elijah Covington.”

  One sister tilted her head and spoke softly into a small microphone attached to the collar of her robes, the other continued to hold him in the sights of her rifle. A minute or two passed before the sister lifted a hand to her ear, covered by the habit. She nodded once, looked at her partner, then opened the door, allowing it to swing open with an eerie creak. She motioned with the butt of her gun for Elijah to enter.