Exousia - The Patron Saints of the Damned -Book II

Derrick stood alone in the woods, watching the unconscious form of the Woodcutter. He noticed that his own shadow created shade for his unconscious enemy, and so he moved aside. It felt stupid, but he hoped it would cause cancer, a heat stroke, maybe just a sunburn. No … that wasn’t what he actually wanted. What he really wanted was to murder the bitch with his own hands. The desire was so strong that he almost didn’t care about the possibility of wolves coming afterward. After all, what right did any of them have to survive when his brother hadn’t? No, killing her was the only right path forward. The problem was that the others would stop him if he tried.

Derrick whispered, “I don’t care what you say; you could have stopped them from killing him. You didn’t care. You don’t care about any of us.” As he spoke, he glanced at a large rock that was only a few feet away. It looked like sandstone, shaped sort of like a loaf of bread. The porous stone would soak up any blood that touched it.

Derrick imagined himself bringing a bloody rock back with him to show his parents. What else could he do when he had to explain that he’d been unable to save his brother? But then he realized the foolishness of this fantasy. His parents would be sad, but also a little relieved because at least it was Ted who died. They would take comfort in all that trouble they’d be spared later down the road–that they would have to deal with the embarrassment of having a gay kid in the asscrack of the world that was Alabama. But they weren’t the only ones.

Derrick turned his head to look at the others. Sure enough, they were avoiding his gaze. He doubted that they thought very much about why they were averting their eyes from him. They all wanted to live and put this experience behind them as quickly as possible—so much so that they were willing to forgive and even worship the serial killer who had killed Ted and David with her pet wolves.

Yes, even those who did care would quickly move on. Except for Derrick with his rock. Derrick, would give the serial killer what she deserved.

-O-

Brennan felt his cheek grow hot as something slapped it. He struggled to open his eyes, but his body, mind, and entire being just wanted to go back to sleep. He wanted to go back to where his head did not feel like someone was hammering a spike-shaped radio into his skull. But he clenched his teeth and opened his eyes to see the others standing over him. Megan knelt and looked at him with a concerned expression; the afternoon sun radiated at her back. She was pressing a wet shirt to his head. Sam and Jodie stood behind her, both topless.

“You alright, bud?” Jodie asked, offering a hand to lift him to his feet.

Brennan found a knot of guilt form in his stomach and was unable to take his friend’s hand. He stood on his own, nodded, and said, “Yeah, man. I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Did you … see a shadow with something white in its hand? Megan asked in a hushed tone, likely so that the others couldn’t hear. She looked embarrassed to ask, like maybe it was a stupid hallucination.

But Brennan wrinkled his head and remembered the last thing he’d seen before passing out, which was exactly what his sister had described. He also vaguely remembered a dream about a small girl … but not enough to piece together what it had been. Back at the tree, Megan had also fallen unconscious alongside the Woodcutter, likely knocked out by the same creature. Did that mean that something was doing this to the Woodcutter on purpose? Maybe it was a psychic attack, putting her through nightmares. Brennan’s thoughts on the matter ended abruptly when he saw something beyond the friends surrounding him.

Derrick was standing over the Woodcutter. He struggled to pick up a large rock and lift it over his head. Immediately, Brennan remembered what the albino wolf had said. The Woodcutter could not die, not yet.

“No, stop!” Brennan shouted, stumbling forward several steps before he managed to sprint. Jodie was at his side in an instant. Both threw themselves against Derrick, and the three of them tumbled along the ground.

Derrick began to punch at the two of them. Brennan and Jodie grabbed a wrist each and forced him onto his back. Sweating and panting, they all struggled for nearly a minute. It was only out of the corner of his eye that Brennan noticed movement. It was the albino wolf, waiting in the shadows with its teeth bared. To his relief, this wasn’t the only movement. The Woodcutter also had begun to stir. Derrick also saw this latter movement, and the fight immediately left him. Brennan and Jodie were able to let him go.

The Woodcutter stood slowly to her feet. Her movement did not seem graceful or healthy, and she had to stumble drunkenly a few steps to keep from falling. She reached slowly down and picked up her staff, which she used to maintain some balance. “I don’t think that will happen again,” she said, her voice giving tell-tale signs of both physical and mental exhaustion.

Derrick remained on the ground, as if he couldn’t find it in himself to stand back up.

The Woodcutter didn’t seem to notice. She looked out into the distance and then said, “We’re nearly out of the woods … just a few more hours, and you can all be out of here. Just stay close, do what I say, and don’t let them push you to do something you’ll regret.” With that, she began to slowly continue in the same direction as before. The others fell behind her and made their way forward into the thinning forest.

Brennan stayed behind a moment to help Derrick to his feet, feeling a sense of guilt for having stopped him. It had been for Derrick’s own good … but Brennan couldn’t imagine what he was going through. Had it been his sister, Brennan thought his judgment would have lapsed too. Trying to be encouraging, he said, “This will all be over soon … I know it. Then, everything will go back to-” He stopped when he really saw Derrick’s face. His eyes were no longer brooding or semi-manic. They were just exhausted … broken … empty. He stood lackadaisically and let his head drop as he followed after the others, barely keeping pace. His shoulders were slumped, and his feet drug—inadvertently dragging dry pine-straw and sticks as they went.

Because his brother was dead, just like David. Nothing was ever going to be the way it was before, war or no war. None of them would be the same after this. Their friends had been slaughtered in front of them, and no victory would bring them back.

This realization made Brennan feel stupid for what he’d said and for having thought that escaping would mean anything else but continued pain. For several minutes, he was unable to break away from his depression enough to think. But he had to if he was going to get his friends out of here. And even though he now had doubts about whether that was even worthwhile, it was the only thing he had left to fight for.

-O-

Exousia held her knife with the blades folded; she occasionally glanced at it as she walked. She’d known for a long time that Dufaii would likely not be able to help her in this challenge against Ammon, perhaps even better than Dufaii himself had. She had also understood that it had been rigged against her, that she’d only been chosen to lose. But this had only really become real to her as of later. In her youngest years, she’d been so self-assured and confident in her ability to win at this impossible challenge–even alone if she needed to.

Exousia felt like she’d been stronger back then, killing monsters and facing every challenge fearlessly. But somewhere between Kueng’s lesson and ripping the still-beating hearts out of screaming people, her confidence had diminished. Or maybe that old sense of confidence had been a false sort all the while. Even her sense of independence–maybe she’d pushed everyone away and learned to rely on herself because it was easier than feeling scared of having them taken away … just like Dufaii had.

“Are you alright?” Megan asked, her voice hushed.

Exousia didn’t reply; she didn’t know how to. The truth was that she was scared of the new feelings inside of her. She wasn’t comfortable with feelings of doubt, or confusion, or … wishing that someone familiar were with her, if just for their company.

Megan didn’t dwell on the question when she didn’t answer. Instead, she looked down at the knife and said, “I have one of those … a red one. Is it difficult to fight without a locking blade?”

To Exousia’s surprise, she also didn’t have an answer for this more practical question. She’d made it when she was younger, shaped to resemble the knife that Dufaii had given her. “I guess I didn’t make it for fighting. Those I’ve cut with it have always been incapacitated. For fighting, I used the handle.”

“You made it?” Megan asked, looking surprised.

“I lost a red one … probably like yours,” Exousia replied. She couldn’t remember why exactly she had made a knife like the one that she’d broken with her bare hand. She looked at the scar that the first knife had left on her palm. Why hadn’t she given up on the sentiment of that token? Hadn’t she determined that she would let no emotion hold her back? Hadn’t that been the point of her training under Kueng?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that it wasn’t good,” Megan said, seeming to have mistaken the silence for wounded emotions over perceived judgment. She gave a look that carried empathy.

Exousia realized that her face felt heavy and that her jaw was tight. Nevermind emotions coming from her eyes or aura, she was showing them just through her facial expressions! She breathed deeply and fought a jolt of panic that tried to manifest in her psyche. She quickly said, “Your questions don’t offend me. They bring up a valid point. My weapon will have to change if I am going to use it to win this challenge. I lost the original and should never have tried to recreate it.” It was all she could do to keep her tone calm and portray overt acceptance of the incidental critique.

Megan surprised her by putting her finger on the knife, briefly brushing her hand against Exousia’s. “It’s beautifully made. And sometimes …” She looked down at herself. It took Exousia a moment to realize that Megan was looking at the red hoodie tucked in her arm with a lost expression.

Exousia could not help feeling compelled to wait patiently on the rest.

Megan’s throat tightened, and she said, “Sometimes we hold onto things that make us feel, just to get through whatever we have to. Even if it isn’t based on anything real. It’s still something real that we really felt.”

Exousia furrowed her brow, confused.

Megan bit her lip and then gestured at the knife again. “Or if it makes us feel vulnerable. We have to hold on anyway because … it still matters. It’s still a part of us. And we can’t pretend that away.”

Exousia had an idle thought that the Archangel Michael would have liked Megan. They shared the same sort of mystical thinking that was oddly utilitarian. And part of her knew that they had a point in their views. But Exousia was a demon assassin … and her duty to her kind demanded that she put aside every handicap that could be used against her. So, she unfolded the knife and began to meditate upon locking it in place, absorbing the other tools, thickening the blade, and elongating the weapon. It became a dagger, thick enough to puncture armor if the need arose. Of course, it would take several hours before this new form had cemented enough to be of use. Like shapeshifting, unpracticed forms were not something to be perfected in a matter of minutes. But, in this case, the change was simple and small. Exousia was confident that she had enough time before they reached the edge of the forest and what would likely be their final fight to assure the internal integrity of the blade. She looked up.

Megan’s jaw had dropped and she stared in awe at the demon magic. After a moment, however, her demeanor became oddly melancholic. She said, “It’s okay if you want to talk to me. Even if I do make it out of here, your emotions … they’d be safe with me.”

“I have no intention of letting you die here,” Exousia said, her tone cold. If she had conceded to herself that she was going into a final battle that she could not win, perhaps she would have spent her last moment seeking solace in this human. However, Exousia had trained for this, fighting gods and monsters alike. Most of all, she knew that demonkind was depending on her to win. And so she would, which also meant getting these remaining humans out of the accursed forest safely.

Surprising her, Megan returned a determined sort of expression. She nearly said something, but then stopped–staring at something in the distance.

It was an old, abandoned house.

-O-

Dufaii was no longer in the Dreamtime but rather in a state of limbo. The hellish visions in his mind became blurred, as if a giant hand had smeared a wet oil painting. Thus the reds, the grays, and the black colors from the hellscape just seemed to run and become dim. Eventually, this dimness became complete darkness, and he found himself being immersed in the peaceful sleep that overcame him. Sleep was like murky water that drowned his every thought in unconsciousness. He finally understood why humans valued it, for that brief moment of peace and perfect meditation between the dream realm and the waking one. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. It was replaced by the feeling of a claw that was wrapped around his forearm and shaking him.

Dufaii opened his eyes, with a brief feeling of disorientation and anger, before his conscious mind fully reawakened.

The Seer was using one of his clawed hands to shake him awake, “Awake, wolfy, wake up! Your wake-up call is here.”

This did not cease until Dufaii sat up and brushed the claw away. “I’m awake,” he said, standing on two legs for a moment before remembering that he needed to change over to his wolf form. He did so. His front leg felt like it had mended during the time he’d slept, so speed would again be on his side.

The Seer smiled, nodding his head vigorously.

“I will repay the effort you’ve taken at my expense,” Dufaii said, getting ready to sprint away. “But now I must go before it’s too late.”

“I’m sorry, Wolfy,” the Seer said, as it began to chew on one of its misshapen claws. “It’s already too late … it was always too late.”

Feeling surprised, Dufaii turned and let out a growl that he did not entirely intend to. He felt as if he’d just been attacked, and had to shake his body to release the tension. He managed to calm himself and said, “She’s still alive, I can sense it.”

The Seer just continued to chew at his claw, with a sad and knowing expression that said that this was not what he meant. What he obviously meant was that Exousia had never stood a chance … that she’d been doomed from the start. “You don’t owe me, Wolfy, I’m your friend, and there’s no debt between friends.”

Dufaii began to sprint toward the fire-tower, determined not to stop for any reason. He thought he saw a shadow pass overhead, but pushed into the darkness of the trees so that he did not hear it again.